Chapter Two
Esme saw the messenger approaching Ember Hall through the narrow window of her bedchamber. She sank onto her cushioned window seat, one hand pressed to her heart, as the guard stood back to allow the rider through the gate.
Within moments, she would know.
Her heart fluttered like a small bird trapped in a cage, even as she told herself sharply that the message was most likely meant for someone else in the house. She took up her embroidery in a futile effort of distraction, but the decorative swirls of colored thread had never interested her less.
Is Crispin on his way to me?
She put the embroidery down and clasped her hands together in a silent prayer. It had been more than a sennight since the ball at Wolvesley Castle, when Crispin had asked her to be his bride. She deliberately did not dwell on the exact circumstances of his proposal; merely the fact of it.
“I have always loved you, Esme,” he had said that night in the hay-scented stable, whilst the flickering wall torches outside sent shadows leaping around them.
Esme frowned; her gaze fixed on a brightly patterned tapestry hung on the opposite wall. Was that right?
Nay, she realized, wrapping her fingers around the space where—briefly—a ring made of straw had rested. He had not said that.
“I have always wanted you, Esme.” That was what he said.
She bit her lip, wanting to believe it was the same thing.
It had led to the same thing, in any case.
Enough. She could not sit around here like some meek creature, waiting to learn her fate.
She gathered her shawl against the early autumn chill and walked from her bedchamber, taking care to slow her pace as she proceeded along the gallery.
The children’s nursery was at the end of this hall, and she did not want to draw the attention of her niece and nephew.
The wooden stairs squeaked as she descended, disturbing two hounds slumbering by the fire in the great hall.
But aside from the hounds, the room was empty.
Esme swirled around, her scarlet skirts flying outwards. In her mind’s eye, someone—preferably not Frida—had been waiting here to receive her, their hands outstretched to pass on the message she longed to receive.
A log crackled in the grate, mocking her folly.
She took a deep breath. Just because the scene was not as she envisaged did not mean that Crispin had not written to her; nor that the message was not making its way through the house.
She smoothed her voluminous skirts and took a seat by the hounds, talking to them softly and trying not to flinch as her voice broke the near silence of the large room.
She had grown up amidst the noise and bustle of a great castle and consequently, had always found the tranquility of her sister’s home unsettling.
’Twas pretty enough, with glossy wooden paneling, high vaulted ceilings and mullioned windows framing sweeping views of the English countryside.
But Esme was accustomed to musicians, men-at-arms and gossip.
Not this infernal peace and quiet.
She did not enjoy hearing herself think.
As if answering her prayers, footsteps sounded along the corridor and a moment later, her sister Frida appeared.
“Esme, there you are. I have a message for you.”
Esme blinked in surprise that her fancies had become real, but she recovered quickly, knowing she must take care to guard her emotions around Frida.
Her eldest sister had once been gifted with the Sight and, even though an accident some eight winters past had dimmed her powers, Frida still possessed an uncanny ability to read people.
But Frida smiled warmly and held out the rolled parchment as if naught were amiss.
She was a tall and attractive woman who moved briskly through life with a strong sense of purpose.
The same accident that had claimed her sight had turned her golden blonde hair to a shimmering silver, enhancing her air of wisdom.
Six summers stood between them—the oldest and youngest of the five de Neville siblings. For as long as she could remember, Esme had always been a little in awe of her eldest sister.
“Thank you,” she said, affecting nonchalance and folding the parchment into a pocket of her skirt.
Frida eyed her speculatively. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
Esme made a show of rotating her shoulders, making her shawl slip down to her elbows. “I long for some exercise. Yesterday’s rain kept me too long indoors.”
“I see.” Her sister clasped her hands over the simple bodice of her grey-green gown.
“I shall go for a walk and find a quiet spot to read my message. It will be naught of import, I am certain.” Esme turned away from Frida’s all-seeing blue gaze and strolled toward the window, noting the nodding pink rose heads climbing outside.
