Chapter Eight #4
Exhausted, and feeling a good deal of comfort in Atticus’ arms, she laid her head against his big shoulder. “That physic is a fool,” she uttered. “I do not want that man near me again. Will you make sure of it?”
Atticus took her out into the corridor, careful not to bang her head against the stone walls. “If that is your wish,” he said. “But why? What did he do?”
She sighed, feeling quite calm now that Atticus was with her.
It was both surprising and amazing that the sensation of being held in his arms should soothe her soul and her fears so much.
She’d never known anything like it, ever.
Somehow, she knew that she was safe and that everything would be all right as long as Atticus held her. He gave her peace.
“He told me that the loss of the child was God’s Will and that I should be grateful,” she murmured. “I do not want him near me again. If I see him again, I may have to kill him.”
Atticus fought off a grin because he could hear humor in her weak tone. “I see,” he said. “Well, I shall make sure if it, then. I should not want you to be forced to kill.”
She nodded, or at least attempted to. “It would be messy, for I have never done such a thing,” she said. “I would have to guess on the best way to kill a man. His brains would be in one place and his heart would be in another.”
He laughed softly. “That sounds quite messy, indeed,” he said. “I shall make sure he is kept away. Are you feeling better, then?”
Isobeau put her arms up around his neck, pulling herself closer to him, a gesture that was not lost on Atticus.
She was warm and soft in all of the right places as far as he could tell.
It was a rather enticing position he found himself in with her but he quickly chased those thoughts away.
He was both embarrassed and intrigued by them.
“I am very tired,” Isobeau said softly. “The physic gave me something to drink and it has made me very sleepy. It was probably poison, whatever it is.”
They entered the chamber Isobeau had originally been put in, but now it was much different from the sparse chamber it had been before – servants had brought in a larger bed and a new mattress set upon it, now being sewn shut by an older, female servant.
There was a roaring fire in the hearth, several sheep hides on the floor for warmth, and all seven of her trunks had been stacked neatly in a corner.
There was also a pile of what looked like linen on the table and the elderly male servant who serviced Solomon’s chamber was going through the linen, inspecting it and sniffing it.
It was clear he was looking for clean things to put on the mattress.
When the servants heard Atticus and Isobeau enter, the old woman with the big, bone needle in her hand looked to them rather anxiously.
“M’lord,” she said, her heavy Scots burr evident. “We hadna the straw nor grass tae stuff the mattress with. We must have that for the livestock. Instead, we stuffed it with wool from the spring sheer. ’Tis quite comfortable.”
Atticus didn’t put Isobeau down yet. He eyed the mattress. “That should do nicely,” he said, looking over at the old man standing by the table. “What are those? Clean linens?”
The old man nodded. “These belonged to your mother, Sir Atticus,” he said. He had been with Solomon many years and knew the family well. “They have been stored away. Lord Solomon does not know I have brought them out. I fear he will be angry. He does not like his wife’s things touched.”
Atticus thought of his father, still in the chapel with Titus.
The priest from Hawick was there, and Warenne and Kenton were in the chapel, too.
In fact, they had been in the process of trying to convince Solomon that Titus should be buried this night when the panicked servant had come for Atticus.
He had wanted to hold the burial off until Isobeau was strong enough to attend but he had no idea when that would be and Titus could no longer wait to be put into the ground.
Therefore, there had been a strong movement underway between him and Warenne to convince Solomon to bury Titus this night.
That was still the plan as long as Atticus had anything to say about it.
Atticus thought of his father and how broken he was over Titus’ death. The man never had recovered from the death of Rosalie, as indicated by the elderly servant. Atticus honestly wasn’t sure if his father would ever recover from Titus’ death. Atticus wasn’t so sure he would, either.
“I know,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “But I do not think he would mind it if Lady de Wolfe used Mother’s things since there is nothing else of feminine comfort to provide. Hurry and prepare the bed, now. There is no time to waste.”
The old man began scurrying, grabbing the clean linens and rushing towards the bed where the female servant had just finished stitching the mattress shut.
Between the two of them, they managed to adequately make the bed up with old but clean linens and even two old, silk pillows that had belonged to Atticus’ mother.
By the time they were finished, it looked rather inviting.
