’Twas not surprising that Lady Margaret had not met them in the great hall. After all, the castle was huge, and they’d started up the stairs before a servant would have had an opportunity to summon Adam’s wife.
Cristiane could not bring herself to regret the delay in meeting Lady Margaret. In fact, the longer ’twas put off, the better she felt about it. Truly, she needed some time to settle in and put on her most gracious demeanor.
She could not help but wish she had something more suitable to wear when she met Adam’s countess.
A door swung out at the top of the stairs, and they filed into another dark corridor, with a multitude of closed doors on each side. Cristiane did not know if she would ever be able to find her way back here without an escort. “This way, my…lady,” Stephan said as he led her to a large, open chamber.
Cristiane pressed her lips tightly together and followed. She would not allow a servant’s attitude to rattle her.
’Twas dark within the chamber, even though there were two windows. While Stephan lit the candle of a large iron lamp that sat on a table between the two windows, Cristiane opened the latch of one window, pulling the heavy framed glass inside. She laughed when the rain sprayed her, then turned to see Stephan and Adam gaping at her. Quickly, she closed the window and wiped her wet hands on her kirtle.
“’Tis fortunate we reached the castle in time, is it not, my lord?” she asked, embarrassed to appear so foolish. Cristiane loved rainstorms, even when they came with terrible thunder and fierce lightning, but she knew full well that her passion for the weather was not shared by many.
Stephan went out of the chamber and disappeared, while Adam lingered. “Aye. ’Tis indeed fortunate,” he said. “Lady Cristiane…” he said, reverting to the formality he’d shown when he’d first met her, “have you any skill with a needle?”
Cristiane quirked her brows. “Some, my lord.”
“I am quite sure that my wife left some good cloth hereabouts,” he said. “If I were to find it, would you be able to sew—”
A clap of thunder drowned out his words.
“Sew, my lord?”
The lamp in his hand cast a flickering light on his face. The fine stubble of a beard darkened his jaw, but did naught to detract from his fierce good looks. Cristiane forced herself to think of needlework and thunder and cool rain on her face…
“Yes,” he said. “You’re in need of some new gowns before you go to York. There is a woman in the village who can help you tailor them.”
“But, m’lord,” Cristiane said, “your wife…she must have her own purpose for the cloth.”
In the wavering light, Cristiane could not be sure, but she thought a muscle clenched in his jaw before he spoke. “My wife has been dead nearly two years, Lady Cristiane,” he said. “She has no further use of any earthly goods.”
Then he turned and left her.
Chapter Seven
Cristiane knew she should not feel the kind of elation that filled her heart now. The man’s wife was dead, and she could only feel glad of it.
Ashamed, she turned to look at the room that would be her home for the next few days. ’Twas nicer than any she’d ever had before, even in her father’s keep. A large bed, heavily curtained, lay against the wall opposite the windows. An empty wooden trunk sat at the foot, and a small table, wrought of oak and iron, stood next to the head of the bed. A small lamp was there, and Cristiane lit it. Then she sat down in a chair next to the fireplace and wondered who Lady Margaret might be.
Adam bypassed his own chamber on his way to the nursery. He would not allow his thoughts to linger on the forlorn look in Cristiane’s eyes as he’d turned and left her. He clasped his hands into fists. He had spent more time than was prudent, thinking of pulling her into his arms and offering the protection of his body.
Nay. He would not consider touching her. He was determined not to let the vulnerability in those deep blue eyes ensnare him, nor those luscious curves tempt him.
Margaret needed his attention now, as did Bitterlee, and he would train all his attention to setting matters to rights.
He opened the nursery door to find his little daughter kneeling on the floor before a crucifix hanging on the wall. Her pale gray eyes were closed, and her lips moved slightly in prayers. Her beautiful, angel-blond hair was covered—too severely, he thought—by a pristine, white wimple that also covered her ears and her neck.
She was the mirror image of her nurse, Mathilde, who knelt beside her in fervent prayer. He remembered seeing Rosamund kneeling in just the same way with Mathilde, deeply immersed in devotions.
