by Sophie Jaff
I walk through the wooden door in the back wall of the hall, and there, oh marvel of marvels, is a small garden already planted with vegetables. Protected by a fence of wooden boards, it is perfect for growing herbs of my own.
Thomas looks pleased, but he is aware enough of the world to be puzzled by this sudden change of luck. He glances at Landon, but says nothing.
After Landon thinks we have had enough time to admire our new home, he shows us a little path that leads off through a small entrance in the garden fence. “This will lead you to the keep,” he says. “Truly, it is only a stone’s throw away.”
Tonight will be the first in our new home. We sit around the table as a family might. I am still overwhelmed with the luxury of it. There is a small oven next to the hearth so that we may bake our own bread, and with the spices in the almery we can make our own pottage with the onions, leeks, celery, and peas from the garden. Rudd is round-eyed, and even Thomas still sits silent.
Once we have eaten, I bid good night to Thomas, who seems troubled.
“What ails you?”
“Nothing. Only . . .”
“Only?”
“I cannot make sense of it. Why would we be moved to so pleasant a place?”
I look away so that he will not see my flushed cheeks and give no answer.
Over the following days we ease into our good fortune, finding new treasures, saffron among the spices, embroidered cushions, smooth ceramic jugs, even a pair of fine pewter candlesticks upon the mantel. Each day I hug my happiness tightly to myself as I go about my work in the brewery.
Then, one early morning not long after our move, I sense someone’s gaze upon me as I stand in line with Thomas at the well. A woman with a pale, trembling mouth and raw red eyes stares at me. Next to her is a man, presumably her husband given the small child teetering about her feet. She may be pretty beneath her distress, but it is impossible to tell.
She is about to start toward to me when her husband grips her arm and mutters something in her ear. Tossing her head, she seems ready to defy him, but then he speaks again and abruptly her arms fall limp at her sides. If she could, I’m sure she would spit upon me, but there is her family and their livelihood to think of. Instead she shoots one last furious look as her child begins to wail. Gathering him in her arms, she croons to him, in tears herself. We are temporarily forgotten.
The scene dumbfounds me. “What is the matter with her?”
Thomas’s face is miserable, ashamed. “That is the wife of Guy the Candlemaker. I hear that it was to them our cottage was first promised.”
I feel sorry for the woman, but I cannot pretend that I would give back the cottage. Never before have I had a sanctuary where I have felt such peace and safety. Never before have I been the mistress of my own home.
The incident is soon driven from my mind. Having worked a full day in the brewery, I return to the cottage and walk straight into my chamber. There, lying neatly upon my bed, is a rich rainbow of soft linen smocks and kirtles. Spruce green and evening blue and, best of all, a warm and vital red, they glow like jewels. Even the wealthy merchants’ wives whom I have seen wandering through the market could never afford the garments that are now displayed before me. I am so stunned I cry out.
Thomas runs into my chamber. “Margaret! What is it?”
When he sees what is on my bed, he too is spellbound. For a moment I am back at the town market on the day I took Cecily, standing at that stall with all its sumptuous bolts of cloth, not daring to touch the vivid wools and silks while the old woman scowls at me with sunken, sour eyes.
“Is that silk?” Thomas is awestruck. He reaches out one hand, returning me to the present.
“Stop!” My voice is sharp.
He glances at me, suddenly afraid.
Again I see the old woman’s grim face.
“The fabric is so fine,” I explain softly. “We would do best to make sure our hands are clean.”
Slowly the hurt fades from his face, but he does not return to my chamber again to touch them.
Once the dresses appear, I know it is now only a matter of time. I cycle through the same tasks each day, but inside I am warmed by small flames and spiked with cold shivers. It is like a fever. What will happen next? To wait and wonder is delicious and maddening. When next? When next? When next?
I stir the cauldron, drifting into a dream.
“How do you fare?”
I start, look up. Landon is leaning up against the wall of the brewery, watching me. I do not know how long he has been there. He has a habit of blending in until he wants to be seen.
“Very well, sir.”
“The cottage, is it to your taste?”
“It is indeed.”
He nods. “You found the gowns in your chamber?”
Now it is my turn to nod.
“His lordship would like to see how his gift becomes you.”
“Oh!” I exclaim, then press my lips together.
Landon displays no emotion. “I will come and escort you this evening.”
There is some forewarning, at least. I must prepare as best I can.
For the rest of the day I cannot settle my thoughts.
As dusk drifts down I hurry back to the cottage with an extra bucket of water, trying not to slop it out. In my chamber, I take off my russet smock and scrub at my skin with a hemp cloth, trying to rid myself of the patina of sweat, ale suds, and soot. By the end of it I am raw and smarting, but I am clean enough to put on the red dress. I have not tried it on before, for I have been too afraid. The silk is cool and light on my fingers. I comb my hair with my hands, and then I leave my chamber and show myself to Thomas and Rudd. I give a mock curtsy such as I imagine a real lady might. Thomas’s mouth and eyes open wide. For once he seems speechless.
“Have you no words?” I jest, though I tremble as I speak.
