by King, Susan
She lifted the cup to sip pale Rhenish wine, tart, cool, and undiluted. At Merton, and among the gypsies, wine and ale were generally mixed with water to extend the supply. Rookhope must be a wealthy household indeed, she thought, to serve expensive wines, cooled in cellars and served in silver, at dinner in the middle of the week. This was not even a holy feast day. She had also sipped sweet malmsey while she sat with Helen and Emma chatting in the great hall. And just before dinner, Emma had handed her a cup of a dark Bordeaux wine that she had felt obliged to drink with them.
Conversation continued in a quiet buzz around her. Although she said little, she strove to listen to the discussion of the recent ban on heretical treatises throughout Scotland. She would have liked to have followed it with better understanding, and perhaps comment with acuity, as the others had done. In truth, she knew little about such matters, and kept losing the thread of the discussion.
She knew that she should force herself to eat more, since she had not eaten since dawn. But her stomach seemed tied in a knot. Laughter rippled about the table. She had not heard the jest, and anxiously picked up the wine goblet to sip from it and cover her confusion. The delicious, enticing warmth of the wine slipped past the knot in her center as the food could not, easing her nervousness a little.
"Nevertheless, your brother must be more cautious," Lady Emma said. "He follows the writings of the Protestant leaders on the Continent with avid interest. I wrote to beg him not to purchase any more works—now that such things are forbidden to be imported or sold, or even read, within the realm of Scotland, he needs must be especially wary."
"Geordie is a sensible man, Mother," William said. "He will use good judgment. His intellect is of the curious sort. He wants to understand the twists and turns in the changing fabric of the Church, and he is deciding whether to remain a man of the Church or return home."
"Safer and smarter to be a godly man than a man of God in such times," Helen said. "Men who preached the new ideas have been burned at the stake for heresy. Geordie must be wary, as Mother says."
William sat beside Tamsin on the long side of the table, with Lady Emma on his right. Helen sat across from them, beside Sandie Scott. They ate with good appetite and took part in the conversation with energy, while Tamsin watched and listened, occasionally nibbling and sipping.
"The salmon is delicious," William said, as he sliced into the fish and took another mouthful.
"I hear Scottish salmon are fetching a crown apiece in the English marketplaces," Emma said. "This was free from the river." She smiled at Sandie, who grinned.
"Hey, mutton, beef, whatever you delight after, Lady Emma, are yours for free," Sandie said. "Borrowed from the English, and served by the moonlight talents o' the surname o' Scott."
Emma laughed lightly. "Better I dinna know from whence it comes," she said, her tone a gentle scold. "Keep your reiving tales to yourself."
"Tamsin, are you enjoying your dinner?" Helen asked. "You havena eaten much."
"'Tis delicious," Tamsin said. "My thanks. I find that I am not as hungry as I thought."
William glanced at her. "That wine is fair strong," he murmured under his breath. "Try some of the bread, at least, if you are not hungry, or you will be ill."
She shook her head, stubborn and silent. She could not easily eat the bread with one hand, for she could neither cut it nor tear it without revealing her hand to all at the table. She fisted her small hand in her lap and sipped at the wine again. It tasted cool and fresh, each sip sweeter and smoother.
Helen leaned forward. "After you came to live with your father, Tamsin, did you spend much time with the gypsy people?"
"I spent summers with my mother's people. I still see them whenever they come into the area."
"'Tis a fascination to me," Helen said. "And so, you say you speak their Egyptian language. Can you also tell fortunes, as the gypsy women do?"
"I speak Romany, which was spoken centuries ago by the race of kings and princes from whom the Romany people descend," Tamsin said. "And my grandmother taught me palmistry, and how to read the picture cards."
"Oh! You can read the tarocch?" Helen said. She reached out to lift the pewter jug that held the wine, filling both her cup and Tamsin's as she spoke.
"Aye, I can." Tamsin sipped at the refreshed wine. From the corner of her eye, she saw William watch her with a slight frown. She sent him a little scowl and drank again. He sighed and turned away to answer a question his mother addressed to him.