“My lord!” Mathilde exclaimed when she noticed Adam.
Margaret said naught, but looked shyly up at him, from under pale lashes.
Adam approached. His little daughter had always seemed so fragile, so delicate. She was just like her mother, and he knew ’twas necessary to treat her with care.
At least, that was what Mathilde advised. The old nurse knew Margaret better than anyone, but Adam had begun to wonder if her way—so coldly ascetic—was the best way for Margaret.
The child still grieved for her mother, and prayed often for her soul. He’d not heard her speak a single word aloud since his return from Falkirk, and Mathilde said ’twas not unusual for a child to manifest its grief for a time, then return to normal.
Yet he wondered how long her grief would continue.
“Margaret is well?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Mathilde responded, coming to her feet to face him. “Devout and dutiful as always.”
Adam nodded as Margaret lowered her eyes again and resumed her prayers. He did not think it normal for a child to spend so much time on her knees, but what did he know of child rearing? Not much, he answered himself. And even less when it came to little girls.
The rain continued to beat against the heavy glass panes in Cristiane’s windows.
She laid a fire to take the damp chill from the room, then opened her satchel, removing the two books that were her most prized possessions. In truth, they were her only possessions, other than a few pretty shells and a colorful stone she’d once found on the beach. She set everything in the trunk, taking care not to damage the finely tooled leather that covered her books. She took her comb, worked the tangles out of her hair and braided it neatly. Then she sat down to wait.
Surely a servant would soon arrive with a basin and ewer of water. At the very least, someone would come and show her where to find what she’d need in order to wash after her journey.
After waiting the better part of an hour, Cristiane stood and began to pace. She bolstered the fire, then opened her window in spite of the rain.
Many were the times she’d been caught in her cave during a raging storm, and she had never felt any fear. Nay, she’d loved those fierce demonstrations of nature’s power. She would like naught more than to go out in this storm, and see how the wind tore at the cliffs, how the waves crashed against the shore.
But she knew better than to begin her explorations during a raging storm. Better to wait until all was calm.
Becoming even more restless, and hungry now, she saw that she had no choice but to find her way back to the great hall. Evidently, with the excitement of the lord’s return to the castle, she’d been forgotten, and would have to fend for herself.
’Twas no matter. No reason to take offense. Certainly her isolation was merely an oversight. She picked up a lamp and descended the two sets of stairs, then made her way to the great hall.
From her position on the stair, she saw servants spreading a large white cloth on the big table and moving chairs and benches to it. Others were putting various silver and clay pieces on the table, along with knives and empty bowls.
Adam was seated by the fire, near a child who sat quietly on the rushes. The dogs were not in sight.
Sir Raynauld stood nearby, along with an older woman wearing a dark gray kirtle and the most severe wimple Cristiane had ever seen. The stiff material cut int
o the woman’s forehead and chin, and had to be terribly uncomfortable.
The child also wore a wimple and a dark gown. Cristiane stood still, watching as Adam spoke quietly to her. The child kept her eyes down, not responding to anything he said.
A deep voice behind Cristiane startled her. She gasped and lost her footing, shocked that the intruder had come upon her so soundlessly.
“My great-niece never speaks,” said the man. “And even if she did, this family has no love for the Scots. She would have naught to say to you.” His face was in shadows, but Cristiane detected a decidedly unfriendly gleam in his eyes. His hair was long and unkempt, and he wore a full, bushy beard that was frosted with strands of silver. “Shall we go down and join the others?” he asked, his breath thick with old ale.
“Aye,” she said, her voice a mere croak. She cleared it and led the way down the rest of the steps.
“Lady Cristiane!” Sir Raynauld said when he caught sight of her. “Sir Gerard.”
Adam stood, then drew his brows together as he watched Cristiane approach with his uncle. She was still wearing the ugly brown kirtle that she’d worn for the duration of their journey, and she looked disheveled and dusty. Yet she’d done something to her hair—confined it somehow, making it appear slightly more tame than usual.
