The assembly was silent for a long moment, then erupted in excited chatter. Eleanor did not doubt that they speculated upon the sisters’ ploy, but she held the old healer’s gaze determinedly. The madness seemed to ebb in old Jeannie’s eyes, and was replaced by a kind of cunning.
“You know much of poisons for a lady,” Jeannie said coyly, and the hall fell silent. “Perhaps your intent is of greater import than mine.”
Eleanor would not endure any such insinuation, not when it was without cause, not in this place that was already so precious to her. “Hardly that!” she replied. “You mixed the potion that was surrendered to your laird, not I, and it was not mixed at my dictate. I knew nothing of it until now. Solely the intent of those who knew of it is in question, and truly, Jeannie, I suspect that you alone knew the potency of what you concocted.”
The harridan’s eyes narrowed, but Eleanor did not allow her to speak further. She looked again at Alexander’s sisters. Isabella, to her credit, could not hold Eleanor’s gaze. “Though I appreciate that you did not mean harm, harm could easily have come of this. You owe my husband an apology.”
“He is not your husband any longer, not by his own accounting,” Elizabeth noted.
“No letter has been dispatched to the bishop as yet,” Eleanor retorted. “Alexander is my husband until word comes from the bishop, and perhaps even after that.”
The company gasped, but Eleanor had given them sufficient to consider. She turned to leave the hall, her crimson skirts rustling, chin held high.
“Now I suppose that she will ensure our matches are loathsome ones, simply for spite,” Elizabeth muttered, her words carrying from the high table to Eleanor’s ears.
Eleanor pivoted, letting the silk swirl around her ankles, letting the girl see that her comment was unwelcome. “I am appalled to hear that the laird of this holding, a man who has treated me with uncommon kindness for little reason beyond his own goodness, should be shown such a lack of respect in his own hall.”
“Hear, hear,” declared a villager at a table beside her. Elizabeth colored, but she did not look away from Eleanor. Indeed, she rose to her feet, defiance making her eyes glitter. “Alexander would see us wed against our will, as he did with our two eldest sisters.”
“And where would be the harm in that example?” Eleanor demanded. “Your sisters are wed to men of honor, men with holdings to their names, men who are young and virile and treat their wives with courtesy.”
“But…”
“Tell me the flaw in either of these men,” Eleanor invited, and Elizabeth’s defiance slipped.
“Alexander has been fortunate, to be sure…”
“Or perhaps he has an astute eye for character.” Vivienne lifted a finger to argue. “You cannot protest that Elizabeth does not have a viable concern.”
“I can and I do,” Eleanor replied hotly. “Does your husband beat you? Does he share your favors with his men? Does he leave you undefended? Does he insult you at your own board? Does he ensure that none in his household show you a measure of respect?”
The company murmured at this litany of foul prospects and the sisters exchanged glances of horror. “Of course not!” Vivienne and Madeline declared in unison.
“Then you know little of how poor a marriage can be,” Eleanor said. “Indeed, you will find little sympathy from me in this matter, Elizabeth. How many summers have you seen?”
“Twelve.”
“And yet still you sit at your brother’s board, a maiden well-fed, well-adorned, and well-protected.” Eleanor lifted a hand and indicated the next eldest sister, intent upon letting Alexander’s siblings know how indulged they had been. That they did not appreciate his concern, that they disparaged him when he fought to keep the truth of Kinfairlie’s finances from them, infuriated her beyond belief. “As does your elder sister, Isabella. How many summers have you seen, Isabella?”
The tallest sister—she with the glorious red tresses, the fine garb, and the affection for Jeannie’s potions— shrugged. “Fourteen.”
“And Annelise?”
This sister was more soft-spoken, a shy maiden with auburn hair unbound over her shoulders. She alone seemed chastised by Eleanor’s anger. “Sixteen, my lady.”
“And yet here you all sit, certain that your fate is yours to command; indeed, certain that you have the right to make demands of your brother. Here you all sit, content in the surety that there will be meat to fill your bellies, fripperies to trim your hems, and armed men to guarantee your chastity. I am certain that you think little of how these marvels come to be.”
The sisters exchanged glances, the two eldest nodding in quiet agreement. Eleanor found understanding in the gazes of those two husbands.
But not from Elizabeth. That girl opened her mouth to argue, but Eleanor had lost her patience. “You think your self poorly served, Elizabeth, that much is clear. I invite you to speculate upon what fate you would have found, had you truly managed to see Alexander dead this morn.” The girl might have spoken, but Eleanor was not done. “Indeed, let me tell you what it is to be poorly served. I was wed at twelve summers of age, against my will, to a friend of my father’s who had seen more than sixty summers himself.”
The sisters looked up as one, their eyes wide, but Eleanor continued with heat. “To have called him cruel would have been to overstate his compassion for any creature other than himself. And when I complained of what I endured in his household, my father told me that I was as good as my husband’s chattel.” She straightened and held Elizabeth’s gaze. “He told me, mine own father, that if my husband showed disfavor with me, then I must surely have deserved his rebuke.”