"We will have our palms read, Mother," Helen said. She smiled. "I would like to see Tamsin read the tarocchi. I know there is a game that can be played with the picture cards, but I have never met anyone who could read fortunes in them."
"Nae just the gypsies tell fortunes," Sandie said. "Scots can too. I have an old aunt who divines the future in sheeps' bones, and people have been visiting her for years for her skill. She makes a good bit o' silver doing that."
"It seems much nicer to read the future in picture cards," Helen said. "Tamsin, will you do that for us? Will has a set of tarocchi cards—Marie of Guise gave him a bonny painted set for a New Year's gift a few years ago."
"I have them somewhere, aye," William said. "I havena played the games of tarocchi and minchiate in a long while."
"Perhaps some evening you can look at our palms too," Helen said. She looked excited, flushing prettily, and Tamsin smiled at her.
"I would be glad to do that," she said. She felt a little bubble of air come up, and pressed her fingers to her mouth.
"Eh, I'd rather play at the cards and win some pennies out o' your purse, Helen," Sandie said. "A good game of ombre or trump, nae that fancy tarockie."
"Sandie, where is Jock?" Lady Emma asked.
"He's gone back to Lincraig, and to visit his brother at Blackdrummond," Sandie answered. "He and I mean to ride out tonight, if you would be interested, Willie," he added.
Helen gasped. "'Tis their wedding night!"
"Another night, then," William murmured. "Has some of the livestock been taken from the fields again?"
"Nae lately, we dinna intend to return reiving favors to any rascals just now. Jock has a rendezvous with the lassie he fancies, over on the English side."
Emma sighed. "The Forster lass. Losing his heart to a girl betrothed to Arthur Musgrave isna the wisest thing he has ever done, though Jock has a serious head on his shoulders in general."
Tamsin sat upright. "Arthur Musgrave?" she asked.
"Aye," William answered her. "He's betrothed to Anna Forster, Ned's cousin. But she and Jock met a few months ago, and seem to be taken with one another, though her family has matched her with Jasper Musgrave's son."
"She willna wed Arthur," Tamsin said. She felt bolder of a sudden, and sat straight. "I saw that in his hand. He will lose her to another—but he will find a wife later, and have much happiness, I think. Aye, I think so." She nodded, then scowled. "Though he's a naughty scoundrel, that Arthur," she muttered. "Truly naughty."
Helen gasped. "You foretold that Arthur would lose Anna to another? Mother, did you hear? We must tell Jock!"
"Dinna tell Jock," Tamsin said quickly. "If 'tis his fate to be with Anna, 'twill happen, even though she is betrothed just now. Fate will bring them together, if they are meant to be with each other." She looked up at William and obeyed an urge to smile widely.
William laughed, short and curt, and looked away, rubbing long fingers over his jaw, shaking his head.
"William," Emma said. "Have you spoken to Jock about his fancy for the English lass? He might find trouble for himself."
"He loves the lass, so I have said naught. He is a canny man, Mother. He knows the risks."
"He risks heart as well as life." She sliced her salmon into dainty pieces as she spoke, using her spoon and knife.
"We canna complain, so long as he is happy," William said.
Tamsin, watching Emma carefully, picked up her spoon and endeavored to hold it in the same way, frowning as she conce
ntrated. The handle seemed slippery, and the spoon clattered to the floor. She bent to look at it. William leaned over to snatch at it, handing it to her with a sour look. She smiled her thanks.
"You can leave your spoons out, Willie," she said, and giggled. He frowned, as if he did not think much of her jest.
Someone chuckled. Tamsin looked up, but the others seemed to be eating rather earnestly just then.
"Aye, 'tis true, Jock seems of glad heart lately," Emma said after a moment. She sighed, and dabbed at her mouth with an embroidered napkin. Tamsin lifted her own napkin to her lips in careful, studied imitation, wanting to get the elegant gesture just right. "Though I fear Anna Forster might break his heart before he sees reason," Emma continued.
"She willna break his heart," William said. As he spoke, he moved Tamsin's goblet out of her reach. She blinked at him, though he did not look at her.
