Her sister beckoned. “Well, come. Let’s on to the feast.”
“Wait.”
Aislinn paused and looked at her expectantly.
Bridget announced, “I want to wear something else. A pretty gown.”
Her sister’s eyes popped. “Verily? Wherefore?”
“I— I don’t know. I just feel like it.”
Aislinn’s mouth hung open a brief spell. Then she grinned. “I have just the one. ’Twill be gorgeous on you.”
If Aislinn wondered at all about Bridget’s unusual behavior, she didn’t verbalize it. She thrust her head out into the corridor, calling for Mabel, then dashed to the massive wooden wardrobe where her chemises, kirtles, and cloaks of every hue were hung. She rifled through the garments, muttering to herself.
“Aha, here ’tis!” She shouldered the surrounding garments aside and wrestled to pull out her choice, a russet-red gown glistening with gold flecks that snatched at the firelight.
Bridget’s breath caught at the lovely sight.
Her sister stood smiling down at her, embracing the luxurious fabric against her breast. “I have been waiting to do this for years, you know. Now, stand up.”
Bridget stood, her skin abuzz with the promise of a new adventure.
“Bite your lips,” her sister ordered, doing so herself to demonstrate.
“I’ve never understood why women do that.”
“To color them up a bit. It ensures a look of health.” Aislinn reached with one hand to pinch Bridget’s cheeks.
“Ow!”
“A man likes a maid with a blush on her cheek. It makes him think ‘tis he who caused it.”
“Very well.” She must have looked ridiculous, mumbling her lips between her teeth and pinching her cheeks the way she did.
Suddenly, Aislinn stilled and grew serious. Bridget waited, wondering what her sister was about to say. “Bridget, do you have feelings for Grégoire?”
That was verily not what she’d expected to hear. Her skin burst into tingling. She couldn’t look her sister in the eyes. “Why on earth do you ask that?”
“Because of the things you’ve asked me about lately. Plus, you’re with him all the time.”
Sweet St. Hilda! Heaven forbid someone had told her they’d been together in the bathhouse…
“And then there’s the way you look at him,” her sister added quietly.
“I don’t look at him in any way!”
“You do, I’m afraid.” Still holding the gown with one arm, Aislinn reached out and took Bridget’s fingers with her own, squeezing. “’Tis all right if you do. My heart is not engaged.”
She was shocked to the bottom of her toes. And a little confused. “It isn’t? But, but the other day, after that letter. You said you loved him.”
Aislinn sighed, releasing Bridget’s fingers, her gaze turning distant. “I may have thought I felt something for him. I mean, that letter was beautiful. And when you were asking about it, it seemed so important to you that I answer a certain way.”
“Oh, Aislinn! I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so bossy. I really don’t. I just thought…”
“You wrote that letter, didn’t you? There is no way those words were his.” Her sister’s tone seemed a bit demeaning toward Grégoire.
That wasn’t fair. “Why could they not be his?”
“Oh, sister. He’s not that artful. Or sensitive. He’s rather boorish, truth be told.”
Bridget sucked in air. “Boorish! He’s very polite and intelligent!”
“And frankly, he’s too old for me.”
“Too old!”
“Aye. Don’t you think so?” A teasing smile gleamed behind Aislinn’s eyes, trying to burst out.
Bridget shook her head, outraged on his behalf. “The man is fit as a stallion!”
Her sister went on. “He makes a fine lord, but, alas, he would certainly not be my first choice in husbands.” She hesitated. “Had I a choice, that is…”
Bridget couldn’t believe a woman could have such a low opinion of Grégoire. Of all men, he would be her very first choice! And he made more than a fine lord. He was perfect for Shyleburgh.
“Now, Sir Albert,” her sister continued dreamily, with a breathy, love-bitten sigh. “There’s a fine knight. A chivalrous man worthy of a gentlewoman.”
Alarm rang in Bridget’s head. So, her suspicions had been right. The two had become overly friendly in Grégoire’s absence. Was that why Aislinn so easily shifted her favor away from her betrothed?
“Sir Albert? But you know a relationship with him is out of the question.”
