by Tamara Leigh
“Let me hear,” Ethan said.
Alessandra smiled. “It is most pleasant to meet you, young Ethan.” She shifted her regard to his sister. “And you, Melissant.”
They both stared.
“What of our daughter’s betrothal, James?” Agnes asked.
James stepped forward and took Melissant’s hands in his. “I am sorry, but Lucien de Gautier’s return has spoiled our plans.”
“I am not to wed Vincent?”
“It seems not.”
Alessandra did not think the girl looked disappointed. Indeed, her eyes brightened.
“But perhaps Lucien,” Agnes said.
James snapped his gaze to her. “Do you forget he declined?”
“He may reconsider once he learns there is more than peace to be gained in wedding Melissant.”
The land, Alessandra thought. “You are wrong,” she said. “Lucien will take back his lands by force before he will bend a knee to a Breville.”
Agnes turned to her. “You cannot know that.”
“But I do. I—”
“Because you have lain with a man does not mean you know his mind,” Agnes said.
And she had sympathized with this woman? Alessandra gathered words to respond to the accusation, but James said, “Stand down, Agnes.”
“’Tis true,” she pressed. “Look at her. Do you not think a man like De Gautier would not take what she blatantly offers?”
Alessandra glanced down her attire, then up to compare it with what Agnes and Melissant wore. It seemed little different from their gowns. In fact, the cut of hers was more modest.
What then? Her hair hanging unbound past her shoulders? Agnes’s was mostly concealed by a jeweled cap, and Melissant’s braids were pinned on either side of her head over her ears.
While Alessandra had been occupied with discovering what made her so different from the other women, James had moved to stand before his wife.
“You are behaving the shrew, Agnes,” he said. “Alessandra is my daughter, and—”
“As is Melissant. And do not forget you also have a son from me.”
He bent his head near hers. “Henceforth, you will keep your nasty thoughts inside your head or suffer my displeasure.”
The standoff was abandoned only when Agnes spat, “Very well, but do not forget to whom your first duty is.”
“To the Breville name, as it has always been.”
Her eyebrows soared. “You know ’tis your children of whom I speak.”
“Of which Alessandra is the firstborn.”
“If what she says is true, which—”
“It is true, Agnes. And ‘twould benefit you to accept it.”
Though the woman closed her mouth, the way she crossed her arms over her chest said the discussion was far from over, and she had no intention of embracing the trespasser in their midst.
James turned back to his children, smiled tightly. “Methinks a tourney would best introduce Alessandra to the gentry. What think you of that?”
“Aye, Father!” Ethan exclaimed.
“Alessandra?” James asked.
“A tourney,” she mused. She had heard tales of such celebrations but knew little of them. “It sounds interesting.”
“Then it will be done. A month hence, Corburry will host its first tournament in a decade.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Where is the sun?” Alessandra bemoaned, keenly feeling its absence as she had every day this past fortnight. She was nearly a month at Corburry now and had yet to see a full blue sky or feel the sun’s heat upon skin that was often covered in prickly bumps.
At first, it had been an interesting change from the Maghrib, but now it was almost monotonous. Though the green of England was beyond compare, the price paid for such beauty seemed too high.
“I thought never to tire of rainbows,” she muttered. “Now I am nearly sick of them.”
“Come away from the window,” Melissant urged.
Lifting her chin from her hands, Alessandra looked over her shoulder.
Dressed in a gown of lustrous velvet, its buttons loosened as a defense against the overheated room, her sister sat upon the bed as far from the fire as possible. Propped in her lap was an illuminated tome, its warped and discolored pages attesting to its respectable age.
Alessandra smiled as she reflected on their friendship. In spite of Agnes’s attempts to keep James’s daughters apart, the girl was a bit of a rebel. At every opportunity, she sought out Alessandra, begging for tales of Algiers and life in the harem in exchange for demonstrations of the English way of things.
Having a sister filled a void of which Alessandra had been unaware, while the void left by Lucien’s absence grew more terrible with each passing day.
His silence was almost unbearable. Though James’s men kept an eye out for his vengeful coming, thus far, their efforts were for naught.
“Come,” Melissant beckoned again. “I wish to show you something.”
Alessandra straightened from the window, but was tempted instead to the hearth she rarely allowed to go cold. Taking up the poker, she stoked the fire, then reached to add another log.
Melissant groaned. “Must you? I am near to burning up.”
Alessandra paused, and for what seemed the hundredth time, said, “I have hardly been warm since leaving the Maghrib.”
Her sister lowered her book. “’Twill be a miserable winter if you do not soon adapt.”
“I cannot believe it could get any colder than this. Rarely have I seen my breath upon the air, and now each morn when I awaken, it is there when I come out from beneath the covers.”
Melissant giggled. “And yet you sleep almost fully clothed.”
“Did I not, I would be like the frost upon the window, and you would find me dead come morn.”
“Methinks you need a man to warm you.” At the widening of Alessandra’s eyes, Melissant quickly added, “’Tis what Hellie tells me when I complain of the cold.”
She referred to the robust cook who had groused about modifying the foods her lord’s daughter ate, but who had finally complied when Alessandra became sick in her presence.