“Mayhap I shall walk to the standing stones,” she trilled.
“You have always found them a good place to think, have you not?”
I must stop talking.
Frida always had this effect on her.
“Is that what you want to do, Esme? Think?”
The question was quietly asked, but Esme’s knees began to tremble all the same. Whilst she scrambled for an appropriate answer, Frida came to stand beside her. Together, they looked out of the long, narrow window, although Esme was no longer paying attention to the green hills beyond.
“Methinks you are at a crossroads, dear one. And you must choose your path carefully.”
How much has my sister already divined?
“Do not rush into anything,” Frida continued. “Certainly not anything so lasting as marriage.”
Esme froze. Her mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.
“I know that is what Father wants for you,” Frida added softly.
The rush of relief made her audibly exhale.
“He has been lining up suitors for me all summer long.” She echoed Frida’s posture and clasped her hands over the pearl buttons of her bodice.
As she did so, she couldn’t help but notice the difference between Frida’s practical day dress and her own, flouncy gown.
“Many of these suitors are older than Father himself.”
Frida put a gentle hand on her arm. Esme could feel the warmth of her touch, even through her fine woolen shawl. “Father will not force you to do anything against your will. It is for you to decide your future. And that is why you are here, isn’t it? To give yourself time to think things over?”
“Aye.” Esme smiled, as if Frida were her confidant.
And how she wished that was true.
But she could not confide the truth of the matter to her respectable older sister. Frida would be shocked beyond words if she learned what Esme had done.
A rush of envy washed over her. Frida was settled in life, with a good husband who all but worshipped the ground she walked upon.
Esme tightened her lips. “If there is naught else?”
Frida stepped back, lowering her head so Esme could not read her expression. “Enjoy your walk. I hope you find good news in your message.”
Her pulse pounded at that, but Frida was already making her graceful way up to the nursery. Esme exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the outline of the parchment in her pocket.
Had Crispin been the one to write and roll this parchment? If so, ’twas the closest she had been to him in many days.
Esme straightened her shoulders and walked briskly toward the front door, leaving the lavender-scented calm of the hall behind her as she stepped into a chill wind which whipped up her skirts and made her grasp at the ends of her shawl.
For a moment, she considered going back inside, but the unsettled conditions matched her heart’s tumult, and she ploughed on through the courtyard, scattering chickens in her path.
Her long legs ate up the path over the hill, even as her eyes began to water.
Her hair, hastily secured this morn by a somewhat reluctant housemaid, pulled free of its pins to lash about her face.
Esme was not well attired for a walk in the country.
She paused atop the cliffs, gazing down at the blue-green waves rushing furiously onto the sandy cove.
The sea looked anything but inviting. Naught would be inviting on this day, save a warm drink by a crackling fire.
But Esme had made a show of wanting a walk and could not turn back now.
Besides, she longed to read Crispin’s words someplace no one was likely to interrupt her.
She struggled on, pleased when she first glimpsed the harsh granite of the standing stones—a circle of rearing stones, some of them the height of a middling child.
This had always been a favorite retreat of Frida’s, but Esme had never understood the appeal.
There was something off-putting about the loneliness of the location, and the stones themselves exuded a forbidding air which made Esme feel almost as if she was trespassing.
But today, they provided welcome shelter from the cruel wind.
Esme made a beeline for the widest stone and sank down onto the springy grass behind it.
’Twas a blessed relief to be out of the wind. She dragged a hand through her tousled hair and straightened her skirts as best she could. She must look a sight. So be it, the only witnesses to her dishevelment were the gulls circling overhead.
For a moment, she fixed her gaze on the endless expanse of rolling fields ahead of her.
Autumn had brought the first hint of russet and gold to the treetops, and even Esme could not deny the beauty of it.
Now that she was out of the wind, the rolling of the waves and the calling of the gulls lulled her into a sense of calm.