He had specifically instructed the servants to see to Cristiane’s comfort, yet ’twas clear she’d received no hospitality from Bitterlee as yet.
“Mathilde,” he said to Margaret’s nurse, as he restrained his anger, “find Sibilla and fetch her here.” Normally, Sir Charles Penyngton would have charge of the servants, but Penyngton had fallen ill during Adam’s absence and was still abed.
Adam had visited the seneschal only briefly and had been concerned by his friend’s sickly appearance. He promised to see him later, and to send Bitterlee’s healer, Sara Cole, to him as soon as possible.
Mathilde went to do Adam’s bidding, and he drew Cristiane into the chair he’d just vacated. “You’ve met my uncle then, Sir Gerard Sutton…”
“In a m-manner of speaking, my lord,” she replied. She seemed shaken, out of sorts. Who could blame her? She’d been deposited in a strange dwelling in the midst of a torrential storm. He was certain she’d been given no water with which to wash, nor ale to drink. He’d told Sibilla to find a suitable set of clothes for Lady Cristiane, yet that had not been done, either.
He was more angry now than he’d ever been with the Bitterlee servants. Though her ragged clothes—and what they had barely concealed—would forever hold a cherished place in his memory, ’twas not appropriate for the granddaughter of an earl to be so poorly attired. And with the way the servants had ig—
“My lord?” said a short woman in a russet gown and white wimple. She wore a chain around her waist, with keys dangling from it. Her head was high, her lips pinched, and she appeared ready for a dressing-down.
“There seems to have been a misunderstanding, Sibilla,” Adam said, concealing his anger. “Apparently, the maids are not clear on the duties I set forth with regard to Lady Cristiane.”
Sibilla shuffled nervously. This was the woman who directed the other household servants’ activities. Adam intended to make Sibilla understand that he would brook no disrespect for Cristiane, no matter her native land. He would give the housekeeper one opportunity to rectify matters, but there would be serious consequences if his orders were not carried out.
“Y-yes, my lord,” Sibilla said. “I will see to matters immediately.”
She scurried away without asking for specifics, and Adam felt sure there would be no further difficulty from the servants. He had not anticipated they’d be so hostile toward Cristiane, but it did not matter. If they wished to remain in his employ, they would treat her with the respect and courtesy due any guest, especially one of her rank.
When he turned back to Cristiane, he found that Raynauld was keeping her distracted with light conversation. Adam’s uncle Gerard remained standing at one side of the fireplace, taciturn and dour, observing all that was taking place, but not joining in.
But the most surprising thing of all was Margaret. Left alone by Mathilde, she was gazing up at Cristiane with eyes that showed more interest than Adam had seen since his return from Falkirk.
And ’twas Cristiane Mac Dhiubh that had caused it. Adam swallowed the lump that suddenly developed in his throat, and reached over to touch his daughter’s head. He crouched down to be closer to her, placing himself near Cristiane’s knee. “Margaret,” he said quietly, “this is Lady Cristiane. Cristiane, my daughter.”
“I’m very glad to make your acquaintance, wee Margaret,” Cristiane said, reaching to take the child’s hand. “And I thank you for the loan of your papa.”
An odd spark lit Margaret’s eye, but she lowered her lashes quickly, tipping her head down so that her chin nearly touched her chest.
“Aye…he traveled all the way to my home, away north in Scotland,” Cristiane said quietly, seeming to sense something amiss with the child, “and brought me here to Bitterlee. But he’s yours again, see?”
Her voice was oddly breathless, but there was hardly a hint of the burr. Adam thought ’twas well that she kept her speech from reminding his people of Scotland. Though he did not doubt that the servants would cooperate now, matters were likely to be strained until her departure.
He watched as Cristiane gently caressed his little daughter’s fingers before letting go. If she were offended by Margaret’s silence, or by the slight shown her by the servants, she did not show it. She merely looked up at Raynauld when he remarked that the servants were about to serve the meal.