Isobeau, meanwhile, watched all of it from Atticus’ arms. She was not really sleepy now as much as she was simply weak and exhausted.
Her head was still against his shoulder as she watched the servant woman smooth out the faded coverlet that was beautifully embroidered but creased in places where it had been stored for years, folded up.
“Your mother had beautiful things,” she said softly. “What a lovely silk coverlet.”
Atticus’ gaze lingered on it. “I remember that coverlet,” he said. “She slept in this room because my father snored so badly she could not sleep otherwise. That coverlet used to cover her bed and I can remember, as a child, laying upon it as she would sing to me.”
Isobeau’s head came up and she looked at him. “Your mother sang?”
He met her gaze, thinking she was far too close. Her lush, pillowy lips were too inviting and he found himself chasing off thoughts of interest once again.
“She did,” he said. “She had a lovely voice, as I recall.”
“What did she sing?”
He shrugged. “Songs for children,” he said. “I seem to remember a fairy song. Something about dilly, dilly. I remember telling her to sing the Dilly song.”
Isobeau grinned. “I know that song.”
“You do?”
She nodded, lifting her sweet soprano with the lyrics:
“Dilly, dilly, lady fairy, how shall you fly? Long to the day as slumber grows nigh;
On gossamer wings, you touch the stars.
On the wings of angels, you steal our hearts.
Come touch my heart, O fairy dove,
And take me from the world above.”
By the time she finished, Atticus was looking at her in shock. “Where did you learn to sing like that?” he demanded softly.
Isobeau smiled, averting her eyes modestly. “Didn’t Titus tell you that I sang?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“I write songs, too.”
Atticus smiled faintly, impressed. “I would like to hear one of your songs.”
Isobeau was rather coy about it, shrugging with modesty. “I am sure you will soon,” she said, her smile fading. “I… I wrote several songs for Titus while he was away and I was hoping to sing one of them at his burial. Do you think the priests will allow it?”
Atticus nodded, his gaze lingering on her. “I will make sure of it,” he said quietly. “I am sure my brother would be very touched.”
The servants finished with the bed at that point and gestured to Atticus to lay the lady upon the faded silk coverlet.
Atticus gently set Isobeau down on top of the bed with linens that used to belong to his mother, thinking it was especially appropriate for Isobeau to sleep upon the same linens that had touched his mother’s skin.
He knew his mother would have been pleased with finally having a daughter.
She had wanted one badly, so much so that she had died giving birth to one.
Rosalie and her infant daughter had been buried together, in fact, but it was something that hadn’t been mentioned since her passing. It was too painful for Solomon to hear.
As Atticus lingered over thoughts of his mother and coverlets and infant daughters, Isobeau was inspecting Rosalie’s fine bed covering; she ran her hand over faded silk that had once been red.
Now it was an uneven shade of pink. But her interest soon shifted from the coverlet to what she was wearing; it was oversized and unfamiliar.
Somehow, she had been stripped of her bloodied traveling clothes.
We stripped you of your clothing, the physic had said.
She didn’t even remember changing. She lifted her arms, inspecting the garment.
“Who does this belong to?” she asked. “I do not seem to recall putting it on.”
Atticus eyed the linen gown. “I am not entirely sure,” he said, “but your clothes were ruined and the servants came up with something. I would suspect they raided more of my mother’s things for something to dress you in.”
Isobeau stopped inspecting the heavy garment and craned her neck back to look at her trunks, over against the wall. “My things are here now,” she said. “I can change into something that belongs to me.”
Atticus put a hand up to prevent her from climbing off the bed in her weakened state in the hunt for familiar clothing.
“Mayhap you should wait,” he said. “You should rest and I am sure my mother would not mind you wearing one of her dressing gowns. When you are feeling better, I will have hot water brought to you so that you may bathe and dress properly if you wish.”
Isobeau gazed up at him, smiling gratefully. “I would appreciate that,” she said. “I actually feel much better than I did when I awoke. Whatever the physic gave me to help me sleep must be wearing off.”
He eyed her, as if he wasn’t convinced. “Surely you do not feel completely well,” he said. “You were… that is to say, you were very sick. It seemed that you lost a good deal of blood.”