by Shea,Lisa
She froze, suddenly. It had been so long that this carving had been her daily link to a Berenger long gone. Now he was here, present in person, no longer a ghost dancing at the edge of her memory.
She blushed that he had seen her personal habits, and she kept her focus on the shimmering water. She swung her legs around. The clear liquid was warm on her toes as she sent ripples dancing across the mirror-smooth surface.
Berenger stood watching her for a moment. He moved across the fish carving, then lowered himself to sit at her left side, sitting at its head where he always had.
Berenger was silent for a long while. At last he broke the spell of whispering breezes through the long reeds. “It was something of a shock to see Millie and Rudyard,” he commented in a low voice. “They both seem to have aged so much; their shoulders stooped and their faces lined with wrinkles.”
Jessame looked down into the dark depths. “It has been ten years after all,” she murmured, a shadow drifting across her heart.
“But you look the same,” he offered quietly.
She chuckled at that, glancing up at him. “I hardly imagine I look like a twelve year old,” she pointed out with a smile.
“No, not that,” he agreed, shaking his head, “but you look exactly as I imagined you. Your hair, your way of walking, even the way you smell. It is just the way I thought you would be.”
Jessame pulled her eyes away, looking back out at the expanse of the pond, the slender reeds lining the sides, waving gently in the summer’s breeze.
She put breath to the thought which had haunted her for so long.
“So you did think of us, then?”
Berenger blew out his breath in surprise.
“Did I think of you?”
She heard the angst, the pain swept up within him, and she flushed in awareness. He seemed to be lost in the distance for a long minute, and his voice was hoarse when he was able to speak again.
“Some days, thinking of this pond, of the times I had here, was all that kept me going,” he ground out. “The war was not a clean one. I saw many things, acts of barbarism and cruelty, that I wish could be forever wiped from my memory.”
“Oh, Berenger …”
Jessame reached out a hand to rest on his. The simple touch sent a flush through her body, radiated warmth and strength into every corner of her being.
There was a loud caw from a raven up behind them, and Berenger turned at the noise, his eyes tracking to the falling-down fence which lined the horse pasture. His voice seemed traced with confusion. “Where is your sorrel and the others?”
Jessame flushed. “We sold them about six years ago,” she explained, her throat growing tight.
His eyes swung around to meet hers again. “What? But you loved that horse. He had many good years of life left in him.”
Jessame nodded, waves of pain sweeping over her. She held them back with effort. “People grow up and change,” she responded, struggling to keep her voice even. “We cannot stay as we were when young.”
“It is one thing to choose another path, but another to stray from all paths completely,” ground out Berenger, his face shadowing.
“Your path took you away for ten years,” pointed out Jessame.
“And yours took you -”
He bit off what he was going to say, turning his head and looking out across the still water. When he spoke again, his voice was tight. “How does Millie feel about her daughter being a prostitute?” His eyes sharpened. “It must be hard on a parent to know that the child they love has made that choice.”
Jessame’s heart caught in her throat. What if he decided to seek Sabina out, to hear from her why she had chosen this path? He would discover she had been murdered. He would insist on interfering with all of her carefully laid plans. Everything she had gone through would be for nothing.
The solution was clear. There was only one way to bring his searches to a crashing halt. She had to tell him Sabina was no longer alive, but not that the young woman had been slain. She had to ensure that he stopped poking around, at least for a few weeks.
She took in a deep breath, then let it out in a long stream. She kept her gaze on the inky depths.
“I am sorry, Berenger. Sabina is dead.”
There was a stunned silence, and Jessame could not bring herself to turn. When his voice came it was rich with shock.
“She is dead? But when?”
“About a month ago.” Her eyes tracked up to the swell of the hill. “She is buried on the crest, there, where she can overlook the valley. She used to love racing her horse there; I think she would be happy with the view.”
Confusion twisted in his face. “She was not buried in the church yard?”
She shook her head. Her answer was sharp. “No.”
A look of dawning understanding came over his features. She realized suddenly that he had interpreted her statement to mean that Sabina had committed suicide. He felt Sabina had been ineligible for burying in hallowed ground. She winced, but said nothing, promising herself that she would remedy that mistaken notion as soon as possible. For now, it was of primary importance that Berenger leave the matter alone and put the death in the past.
His voice was pensive. “None at the village know about her death, it seems,” he mused, his eyes somber.
Jessame nodded. “We would like to keep it that way for now, if at all possible.” Her eyes tracked back to the house, and a deep sense of sadness enveloped her. “Millie has already been through so much,” she added, the thread of honesty in the mixture of lies tugging at her reserves.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Berenger without reservation. “The woman has been through a lot.”
Her eyes moved along the stonework of the first floor to the curtain-shielded study where her father was napping. She thought of his once handsome face now hidden behind bandages and medicines.
“We all have been through a lot,” she murmured.