“Under the circumstances, aye, I know,” her sister snapped. “I was just making an observation. The two men are so different.”
“Because, if you were ever caught—”
Aislinn’s lips thinned to a hard, straight line. “I know the consequences, Bridgie. I’m not as stupid as you think.”
She gasped. “I don’t think that at all!”
“Aye, you do. Did you really think I wouldn’t know you are coaching him in his courtship of me, embellishing what he says, writing his missives, teaching him to dance?”
Bridget’s jaw dropped open, her mouth working like that of a fish, trying to find the words to defend herself. But to her shame, there were none to be had.
Aislinn’s face softened. “’Tis all right, verily. I’m accustomed to everyone underestimating me. I’ve learned there is a power of sorts in being regarded as obtuse.”
Bridget couldn’t believe her ears. Were Aislinn’s mild manners and quiet ways all just an act? It couldn’t be!
Her sister went on. “And Bridget, if you’re changing your mind about leaving for the convent…well…I won’t stand in your way. I’ll be the first to welcome you back to your rightful place.”
Again, the fish mouth took over as she sought words. She wasn’t changing her mind about the convent. She wasn’t. She only wanted to try her hand at flirting and feeling beautiful tonight, the way St. Augustine advised.
Besides, even if she had a mind to stay, there was no way Grégoire would choose her over the exquisite Aislinn.
Her sister inspected the drapery of the gown in her arms and brushed away invisible lint. “It might help you to know that I believe Grégoire admires you, too.” She glanced up. “I’ve seen him watching you when you don’t know it, and I’d swear the heat coming off him is like someone lit a bonfire in the room.”
The organ in her ribcage took a giant leap as those bubbles inside her burst in a spray of glitter. “You can’t mean that.”
“Of course I do. I—”
Mabel entered the chamber at that moment, drawing Aislinn’s attention away. The handmaid glanced with great curiosity at her two mistresses and then the gown.
“Ah. Good,” Aislinn said. “Now, let’s go win a lord’s heart.”
“What are you talking about? That’s not—”
“Shush with you, now,” her sister admonished.
This wasn’t what she’d had in mind. Not at all! But now that Mabel was here and listening to their conversation, talk of such things must cease.
So with that, they set about to making her over.
And Bridget went along with it. For now. But only in order to understand just what she was sacrificing when she went off to her life of abstinence. Nothing more.
Definitely not to win a certain lord’s heart.
Chapter Thirty-Two
An hour later, Bridget descended the stairs with her sister. Below them, the great hall fairly choked on people. Lord and Lady Fallingate never traveled without a grand retinue, and their party augmented the keep’s numbers by at least two score. They’d brought their skilled musicians with them, too, Bridget noted. The strains of a viol weaved through the air above the hubbub, along with the tones of a pipe and the beat of a tambour.
In anticipation of the earl’s return and their relatives’ imminent arrival, Aislinn had spent the afternoon decorating, and the sight took Bridget’s br
eath away. Tokens of early autumn bedecked the lofty hall—ropes of greenery ornamented with apples and walnuts in the shell, bunches of drying lavender and salvia, and sheaves of wheat and blue-flowered elfbane.
On all the tables, heaps of grapes and ivy overflowed glowing copper bowls, while from the torchieres along the walls, streamers of russet and gold silk dangled. Even roses of deepest crimson had been worked into garlands that draped the high table upon the dais.
Instinctively, Bridget’s eyes sought Grégoire amongst the throng, but he was nowhere to be seen. Some of the men who had patrolled with him the last three days now kicked up their heels in the vicinity of the musicians, dancing raucously with their womenfolk, so relieved and joyous was their mood.
The high table remained empty as yet, but a dense cluster of people stood round the lavabo to the side. Nurse corralled Father’s younger offspring to get their hands washed before dinner. Sir Albert talked with Father and his elderly brother-in-law, Lord Fallingate.
And, of course, there was Lady Edyth.
A twinge of distaste went through Bridget at the sight of her aunt. Suddenly, she felt awkward and naked in the luxurious gown with its low neckline and waist-hugging silhouette. The fabric was indeed a sinful indulgence, so silky soft against her skin compared to her usual plain woolen garb, and the elaborate embroidery at the cuffs of the wide, sweeping sleeves was an opulence surely not even an empress should enjoy.
