She blinked, and the motion broke the intensity of his stare. He coughed, awkward. “Um, sorry, milady. It's my head...I'm just tired.”
“You must be tired,” she said, sounding sympathetic. “You were sorely tried by that injury.”
“It's nothing,” he said, shrugging. “How's your son?”
“He's awake.” He saw the relief in her eyes, and felt a pang of guilt for not having asked sooner. “I...I cannot tell you what it means to me.”
He could see she was tired, too, then – there were gray circles under her eyes, her face white with exhaustion. He could also see she was close to tears.
“Och, milady.” He felt awkward. What could he say to comfort her? “I...I ken your lad will be alright. Lads his age...” He shrugged.
“I know,” she smiled, sniffing. She reached into a small bag he hadn't noticed she was carrying, and produced a handkerchief. “They're resilient, at that age. Like you were.”
“With my thick head.”
She made a face at him. He laughed.
She wiped her eyes and replaced the handkerchief. He looked at her slender wrist, the loops of the drawstring bag laced over it neatly. The pale skin of her forearm was oddly intimate and he swallowed, looking abruptly into the orchard again. “I think his lordship has some apple trees, here.”
“Oh?” She sounded surprised. “How do you tell?”
“See the way this is growing? Cut, so, with the branches forked like this?” He pointed. “It's how you prune apple trees. Plums are different. There, you need to count the buds. Fruit buds and flower-buds, see?”
She frowned and shook her head. “I didn't know it was so hard,” she said. She smiled shyly. “I reckoned they just, well, grew.”
He chuckled and she laughed, too, shaking her head. The light made rivulets of her hair, bright and fire-red. She looked happy and, being happy, shone in a way that was truly beautiful.
“I suppose they do, more or less,” he agreed. “We just need to do things to make sure we get as much fruit as possible. Mankind is lazy, I reckon. We want more of everything.”
“Well, is it so bad to want everyone to have plenty?” She frowned.
“No,” he said slowly. “I suppose it's not. As long as you do harm to no one to get it.”
He thought about the wars, and the cost of lives and blood. He shivered. What would become of Scotland, after the uprisings? He still didn't know. Had it really been worth it? Or was it, after all, only the greed of a few that drove so much suffering of many?
“Yes. Mankind can be wicked, sometimes.” She nodded, slowly. “Making war and conflict.”
“Yes.” He felt as if she'd plucked the idea out of his own mind. It was odd. He'd never felt so close to anyone before, never had that sense that they really knew what he meant, understood him from the inside. It was new. Strange, too.
And ridiculous, since she's nothing like me and never could be.
He looked away.
“Shall we go back?” she asked. “It's teatime, and...”
“And you must want to see your son,” he said automatically. “Yes. We should go.”
She nodded. Neither of them moved. Her eyes held a question, and aching sadness. He looked at his feet, the worn soldier's boots laced tight on them, the toes scuffed with walking.
“It did me good, to walk thus,” she said.
He felt his heart stop. He was almost afraid to move, lest the wonderful spell break, and reality come in and disturb them. Had she really said that? It was almost too good to be something that had actually happened in his life. “Milady, it's a pleasure.”
He felt his whole body heat with a blush. When he looked up, she was looking at him. Her face had a strange expression – he didn't know how to interpret it. Sad, in a way. Empty, the way a moorland was in winter, with the wind whistling overhead. Her eyes were tender though, and her mouth tugged at one corner, almost a smile.
“Milady? Did I upset...-”
“It's nothing,” she interrupted. “Just a thought. Let's go back to the house? I feel cold.”
He frowned. The wind had risen a little, but it was still just a breeze, and he wasn't cold. All the same, he nodded. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Let's go inside.”
They walked back along the path together.
When they reached the doorway, she turned and nodded. “I'll go in now. Thank you, for the walk.”
“It was a pleasure,” he said again automatically. He still meant it, but she looked distressed. He felt as if the warmth had gone out of the day. He shivered, though it was hot here by the doorway, the wall reflecting back the unusually-bright sunshine.