His eyes followed hers back to the house, and they narrowed as he looked up along the row of windows on the top level, the shutters gaping open where the hinges had failed. His gaze moved down to the lower level, taking in the stones hanging loose where the building had settled.
His voice gained an edge. “How long has the house been like this?”
Jessame blinked, looking at the timbers in confusion, seeing the same familiar house she always did. It was doing its best to keep them warm and sheltered.
“Been like what?”
“When was the last time Vortimer and Leland got up on those walls to do any repairs?” he pressed, his eyes looking with more focus at the building.
“They have been gone for six years now,” she answered, looking away, back at the quiet surface of the pond.
Berenger’s eyes tracked back along the tumbled fence to the dark stables, and when his eyes drew to meet Jessame’s again they were serious.
“God’s teeth, Jessame, how bad are things?”
A flare of defensiveness blazed within Jessame and she turned her head sharply away. What right did he have to come in and judge her, judge her family, when he had abandoned them a decade ago?
“We are doing fine,” she bit out.
“Fine?” he asked in a rough tone. “You call this fine? Surely there were other options. You could have …” He turned, his shoulders tensing, and when he continued his voice was tighter. “You could have married someone - someone to take care of you. Surely there were many offerings.”
Jessame’s face burnt crimson, knowing there had not been one man she let near her, not one person she could have turned to. It made her feelings of fury rise to even higher levels, and the words burst out of her before she could rein them in.
“Marry myself off? What, to pay the bills for a while? Is that what you think of me, that I should go on auction to the highest bidder?”
“Is that any better than -” he shot back, his eyes haunted, his voice rough. Then he pushed himself to his feet, taking several steps away from her,
his back toward her, drawing in long, deep breaths.
Jessame had had enough. He had no right to burst back in her life and pass judgment on her choices. He had left her. He had abandoned her, and now he had waltzed back into her life to criticize her. She would be damned if she would care one jot about anything he had to say.
She grabbed at her shoes with one hand, slid down the stone with the other outstretched as balance. Then she was running back toward the house, taking the stone stairs two at a time. She slammed the heavy door behind her, throwing the bar for good measure.
Her breath staggered out of her in long, slow heaves. She dragged a sleeve across her face to dam the deluge of tears which streamed from her eyes, but they just kept coming.
*
The study was lost in shadows, the house settled into stillness around her, and she carefully raised her head from where it rested against her father’s shoulder. His breathing had long since drifted into a gentle snore, his tremored hand had eased into restful stillness. She eased out of the darkened room, then made her way by feel down the dark hall to her room. Millie was already asleep, and she was careful not to make any noise as she changed from her green dress into the brown one. Then she was gently tugging the front door open, closing it behind her, and stepping out into the cool night air.
The sky stretched above her in ebony richness, the speckling of stars across it seeming as if a wealthy patron had scattered diamond dust across a sheet of velvet. She soaked in their beauty for a long moment, then made her way through the lush grass toward the fish pond.
There was a rustling as some wild creature moved away toward the forest, and she smiled, wondering who else had shared her favorite resting spot. The pond was a dark circle before her, and she climbed her way easily onto the large, grey stone, its surface still warm from the daytime sun. She pulled off her shoes, then lay back on the rock, sweeping her hair back to lay streaming above her. She stretched out her arms to either side, staring up at the constellations.
They were like old friends to her now, and she had woven intricate stories about them over her life, first with Berenger by her side, and then all alone as the long years of his absence drifted by. There was Lyra, the harp, the celestial instrument which brought the gentle music of the night. She could hear the soft song in the calling of the tawny owls which hunted mice in her meadow. Notes were melded in by the rustling reeds and the trickling stream which flowed into her pond. Occasionally speckled frogs added their own chorus.
Over there was Aquila, the eagle. His glorious presence soared easily through the inky sky, high above any dangers or worldly concerns. His sharp eyes could take in every threat, every hurdle, for miles around. She had often dreamed of riding on his back during her long years of seclusion. Sometimes she simply flew the few miles to the town green, to catch a glimpse of the quiet stone church and the familiar buildings. At other times she longed to drift further, much further, to the dusty lands of Jerusalem and Acre. Just a brief glimpse of Berenger would have sufficed, would have kept her whole and sane for another ten years. Was he all right? Had he been wounded? Was he satisfied with the new life he had found for himself?
Her eyes drifted over to Cygnus, and she gazed fondly at the swan for a long time. A pair of swans had lived in her pond for many years while she was growing up, and they were fiercely loyal to each other. She knew the magnificent birds mated for life, and she could see their love for each other in the way they stayed side by side, in how he steadily stood guard as she tenderly cared for their nest of eggs.
Then, several years ago, after a fierce thunderstorm which lasted through the night, he was gone. She never knew what had happened to him, whether it had been a hungry fox, or a powerful gust of wind, or some other seemingly illogical twist of nature. All she knew is that she had come out the next day to find the female paddling to every corner of the pond, desperately searching, calling out occasionally with a plaintive cry. The female swan’s search continued for days, her energy dwindling with each passing hour. After a while she simply floated at the center of the pond, her head lowered, her wings listless.
