“Mademoiselle,” the officer said, a mocking pitch colored his tone as he spoke the Trieux title.
Cinderella brushed her bangs from her eyes. “How can I help you, sir?”
The officer tilted his head as he studied Cinderella the way a fox studies a chicken. He glanced back at Vitore—who bustled behind Cinderella.
Vitore busied herself with arranging eggs in a basket, but Cinderella did not miss the way the maid/produce-seller quivered in fear.
“Sir,” Cinderella repeated.
“Another basket of carrots, if you would be so kind,” the officer said, his smirk cutting into his black eyepatch.
“Yes, sir,” Cinderella said, pouring a basket of carrots in a sack.
“The price is still ten copper coins?”
“Yes, sir,” Cinderella said. She handed the vegetables over after the officer placed a stack of coins on the rough, wooden counter.
“Until tomorrow, Mademoiselle,” the officer said, tipping the brim of his hat before turning to his soldiers.
Cinderella said nothing and watched him go.
“He’s a rake, that one is,” Vitore muttered.
“I wish he would buy his carrots someplace else,” Cinderella said, pinching a copper coin between her fingers. “But coin is coin, even if it comes from Erlauf.”
Cinderella was churning butter when Gilbert found her. It had been almost a week since the Erlauf officer became a consistent customer. Neither he, nor his soldiers, ever said much, but the officer’s gaze seemed to linger on Cinderella during the transaction.
“Vitore is right. He is a rogue. I’ll have to be careful with him,” Cinderella muttered as she thumped the churn, working out her aggression in the buttery milk.
“Mademoiselle?” Gilbert called. The land steward’s voice was muffled as he wandered through the section of the barn where the cows slept.
“In back, Gilbert.”
Gilbert followed Cinderella’s voice to her spot outside where she thumped the butter in the shade of an ancient tree.
“Mademoiselle, the newest tax regulations have been posted. Pierre was in the capital to collect Vitore’s empty baskets and copied them down. Would you like to look at them?”
Cinderella wiped sweat from her face with her apron. “Yes, please,” she said. “Would you tell Pierre he has my thanks?”
“Of course, Mademoiselle,” Gilbert said, passing a curl of birch bark to Cinderella. (Paper was expensive, after all.) Cinderella was relieved to see the biggest tax increase was the one already imposed on carriages. It wouldn’t affect Aveyron. Cinderella had gotten rid of the carriage collection months ago, and the carriage horses were now used to pull loads of lumber and carts of produce.
The tax on income had decreased slightly, but there was an increase in landholding tax. She couldn’t be certain (as mathematics and finances were not her strong point), but Cinderella suspected there would be little change to Aveyron’s taxes. Perhaps a slight increase, but nothing unbearable.
“I need to ask Pierre,” Cinderella murmured.
“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle?” Gilbert said.
“Sorry,” Cinderella said, looking up from the birch bark. She had forgotten the steward was there. “If they can be spared, could you send a stable boy or kitchen girl to Lord and Lady Delattre to see if there will be a meeting? I imagine the other Trieux noble families will have something to say about this.”
“Right away, Mademoiselle.”
“Thank you, Gilbert,” Cinderella said, handing the land steward the birch bark before wiping her hands off on her rough dress. A callous on her hand snagged on the material.
“Of course, Mademoiselle,” Gilbert said.
Cinderella returned to the butter churn. “Aveyron doesn’t have any carriages left, but the other remaining noble families of Trieux do. Erlauf certainly knows how to kick us where it hurts.”
With all the riding horses sold and the carriage and work horses resting from a long day of work, Cinderella’s only available method of transportation was to walk to the Delattre estate. Thankfully, the Delattre estate was only a half-hour walk away, as it bordered Aveyron.
When Cinderella entered the magnificent manor, a maid took her cloak and showed her to one of the salons.
“Cinderella, darling. It is so good to see you,” Lady Delattre said, rising from the settee to embrace Cinderella.
Lady Delattre was an older woman with dove-gray hair and beautiful manners, as exemplified in the way she noted Cinderella’s shortened hair and plain day dress that was little better than a servant’s uniform, but said nothing. “Please, sit. We have a few moments to share between the two of us. How are you?”
“Well enough, thank you. How are you, Lady Delattre?”