Elizabeth averted her gaze. It was not half of the story, though Eleanor would share no more. She knew the more clever among them would link her earlier questions with her tale of her first spouse, and rightly so. Her first husband, Millard, had been a cur beyond compare; a charming cur possessed of a cunning cruelty.
The company was silent, staring at Eleanor. She found herself shaking in rage at what she had endured, at the audacity of Alexander’s sisters in expecting more to be their due.
“From where I stand,” she said, “you have no complaint with your brother’s intent, for he has shown greater care than many a man would do in ridding his hall of mouths to feed. Women can be wedded as soon as their courses begin, so give thanks for every month since that day that you have not been compelled to wed a man against your choice, no less an unfitting one.”
Madeline stood then and laid a hand upon Elizabeth’s shoulder. “You go too far in this. Our matches are good ones because we made them so, not because of any care taken on Alexander’s part.”
Eleanor would not even cede this. “Every marriage is wrought of chance, but in choosing men of merit to take your hand, Alexander ensured that Fortune rode in your company. Did I not hear that you had the opportunity yourselves to choose your spouses, an opportunity you both declined to take?” Madeline and Vivienne colored slightly when they nodded. “Grant credit where it is due, all of you. My lord husband has served you well, far better than most men would have done. You should have the wits to recognize as much, no less to appreciate the blessings you have gained.”
With that, Eleanor spun and left the hall, even as she heard them begin to chatter behind her. No sooner had she gained the corridor than she heard a man begin to applaud.
“Hear, hear,” he cried, and Eleanor halted in the shadows to listen. She smiled in relief as another joined him, then another and another, then the hall was filled with applause.
She had confessed far more of her own history than she had intended to do, but she was fiercely glad that she had defended Alexander. She had behaved as a good wife should, and for once in all her days, she was glad of it. The duty had not been forced upon her and she was pleased to have done it so well.
All she had to do was persuade Alexander to keep her as his wife.
Yet, there was one deed she had to complete before she so
ught out Alexander. It would not hurt that her errand would allow his temper time to cool, and grant her time to concoct a plan.
The sorry truth was that she had no idea what she might offer this man to convince him to keep her by his side.
* * * * *
Alexander drummed his fingers upon the table. His letter sat before him, an appeal couched in the most polite terms, the wax seal drying as he watched. He frowned at the missive, disliking that he had had to write it.
At the root of his disquietude was not that requesting an annulment a half a day after wedding a woman made him look like an impulsive fool. It was not that Father Malachy had refused simply to eliminate the entry for the wedding from his books, though defiance was never a good sign. It was not even that the red wax was unadorned with the imprint of the seal of Kinfairlie— because Alexander’s signet ring was lost, due to his own foolish trust and his sisters’ potion—that irked him.
It was the memory of Alan Douglas and that man’s determination to provide so-called justice for Eleanor that made Alexander reluctant to dispatch the missive. No matter how the lady had deceived him, no matter how right it was to put her aside, it was impossible to think her deserving of a day in Alan’s courts.
It would take a witless man, indeed, to believe that Alan did not mean harm to Eleanor. Alan lied to blame Eleanor for his brother’s death and no good could come to Eleanor of that. Was Alexander a fool to care what happened to her, when she had tricked him on a matter of such import? Alexander pushed to his feet and paced the chamber, pausing to look over the rolling sea.
If ever he had desired the counsel of his father and uncle, he desired it more in this moment.
He started at a slight rap on his door, then looked back at the sea. “Enter, Anthony,” he said, knowing that the castellan would delight in enumerating his many failings. He might well agree with Anthony on this day.
“If I am not Anthony, may I still enter?”
Alexander glanced over his shoulder at the familiar feminine voice, and was still surprised to find Eleanor on the threshold. She had opened the door only an increment, and stood with one hand on the latch, as if poised to flee. Her cautious manner made him regret his public display of anger again, though he still did not trust her.
“I did not think to see you again,” he said, and turned his back once more.
“I expected as much.” There was no inflection in her voice, no way by which he could guess whether she thought that good or poor.
But she had sought him out. That must be of some import.
“If you have come to tell me that I am a knave beyond compare, then have your say and be done with it. I do not dispute that my manners were poor. You can quickly tell me that I am sour to find no humor in my sisters’ jest, then leave me be.”
“They could have killed you with that potion,” she said with heat. “There is nothing amusing about their deed and, truly, I would think you witless if you found humor in it.”
He glanced back with surprise at the passion in her tone, and found her eyes flashing.
“I have told them that you are owed an apology,” she said, her manner fierce. “That Jeannie is a fool, indeed, if she imagines that she can readily assess the potency of a nightshade plant. You had virtually no meat in your belly last night—either a pinch more herb or a mouthful less food would have ensured that you never awakened this day.”
Alexander blinked. It was rare for any soul to defend him. “I did not finish the wine that Isabella brought to me,” he said, for he could think of little else to say.
