Chapter Six
Esme had never spent so long in her own company.
As the sun began to set on the second full day since Frida’s departure, she stood at the window of the long gallery and felt such a swell of frustration rise in her breast that she thought she might scream.
The days were endless, and neither Jonah nor Adam saw fit to offer her any sense of reprieve.
She had never been one to settle to sewing, and the weather was not conducive to long walks.
At luncheon, she had been so desperate for company that she stood outside the solar door, ready to knock and face Jonah’s wrath. But something stayed her hand.
Her brother was famous in her family for his sour moods, but usually Esme could break through his defenses with a combination of teasing and cajoling. Something was different this time. Perchance he really was unwell?
Shall I send for a physician?
And say what? That her brother was refusing to entertain her?
Esme slunk away from the solar, but Jonah’s wellbeing still played on her mind.
If she were in a better temper, she might attempt to gain entry to his private lair and pester him until he admitted what ailed him.
But on this day, her temper was near enough as foul as his own.
Any attempt at discourse would most likely lead to an argument.
At least I am not with child.
Esme put a hand to her abdomen, feeling the familiar dull ache in the small of her back.
Her courses had begun late last night, and the relief of it had carried her right through the long hours of early morn.
But sometime before midday, the paneled walls of the hall had begun to press in on her and the silence to throb in her ears.
She had grabbed her bonnet and shawl and scurried out into the courtyard, determined to seek out Adam and press him into some form of conversation.
Yesterday evening, seated with him in the great hall, she had imagined they were both enjoying themselves.
Words had flowed easily between them. What had she said to make him leave so suddenly?
His expression had been as fixed and sullen as Jonah’s when he bade her good night.
The wind had been blustery outside, threatening to whip Esme’s bonnet right off her head. She had ploughed on, regardless, demanding of a stable lad where she might find the man called Adam.
“The great big man come down from Scotland?” the boy had asked, wide-eyed.
“The very same.” She restrained her smile.
“He’s chopping firewood.”
In all her days, Esme had never before stood behind a tree and watched a man chopping firewood. But if all men displayed the grace and strength of Adam whilst swinging an axe, she might very well take up the habit.
Her lips had fallen open at the sight of him, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and brows lowered in concentration. The axe rose and fell with rhythmic regularity, so that time slipped away, and Esme was both chilled and stiff when he placed the final log onto the stump.
’Twas then she realized that he knew she watched him.
This knowledge sat in the set of his broad shoulders and the determination of his head never to look to the right. Her cheeks burned with awkwardness, and she slunk back to the hall in a worse mood than when she left it.
Later, stood here at the big window in the long gallery, she had watched Adam walking from the courtyard to the main gate, where he joined the guards on duty at the fortified wall.
His sword had gleamed in the scant afternoon sunlight, and his back was unyielding as he fixed his gaze on the horizon, as if there was every chance a marauding horde might really be making its way over the hills to Ember Hall.
Ridiculous.
He was so pompous, she thought. So joyless.
She would do better to ignore him entirely.
But then she remembered how he had clung to the dresser, tears shining in his eyes, when he first came into the hall and heard her singing yesterday.
The door had been open, and she had a clear view of it all, though she would never mention it—to him nor anyone else.
She had known, instinctively, that Adam’s moments of vulnerability were few and far between. Her song had, somehow, unlocked some river of emotion that he usually kept damned.
It was proof that the grim-faced, silent man had feelings after all.
A soft pressure on her calves made her look down, to find Felicity winding about her legs, her black tail waving in the air.
“Are you hungry?” Esme inquired.
The little cat butted its head against her skirts until Esme bent down and scooped her up.
“Let’s go and find you something to eat.”
She walked carefully down the stairs, pleased that Felicity was content to lay without protest in her arms. Esme had never before had soul responsibility for a living creature, but so far, the role was oddly satisfying.
Mayhap, one day she would make a good mother?
Esme shook the thought from her mind. Her only chance for marriage and a family lay with Crispin.
Crispin, who was noticeably absent.
Crispin, whose long-admired boyish good looks were already beginning to lose their charm in her mind’s eye.