“Shall we be seated at table, Lady Cristiane?” Adam asked, reaching for her hand. Though he sensed that she was ill at ease, her hand was warm, and she clasped his as she stood. He did not dare look at her face, for fear of seeing that streak of vulnerability in her eyes.
“Will Elwin join us, Raynauld?” Adam asked as they walked to the table.
Raynauld shook his head. “Nay, my lord. His wife…” The knight paused uncomfortably and blushed. “She, ah, requires his presence for now.”
Adam read the subtle message in Raynauld’s words. The occasional references to lusty wives dumbfounded him. He’d never experienced such a thing, and could not imagine Elwin’s wife behaving in a bawdy manner.
Mathilde took Margaret’s hand and began to lead her away, but Adam stopped her. “Hold, Mathilde,” he said. “I would have my daughter join us this eve.”
Though she tried to conceal her disapproval, ’twas clear that the nurse believed the child’s place was not at table with the adults. Adam wondered if she was right. Children were usually relegated to their nurseries and their nurses. ’Twas not a parent’s business to see to the care and nurturing of them, other than to assure that servants provided what was needed.
Still, something was wrong. He remembered his sparkling child, playing on the floor of Rosamund’s chamber, so full of questions and comments. Though Rosamund most often lay listlessly upon her bed, Margaret never seemed to mind, as long as she was allowed to stay with her mother. Mathilde was always there, too, keeping a watchful eye on the child and Rosamund as she plied her needle.
Here it was, two years later, and Adam thought Margaret’s grief went beyond natural and normal. She was silent. She was torpid and drawn. Her skin was transparent, and she was not growing as she should.
Yet he had no idea what to do. He was nearly without hope that he could effect any change in her. Mayhap finding her a new mother was not the best thing, but he’d tried all else he could think of. He’d worked at getting her to eat more, but with little success. He’d had music added to her lessons, only to discover she had no talent for it. Same for sewing. Margaret just didn’t have the knack, or the interest.
Adam glanced at Cristiane. Her profile was a strong one, with her straight nose and prominent cheekbones. Her chin was slightly cleft, and her ears small and well formed. He knew she had recently come through
a great deal of tragedy. How did she cope? Could she somehow show him a way to help Margaret past her grief?
The first course of the meal was served in awkward silence. Cristiane knew she was not welcome here, although Raynauld and Adam made a valiant attempt to disguise that fact. They conversed together as if naught were amiss, as if they had not returned to Bitterlee with a daughter of their Scots foe.
“When the rain lets up, you must visit Bitterlee’s garden,” Raynauld said, turning to Cristiane. He was a fair knight, young and handsome, and Cristiane knew it could not be long before he chose some young woman for his wife. “’Tis always a favorite spot of the ladies.”
“Aye,” Cristiane replied quietly. “I’d like that. Is there a path I might follow to get to the seashore?”
“The seashore?” Raynauld asked.
“Aye,” she said with amusement. “It must be all around us.”
“You are right in that, Lady Cristiane,” Adam said. “But ’tis a dangerous coastline here at Bitterlee. Only one short mile is sandy beach, and that’s down near the town. The rest is all high cliffs, and rocky escarpments.”
“I…I see,” she said, masking her disappointment.
All were silent for a moment, then Adam cleared his throat. He looked as if he might speak, but changed his mind.
“We have a fine waterfall,” Raynauld remarked weakly, “on the far side of the castle wall…”
Cristiane gave a slight nod and wondered when she would be able to take her leave. Even among these people at table, she had never felt so alone. She wanted naught more than to escape to her chamber, as cold and unwelcoming as it was.
“There are many worthwhile sights on Bitterlee. I will show you myself,” Adam said, though he looked as if he might choke on his words.
Cristiane knew he had not intended to say them, but had only tried to fill the void left by her obvious disappointment. “Thank you, my lord,” she said in a small voice. “’Twill not be necessary. You have been away many days and must attend to—”
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