Epilogue
Margaretha
Five Months Later
Feathers already clung to my damp, exposed arms as I lifted the downy chicken from the boiling pot.
I hung it by its feet, waiting for the plumage to cool enough for handling, and was plucking my first fistful when a rattle at the door announced Friedrich.
He was struggling with the infernal handle, as usual.
I shook my head with a smile. “Push down hard before you turn it.”
After more finagling, he got it, ducking his head as he walked into our little cottage. I dropped the feathers into the bucket and rested the half-plucked chicken across my lap, watching him stomp snow off his boots.
When he looked up, his eyes crinkled with his smile. “You’re plucking a chicken?”
I pulled another handful of feathers. “Don’t act surprised. You’ve seen me do it before.”
“Yes, only never in the house.” He scooted a few feathers with his boot. “It isn’t really an indoor activity.”
“Yes, well, it was cold outside.” I ignored the flush of embarrassment. “And anyhow, you’re late.”
“I was delayed by news.” He came to warm his hands at the fire.
I admired my husband’s handsome profile before tugging at the chicken once more. “What news?”
“It’s about Vesalius.”
My hand froze with a fistful of wet feathers, and I looked at Friedrich with worried eyes.
“Not dead.” He shook his head, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I owed the man more than my life. Considering his counsel to Friedrich, I owed him my very happiness.
“Apparently enough time has passed for the kaiser’s anger to cool, and Vesalius’s sentence was commuted. He’s on pilgrimage to Jerusalem as we speak.”
“Saints be praised.” I dropped more feathers into the bucket and took up another handful, but from the corner of my eye, I could see Friedrich still watching me.
“Was there more?” I asked.
“There is something . . .” He lifted his coat to reach into his jerkin. “Wilhelm gave me this.” Friedrich held out a letter with my familial seal. “It’s from Samuel.”
My stomach wriggled with nerves. I wasn’t ready.
“I can’t read it now. I’m filthy.” My plucking turned aggressive.
Friedrich twisted out of his coat, throwing it and his cap over the back of a chair. “Then I’ll read it for you.”
“This isn’t the best ti—”
He snapped the seal and unfolded the letter, his voice drowning out my protests.
“Dearest Retie,
Your letter arrived just in time. Father had ordered your maid packing for her accusations against our wicked stepmother, but at your word, there was nothing he could do but believe.
Despite her pleas, Belinda is now a prisoner in Castle Hohnscheid, where she can don red iron shoes and dance with the devil all she likes.
I’m overjoyed you still live. Since my release, I was led to believe I’d been freed as pity for the death of my sister.
How could I have taken pleasure in my freedom, knowing it came at the cost of your life?
I’m particularly grateful you pulled through, since I was too ill when I left Brussels to keep my word and dance on your grave. ”
I rolled my eyes.
“To be serious now, your letter relieved a heavy burden from me, though it came as a great shock to our father. Not only as it gave him profound joy over your survival, but also as it gave him great distress concerning your recent marriage.”
Friedrich stopped reading to nibble his lip, and I sensed his discomfort.
“Continue,” I prompted.
“Father and I have had many quarrels as I’ve urged him to accept your union, but I cannot prevail. I fear his heart too hardened on this subject.
Take courage. When I am Count, I’ll welcome you and Rowohlt back into my house, giving you your deserved place.
Until we meet again, address all future letters to me.
Samuel”
Friedrich finished, leaving me to my thoughts while the fire crackled. After a few furtive swipes of my hand across my eyes, I took a deep breath and put on a cheery smile. “I’m so relieved.”
He lifted a skeptical brow.
“Really, I am. Vesalius is alive. Belinda can do no more harm. Samuel is well.”
His brow stayed raised, and I sighed, tugging at the chicken again. The feathers were now cold and tough for plucking.
“Of course I miss my family. And it does . . . hurt to know Father cannot accept us.” I returned to the fire and dunked the chicken in the boiling pot. “But if you think I lament my choice, you’re mistaken. I don’t regret it.”
“Well why would you, when you’re so comfortably set up in this tiny hut with your hands blistered from work?”
“Friedrich Rowohlt!” I glared at him. “I love the work I do, caring for our home and for the sick people of our village. And I love you, so if enduring a bit of physical labor is the only price I pay to be with you day and night, then I pay it gladly.”
He hung his head and studied his boots, but then a mischievous smile tilted his lips. When he lifted his face, his gaze slowly trailed down my figure.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the chicken, pretending to ignore the sound of his long strides coming toward me, even as my heart hammered beneath my ribs.
He came up behind me, his chest warm on my back, his hand trailing the length of my arm until he wrapped his fingers around my wrist. Lifting my hand to his mouth, he blew away the clinging pieces of down, then touched his lips to my faded scar. The heat of his kiss left my palm tingling.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered against my neck.
I laughed and turned to face him. “Yes, in my tattered gown and up to my elbows in feathers, I’m sure I dazzle.”
He picked a feather off my face. “Up to your eyebrows in feathers.” He smiled, tightening his arms around my waist and pulling me closer.
“Margaretha, when will you understand? Whether wearing fine gowns and jewels or standing here in our little shack with your stained dress covered in feathers, you are equally beautiful. Though I would make one adjustment.” He reached behind my head, pulling out the pins in my headdress and lifting off the covering so my hair tumbled long and free down my back.
I tried to hide my smile. “And why, may I ask, are these rags equal to my beautiful silver damask gown with the pearl latticework partlet?” I set my arms around his shoulders, careful to rest only my clean sleeves against his jerkin.
He responded with a gentle kiss. “Because it’s not the clothes that make you beautiful. It’s not even your looks, though I’ve never met a comelier woman.” His gaze moved over my face. “Your beauty is in the goodness of your soul. In who you are. It’s you who’s beautiful. It’s you I love.”
This time when his lips touched mine, I threw myself into his kiss, pressing my mouth against his and curling my arms tight around his neck, chicken feathers and all.