Chapter 19 #3
Her child who had been conceived in a dungeon, she thought, and grimaced.
Ilsabeth was not sure that was a story she wanted to tell her child later in life.
In fact, considering all the bad things, the chilling things concerning Henry, that had happened, it might be best to forget the whole matter.
She could always make up a story if her child was ever curious but the idea of lying to a child was an uncomfortable one.
And why am I worrying about things that are not even close to happening yet? she asked herself. It was because she did not want to think about Simon. In truth, she sighed, she did not wish to look at how she was acting toward Simon. Ilsabeth was beginning to feel a little ashamed of herself.
A soft rap at the door promised a welcome distraction and she sat up as she told the visitor to come in.
Her mother came in and sat down on the edge of the bed and Ilsabeth became immediately nervous.
Her mother had that look on her face that promised a lecture.
The true problem with her mother’s lectures were that they were cleverly disguised, forcing the one hearing them to answer questions that invariably made them see some fault in themselves.
Since Ilsabeth was beginning to see one already, she did not really want her mother to have seen it as well.
“Weel, that isnae a particularly welcoming look for your old mother,” said Elspeth.
Ilsabeth laughed. “Ye arenae old and weel ye ken it. I confess, the face was because I ken ye are here to give me one of your talks where ye get me to see that I am nay behaving verra weel.”
“Beginning to see it yourself already, are ye?”
“Aye, but I am having so much trouble getting beyond the hurt. In the beginning I tried so hard to be understanding. Henry was an evil beyond explaining. It was only reasonable that Simon would fear such evil could be a part of his whole family, that he needed time to see that he had none of that in him and ne’er could. But two months?”
“Men can be slow, love. And”–she patted Ilsabeth’s clenched fist–“he had a lot to deal with aside from his own confused feelings, didnae he. Then, too, he was trying to put ye aside for what he thought was your own good.”
“And just what gave him the right to think he kenned what was for my own good?”
“His being a mon.”
Ilsabeth’s temper faded and she laughed.
“Aye, and ‘tis his nature. He protects and defends those who cannae do it themselves or those so caught up in another’s tangled web that they cannae get free without help. And I was both to him. I think that is what troubles me. Does he truly see me or does he see just another wounded innocent who needs his protection?”
“Only he can answer that, love, and ye are nay even reading his letters.”
“I ken it. I have been behaving badly. Oh, a week mayhap, of sulking and pouting, but I have gone way beyond that.” She frowned. “I find that I am afraid of being hurt again.”
Elspeth hugged her. “ ‘Tis a common fear of women in love.
But, sweetheart, a mon in love suffers as weel and ‘tis often harder for them to express what they are feeling. Just think on this. This proud mon, this mon ye say keeps himself in control, has been lurking about here for three weeks sending ye gifts and letters. Even when he kens ye are refusing to accept any of them, he is still here.”
Ilsabeth felt an urge to cry. “I have been unkind.”
“Nay, ye have been afraid. He hurt ye and I think he hurt ye more than his poor monly brain can understand.” She smiled when Ilsabeth gave a watery giggle. “But, how can he ever understand enough to ne’er do it again if ye willnae even talk to him?”
“I ken it. I have to get rid of the fear, dinnae I?”
“Nay so much get rid of it as push it aside long enough to listen. What he wants to tell ye may well mend the wound.”
“Ye dinnae think it will just add to it, make it deeper?” she asked in a near whisper.
“Nay. Ye may curse me if I am wrong, but I truly dinnae believe a mon hangs about getting rejected for three long weeks unless he feels something verra deep and strong.” She placed her hand on Ilsabeth’s stomach.
“And, ye have a piece of him inside ye now. Ye have that child to think on. Is it just your heart that was bruised, or your pride as weel?” She kissed her on the cheek and started out of the room.
“Just try, lass. Even a mon desperately in love can only abide so many nays before he gives up. He has his pride, too.”
Ilsabeth settled back down and stared up at the ceiling.
Her mother was right. It was not just her heart that was bruised, but her pride.
She had given Simon everything and he had turned from her, rejected it all.
It had broken her heart but it had also lacerated her pride.
The two of them together had kept her from forgiving Simon.
And Simon did have his pride. She had seen it. Thinking over how she had treated him for the last three weeks, she was astonished that he was still here, still trying. She had certainly paid him back in kind and she was not very proud of that.
She would go with the brothers and pick out some ponies on the morrow and then she would invite Simon to a private dinner here at Aigballa.
The two of them would talk as she had not allowed him to talk before while she was still nursing her wounds.
There would be some things she would insist upon before she gave in to him and the very first was to know exactly how he felt about her.
Now that she had had a taste of how it felt to have her love rejected, she was not going to go anywhere with him until she was sure he returned it.
A small smile curved her mouth. It would be so nice to see him again, to touch him even in the polite confines of a shared meal.
Now that she had seen how she was acting and why, she could admit to how desperately she had missed him.
His brothers claimed Simon missed her, too.
It was foolish for two people to miss each other if there was no true reason for them to be apart.
On the morrow she would put an end to this game one way or the other.