Chapter Two #2
Crispin had written to her. Perchance he was on his way.
All would be well. But when she unfurled the parchment, ’twas her father’s familiar writing she saw.
Sudden tears made his words crabbed and she all but flung the message over the cliffs.
She loved her father, aye. But disappointment made her inwardly rage at him.
After several deep breaths, she was composed enough to read the missive, which contained no further surprises.
The Earl of Wolvesley wished to know when his youngest daughter would return.
He had several suitors asking for her hand and would give her the pick of them, if she were present.
Esme crumpled the parchment, gazing blindly into the distance.
She knew she was fortunate to be offered a choice in the matter.
Moreover, she was blessed with the freedom to come and go, much as she pleased from Wolvesley.
Many of her peers were not permitted such liberties, but Esme had been raised to think and act for herself.
Since early adulthood she had been accustomed to joining her brother Tristan on jaunts up and down the country, visiting friends and family.
But Tristan was no longer her willing accomplice.
He was married now, to their father’s ward, Mirrie.
Indeed, he had eyes for no one but his bride, especially now that she was expecting their first child.
The two of them had excused themselves from the latest Wolvesley ball, claiming they wanted to spend the evening quietly together.
Esme wrinkled her nose, unable to deny a second stab of jealousy that morn.
She was pleased her brother had found love.
But must he make such a show of it? He was another example of a sibling who had waltzed, untroubled, into a happy state of matrimony.
Neither Tristan nor Frida could have any idea of the torment she endured.
What a mess.
She hugged her knees and allowed tears of self-pity to roll down her cheeks.
Without word from Crispin, all she could do was wait, as he had requested.
She sniffed in a most unladylike fashion, wondering for the hundredth time what business was so important it should take him away—not only from his station at Wolvesley, but from her.
There was another question lurking at the back of her mind, one that she had not dared give voice to. But out here, with the waves and the gulls and the disappointment, she could no longer ignore it.
Does he truly love me?
She gritted her teeth. That was only a small part of it.
Do I truly love him?
Releasing the thought she had suppressed all these long days was oddly exhilarating. Esme tipped her head back against the ancient stone and closed her eyes.
How was she to know if she was in love? ’Twas not like learning Latin; there was no text to follow.
Her brother Tristan and sister Frida had seemed to slip effortlessly into the state.
But Isabella made no pretense of happiness in her marriage.
As Countess of Felsham, Isabella enjoyed wealth, status and comfort.
But she showed naught but middling affection for the man by her side.
What would Esme enjoy as Crispin’s bride?
She cared little for wealth or status, but comfort was important. A feeling of being cared for. Cherished, even.
Ever since they began their affair, Esme had rarely gone a day without experiencing the thrill of a forbidden kiss.
Their time together had been imbued with secrecy and drama, right from the start.
And Crispin was so handsome, with his chestnut curls and deep brown eyes.
Whenever he looked at her, she could hardly hear reason above the pounding of her pulse.
Secrecy, drama, giddy excitement. Was that love? Esme wondered if love was perchance something stronger and more steadfast than the tumult of emotions that had infected her like a fever.
She swallowed painfully, unwilling to follow her thoughts further. Either way, these days apart from Crispin had broken the spell of attraction and intrigue. Now her desire to be with him was murkily entwined with the painful knowledge that she should be with him, because of what they had done.
Esme sighed deeply and looked back down at her father’s message.
Impossible.
Even if she wanted it, she could not return to Wolvesley as the prospective bride of some great lord. Esme did not claim to understand all the workings of the world, but she knew the men bidding for her hand expected two things of the match.
Her dowry and her virginity.
She could bang her head against the stone and rail against her stupidity, but it would achieve naught but further pain.
Nay, she had no choice but to make the best of it. She must bide her time and wait for Crispin to come for her.
Esme pushed herself to her feet, buffeted once again by the strong wind coming over the cliffs.
She would return to Ember Hall and write a reply to her father.
’Twas not fair to keep him waiting. Praise be, her reputation for cold indifference to suitors may mean her rebuttal would not come as a surprise.