And then she, too, was gone.
Jessame put her hand to the side, to the place where Berenger had laid beside her as a youth. The tracery of the fish lay there, the edges of the design presenting ridges and hollows beneath her fingertips. She ran her fingers along the delicate carvings for long minutes.
She knew how that swan felt, knew the loss of half your soul. For so many long years she had stared at the sky, thinking of Berenger, immersed in a desperate longing which knew no end. Did he look up to see the same stars that she did in that far off, distant land? Had he found a wife, one who was gentle, caring, and generous? Did he now share his home with a laughing tumult of adoring children? She knew beyond doubt that he would be an ideal father. He would be patient, caring, easy to talk to, everything she could have dreamt of.
He had returned home.
It was still so new to her, after so many years. He was here, only a few miles away, was under the same sky now, sharing the same gentle breezes and aromas of grass and meadow. And maybe, someday, when her quest for justice had been reached, and she sloughed off the disguise she had drawn about her, she could finally ask him the question that had tormented her for so long.
Why had he left?
Chapter 7
Jessame sat hunched over the small table in her cottage, the stylus gripped in her fingers, staring at the marks on her wax tablet. Somewhere in this list of names was the man or woman she sought. She kept her mind open; the murderer could easily be a cheated-on wife whose fury with prostitutes had driven her to take these drastic steps. She would leave no stone unturned.
She gazed for a long while at Lady Cavendish’s name, and finally rubbed out the eight, replacing it with a seven. The woman had seemed a monster to her at times, but there also seemed to be a vulnerable aspect to her as well. She would have to give that some thought.
Her eyes moved over Berenger’s name, and she felt the pang, the loss, the hollow feeling sweep over her again. She reminded herself bitterly that he was gone to her. He had left her ten long years ago, without a backward glance, without a word. He had simply been there one day and gone the next, vanished without a trace.
There was hoofbeat coming slowly up her path. She turned the wax tablet over so only the smooth wooden side showed, put her stylus down beside it, then moved to the door. Who would be visiting her on this beautiful afternoon? She had imagined most men would skulk to her door late at night, when the inky darkness hid their furtive movements.
She pulled open the door and to her surprise Berenger was dismounting from his horse, looping the reins over the edge of the well fence to the right of her house. He took his time, and when he turned to face her his eyes were quiet, almost apologetic.
The words burst out of him, low and gruff.
“I want to hire you for the day.”
Jessame’s world came to a crashing stop. Her face drained of color, and she put a hand to the side to lean against the door frame. He could not be serious. He could not want to hand her money, to walk with her into her cottage, to …
“No,” she whispered, her eyes large with shock.
He tilted his head to one side, his gaze becoming serious. “No?” he asked in confusion.
“I … I am not feeling well,” she found herself stuttering, her mind a complete blank, utterly unprepared for this. It could not be Berenger, not the Berenger who had fished by her side on languorous afternoons, who had gazed at constellations as the owls had hooted in the dark night.
“Oh!” cried Berenger, relief and understanding and some other emotion she could not quite name flooding over his features. “No, not to go in the cottage,” he quickly clarified. “Just to talk by the stream. Only to spend time with you.”
Jessame’s world started into motion again. She put a hand to her chest, taking in a long, deep, shaky breath. Confusion swirled around her. “You want to pay me �
� just to sit with me?” she clarified, baffled.
His gaze was steady on her. “You have men pay to spend time with you, yes?”
She nodded dumbly. That certainly was the idea of what she was presenting to the world.
He spread his arms wide. “I would like to offer my own money, in return for your time.” His eyes shadowed. “Unless you had other arrangements made for today?”
She shook her head, still not able to speak. In a moment he was walking down toward the stream, and she moved with him. She took a seat in the soft moss, putting her shoes on the right side of her on the bank. In a moment she was dangling her toes in the cool, dappled water. He eased himself down at her side. For a long while he simply stared across at her, his dark eyes lost in the shadows of the willows which hung over the banks.
The stream danced its way past them, scampering over glistening, black stones and swirling around a fallen branch. A robin warbled contentedly from across the water, and Jessame wondered if it had a nest tucked into the crook of a tree, if it was tending to a late batch of youngsters.
At last her heart returned to its normal rhythm, settled down into a quiet peace. She spoke softly into the burbling.
“So … what would you like to talk about?”
“Tell me about you,” he asked simply.
Jessame looked down the stream, watching as a leaf spiraled into its gentle current, spun as it drifted past time-smoothed rocks and twisted twigs. She realized that this was a new challenge for her to overcome.
What could she safely tell him? If she tried to invent lies, she would never keep track of them. She would be quickly caught. He would press her and discover the truth. He would haul her back to her father’s house, shut her in, and the slain women would never have the justice they deserved.
She stared at the running water, seeking a solution. Surely she could not remain silent for the afternoon, refusing to say anything at all.