by Jo Beverley
After a moment, Lord Renald said, “She should meet Luc le Gros.”
Nils laughed at that, but he carried on, keen to read more of this extraordinary document. “He seems in excellent health and still has all his teeth, at least at the front. His skin suggests a healthy man, and is free of scar or blemish. There is no foul smell to him that would indicate internal problems or a lack of cleanliness …”
He couldn’t resist looking up to check the reaction.
“A positive hymn of praise.”
As often was the case, Nils couldn’t tell if Lord Renald was amused or not. He himself was close to losing control of his voice. “… though he does smell rather strongly of horse, leather, and such. It is only to be expected of a man of his sort, and I’m sure he can be encouraged to strip before intimacy, if that be your will.”
“The Lady Claire is clearly an excellent judge of character.”
Nils gave in to laughter, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve.
“Is there more?” Renald asked.
“Oh, yes, my lord.”
“In a similar vein?”
“I suppose …” Nils ran his eye ahead a bit, then looked up, rather alarmed.
“Go on.”
Nils did begin to feel guilty at reading this, which the lady clearly would not ever want Lord Renald to hear. “What is more, Felice, I feel sure that Lord Renald would be a lusty and satisfying lover. From the way he eyes the pretty maids, he is clearly interested in such matters. From the fact that he does not bother them, I judge him to use restraint and courtesy in his loving, which must surely make for a good bed partner. And though he is a big man, I’m sure his personal endowments must be …”—Nils thought about changing it, but couldn’t see how—”modest …”
“Modest? As in shrinking violet?”
“And I think he would be able to use his … She’s scribbled over and scratched out here, my lord. I’m not sure what she means.”
“I am, but I’m very curious as to what she actually wrote.”
Nils put the parchment closer to the candle and squinted. “Ah … able to use his genitalia—”
Lord Renald was shaking his head, but his lips were definitely unsteady.
“—with consideration,” Nils continued, “out of …”
“Yes?”
Nils looked at him. “Out of long practice.”
“Well, that’s one thing right. Is that it?”
Nils was a little surprised. Lord Renald hadn’t shown much interest in women in the few days he’d known him. He hadn’t talked about them, or told a dirty joke. But then, circumstances hadn’t been favorable.
“Just the ending, my lord. So I ask if you wish to reconsider. If you decide that you want to be the bride, Lord Renald will arrange for you to come into Summerbourne and for me to join Amice in the camp. As oldest you have first right to take him as husband, and I would not deprive you of that, him being so close to your ideal man.”
Lord Renald nodded. “Clever girl. She is clever, Nils, even if remarkably stupid about some things.”
Having been given a glimpse into her secrets, Nils felt rather protective of poor Lady Claire. “She’s young, my lord.”
“Little younger than you.”
“But I’m not being forced to marry a stranger.”
The dark brows rose. “The mere thought of you in such a situation could tangle my mind.” Renald rose to pace the small room. “I wonder if that letter will sway the aunt.”
There was a question in it, and Nils couldn’t resist saying, “I thought I wasn’t your adviser.”
“Don’t be impudent.”
The tone carried no threat, however, and Nils laughed. “There’s no way to say, my lord. You do not plan to send the letter?”
“I keep my word. But I don’t want the Lady Felice tempted, even for a moment.” He stood in thought for a moment, then nodded. “The delicious Lady Claire, however, has just told me how to make sure her aunt doesn’t change her mind.”
Chapter 7
Grief and anxiety are not good pillows. After a restless night, Claire was relieved to see sunrise, especially as it brought the hope that today Felice would offer to be the invader’s bride. The next step, however, would be to leave Summerbourne. She lay, watching sun play on the beams of her bedchamber, storing up the lifelong sounds of her home.
She was realizing that her grandmother was right. She’d had suitors, and could have married. However, none of the men had been tempting enough to outweigh the love of her home. Her mother had warned that one day she’d have to leave, but Claire had imagined that life could drift on forever as it was.
Folly.
When her maids stirred, she slipped out of bed, only remembering her plaits when she reached out of habit to move them. The ends felt strange, like rough floss, and the breeze chilled her naked nape.
She couldn’t exactly regret the act. It had been one of anger and rebellion, yes, but also one of deep grief. Her father, however, was doubtless shaking his head in heaven over her impulsive act.
Was it any better, she thought rebelliously, that he had considered for nearly a year before becoming a rebel? It had still led to disaster.
She pushed away such disloyal thoughts and chose the clothes she had worn the night before. Since Felice would be de Lisle’s bride, there was no longer any need to try to appear unattractive.
Her hair was beyond hope, however. All she could do was hide it, which wouldn’t be easy now that it was developing a wild independence. Stray tendrils had always curled around her face, but now it was springing out in all directions. She must look like a dandelion puff!
Refusing to moan over what couldn’t be changed, she simply draped a long veil over it all and secured it with an embroidered circlet, well pulled down. Then she ventured out to attend to her usual duties in the house.
First she visited her mother. Lady Murielle seemed composed, but had no interest in taking care of Summerbourne. It was someone else’s property. Let him do the work.