He shakes his head slowly, gazing at me from head to toe and up again.
“I will take that as a compliment, then.”
“You look well,” he says, filled with some emotion that I do not understand.
Rudd claps his hands with delight, right as there is a knock upon our door.
“Take care.”
Thomas seems unusually solemn, but I do not give it much thought.
Landon has no such reaction, and we walk together toward the keep in cold silence.
Finally, I can bear it no longer.
“It was most clever of his lordship to know what size of dress I would take.”
“It was I who told him your size.” He delivers this information coldly.
“And how would you know?” His insolent manner stings me.
“I am most clever too.” His mouth is taut until he sees my expression and relents a little. “I have a sister about your size. I am glad I am proved right.”
Our silence is more companionable after this. As we enter the keep and cross the courtyard into the castle, there are not many around. It is dark, and with no evening festivities planned, most servants have gone home to their cottages, the knights and pages retreated to their chambers. I wonder where Landon is taking me, and then suddenly we stop at the foot of a staircase.
“I will leave you here,” he tells me. “It is the first room past the stairs.”
Then he turns and disappears back down the passageway through which we came.
And so, alone, I make my way to his lordship’s solar.
In the bright light of the fire burning in a carved hearth, I discover a chamber more magnificent than any I have ever seen with golden arras rugs and rich red tapestries. There are damask cushions, embroidered with unicorns and bulls in silver thread, and birch chests bound with iron and carved with intricate leaves and flowers. A red silken-canopied bed, looms in the center of the room, a massive island of dark oak draped with yet more damask cloth. But most magnificent of all is Lord August.
His eyes run over me, he seems almost as surprised as Thomas.
“That will do very well.�
�� He takes a step closer. “Is it possible you are one and same maid?”
A great weakness engulfs my limbs. “Aye, my lord.” My mouth forms the words, though I can barely summon enough air to carry them.
His smile is slow, but broad. “You seem sure enough though I cannot believe it.”
I stay silent. My wits seem to have scattered like a flock of startled sheep and I have lost all ability to speak.
“And how do you like your gowns?”
Speak, you fool, else he will think you do not care for them! My fingers tug at each other with painful urgency. Speak!
“My lord, there are not words to express how much I like them.”
He regards me critically. “I, for one, believe they have a plain look.”
“My lord?”
He comes closer, then closer still, one hand held behind his back. I smell faint musk and sandalwood. He places a palm upon my waist, and I can feel its heat through the folds of silk. To be touched by him is almost more than I can bear.
“This may help,” he whispers, the warmth of his words sweet in my ear, as he withdraws his hand to reveal a jeweled belt.
He places it around my waist, and the hammered silver buckle glints in the firelight.
I have never before been given such a gift. To think that I now own something as fine as this. All my words are caught in my throat, like chicks struggling to flee their nests.
He steps back and studies me. “That is much better.”
“My lord, how could I ever thank you?” Would that I could fashion a crown of moonbeams, or offer a goblet brimming with light. Anything to feel his touch again.
“If I have given you pleasure, that is reward enough for me.” “These are words that were spoken to me not so long ago.” Coming forward again, he gently cups my face with his hands. “You look as any lady might, only . . .” He pauses, and then continues, “There is something about your eyes. They are like a wild animal’s.” He stops, alarmed. “You are trembling!”
I cannot meet his gaze.
“Your shyness suggests you are not used to the attentions of men, which I can scarce believe.”
“Never, my lord.” He must know that I am still a maiden, that I am pure. For is that not what men desire?
In truth, my virtue is still intact not because I have been modest, but because I have never sought nor craved a man’s touch. Until now.
“Never?” He narrows his eyes; then abruptly he turns away and crosses the room to the hearth. “The ale you made for the night I returned. It had a flavor I could not place.”
“Lavender, my lord.”
“Lavender?” He turns, now facing me. “A strange choice.”
“Yes, my lord.”
A cloud has covered the sun; the sky has darkened. My soul droops and wilts, a flower deprived of light and warmth.
“What made you choose such a thing?”
I hesitate. “I felt in my heart that it was right.”
“You were led by your heart?” His tone is mocking.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And are you often led by your heart?”
I do not move, for I am unsure whether to nod or shake my head.
“I have heard that is a dangerous guide.” He sighs then, and stares down into the flames. “I am glad you are pleased with the gifts. Landon will escort you back.”
He does not look at me again.
Clearly, I have done something wrong. “M-m-my lord,” I stammer, but when he raises a hand, I fall silent.
His dismissal is obvious enough, and I turn and leave his chamber. Landon is standing outside. I wonder how much he heard of our exchange. All of it, I have no doubt.
Neither of us speaks as he escorts me back to the cottage. When we reach it, I am in a hurry to retreat inside, but Landon takes my hand.
“Margaret.”
He has never called me by my name before.
“Do not be sore of heart.”
I bow my head, humiliated.
“It will all have a way of coming right.”
Then he leaves me at my door.
Thomas waits for me inside.
“Did his lordship admire your dress? What did he say? Will he make you other gifts?”
