Chapter 173 - 119 : Year 25 - 31 A wife, A Mother And A Countess

Chapter 173: Chapter 119 : Year 25 - 31 A wife, A Mother And A Countess

By Year Thirty-One, the second son was thirteen and had come a long way from the quiet child who once watched workers from a distance. Years of travelling with the craftsman had familiarised him with tools, materials, and the workings of the machines they encountered.

Over the past six years, he had spent more time putting his understanding into practice, and some of the ideas he once confined to sketches were beginning to take shape in his work. He could recognise weaknesses in familiar designs and suggest ways to improve them, sometimes noticing possibilities that made even his master pause and reconsider a problem.

Yet his hands still struggled to match the pace of his thoughts. He could understand what needed to be done and even explain how he intended to do it, only to see the result fall short when he tried to put his ideas into practice.

These failures troubled him more than he let on. He rarely complained, but when a piece did not fit or a mechanism failed to work as he had imagined, he could fall silent for a long time, studying the mistake and trying to discover where his reasoning had gone wrong.

At times, he was tempted to begin again immediately, convinced that another attempt would put things right. His master taught him to slow down instead. A clever idea was of little use if its measurements were wrong, its materials unsuitable, or its moving parts unreliable.

The boy did not always welcome these reminders, especially when he believed he had already understood the problem, but he gradually learned that recognising a solution and possessing the skill to execute it were two different things.

His master recognised the boy’s unusual aptitude, but he took care not to let praise make him careless or impatient. He expected him to master ordinary tasks, correct his mistakes, and repeat his work until it met the required standard. When the boy proposed an improvement, his master made him consider its weaknesses as carefully as its advantages. There was little use in making a device faster if it became less reliable, or easier to operate if it could not withstand the demands placed upon it.

Over time, the boy became more willing to question his own conclusions and listen when experience challenged what seemed obvious to him. He was learning that admitting a flaw in his work did not make the idea worthless; it gave him a clearer path towards making it better.

The boy remained quiet and reserved, preferring to think through a problem before offering his opinion. He had become more willing to explain his reasoning to his master, though he still had little desire to draw attention to himself.

The boy remained quiet and reserved, preferring to think through a problem before offering his opinion. He had become more willing to explain his reasoning to his master, though he still had little desire to draw attention to himself.

His martial training continued alongside his apprenticeship, but his enthusiasm for the two pursuits was far from equal. With tools in hand, he could lose himself in a problem for hours; during martial exercises, he applied himself more out of duty than genuine interest.

By the same year, the Veymont’s only daughter was ten and her concern for others had become more than the instinctive worry of a little girl.

She was beginning to notice what people needed and look for small ways to help. When a servant appeared troubled or a younger child was upset, she was often among the first to notice, quietly approaching rather than waiting for someone to draw her attention to it. She had grown more aware of the household’s daily work and sometimes helped Lucy with simple tasks, particularly when letters needed sorting or small matters required attention.

She was not yet entrusted with the family’s accounts or its dealings with merchants, and Lucy did not hurry her towards such responsibilities. Instead, her daughter learned by staying close, watching how her mother handled people and gradually finding her own ways to be useful.

Lucy had a warmth that seemed to brighten a room, drawing people towards her without any effort on her part. Her daughter shared that warmth, but expressed it differently. Rather than waiting for others to approach her, she tended to notice those who had been overlooked and go to them herself. She remembered small details about the people around her and could remain troubled long after seeing someone in pain, even when the matter seemed minor to the adults.

As she grew older, she was beginning to understand that kindness could mean more than feeling sorry for someone; it could also mean paying attention, offering comfort, or doing what little she could to ease another person’s burden.

Watching her, Lucy felt both pride and a familiar concern. Her daughter’s compassion was becoming a natural part of the way she understood the world, but she was still young enough to feel another person’s unhappiness as though it were her own.

Lucy wanted her to preserve that tenderness while learning that she could not mend every hardship she encountered. For now, she allowed the girl to learn through the ordinary rhythms of family life, trusting that experience would gradually teach her how to balance a caring heart with an understanding of what she could realistically do.

Their third son was six, and already the most difficult of the children to keep still. He was forever looking for something to climb, chase, carry, or turn into a game.

If he was not trying to follow his older brothers through the castle corridors or into the courtyard, he might be racing a servant’s child, darting after the guards on their rounds, or slipping away from his attendants to investigate something that had caught his attention. More than once, a servant had hurried to catch a vase before his wandering hands could bring it crashing to the floor. He rarely meant any harm, but he seemed to regard every quiet moment as an opportunity to find something more interesting to do.

Even his older brothers sometimes struggled to keep him occupied for long, though he remained eager to join them despite the difference in their ages.

His lessons and training were suited to his age, but keeping his attention on them could be a challenge. He was easily distracted during quieter lessons, yet threw himself into running, jumping, and simple physical exercises with boundless enthusiasm. His attendants often found themselves reminding him to slow down, while his instructors had to work at channeling his energy rather than suppressing it.

He was not deliberately disobedient; he simply seemed happiest when he was moving, exploring, or involving someone else in whatever he had decided to do. For now, his family saw a lively boy with a boundless appetite for activity, unaware of just how far that energy and natural physical ability might eventually take him.

Amid the demands of governing the fief and the changes taking place in the lives of the older children, the family’s youngest daughter had been growing up quietly in the background.

Born in the winter of Year Twenty-Nine, she was now a toddler, no longer content to spend all her time in someone’s arms. Servants still carried her through the castle when she grew tired or needed to be kept out of the way of busy household work, but she was beginning to explore her surroundings on her own unsteady feet. Her presence had become part of the household’s daily rhythm, another small life requiring attention amid everything else that kept the castle busy.

Lucy had little opportunity to regard any of these years as quiet. As a mother of five, she was raising children whose needs changed with every passing year, from the eldest’s growing responsibilities to the second son’s long absences with his master, the daughter’s developing sensitivity to others, and the boundless energy of their six-year-old. The youngest demanded a different kind of attention, while the older children still needed their mother’s guidance and reassurance.

Servants helped with their daily care, but Lucy remained attentive to their individual needs, noticing when one required encouragement, when another needed correcting, and when a child simply wanted her company. She could not be present for every moment, yet she worked to ensure that none of them felt overlooked as the family grew.

Her responsibilities extended well beyond the children. Lucy still oversaw much of the household’s organization and had become increasingly involved in the decisions connecting the castle to the wider fief.

Years of experience had taught her which workers could be relied upon, how household expenses shifted with the seasons, and where a saving might create greater difficulties later. She helped Lucian consider the practical consequences of his plans, offering her judgment even when it differed from his own. He listened because he knew her advice came from a thorough understanding of both the household and the people whose work sustained their domain.

Yet Lucy’s contribution could not be measured only through accounts, decisions, or the tasks she completed. She had also been a steady presence for her husband and children through years marked by grief, uncertainty, and the slow work of recovery.

She could not remove Lucian’s burdens or prevent her children from encountering hardship, but she gave them a place where they could turn for comfort, guidance, and understanding. Much of what she did went unnoticed beyond the household, woven into the ordinary days that allowed everyone else to continue with their responsibilities.

By Year Thirty-One, House Veymont’s recovery was still far from complete, but Lucian did not face its demands alone. Beside him stood a wife who had grown into her role as Countess without losing sight of the family at the heart of it all.