Little Red, Riding Wood Ch. 02

Sinclaire didn't exactly worry, but he wondered. Celia was late, as happened so often. Really, there was so little to do in this village other than to read, he had no idea where she got to or how she spent her time. If she'd been any girl but his daughter, he'd know that she was dallying with a man, already wed or not, in any corner of the forest that she could find. That was what most of them did.

Yet she so vociferously and adamantly had refused them all, both in public and in private, that he found it hard to believe that that was how she spent her time.

He tasted the stew, then wrinkled his nose, choosing to add more salt, and fancying a touch of peppercorn as well. It was good, but not quite good enough.

Sinclaire rather enjoyed cooking, although he could never admit it to anyone other than Celia. It gave him a sense of creative accomplishment, and usefulness and action outside of the abstractions of his hyperactive mind.

And it tasted good, sometimes as good or better than Celia's cooking, or his own departed wife's.

As was his age old habit, he quickly and easily dismissed that last thought. It had been years and years since the coughing, sputtering, sapping disease had taken her. It had been an awful time in his life, losing his love and companion, while being left alone with a crying, young child to care for in a crowded, heartless, forbidding city, and with no idea how to go about it.

But for all of his ignorant failings and missteps as a father, that child had grown into something special, a woman to rival even his lost wife.

She wore a physical beauty that drew many eyes, but his most of all. He felt no shame in admitting that he privately admired her form. She wasn't the most beautiful girl in the village, although her bright red hair was certainly the most exotic.

But she had more than her mere physical charms, which were certainly ample for a man as unassuming as Monsiuer Couerduloup. She had more than the delightful curves of her breasts and hips and bottom, or her shapely, smooth legs and her quiet, clever laugh like a forest waterfall.

Even her mother had not had a mind as sharp and quick as hers. And even Sinclaire himself was not nearly so inventively imaginative. She was a treasure in this little village, wasted like a gem buried deep in a dark mine, unable to sparkle in the sunshine in all of its glory.

Now, Sinclaire thought to himself, what was he doing? He was letting the stew overcook, that's what he was doing. He quickly stirred it, and then lifted the pot a notch higher to reduce the temperature. There weren't enough mushrooms, he decided, grabbing a handful of leftover slices from the counter and tossing them in, before giving it another wide, slow series of stirs.

She was so wonderful to have around. He knew how old and run down he would feel, today and years ago, had he not had her to brighten his days and his mood. She would make such a fine wife for a worthy man, if any such man could be found.

So many had asked. Not all, but most, and many of them repeatedly. Gautier was particularly focused on her. There were other, greater beauties around, and it was his nature to claim the very best for himself. He certainly didn't appreciate Celia's finer points. Did he truly see her as the best of the bunch? What was his interest?

Perhaps it was her uniquely red hair. Perhaps it was simply because she'd said no, not merely to him, but to everyone.

That was probably it. Gautier wanted what he couldn't have.

Sinclaire sighed. He couldn't blame any of them, even if their motives and interests were more base and suspect. If he were a younger man, someone other than her own father, he would want her above and beyond anything else. He would try as hard as Gautier or any other man to court and win her.

He smiled to himself as he stroked his well-groomed, graying beard, thinking that, if he were young, he would win her. He was just the sort of man that would interest her, and even, he dared to think to himself, that she deserved.

If only he were younger, and if only it were proper. He smiled at the thought of coming home to her warm smile and conversation every night until the end of his days, then shook the image off, knowing anything such could never be, as a sin against man and nature, and more importantly would be unfair to her. She needed someone young and vibrant.

He loved having her here, with him, but she couldn't remain a spinster for her entire life and be happy, and he couldn't give her that one special component of marriage that every man and woman need to share.

If only he were younger, and if only it were proper, he thought to himself with a wry and very private smile, before returning to the tinker with and fiddle the stew towards perfection.

* * *

"There you are. I was worried sick."