She would be like Jonah, her youngest brother, who had claimed sanctuary at Ember Hall for almost as long as Frida had lived here.
He said the peace and quiet soothed his soul and eased the pain in his wasted leg.
Mayhap she would also come to find some reprieve from her troubles in these lonely hills.
Though right now, Esme was not willing to count on it.
*
As soon as she walked back through the front door, she knew something was amiss. A great clamor of voices came from the great hall, as if many people were speaking at once. Loudest was Callum, Frida’s husband; a man who did not usually raise his voice.
“Our lives need not all be uprooted by this,” he declared as Esme entered the room.
Wide-eyed, she took in the scene. Frida and the children stood in a huddle by the fire; the youngest, Merry, in her mother’s arms. Callum paced opposite them.
His rugged face had turned a paler hue than Esme had ever seen it.
Jonah sat awkwardly on one of the tapestried chairs, studiously ignoring a small black cat who was winding around his legs.
And upon the furthest-away window seat, perched a man all in shadows, whom Esme did not recognize.
“What is happening?” she interrupted.
Callum waved a brawny arm in her direction. He was dressed in breeches and a heavy tunic, as if he had just come in from work in the fields. “Naught of note. I shall be away a few days, that is all.”
Frida huffed and shifted the weight of the babe in her arms. Her silver hair was in danger of coming loose as Merry patted and tugged at it. “Naught of note indeed. Your father is ill, mayhap dying. ’Tis a matter of enough import to merit discussion.”
Callum folded his arms across his muscular chest. “I shall go to him and say my goodbyes.” His voice broke, betraying the distress he was trying hard to keep at bay.
Even Esme could see that her usually unflappable brother-in-law was upset.
He fixed his gaze down at the floor until Frida went to stand by his side, then he leaned against her in a momentary display of vulnerability.
“We shall come with you,” Frida said quietly.
“’Tis too far. The children are too young.”
“The children are healthy and so am I.” She lovingly pushed back a tendril of his dark brown hair. “Would you deny me this last chance to meet your father? Or your father this last chance to meet his grandchildren?”
Callum grasped her hand as if he were drowning. “I tell you, Frida, ’tis not like that. Kielder Castle is not Wolvesley. My father is not yours.” He glanced toward the man on the window seat. “Adam will confirm that my ancestral home is no place for our children.”
The man sat back so he was even further overshadowed, but he said nothing.
“You can speak freely, Adam,” Callum persisted. “There is no man’s opinion that I take greater heed of.”
Even the children looked toward the window seat in expectation, but Callum’s plea was met with continued silence. Esme’s eyebrows shot up. Was this man a servant or relative of some kind?
Frida allowed a moment to pass, before briskly taking up where she had left off. “We shall pack a few things and be ready to leave by first light on the morrow.”
Callum opened his arms wide, his gesture taking in the vast hallway as well as the courtyard and fields beyond the windows. “I cannot ask that we abandon our duties here.”
“You have not asked,” Frida interrupted. “Besides, the harvest is all brought in, and our stores are full. ’Tis not even Michaelmas and we are already set for winter.”
Frida and Callum locked gazes in a battle of wills.
Into the silence, Esme spoke. “You are right Frida. You should go.” She had racked her brains to remember the location of Kielder Castle and concluded it was somewhere in the highlands.
There had been some unpleasantness, she dimly recalled, when the truth of Callum’s Scottish ancestry was first discovered.
In fact, the more she thought on this, the more certain she became that Callum’s father was some great warlord.
A rift had sprung up between father and son after Callum’s marriage to Frida.
Which was all the more reason for them to make peace, whilst the opportunity still remained.
Her heart twisted in sympathy. She had no real concept of the distance involved. She only knew that if it were her father that was gravely ill, she would move heaven and earth to see him.
“You should all go to Scotland.” She met her sister’s gaze and smiled, noting that Frida appreciated her support.
Little Flora stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Callum’s leg. “Can I go to Scotland?” she asked, her sweet, five-year-old voice piping around the room.
“Me too?” Her brother Christopher would not be left out.
Frida scarcely hid her smile. “’Tis what your children wish.”