“I'll see you at luncheon.”
“Likely so,” he said softly. He felt awkward. He didn't know what else to say.
“Farewell.”
“Farewell.”
He wanted to say something else, to halt her. To make her stay and talk a little longer. However, he couldn't think of anything, and when he looked up, she'd gone into the house, leaving him alone.
He sighed and looked at his hands. He felt weary suddenly, and his shoulder pained. All the same, there was a sweet warmth somewhere right inside.
You know about trees. Remarkable, for a soldier. It did me good, to walk thus.
He smiled. He felt proud, and shy and wonderful. He words echoed round his head, like the sweet scent of strewn herbs in a fire lingered after the logs burned out. He knew that, whatever happened, he would never forget that morning.
He did not know when he'd felt so happy. Confused, but happy. He went slowly up the stairs into the warm entrance hall, hoping with a sweet uncertainty that he would see her soon, mayhap at luncheon.
A STARTLING MOMENT
The sound of the teaspoon bumping against the side of the cup brought Amalie out of her reverie. She looked up at her friend, who sat on the chaise-lounge opposite her. Marguerite frowned.
“What is it, Amalie?” she asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost!”
Amalie looked at her hands, pale on the damask velvet of her dress. She sighed. “I don't know, Marguerite. I'm just...out of sorts.”
Ever since the walk in the orchard that morning she had felt restless. She tried to block out the thoughts that kept playing through her head: Bronan's pale face in the darkness of the sick-room, the way the sunshine caught the reddish tone in his eyes when he smiled, his ready grin.
She dismissed the thoughts, annoyed.
Marguerite nodded. “Of course you are! But Alec is recovering well. I spoke to Prudence just as she finished her rounds.”
“I know,” Amalie nodded, a little annoyed, though she knew it was unfair. “I went to see him before teatime.” She did care about her son – she didn't need Marguerite to tell her if he was well!
“Of course you did. So, you see? He's in fine fettle.” Marguerite smiled, confused.
“Yes,” Amalie said distantly. “He is.”
She looked down into her tea. The rich orange depths swirled a little, the sugar dissolving into it from the lump she'd dropped in. She watched it – a welcome distraction from her own thoughts.
I am a disgrace. Here I am thinking about a young man I barely know, when my own son might be on the verge of death! It's wicked of me.
She bit her lip, annoyed. When she looked up, Marguerite was watching her.
“What is it, dearest? I know there must be something bothering you. And it isn't Alec. You've no reason to be worried for a boy who just ate three loaves and half a kettle of Merrick's stew!”
Amalie chuckled. Marguerite was right. Her son had recovered his legendary appetite, and he was looking, in all likelihood, better than she'd seen him look in weeks. She knew then that she wasn't worried, because there was simply no reason to be. She smiled. “You're right, Marguerite. It isn't about Alec. In truth, he's looking in finer fettle than I've seen him in an age.”
Marguerite nodded. “Well, what is it, then? You needn't tell me, if you'd rather not, of co
urse. It's just that it's sometimes easier, when you share your cares and woes.”
“I know,” Amalie replied slowly. “I just...if I could put it into words, I would tell you. I barely know myself, Marguerite. I'm confused.”
Marguerite frowned in sympathy. “I understand,” she said. “Well, if telling me can help, then tell me, Amalie. I shan't think ill of you, whatever it is. You know that.”
“I know.” In truth, that was what had stopped her saying anything – the fear that Marguerite would judge her. Her friend was devoted to her own husband and family, and Amalie was sure she'd be shocked at the thought of her – a recent widow – finding a young man attractive.
“Should we go into the drawing room?” Marguerite asked, suddenly changing the subject. “The sunlight is almost gone here, and the drawing room is much warmer. It's a bad design, this – we ought to have put the parlor on the southern side, and...”
“I'm thinking about a young man. The soldier,” Amalie blurted. The thought of Marguerite changing the subject and suddenly filling up the one chance she had to talk with discussions about architecture made her hasty.