She had brought the straw ring he’d hastily made for her all the way here, to Ember Hall, secreting it in a small drawer of her dresser. But yesterday, when she fetched it out, she’d seen clearly that it was not a ring at all. ’Twas only a long strand of straw, grown limp over time.
In a sudden rush of temper, she had thrown it away, and in the hours since she had refused to allow herself to feel ill at ease over this.
But if Esme allowed it, she could grow rather ill at ease about the way Crispin had treated her.
How dare he do…that? And then ride away? And then leave her here, waiting endlessly, without so much as a word?
Felicity squirmed and Esme realized she had been squeezing the little cat too tightly.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, rounding the corner into the kitchen.
Agnes, the cook, was wiping down the vast oak table, her long grey plait swinging over one shoulder. She glanced up at Esme and muttered a greeting.
Esme was more accustomed to servants who bowed and curtsied in her presence, but she knew that Frida ran her household along different lines to Wolvesley Castle.
“May I have something for the cat to eat?” she asked, shifting Felicity in her arms.
Agnes smiled slightly. “That was Miss Flora’s usual refrain. I understand the creature is fond of cold meats and fish. You can take your pick from the cold store.”
Esme looked about her blankly until Agnes pointed her in the right direction.
She was slightly put out that the cook had not gone and rustled up something herself.
But equally, was pleased to be occupied with a task.
She shivered in the chill air as she walked past the dairy and into the stone-flagged cold store, where her first instinct was to squeal in protest at the sight of so much death.
“’Tis only meat, milady.” Agnes had come up behind her and was gently nudging her to one side.
“Not in a form I am used to seeing.” Esme put a hand to her mouth and nose, fearing she might gag at the smell. Felicity took this opportunity to jump from her arms.
“Mayhap you’ll get along better with fish. This one’s already skinned and gutted for you?” Agnes gestured toward a platter of pale fleshy meat.
“Whatever you think.” Esme moved toward the platter, but Agnes got there before her.
“Do not fret, milady. I shall fetch it for you.”
Feeling mildly chastised, Esme followed the cook back into the warmth of the main kitchen. “You are thinking that little Flora has a stronger stomach than I do,” she stated.
“I said naught of the like.” Agnes divided up the fish and put some down in the corner for Felicity to inspect.
“You would be right.” Esme pushed back her hair and attempted a smile.
Agnes smiled back. “’Tis all a matter of upbringing, milady. And you were raised the daughter of an earl.”
“As was my sister Frida,” Esme interjected.
“Aye, but Frida came here determined to live a different sort of life.” Agnes wiped her hand on a cloth, wincing a little.
“What has happened to your finger?” Esme moved closer, noticing the jagged edges of a clean cut, stretching all along the cook’s index finger.
“Naught but a scratch.”
“A deep one,” Esme countered. “Frida would pack it with honey, I am sure.”
Agnes screwed up her nose. “Honey is no good. It sticks to everything, and I cannot get about my work for it.”
Esme’s mind raced. There were other herbs that Frida would suggest on such an occasion, but she had never paid much attention to her older sister’s healing abilities.
She had never thought she would have the need.
“I will go to her store and see what I can find.”
Agnes shook her head. “’Tis a kind thought, milady. But I would not put you to any trouble. Besides, Lady Frida took her salves with her up to Scotland.”
“She will not have taken all of them.” Esme was renewed with purpose. “And in all honesty, Agnes, I would welcome a little trouble. My day has been dull indeed, thus far.”
The cook smiled. “As you wish.”
Esme pulled her sister’s cloak from the hook by the back door and set off into the gloaming.
Frida’s cloak billowed about her, for Esme was the smallest of the de Neville sisters, but the scent of sage—trapped in the woolen folds—reminded her of times past, when Frida would bathe her childhood cuts and caution her against jumping from the stone basin of the Wolvesley fountain.
She found the store quickly, unfastening the door and breathing in the aroma of so many dried herbs.
Bunches hung from the ceiling and glass jars gleamed from the narrow shelves, but Agnes was correct; Frida had taken at least half her stock with her.
Esme put her hands on her hips and looked about. She should have thought to bring a candle. It was hard to make anything out in the twilight.
Think, she told herself. Try to remember.
She did not want to return to the hall empty handed.