"Pooh. You were not," Celia said, as she put a hand on his shoulder to pull herself up to plant a kiss on his soft, scrumptious, gray beard. After the kiss she let her hand slide up to lovingly stroke it, under the chin while their eyes exchanged pleasant smiles. His own hand reflexively came up to take hers in his, repeating a routine they'd fallen into for as long as she could remember.

His hand was large and cool and strong, but also smooth and soft, not course like the other men's. Her slim fingers felt petite and delicate in his.

She broke their routine by kissing him again, on the lips, and lingering there perhaps longer than was appropriate. She dropped back down to whisk herself away before he could raise his eyebrows in objection, smiling playfully to herself. She'd been indulging in this sinful game for several weeks now, feeling more emboldened every day that Father did not complain. By this point, she rather fancied that he liked it, even if his outward reactions were one of stone-cold, sober restraint.

"Royden stopped by while you were out," he said to her retreating form.

"Oh? And what did you tell him?"

"No, of course. Unless in his case I'm mistaken?"

She laughed at him, as he surely knew she would. The hunter was abrasive and unkind as any man in the village.

"And Hugues, too."

"Oh, Father, not Hugues!"

"What's wrong with Hugues?"

She laughed out loud at him and at the small, knowing smile he wore on his face at such an absurd question.

"Besides the fact that he's old, and fat, and already has six bratty, spoiled children?"

"Old? He's younger than I am."

"Not by much, but at least you're handsome. He never was."

Her father blushed a little at that, which in turn made Celia feel good. She continued.

"He's so fat, I'd surely be the third ex Madame Lefevre. I would die in childbirth, like the others before me, trying to expel a seventh oversized little Lefevre!"

Father laughed at that. She realized she was chatting away and hadn't yet even removed her cloak. Falling back into their normal routine after hanging the cloak on its peg by the door, she whisked straight away into her own small, sparsely furnished room to freshen herself and to tuck the journal neatly and secretly away where it would stay until later, to either be read or expanded.

She emerged moments later, having changed from her dress into one of her father's overlarge shirts. As expected, he scowled at her in disapproval as she emerged. The cut was entirely wrong for her female shape and size, and it was too long, which was convenient because she wore nothing underneath. It exposed her shapely, bare legs quite inappropriately, up to the middles of her thighs, while her mildly generous bosom peeked out from between the folds of fabric where she should have, but hadn't, properly tied the shirt closed.

As always, however, despite his disapproving scowl he said nothing. He enjoyed seeing her dress that way, she was quite certain, as much as any other man might and no matter how improper it was. That he was the only man in the world who could or, she was equally certain, ever would see her dressed in that way made the entire experience that much more delightful for her.

She had never added this detail to her journal, she realized. She would have to rectify that this evening.

The meal passed uneventfully. The stew was beyond passing good tonight, a mix of rabbit and turkey and fresh vegetables. The conversation was wonderful, as Father told her stories for the umpteenth time of his days as a young man in the city. He spoke tonight of the great ships in the harbor, like river boats the size of floating buildings, with three great trees springing from their rooftops — decks, he called them — to hold their sails aloft like a woman's skirts hanging to drive, and propel them to even more wonderful, distant, marvelous places than the city of which Celia dreamt.

After their supper, she sat beside him on his overlarge chair, the one he had the wood smith specially craft for him. It was of a sort he'd seen often in the city, almost but not quite large enough for two, and padded with soft cushions of fabric stuffed with feathers and straw. Celia squeezed beside him on the chair, half on his lap, with her head resting on his familiar chest, listening to his breathing and the even, comforting thrum of his heart.

She listened, too, with rapt and dreamy attention, as he continued telling his stories into the late evening. She hung on his every word, occasionally looking up and losing herself in the kind, warm, excited glow of his eyes. He came so alive when he told her his old stories that the stories themselves came to life for her. That was what she wanted to do. She wanted to tell stories that way herself.

At her prodding, and she really didn't know why, he told her the tale, again, of how he'd met and courted her mother. She knew it front to back, but listened attentively as if it were the first time. She secretly, sinful, switched the characters in her head, replacing her mother with herself, privately fancying herself as an even better match and bride for her dear father at a younger age.