Marguerite raised a brow.
Amalie instantly felt foolish. “Sorry,” she said softly. “I had to tell someone. I feel as if I might go mad, Marguerite! It's dreadful...” She shook her head, feeling tears flow suddenly down her cheeks, unstoppable.
“Easy, lass,” Marguerite said softly. Her voice was comforting, and Amalie listened to the tone of it even more than to the words. “Why are you so upset?” she asked.
“I don't...know,” Amalie sniffed, feeling surprised. She had thought her confusion would be obvious. Her friend acted as if everything was natural and ordinary. “I just...he's so young, Marguerite! And I'm the mother of a teenage child!”
“You're young too, Amalie,” Marguerite said instantly. “You're...what age? Five and thirty? That's young, dearest. You could start your life afresh whenever you chose to do it.”
“But...” Amalie paused, surprised. “What of Alec? And Keith? If I were to be...showing interest...in someone else, don't you think that he would, well, disapprove?” It seemed silly, when she said it. However, it distressed her more than she could express. The thought that Keith was, looking down from some unearthly realm as the healer had said, and disapproving of her, was unbearable.
“Nonsense!” Marguerite chuckled, surprising her again. “If Keith saw you falling in love again, he'd be glad of it! You think he wishes you to mourn forever? Keith wants you to be happy, Amalie. That's only natural, when you love somebody.”
“I know...” Amalie said slowly. She'd honestly never thought about it in that way before. She had simply assumed – foolishly, perhaps – that Keith would be jealous and disapproving. Why would he be? She would, if she was in his situation, wish him happiness.
“Well, then,” Marguerite, ever practical, said decisively. “That's that, then. Now, what of this soldier? He's quite handsome.”
Amalie stared at her. Then, unable to suppress it, she burst out laughing.
“What?” Marguerite asked, smiling naughtily. “I couldn't exactly not notice.”
“Marguerite!” Amalie chuckled. “I'm surprised at you.”
“Well, just because I'm in eternal love with Douglas doesn't mean I lost my eyesight.”
Amalie laughed again. “Marguerite!”
“And you'll surprise yourself, too, if only you stop being so rigid and unfair to yourself,” Marguerite said slowly.
Amalie nodded. She reached for her tea, thoughtfully. The comment mirrored one made by Merrick, the healer, earlier. She recalled it now. Trust yourself. “I'll try.”
“Good,” Marguerite said. “Now, I do think we should move to the drawing room, before the light fades in here. I do love this time of year, but the sunsets are so swift! It's almost dark on this side of the house.”
Amalie nodded. She watched Marguerite as she bustled to the bell-rope, drawing it to summon the maidservant who'd brought the tea.
“Ah! Brenna. There you are. If you could take the tea through to the drawing room, please? It's quite cold in here.”
“Yes, milady,” the maid replied. “Miss Alexandra is awake now. She asked for you.”
“Oh! The sweetling! I'll come up directly,” Marguerite nodded. “She's growing up so fast!” she added as an aside to Amalie, who'd stood and followed her to the door. “I sometimes worry she'll be half-grown by the time Douglas returns. Foolish, I know,” she added, shaking her head.
“He'll be back soon,” Amalie reassured her softly. “Now that this is all settling down.”
“Yes.”
They were both silent a long moment. As yet, no one knew what that would mean. How the Hanoverian, winning, would exact reprieves on the rebellious families was terrifying. The whole future of their land could change, and as yet, a week after the final battle, they had no idea how.
It could be the end of everything we know.
Amalie shivered. As things had stood, Scotland had at least nominal freedom – save for taxation, and the use of their forces in lands and battles that were not their own. She understood the fight, knew what had inspired the men who led it. But still, she thought, recalling her son's white, drained face, did it have to come with so much bloodshed?
“I wonder what will happen,” Marguerite said, echoing her thoughts.
Amalie nodded. “I wonder too.”
Together they headed to the drawing room.
“Milady?” Brenna said as she unpacked the tea-things from the trolley.
“Yes?” Marguerite frowned.