Silently, Alessandra conceded the woman was right. Were Lucien to share her bed, there would be no need for covers or fire.
“Shall I guess who occupies your mind?” Melissant asked.
Alessandra straightened from the hearth and moved toward the bed. “No one occupies my mind.”
Melissant drew up her knees and settled her chin on them. “No one but Lucien de Gautier.”
Alessandra nearly tripped over her toes. “Wh-what makes you think that?”
Her sister smiled knowingly. “A good guess, aye?”
Though Alessandra had been fairly open about their escape from Algiers and the events up until Lucien had rescued her from slavery, she had downplayed their relationship. What had revealed her?
Lowering herself to the mattress, she pulled the coverlet over her legs. “It is wrong of me, I know—improper, you English would say—but I cannot stop thinking about him.”
“You love him?”
Alessandra nodded, forgetting what Melissant had earlier told her of playing coy with men.
“And he you?”
“It seems not. Perhaps had I remained Alessandra, daughter of Jabbar, he might have come to love me, but I am Alessandra Breville, daughter of his enemy.”
Melissant looked to the bitten nails of her right hand. “Methinks father should offer you in marriage to keep the peace.”
Alessandra shook her head. “Lucien would refuse me as surely as he did you.”
“One does not know until one asks.”
“I know.” Wishing she had not been dissuaded from throwing another log on the fire, Alessandra dragged the coverlet around her shoulders and buried her nose in it.
A knock preceded Ethan’s entrance. Cheeks flushed, the boy thrust his head around the door. Beaming, he said, “A messenger has come from Falstaff.”
Alessandra sprang from the bed and rushed forward to pull the door wider. “He brings word of Lucien?”
Ethan frowned. “What did you say?” Though he was becoming accustomed to her accent, it bemused him when she spoke too fast.
“She asked if the messenger brings word of Falstaff’s lord, Lucien de Gautier,” Melissant interpreted.
Ethan rolled his eyes. “Nay, the message is that the De Gautiers shall attend the tourney.”
Alessandra gripped the door’s edge. She had not known James had issued them an invitation. What did Lucien’s acceptance mean? That he would overlook the loss of his lands, embrace peace?
“Does Mother know?” Melissant asked.
“Not yet. She is with the physician and will not allow any to enter her chamber until he is finished.”
Melissant grimaced. “She is being bled again?”
Ethan nodded.
Alessandra shuddered at mention of that repugnant thing English noblewomen did to attain a pale complexion. Melissant had described the procedure, admitting she had undergone it herself—and been sick for days thereafter. Now she opted for painting and powdering her face to achieve a similar look.
Alessandra thought both methods unsavory and refused Melissant’s offer to instruct her in applying paint and powder. She had always preferred her skin honey-colored, and now without sun, it was much too pale. Even Agnes’s taunts and Ethan’s teasing about her freckles would not make her give in to the bleaching Melissant suggested.
But though kohl for her eyes and rouge for her lips would suit her better, she hesitated to apply them, as she had not seen them worn by her stepmother or Melissant.
Ethan touched Alessandra’s arm. “It is not something you have eaten again, is it?”
“What? Oh, nay, Ethan. I am well.”
He shrugged and ran back down the corridor.
“Father says things meant to be are, and not meant to be are not,” Melissant said as she crossed toward Alessandra. “Mayhap you and Lucien de Gautier are meant to be.”
Alessandra wished to believe it, but she feared disappointment. Had the messenger carried a missive from Lucien to her, she might have chanced it, but it was as if he had completely forgotten her. “Nay, Lucien has made it clear he has no thought for me other than as a Breville.”
“We shall see.” Melissant pecked her on the cheek, stepped into the corridor, and tossed over her shoulder, “Do you not put another log on that fire, it will surely die.”
Arriving in the hall before the evening meal, Alessandra halted at the sight of Agnes and Melissant poring over journals she had only ever seen in the company of the steward.
Pale, appearing weakened by the bloodletting, Agnes flipped through the pages, muttered something, and pushed the journal in front of Melissant.
Sabine had said it was not uncommon for English noblewomen to be versed in household accounting, but Alessandra had given it little thought. Intrigued, she watched as mother and daughter discussed the entries.
“Figure these two.” Agnes tapped the top of the page.
Alessandra, who had a flair for calculating without need for quill and parchment, itched to know the numbers.
Quill in hand, Melissant wrote out the figures and, shortly, provided the answer. “Two hundred seventeen.”
Annoyance spotting Agnes's pale cheeks, she clipped, “Two hundred twenty-seven. Where is your head today, child?”
Melissant groaned. “Elsewhere. Why must I know the books? It is our steward’s duty.”
Agnes harrumphed. “As you will someday run your husband’s household, you must know the numbers the steward puts before you.”
“Why?”
“I have told you—so you will not be cheated. ’Tis your duty to your husband to keep an eye on all that is his. Did I not do it for your father, much would be lost to thieving.”
“Is it not duty enough to bear my husband’s children? Surely he can do this better than I. I detest numbers.”
Agnes looked ready to vent her anger, but the bit of color in her cheeks drained, and she lowered her head into her hands. “If I have to explain it one more time, I shall scream.”