"You're such an old romantic," she said, when the story reached the point where he and her mother had first kissed.

She reached up to him then with her lips, to plant a long, lingering kiss there, taking her game to a new level. It wasn't entirely inappropriate. A daughter could kiss her father in just such a way, in a show of extreme affection and adoration for the man who had brought her into this world, having raised and guided and protected her on her journey to womanhood and who now carefully guarded the way forward towards her future happiness.

A girl could kiss her father that way, and it would have been acceptable, had her thoughts not been filled with the mildly inappropriate images that Celia's imagination conjured unbidden for her. She lingered there, feeling his warm if unresponsive lips on hers, as her one free hand played with the hairs of his beard under his chin and the other pressed ever more firmly into the warm, solid wall of his chest as a growing, unexpected passion swelled within her.

She honestly didn't know, in that moment, where that kiss might have shamefully and, she was certain, embarrassingly led her next actions, except that there was a noise outside of the near window that startled them both. They turned in unison to see only the evening shadows, but Father quickly rose, unceremoniously shifting Celia aside, to go to the window to close the shutters.

As he did returned from the window there was a firm double-rap on the door. Celia glanced that way, then pensively at her father, before moving to answer it. She pulled her red cloak from the peg by the door to cover her entirely inappropriate attire, donning it quickly before pulling the door inward.

Gautier stood, fist raised to knock a second time.

"Gautier. We were just discussing you. Father is ready to receive your proposal, if you wish."

She smiled haughtily at him, to be countered by a rather intrusively angry glare in return. He looked her up and down in a way that made her feel very uncomfortable.

"Going out?"

"I was, yes, just for some air. But that can wait. Father? I think Gautier is here to see you."

"Wearing slippers?"

She chewed her lower lip, wondering what sort of game he was playing, but gave him no reply. She turned her back on him to stare at her father with wide open eyes, fearfully pleading to him as her mouth widely and unambiguously mouthed the word "no." Gautier stood his ground at first, then could be heard striding confidently and authoritatively into their home behind him. Celia repeated that thought in her head. Their home. Theirs.

"Yes, Gautier. Welcome. Please, please, be seated."

Her father waved him towards a wooden chair by the wall, but he moved instead towards her father's special, large chair.

"Thank you, Monsieur Couerduloup, you are very gracious."

He said the appropriate words in the appropriate tone, but they rang hollow. There was no warmth whatsoever behind the polite exchange.

He didn't sit. He eyed the chair warily, as if it were a trap, or a bedbug ridden mattress, before turning to face her father with Celia clearly left out of his field of vision, and so out of the picture. Celia had to step forward, to the side, to be able to read Gautier's face, as well as see her father's.

"What may I do for you?" her father asked, quietly but not utterly without kindness. Father didn't care much for Gautier, anymore than Celia did.

"Monsieur Couerduloup. I'm sure that you're aware that your daughter is a very, very special woman."

The conversation was as they always were, Celia, thought, stilted and formal, as was their custom, and yet strained when played out by not entirely willing participants. Celia was quite sure that Gautier would have felt more comfortable making demands rather than a polite plea, while Father would rather just summarily dismiss him with polite words and an impolite tone.

"Of course," her father said, smilingly. "Who would know better than I?"

At this, Gautier tipped his head forward and to the side, looking up at him askance, through the corner of his eye.

"Yes, indeed, Monsieur. Who better?"

Gautier paused meaningfully.

"Go on," Sinclaire said, growing impatient.

"And you know that she is much sought after by the eligible men. That includes those who would make good providers, of sorts, but perhaps not good companions, or kind companions, but unreliable providers."

"Yes, of course. Each man must be weighed on his merits, not the least of which is Celia's own interest in them."

Gautier raised his eyebrows at this. Lip service was always given to a woman's desires in their village, but it was hardly strictly taken into account on even many, let alone all occasions. It was certainly never spoken aloud.