"We will have Tamsin look at his future in the cards!" Helen said.
"I canna do that, unless Jock asks it of me," Tamsin said, shaking her head solemnly. The movement made her dizzy.
"I will ask," Helen said.
"Jock will laugh," Sandie answered. "He doesna take wi' gypsy tricks. He'll make his own fate and fortune, that lad."
"'Tisna a gypsy trick to see fate in our lives," Tamsin said. "Fate works for us all. Fate brought Willie—"
"Tamsin," William said. "Perhaps you might like to rest for a while."
Ready to refuse, she looked at him, and the turn of her head set the room spinning. She set her napkin on the edge of the table, where it promptly slid to the floor. She looked at it in dismay. "I think," she said, "that I will rest for a wee while." She stood. "Lady Emma, the hospitality was delicious."
"She liked the food," William told his mother.
"Tamsin, I ordered a hot bath placed in William's bedchamber for you," Lady Emma said.
"And I chose some gowns and things for you to borrow, if you wish," Helen said. "I put them in your chamber."
"That is kind of you," Tamsin said. One bare foot seemed to roll under her, and she wavered a little as she stepped away.
"Do you want an escort?" William asked.
She tilted her head. "Think you I am a tipsy"—she leaned toward him—"gypsy?"
"Tamsin," he growled.
"I can find your chamber again. Helen took me there earlier to wash my hands. And my feet," she answered in precise tones.
She left the room, holding her head high, bumping her shoulder slightly on the doorjamb as she passed through. She started up the turnpike stairs and found it necessary to proceed slowly up each wedge-shaped step, trailing a hand along the rough, curving stone wall to support herself as she climbed to the next floor.
A door on the landing led to the cluster of rooms that formed William's private quarters. Tamsin walked through the first room, a small library that contained books in cupboards, and a table and chairs. She traced her fingers over the smooth wood of the furnishings as she went through, and opened a door into the adjoining room, the bedchamber itself. Beyond that larger room lay two more, a small antechamber with a cot and a cupboard, and a tiny garderobe.
Merton Rigg was a fine tower, she thought, but its simple layout and serviceable chambers could not compare to the chambers at Rookhope Tower. Both the library and bedchamber had polished wood floors, painted timber ceilings, whitewashed and tapestry-hung walls, and solid, well-wrought furniture. The rooms were dim, since windows were few and small. Candles and wall sconces were abundant and already alight, and a fire burned bright and fragrant in the hooded fireplace in the bedchamber.
She closed the door and walked into the room, grabbing the carved bedpost to steady herself when the room seemed to tilt. Bedcurtains and a canopy draped the carved walnut bed in dark green damask, and embroidered pillows were piled high against the carved headboard.
The floor beneath her bare feet was thick with fresh, matted rushes, and a small, brilliant Turkish carpet covered the flat lid of a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. She noticed that a gown of black brocade trimmed in gold, another of dark blue silk, a cloak, some chemises, stockings, and a host of accessories lay on the bed. She touched the shimmering materials and sighed.
Shoving fingers through her hair, she sighed again, and cursed herself for a fool. She realized that she had let the wine slip her tongue loose at dinner, and had shown herself to lack dignity and simple manners. If the women of Rookhope had thought little of her at her arrival, surely they thought less of her now.
A wooden tub sat on the hearthstone, filled with water. She walked to it, pausing to take off her cloak and skirt. Lifting her chemise high, she stepped into steaming water, fragrant with bay and lavender.
The moist heat eased into her feet and legs, and she stripped off her chemise and let it float to the floor, lowering herself gradually into the tub, which was so snug that she had to sit with her knees drawn up against her chest. As the water surrounded her, she sighed and sluiced it over her shoulders, breathing in the steam, hoping it would ease the headache that had begun to throb in her temples, and perhaps clear away the fog of the drink.
Nothing, though, could rinse away her conviction that she had made an utter fool of herself at dinner.
A dish of soft soap lay on the hearthstone with a stack of folded linen sheets for toweling. She picked up a small cloth, dipped it in the water, and slopped it over her face with a loud, miserable groan.