Her hand went to the crucifix at her throat, but alas, she’d allowed Aislinn to talk her into putting it aside for the evening. It ruined the effect of the gown’s bodice, her sister had said. So her seeking fingers struck bare flesh.
Her brow heated. She glanced at her sister, who flashed her a warm, encouraging smile and a nod. They descended the final steps just as her two youngest sisters caught sight of them and broke from Nurse to rush over.
Margie said, “Let me carry your train, Bridgie!”
“Me, too,” cried Mattie. Though there wasn’t much train to speak of, both little girls lifted a portion of her hem, shouldering one another for advantage. In this somewhat ridiculous fashion, Bridget paraded through the hall to the sideboard where their guests bided.
“Lady Bridget,” said Sir Albert when he spied her. He offered her a deep bow. “You were always lovely, but now you stun me with your beauty.”
Heat flooded her face and neck. Trying to be confident, she dipped her head and thanked the kindly knight.
Nearby, Karlan scowled at her, and his gaze dropped below her collarbone. In a crisis of self-consciousness, she yanked her hem from her little sisters’ grasp and then suffered instant regret for her brusqueness. She apologized to the darlings, but the girls didn’t seem to mind, as they were now vying for Sir Albert’s attention.
Aunt Edyth glided over, beautiful, tall, and queenly, with the square headdress supporting her veil making her tower higher still. She wore an abundance of clothing—a gown of layered skirts and a bodice with tied sleeves that left places for a frothy white underdress to show through. Save this underdress, the garments were made of heavy materials and dyed in deep reds and blues. The velvet surcoat sported a trimming of brown rabbit’s fur.
Her hair was blackest black like Aislinn’s, but unlike Aislinn’s, it was swept back from her still youthful face and woven with yellow ribbon into two luxurious braids that draped over the front of her shoulders.
“My dear Breegeete,” Aunt Edyth said on her approach. The manner in which she spoke the name—with a Norman French affectation—reminded Bridget suddenly of the earl and the way he said it. Drat him.
“Welcome, Aunt,” she said.
Aunt Edyth bent toward her, and they kissed the air between them.
“You look wonderful.” Her relative spoke with a brilliant smile that made her resemble Aislinn to a startling degree. Except Aunt Edyth’s pleasure never made it to her gem-like eyes. “Simply wonderful. I’ve never seen your hair looking lovelier. You used to always wear it in that tight braid, but you are still young enough to wear it free like this. Did Aislinn help you dress? I knew she could make something of you, even with what she had to work with. She is a marvel, that one. I have always said so. But, my dearest…” Aunt Edyth paused to peruse her from head to toe, dropping her smile. “You are so short. Could she not find heels to raise you even one inch?”
Bridget knew she didn’t fit the mold of ideal beauty, not in the way her aunt would appreciate, but she didn’t mind one bit. The only man whose opinion she cared about had told her he found her comely.
She answered quietly, “Apparently not, Aunt.”
“Well, ’tis of no import. I’m certain your sister has done her best. One day’s efforts will never make a beauty out of you.”
“Nay, Aunt, that is so.”
“And ’tisn’t as if such things matter where you are going. How nice of you to allow the girls this little game of pretend. Look how Margie is hanging upon your arm. She adores you so. Ah, there’s my lamb now.” Aunt Edyth swept an arm about Aislinn’s shoulders and drew her into their circle.
Aislinn was beaming at Bridget with undisguised pleasure, although Bridget was unable to identify the source of that pleasure. Kaitlin had ambled over, wearing a gown for once, rather than tunic and leggings, and had her gorgeous hair tumbling in rivers of gold over her shoulders.
Standing there amidst so many paragons of female beauty, for the first time in her life Bridget felt as if she fit right in.
“You’ve done well, my pet,” said Aunt Edyth to Aislinn, rubbing her protégé’s arm with affection. “Everything is gorgeous. This is just how I would have dressed the hall myself had not my elder sister always done it for us. It was her place, you know, your Aunt Godwina’s. She was the oldest of us three. She always did everything so adequately, so adequately. God rest her soul.”