“Mr. McNott said he saw riders yonder.”
“In the woods?” Marguerite's voice was interested, and Amalie knew she hoped for news about Douglas.
“Aye, milady,” she said and nodded.
“Had they the Duncliffe livery?” she asked.
“No, milady,” Brenna said. “He would have mentioned it.”
“Yes,” Marguerite said softly. She looked down at her teacup, suddenly slumped. “I suppose.”
“He'll return soon,” Amalie assured her, glad that she could give comfort to her friend in her turn. “I'm certain he will.”
“Yes,” Marguerite said. When she looked up, her eyes were dark pools. “I pray so.”
“I know he will,” Amalie said, filled with an odd certainty. “He must! The rebellion is over now. He'll be back before the week is out.”
“I hope so,” Marguerite said softly.
“I know so.”
They exchanged smiles. Amalie was, at least, fairly confident Douglas would be alive – aloof from the conflict, he had gone with the troops to mediate, part of a group of nobles who’d hoped there could be an equitable solution, one without bloodshed. Enough of Scotland's peers were undecided as to which side to support – it might have been possible, as Douglas hoped, to stop the conflict before it all happened.
But he didn't, or they couldn't, and now here we are in an uncertain future. She shook her head. Brooding on such thoughts did no one any good.
“Milady?” a maidservant called from the door.
“Yes?” Marguerite's head turned swiftly. She set down the tea. “What is it, Mrs. Hume?”
“Your daughter is asking for you.”
“Oh!” Marguerite stood briskly. Alexandra, two years old and walking by herself, and everywhere, was the sunshine in Marguerite's life. Amalie, also a mother, understood.
“Go to her,” she murmured and nodded to her friend, whose whole face had transformed with a grin. “I'll check on Alec. See how he feels.”
“Thank you,” Marguerite said and nodded. “I'll see you at dinner? It's such a pleasure to have you here – the manor's been empty.”
Amalie nodded. “Thank you, Marguerite,” she said. “You're very kind.”
“Nonsense,” her friend said, bustling up the hallway behind Mrs. Hume. “Off you go, then! See you at dinnertime. Do say if you wish to borrow a dress? Oh! There you are,
my sweetheart.”
Amalie heard her friend's voice change, soft with tenderness, as she saw her daughter. She just caught a glimpse of a small head of auburn curls, a shade lighter than Marguerite's, cradled on her shoulder, and then she was heading downstairs toward the infirmary.
“Mama!”
She felt her own heart leap as she came in to see Alec, sitting up in bed. His cheeks had some color to them and he looked pleased to see her, dark eyes shining.
“Mama!” he said again. “I ate two bowls of stew, and lots of bread. I'm getting strong again – when can I go outside?”
Amalie felt her heart sing. She laughed. “Oh, Alec,” she said, shaking her head. “I wish you could go out now. But the healer is right – you must stay abed until your arm is more healed. You don't want to harm it further.”
“No,” he agreed slowly. “But, Mama! There's nothing to do in here, except draw pictures, and that isn't that exciting. I want to be outside! Did I tell you I managed to race McFlannan? I won by two yards!”
Amalie grinned. It seemed as if her son, with the characteristic hopefulness of youth, had forgotten the shooting incident. He was full of his usual merry banter. “Well, I'm not surprised, young man! You're a fine runner. I'm sure you'd beat McFlannan any day.”
“I did! I raced him twice! I won both times – though the first time wasn't fair because he slipped, so I had to race again, to make it fairer.”
“You're an honorable racer,” Amalie said, feeling proud of him. “And a fast one. You take so after your father.” She shook her head, reminiscing. She saw her son's gaze cloud.
“Father didn't think so,” he said softly.
“Alec! Why do you say that?” Amalie was distressed. “You meant the world to him.”
“But he went away, and left us. If we were so important, why did he?” He looked down at the bed. Amalie thought he was trying not to cry.
“Alec, you mustn't think that way. Your father didn't mean to be killed,” she said slowly.
The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Page 5