It was always presumed that the men, meaning the father and her proposed groom, would always know what was best for a girl. At best, a mother might have some influence in the girl's favor. Celia had no such champion, but thankfully her father was in his wisdom able to play both roles, more or less.

Celia chewed her lip pensively, nervous that somehow Gautier would sway her father, if not with charm and promises, with the simple logic that there were no better options.

Still, her father said no more, waiting for Gautier to continue.

"I can, I would certainly promise you, be both, and more. I am the strongest, hardest working and most productive logger in town. Soon I will have enough wages saved to employ and head a crew of my very own, and my fortunes will increase accordingly."

Her father raised his own eyebrow at this, as if he hadn't known or considered that fact.

"I can also be a kind and tender man, and generous to a woman in all of the ways she might ask."

Celia grinned. Gautier's own conceit had surely undone him. That thinly veiled innuendo of his sexual prowess, and Celias's inevitable satisfaction with him in bed, would surely earn him Father's rarely displayed but still formidable temper.

And yet her father was quietly patient, exposing no emotion to either of them. Celia shifted her stance from one foot to the other in agitated concern.

"Go on."

"I would also be a good father, and provide you with what are sure to be many, very strong and capable grandsons. Grandsons that will grow into men to be as masterful of the forest as I am myself."

Father had always wanted a son. He had never hidden that one, unfulfilled desire from Celia. He'd never said it in a way that would make Celia feel unwanted, or less than perfect, but it was a source of further loss to him that her mother had passed before giving him even a chance at another child, a boy.

Surely that had tipped the scales against her. Celia felt her heart welling up into her throat. The idea that she might soon be wed and sharing not just a bed but her own body with this pig-brain of a human forest bear left her fuming and almost sputtering out her own refusal. It took a concerted effort to bring her emotions and voice under control, but she did so as quickly as she could manage. She was on the verge of shouting out her own objections, and shouting down both of these foolish men, when her father tipped his own head forward and down, to take his turn at looking at Gautier from beneath a furrowed and clearly discontented brow.

Gautier's expression changed from one of cool confidence to shock as he sensed, as Celia did, that the scales had unexpectedly tipped the opposite way.

"I think not, Gautier. I think I will respect Celia's wishes in this regard, and in fact I think those wishes coincide with mine."

"But Monsieur Couerduloup, truly, can you not see that this would be the best possible future for your only daughter?"

Father laughed at him then. Celia settled into a comfortable smile as she watched Gautier begin to crumble and prepare to bluster the way she had almost done just moments before.

"No. No, I think not. I don't see any grandsons of mine becoming hulking masters of the forest like yourself, Gautier. No offense meant, you understand, but I've never put that sort of weight on the qualities of braun and sweat over intellect and education. No, I'm afraid that your last point settles the matter. I must politely refuse your request."

Gautier's demeanor quickly shifted from shock and panic to frustrated anger.

"I will have her hand, Monsieur."

To this, Father raised one inquiring and offended eyebrow, but refrained from any reply.

"I will. Something is wrong in this household. No woman would choose the life of a spinster over the men in this village."

Meaning over Gautier himself, Celia thought.

"We are done here, Gautier. You may show yourself out."

"We are done, for now, Monsieur Couerduloup," he said, letting the name drip from his mouth like the taste of a rotten mug of beer. "We are done, for now, but matters are not settled."

He turned to glare at Celia, looking her up and down as he had in the glades during the work day, appraising her as he might a tree to be felled, or a goose to be purchased for dinner, or more like he would appraise Giselle or Fleurette before choosing to which of the two he would present his log that night.

He turned on his heal and strode from the room, adding without turning, "Matters are not settled."

* * *

"Father, may I ask a question?"

"Certainly."

"You may not like it."

That went without saying. Whenever anyone asks if they can ask a question, it's because they know it won't be well received.

He put his book down on his lap. It had been rather dry, anyway, a treatise on different methods of counting beyond one hundred. It was knowledge that was of little value to him, and so he treasured it more than any other.

But it was still rather dry. He welcomed the distraction and the conversation, likable or not.