“He admired my dress.” I am curt, but cannot help it. “He was pleased.” Then I go to my chamber and with shaking fingers undress. I crawl into bed. I stare dry-eyed into the darkness.
I know what he wanted and I would have gladly given it to him. I feel again the heat of his palm. I would give my all for him.
I do not sleep.
The next week passes in agony. The days are heavy and long. I see his smile before me; his whisper echoes in my ears. Nothing eases the tightness in my chest. My head aches; my heart pains me. I am cross with Thomas and snap at poor Rudd, who stares at me with wounded eyes. I want to stop, but I do not know how.
I am so lost in my sorrow that it takes me a while to see the lovely little page standing in the doorway of the brewery. Spellbound, he gazes around this new terrain, and I wonder how he got past the head cook’s grasp.
“Come child.” I beckon him forward and he runs to me.
“Please, mistress.” His hand trembles as he passes me a folded piece of white linen.
I open it very carefully. A sprig of lavender nestles inside it.
“His lordship gave it me himself!” The page is awestruck, despite his fear. “He said you would understand.”
I nod. “Yes. Now, best you make a run for it before you attract Cook’s notice.”
In a heartbeat, he is gone.
I stand, gazing at the small fragrant strand in my hand.
That night I once again approach the staircase. The sconces are out and I worry how I will be able to climb the steps in the darkness, but then I see the stub of a white candle flickering bravely on the third stair. Up two more stairs and another candle, and then another, tiny sentinels lighting my way to the top. As I climb I do not think of anything at all. My hand pressed against the cold stone, my tread soft upon the steps, one above the other, and then I am there.
The corners of his chamber are in shadow, but its heart is made bright by a multitude of candles. He stands in the center, and when he speaks his voice is full of passion.
“I have tried, I have tried in vain to keep away. To forget you. But it is no use. You are a madness that courses through my veins. You are a fever that will not break. I close my eyes, but you are still before me.”
I cannot move. Then all at once he is here, his lips upon my skin; his fingers digging deep in my hair, pulling me down, down, down as he whispers in my ear.
“I will have you.”
And for a long time, neither of us has the need to say anything at all.
16
Katherine
It’s three days after Christmas. Katherine is in Hatchards bookstore, crying her heart out. She stands facing a bookshelf, trying to be quiet, but her shoulders are heaving.
“It must be a very sad book,” a man says. “May I see it?” His manner is light and gentle, detached. Soothing, somehow.
Wordlessly, she hands it to him and he reads the title aloud. “How to Train Your New Puppy in Just Seven Days! Dear God!” he cries in mock horror. “No wonder you’re weeping, that is tragic. No, no, this is too much to bear!”
Katherine laughs, but it comes out as more of a sob. “I’m sorry.” She makes an attempt to wipe her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, take this,” he says, handing her what feels like a piece of silk. She looks down and sees it’s a monogrammed handkerchief. MV.
Katherine is horrified, shaken from her misery. “I couldn’t! I would totally ruin it!”
“Well, darling, I never use it. The whole point of carrying a handkerchief is to find a damsel in distress so you can look gallant. And I believe I detect an American accent? If you’re a Southern belle, I really will have died and gone to heaven.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m fr
om the Midwest. However . . .” Katherine bats her waterlogged eyes. “I have always relied upon the kindness of strangers.” She tries again to laugh.
“That’s it, Blanche DuBois.” His tone is firm. “There is only one solution to this.”
About twenty minutes later they’re seated at a small, white-clothed table set with light turquoise plates and cups. A man is playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” on the piano, and a stand of sandwiches towers between them.
“Frightfully cheesy, but I adore Fortnum and Mason, and as Wilde once said, ‘Give me luxuries and I can dispense with the necessities.’”
Katherine is getting into the spirit of the endeavor. “Or as Aristotle once said, ‘Whatever floats your boat.’”
He smiles. “Exactly.”
She surreptitiously studies her knight in shining armor. She doesn’t know when she last met such a beautiful man. His dark blond hair sweeps impeccably across his forehead above slanting gray eyes and a bone structure that would make anyone weep. His deliberate drawl makes her think of peat-smoked whiskey, as though he is a luxury himself. There is something wickedly indulgent about him. His jeans fit him flawlessly; his shirt is a tailor’s dream. And he clearly has time to spare.
“I’m Matthew, by the way.”
“I’m Katherine.”
“So, Katherine, I have to ask why are you weeping over puppy-training manuals—not that I blame you?”
“Oof. It’s a long and boring story.”
“Nonsense.”
“Well, it’s probably not that long, just boring.”
“Darling, I would never ask if I didn’t actually want to know. I’m far too self-absorbed for that.”
“Okay, but I’m warning you.”
She had wanted Lucas’s Christmas to be wonderful. At least she had wanted it not to be terrible. If she was honest with herself, she would admit that she’d gone completely overboard. They’d visited the Winter Wonderland festival at Hyde Park, gone to a Christmas pantomime, checked out the Christmas Grotto at Harrods, and marveled at the Christmas lights on Oxford Street. She’d filled their white-and-cream apartment with drawings and decorations and glitter.