“And there is the truth of it. That harridan would have seen you dead, had you consumed it all. The worst of it is that she does not even know what she very nearly saw done!”
Eleanor was transformed by her fury, as if the ice in her had suddenly melted away. That her appearance should be so vitalized out of indignation on his account was remarkable, indeed.
“And here I thought you came to tell me that my sisters were right, after all.”
Eleanor smiled wryly and entered the room, apparently taking his lack of protest as an invitation. “To their credit, I have oft thought that what was sauce for the gander could be sauce for the goose.”
“I did not try to harm either of my sisters, merely to see them wed and wed happily.”
“But it seems that harm could have been done in both cases, despite your intent otherwise. Perhaps there is not so much difference between the three situations.”
“Perhaps there is.” Alexander held her gaze. “An error served in return does not make other errors come aright.”
“Fair enough, but you cannot blame them for trying to ensure that you wed as well.”
“I can blame them for failing to understand what is at stake. For my sisters’ matches, there is no more and no less at stake than their happiness and security.”
“You cannot blame them for not knowing what you did not tell them,” she noted, and he glanced to her in confusion. “About your barren treasury.”
“No, but that is of less import in the matter of my own marriage than my status as laird. The suzerainty and security of Kinfairlie and those sworn to it must be assured, even if the price is my own happiness.”
Eleanor looked at her slippers.
Alexander took a breath, then said what had to be said. In truth, it was a relief to have some person with whom he could speak bluntly. “You must know that I would not have alienated the Black Douglas clan of my own volition. Had you told me your allegiance last night, I might well have let you depart.”
Eleanor’s lips set as she regarded him, and he felt obliged to qualify his statement. “I would have done so in ignorance of Alan’s intent, to be sure, for I would never willingly endanger a lady. Traditionally, though, we have allied with them and this feat annuls that old agreement. Such a choice should be made deliberately, not by accident, for it could endanger every soul who has sworn fealty to me. The risk of retaliation is not small.”
She dropped her gaze, apparently disappointed in his reply. “You would prefer to ally with them.”
“It was my father’s preference and that of my uncle as well.” Alexander watched her, then decided to continue his blunt speech. “Perhaps you will appreciate their conviction that it was preferable to have a Black Douglas beside you than behind you.”
Eleanor laughed then, as if surprised by his candor, then regarded him with some amusement. “I can indeed understand such a sentiment. They are men who stop at nothing to see their aims achieved.” She arched a brow and sobered. “There is no wickedness beneath them, to be sure.”
He was tempted then, to ask about the kind of marriage she had had with Ewen, to ask what she knew of that man’s death, but she spoke before he could do so. Later he would wonder if her choice was deliberate. “So, you wed your sisters in haste, though by unconventional means, wanting only to ensure their happiness and security. And they resent your choices, though they have found good marriages, indeed. Perhaps it is not Fortune who smiled upon them. Perhaps you have a sense for making a good match.” She met his gaze. “Perhaps you saw the truth of these men, despite the circumstances that cast them in poor light.”
“I would not claim such a gift,” Alexander said with a shake of his head.
“I guessed as much,” she said with soft vigor. “Which was why I claimed it for you.”
Alexander looked up to find her eyes gleaming. His heart leapt at the sight of her. “What is this?”
Eleanor smiled in a most captivating way. “I told them that they had no cause for complaint, for much worse marriages could be arranged for them than those you arranged with Rhys and Erik.”
“Except that I did not arrange those matches,” Alexander felt obliged to note. “Both men deceived me and I hunted them both once their truth was revealed. I would have killed them without a qualm, had my sisters been injured.”
“So you are protective of those beneath your hand, but still they do not understand the reason y
ou were so anxious to see them wed in haste. Not a one of them knows that Kinfairlie’s coffers are empty, do they?”
“How could I tell them such a thing?”
“How could you keep every burden for yourself?” she demanded with some impatience. “You had to guess that without knowing your reason, they would fear your intent. You had to know that they would disparage you!”
Alexander sighed again. “And if I told them, one might choose a suitor with undue haste, perhaps condemning herself to unhappiness. There are no good choices in this.” His gaze strayed out the window, to the fields that had yielded so little this year, and considered the elements, so seemingly benign this day, that had seen the seed rotted in those fields.
“So they fear you, instead of fearing for Kinfairlie’s prosperity,” Eleanor said, her hand landing upon his arm. “That fear led them to deceive you, which put your own life in peril.”
Alexander shrugged. “I do not doubt that you speak aright. Indeed, I will not argue with any soul who protests that I have done poorly at this responsibility of lairdship.” He thought she might criticize him, so spoke in haste before she could do so. “What of you? Do you despise your father for choosing your spouses for you?”
It was Eleanor’s turn to study her shoes. She frowned slightly and he yearned to ease the furrow from between her brows with a fingertip.
“I did,” she admitted, then looked up. Her gaze was clear. “There were years when I hated him with all my heart and soul, when I could not believe that a man who loved me as I had believed he did could have consigned me to such wretched marriages.”
The Snow White Bride Page 11