Kaitlin, who always took an interest in family history—due to ancestral honor and all that—noted, “She closely resembled Bridget, you’ve said.”
Bridget held still as she felt Aunt Edyth’s squinting study.
The older woman tilted her head. “Aye, she did. About the profile, the chin and nose, mayhap. However, Bridget has more of her mother’s coloring, with those brown eyes and hair.”
Her aunt’s regard lowered over her, rising to meet her eyes only briefly before moving away. “And more of her mother’s general aspect, as well. I’ll never forget the day Eileen came to marry my brother. He was so young and passionate in those days. He was in love with another maiden, you know, the beauty of the shire, and we feared he would not carry through with his duty. But he conquered his foolishness and wed the Scots lass as he was told.”
Bridget’s attention roamed the hall. How often had she heard these tales of thwarted love and her mother’s peasant looks? How often had she suffered Aunt Edyth’s haughty indifference?
Still, naught could dampen her spirits this eve. Everyone seemed happy, grinning ear to ear, and her own cheeks ached from her constant smile. She stepped to her uncle and welcomed him to their hall, then greeted others as they approached, feeling more like the grand hostess of her own domain than she had ever felt before.
She had yet to lay eyes on Grégoire, and her anticipation mounted with each passing moment. She simply couldn’t wait to see him again, to be seen by him, though it had been but an hour or so. That he’d laid eyes on every single naked inch of her would normally have horrified her, but even that failed to dull her mood now. He had said he liked what he saw, and she had believed him.
Everyone mingled round the lavabo, talking, washing up in preparation for the meal, taking towels from the pages and servants, and awaiting their lord host.
The laughter and noise in the great chamber rose to skull-splitting levels. Savory fragrances wafted from the kitchen.
Sir Drogo arrived and stood conversing nearby with Sir Albert and her father, their immense height making her feel like she stood amongst trees in a dense forest. She couldn’t see beyond any of them. Sudden
ly, Sir Albert bent low to her ear.
“Someone is coming over,” he said.
Her stomach fluttered. When she glanced up at the fair knight, he beheld her with a knowing look she didn’t understand. She frowned. Nearby, Aislinn smiled serenely at her.
Sir Albert cocked his head in the direction of where the crowd was parting, and there strode the earl, who advanced like a conqueror marching on Persepolis. Tall and straight, he was attired in the rich garb of a man of status. Gone were the crumpled tunic, worn chausses, and muddy boots he’d been wearing when he’d entered upon her bath not long ago.
His tunic was the darkest of blues, his waist belted by a wide strap of leather studded with gold and garnet, and one shoulder bore a luxurious cloak of claret red edged with gold. His hair still glistened from his bath, his jaw appeared freshly shaved, and his eyes seemed intent on something.
Heavens! Was it her?
Excitement slashed through her. Not an ounce of embarrassment. Her own eyes devoured him from top to bottom.
“Oh, my,” said her aunt upon spotting him. She settled into a brusque fluttering of the peacock feather she used to fan herself. “Who is that?”
Aislinn said, “That, Auntie, is Comte Grégoire FitzHenri, Earl of Shyleburgh.”
Aunt Edyth continued to stare. “That’s FitzHenri? He didn’t look like that when we met him on the road.”
He certainly was fine to behold. Every female in the keep must be swooning over him. A handsome, wealthy, powerful magnate, as yet unwed. Who wouldn’t desire him?
“He’s coming over,” Aunt Edyth announced. “Kaitlin, cease gnawing your lip. Bridget, dearest, stand up straight. Aislinn, come here.”
Her aunt took a deep breath, smoothing her sleeves, and together they all curtsied low as he drew near.
“My lord,” Aunt said, rising, but verily, the hubbub and music drowned her out.
“My lady,” FitzHenri said in return, but he kept glancing in Bridget’s direction, almost as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Her heart skipped faster. “I trust you find my hospitality to your liking.”
“I do, indeed. Thank you, your lordship.”
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