Chapter 18
"And when he came to the ladyes chamber, He tirled at the pinn; The lady was true of her promise, Rose up and let him in."
—"Glasgerion"
William knocked on the outer door yet again. "Tamsin? Are you awake?" Hearing only silence, he knocked again, soft but persistent. Finally he opened the door and crossed the dark, silent library to knock on the door leading to the bedchamber. Silence. He pushed the unlatched door open, seeing only shadows and flickering firelight.
"Tamsin?" He stepped inside the darkened chamber.
He heard a shriek and a splash, and looked toward the fireplace. Tamsin sat in a wooden tub, dragging a cloth over her breasts to cover herself. She stared wide-eyed at him, dripping wet hair framing her stunned, heat-flushed face.
"Pray your pardon," he said, turning swiftly, but not before he saw, in the light of the hearth, the swells of her breasts, and the graceful gleam of her bare shoulders and arms. "I didna think you would be in the bath. I thought you would be resting."
"Well, I am bathing. Even gypsies bathe," she snapped. "I have been soaking the spirits out of my head with hot steam and a stern lecture to myself. Are you come to lecture me, too? Since you are my husband, I suppose you have a right to be here."
"Not according to our agreement," he said, turned full away.
"These are your rooms too. Once you told your mother that we were wed, there seemed to be no question but that you would share your lodgings with me." He heard a series of splashes.
"I will go." He stepped toward the door.
"Stay," she said. "I need you here."
"Stay?" He turned in surprise.
Her back was toward him now, and she raised her hands to work soap vigorously through her wet hair. "Aye. I must bathe and dress for yet another meal—and yet another vat of wine—and I need some help to ready myself."
"I will send Helen up to you, or the maidservant," he said.
She paused in her soaping, hands deep in foamy lather, and glanced over her shoulder. "I canna ask for help from them," she said. "You must be the one, if you want me gowned proper."
He looked askance at her, and raked a hand through his hair. "You want me to do your hair and lace your gown?"
"You are better able to do that than I am," she said, and bent her neck forward to scoop handfuls of water over her soapy hair. "I can bathe myself, but I canna dress quickly or easily in the fancy gear your sister left for me. I would be all night at the task, and still wouldna finish up looking proper." She slopped more water over her head. "And I dinna
have the patience for it, just now."
Watching her, he suddenly understood. Her left hand, bared and soapy, worked as efficiently as the fingered right at washing her head; it moved like fingers inside a mitten, scooping water and massaging her hair.
But the more minute tasks of lacing, tying, and buttoning, which an elaborate gown and accoutrements required, would challenge her beyond her capabilities. Indeed, beyond her patience, for she had little enough of that, he knew.
No wonder she wore such simple clothing, he thought. Chemises and skirts, cloaks, no shoes—even breeches, shirts, and doublets were far easier for her, with her independent spirit and small left hand, to manipulate. Elaborate gear required dexterous fingers, and sometimes even a lady's maid for a second pair of hands. He suspected that Tamsin Armstrong had never accepted help from anyone regarding such matters. Until now.
He stood there silently, watching her work at her hair as firelight and water slid over the fragile contours of her bare back and slim arms. The lush swell of her breasts, tucked against her raised knees hinted at their fullness.
He noticed her bare left hand, half buried in her dark, dripping curls. And he realized that she had not exposed her hand to his family during dinner, or at any time before that. Understanding hit him like a blow to his belly. He knew why she had eaten so little, so that the wine had gone, fast and sure, to her head.
She had not wanted to show her hand.
What a fool he was, he told himself, not to see the agony she must have been enduring. He could have torn bread for her, could have offered her some sliced food from his plate, like a bridegroom might have done, so that she would not have had to sit there and silently starve in order to save her pride.
"Aye, then," he said softly. "I'll help you."
She paused to hear his answer, then went on scrubbing and rinsing. He came up behind her and dropped to one knee by the tub. She started a little to see him so close. William picked up a bucket filled with water that sat by the hearth, and lifted it over her head. He placed a hand on her wet, soaped hair. The fragrance of roses swept up to him, warm and misty, with the steam of the bath.