Claire, however, wasn’t sure he would or could, and she wasn’t the sort to stand by and watch things spoil. She sighed and went off to do the work of four. Five, if de Lisle was included. As she rushed from hall to kitchens to pantry to stores, she kept an eye open for Thomas. She hated to imagine what he could be up to. Had he given up his anger? Even if he had, she wasn’t sure he would obey commands from de Lisle. If he didn’t, what would that man do to him?
In view of her mood, Summerbourne was distressingly normal. The servants attended to their usual tasks. The busy kitchens wafted the comforts of baking bread and roasting meat. When the cook complained again about the beer, Claire headed for the brewhouse, hoping there’d be less good cheer there.
The fresh morning sun was out, however, the dismal rain only a memory in muddy corners. She couldn’t resist stopping to turn her face up, eyes closed, to drink in the light and warmth. Sounds became clearer—the comforting background of everyday activity with the curlicues of birdsong frolicking on top.
Today it was easier to imagine a golden heaven, to picture her father up there in perpetual sunshine, surrounded by angel song, smiling down like the sun on his home. Tears welled, but they were gentle ones. She couldn’t doubt that he was in paradise, so he must be happy now, happy as he never could have been if he had shirked the call of his conscience.
Abandoning the brewhouse for the moment, she slipped into the fenced garden to gather flowers, then scattered them on the raw earth of her father’s grave. In time the wound in the earth would heal, as would the wound in her heart.
Grass would grow here, and she would plant flowers in his memory and—
But she wouldn’t be here to tend his grave.
That thought shocked her to stillness. She couldn’t stay, and once Felice was Lady of Summerbourne, she wouldn’t want to, but she wished she could tend her father’s grave.
If she married de Lisle …
She shook her head. The price was too
high—marriage to the wrong sort of man, and having to live in Summerbourne under such unworthy ownership.
Grasping the comfort of duty, she hurried off on an errand to the stone brewhouse. Perhaps in discussing the problems there, she could forget other things.
When she emerged, however, a movement caught her eye. Renald de Lisle had come out of the hall and stood watching her. In a dark red tunic and gray braies, he was like a bloody cloud on the lovely day, and his gaze, even from a distance, brushed like a chill breeze.
She hurried on, tugging her circlet down to try to keep her veil decorously in place. Soon however, he came up beside her, ominously preceded by his shadow.
“Where is your brother, Lady Claire?”
Oh no. She stopped to face him. “I don’t know. I’m sure—”
“Did you sneak him out of Summerbourne last night? Was that the purpose of your mad folly?”
Claire gaped. “No! Of course not. He must be around somewhere.” She searched the courtyard desperately. How could Thomas be so foolish?
“It is time, past time, for him to learn discipline.”
“Discipline!” She immediately thought of the rod.
“He must work. He must prepare for his future.”
“I know that. I’m sorry. But please don’t beat him. He’s not used—”
She saw his jaw tighten. “He should be. Nothing grows well growing wild.” But then he took a deep breath, pulling a strangely disarming face. “I won’t beat him, Lady Claire. This time. For your sake. But persuade him to obey.”
That for your sake ran along her nerves like a rasp. Like a threat. “I’ll go find him,” she said and moved away.
He grasped her arm, not with the strength she knew he possessed, but firmly enough. “Why not show me around? We might spot him as we go.”
She had no escape from this man yet, and perhaps this way she could distract him from Thomas’s rebellion. “If you wish, my lord.”
He released her, and they walked on side by side. Meek and pleasant, she thought. That’s the key. “I think you’ll find all in order, my lord, except that the last batch of barrels seems to have been poorly made. I’m about to discuss the matter with Rolf the Cooper.”
“Summerbourne seems a thriving place.”
“I think so.”
“Due largely to your work?”
“Not at all. My mother and aunts do their part. When they are able and present,” she added before realizing that wasn’t exactly meek.
“I can do nothing to ease your mother’s grief, but you and your aunts will be back together as soon as I am betrothed to one of you.”
“I’m sure Felice will be eager, my lord.” Claire plunged with relief into the cooper’s shop.
She spoke to the man and de Lisle didn’t interfere, but he still made her nervous. As a result, she spoke to the cooper more strongly than she’d intended, and as they left, she sighed.
“Correcting the peasantry upsets you?”
“I am upset with myself because I was harsher than I meant to be.”
She half turned to go back, to moderate her words, but he stayed her with a touch. “His work was not shoddy?”
She edged away from his hand, his disturbing hand. “His young daughter drowned in the river last week. It’s not surprising—”
“What if his poor work endangered others?”
“I know. I know. But I spoke so sharply to impress you, my lord. For no other reason.” Oh dear. That wasn’t wise.
The brows rose. “Have you decided you want to be my bride after all?”
“No!” At his look, she confessed. “I just didn’t want you to think of me as a child or a fool. After last night.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “I assure you, my lady, after last night I do not think of you as a child.”
She would have run from him then if dignity had allowed. Instead, she turned away. “Come to the dairy, my lord.”
The cool of the stone building was welcome to her panicked cheeks. She must stop letting him fluster her like this! Soon she’d be free of him. Very soon.