Melissant placed a hand on her shoulder. “You let him take too much. Why do you not just use powder and paint?”
Agnes started to lift her head but quickly returned it to her hands. “I must needs look my best, else the memories that have gained strength with the coming of Catherine’s daughter will supplant me entirely.” As if pained, she rolled her head side to side. “What am I to do about Alessandra? What?”
Guilt gripped Alessandra—guilt that James’s memories could hurt so much and had grown with her arrival at Corburry, and guilt at not revealing her presence. It was a private moment, one that would never include her.
Hoping to withdraw without being seen, Alessandra turned and gasped when her foot bumped the table she had stood alongside.
“Alessandra!” Melissant called. “I did not see you there.”
Alessandra came back around, looked first to Agnes.
Though the woman did not look up, her heartfelt groan revealed her chagrin.
“I was just…” Alessandra raised her palms. “I did not mean to intrude.”
Melissant beckoned. “Come assist me with helping Mother to her chamber. She is not well.”
As Alessandra started forward, Agnes raised her head. A moment later, her body followed. Swaying, she narrowed her eyes on Alessandra. “I am no old lady to be cosseted and carried about.” Chin high, she came around the table on legs that made it appear she had imbibed too much, and walked past Alessandra.
When Alessandra was certain Agnes was far enough up the stairs she would not hear, she said, “I am sorry.”
Melissant sighed. “It is not your fault.” After stacking the journals, she came around the table and halted before Alessandra. “The only one to blame is whoever stole your mother away. Hopefully, one day he will be found out.”
Alessandra hoped it as well, for she would not have Lucien and his family forever burdened by suspicion.
“Unfortunately,” Melissant continued, “Mother has given me the task of overseeing supper preparations. Would you like to help?”
Another lesson in being an English noblewoman. At least it sounded more interesting than spinning wool or embroidery. “I would.”
Within moments of stepping into the cavernous kitchens, Alessandra knew she belonged. It was not the wonderful smells wafting from bubbling pots. It was not the joyous clatter of cooking utensils. Nor was it the laughter and chatter of cooks and kitchen maids. Though all these things made her feel welcome, it was the glorious heat that appealed to her every cold place. It was so intense, it raised a sweat on her brow and caused her clothes to cling—just like in Algiers when she had ventured to the rooftop at midday.
“It is wonderful,” Alessandra breathed. Having never entered a kitchen, it being considered beneath harem women, she was deeply curious.
Wandering from Melissant’s side, she leaned over a cook’s shoulder to peek into the pot he stirred. “What is it?” she asked.
He stepped aside to give her a closer look. “Spiced wine custard, milady. One of yer father’s favorites.”
And soon hers, Alessandra thought as she inhaled a breath of it. “How is it made?”
“Ye truly wish to know?”
“Of course.”
He handed her the spoon. “Taste it, then I’ll tell ye.”
Uncertain, Alessandra looked around. Across the room, Melissant stood with elbows on a huge block table at which two women kneaded dough. She winked, nodded for Alessandra to try the custard.
Alessandra dipped up a spoonful, blew on it, tasted. “It is delicious.” She returned the spoon to the cook. “Now tell, how is it made?”
“Ye warm good wine, cast yolk of eggs in it, and stir awhile, but let it not boil, milady. When ’tis thick, ye toss in sugar, saffron, salt, mace…” He frowned. “Ah, galingale, then flower of Canelle.”<
br />
Impressed, Alessandra thanked him and crossed to Melissant who now stood at a spit lined with roasting hares.
“More sauce,” Melissant instructed the man tending the meat. “It would not do for them to be dry.”
He reached for a bowl of honey-colored sauce.
“What do you think?” Melissant asked Alessandra.
“I like it. Had I known it was such an interesting place—and so very warm—I would have ventured here sooner.”
Face aglow from the heat, Melissant took Alessandra’s arm and drew her away. “What were the kitchens like in Algiers?”
“I do not know. I was not allowed within.”
“Why?”
“Food preparation was the duty of slaves, often overseen by the chief eunuch, but never the master’s wives or daughters.”
“Ah, heavenly! How I detest this hot, smelly place. But Mother says a wife must assure her husband’s food is good and plentiful.”
Alessandra tried to temper her smile. Of all things she had thus far encountered in England, she thought the kitchen among the best—and possibly household accounting. To test the steward’s numbers would be more enjoyable than what she had thus far learned of being an English lady. Of course, those things paled next to Lucien. More than anything, he made England appealing. Without him…
Shaking her head, she returned her attention to the busy kitchen.
CHAPTER THIRTY
At last, he had come. The other participants having arrived hours earlier, Alessandra had nearly given up hope Lucien would attend the tournament.
Though her first sight of him was from the window of her chamber, and he was too distant to make out his features, she knew him by the head and shoulders he sat above most others.
Despite of his loss of property, his was an impressive entourage, numbering twenty or more, all outfitted in gold splashed on red. Banners of the same colors fluttered in the stir created by the speed with which they approached Corburry’s walls.
Would he come to the keep this eve to dine with the others? Or would he stay in the encampment outside the walls?