“The milking shed is through there.” She indicated a wooden door. “But the milch cows and goats will be out in the pasture now. Do you understand how a dairy works, my lord?”
He looked around, big and dark in this woman’s place. “I see maids hard at work.” The maids brushed and dimpled at him, and Claire knew some of them would be happy to warm the new lord’s bed. Well, that would be Felice’s problem, not hers.
“The herdsmen milk the animals,” she said, “then bring the milk here for the maids to sieve. Now it’s had time to settle—”
“They are skimming the cream.”
He strolled over to where one maid deftly scooped the cream off the top of the milk then poured it into a stone jug. Joan was one of the best dairymaids, and didn’t spill a drop, but at that moment Claire could have tossed her out to work in the fields for the way she was eyeing Renald de Lisle.
He smiled back at the dairymaid as he slid a fingertip along the top of her milk so it gathered a yellow cap. Then he raised it to his lips, but turned to Claire. “Fine cream.”
Claire knew she had turned bright red—partly with anger, partly with some other emotion. “Fine cream makes fine butter—if it is not guzzled by passing rogues!” Her cursed veil slipped, and she pushed it straight and tugged the circlet fiercely down. Almost immediately it started to ride up again. Oh, if only she had the dignity of her long hair back!
She marched over to the churn, which was operated by sensible, middle-aged Freda, but even Freda grinned at de Lisle as if she’d like a chance in his bed.
Claire directed his attention to a large vat. “Cheese. Not today’s milk. The curds are setting.” She held out a wooden cup to him. “Buttermilk?”
He took it and drank. “Yesterday’s, of course.”
She stared. “How did you know?”
“I know it takes time to make butter, and besides, the contents of that churn are still liquid. The sound says it.”
She drained her cup and put it down with a slap. “I’m not surprised that you’re familiar with dairies, my lord. After all, the maids rarely are.”
“True enough,” he said as he followed her out, and she heard humor. He didn’t even have the shame to deny her implication that dairymaids were often wanton.
“Where next?” he asked.
“The weavers.” Her veil slid backward this time. With a huff, she salvaged dignity by snatching it off and carrying it wadded into a ball. She must look a figure of fun, but at least she wouldn’t be distracted by trying to manage it. She was having a hard enough time managing her wits. She knew she’d never be able to manage this man.
They entered the wooden weaving sheds, promptly surrounded by the clack of shuttles and the thump of weaving bars. Tufts of fibers danced in the air.
Claire led him toward one loom, batting a tuft out of her face. She felt something and whirled. He was rolling some wool fibers between his strong fingers. “Is the local wool good?”
He must have plucked it off her hair. She hadn’t known hair could be so sensitive. “Some of the best, my lord.”
“And is much sold, or is it all kept for Summerbourne use?”
“We sell some as fleece, yes, and some as cloth. It is one of our—” She cut off her words, remembrance of the true situation hitting her. “One of your best sources of coin.”
He dropped the lump of wool. “It could be ‘our’ if you wish, Lady Claire.”
It was suddenly tempting. This was, after all, her home and this journey through it only made it the more precious. These were her people, known since birth.
But no, she would be in this man’s power. Completely in his power.
“I do not wish, my lord. Come and meet Elfgyth, your head weaver. She can make these patterns, you see, and work in fine thread.” She went on to praise the cloth growing under the woman’s busy hands—a warm blend of dyed yarns in shades of
brown and gold.
“It is indeed a lovely cloth, Mistress Elfgyth,” he said.
The older woman didn’t so much as look up. “‘Twas to be the lord’s winter tunic.”
Her shuttle flew, her bar banged, and the cloth rippled to the ground, mute accusation.
“What did you expect?” Claire asked, surprised by the expression on his face. “I’m sorry if my father casts a shadow on your triumph, my lord, but his presence here will never fade.”
If there’d been a flicker of sensitivity there, it had gone. “Memories do fade, demoiselle, and sometimes we are grateful for it. That cloth can make a winter tunic for the lady of Summerbourne.”
“Felice does not like those shades,” Claire countered as she led the way into the sunshine.
“They would suit you as well as they would have suited your father.”
Her breath caught at memory and implication, but she plowed on. “Where next, my lord?”
“Perhaps that is enough for now.”
“But this is all yours!” Claire said, facing him, searching for one hint of discomfort, any sense that he knew he was a usurper. “You should know your property, my lord. Down to the last midden.”
He merely smiled. “Then later, the Lady Felice can show me around the domain we will share. For now, the bell calls us to breakfast.”
As Claire went with him to the hall, she felt as churned as the cream in the dairy. His words stung, she couldn’t deny it. Felice did her duty, but she was careless about many parts of Summerbourne. What would become of it all in her hands?
And she’d been jealous in the dairy. She was too honest to deny it. She couldn’t understand how she could be jealous over a man she despised, a man she didn’t want.
She was bothered, too, by the way her father was fading from his home. Certainly Elfgyth had recalled Lord Clarence, but none of the other workers had. The dairymaids had been too busy simpering and winking at the new lord!
They entered the hall, and talk and laughter surrounded them. It could be any day, not the day after her father’s burial. And it wasn’t only the servants who were leaving her father behind.