Chapter Ten
The day dawned bright, and Esme’s head ached all the more for the dazzling shafts of sunlight which blazed through her narrow window and made her squint.
Too restless to remain in bed, she sat upon an upright wooden chair in her bedchamber and rubbed at her temples. When the housemaid knocked upon the door to enquire if milady required any assistance dressing, it took several seconds for her whirring mind to make sense of it.
Frida had always baulked at allocating her youngest sister a lady’s maid during her frequent stays at Ember Hall.
Esme had been obliged to cajole; even—on occasions—demand.
Never had Jennifer willingly offered up her services.
The young maid was a hard worker, but she displayed no fondness for dressing hair.
And on this day, Esme could not see the point of it either.
Esme turned her weary face toward the door and shook her head at the hazel-eyed servant.
“Not this morn, thank you, Jennifer.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, gently closing the panel behind her.
Esme pulled the folds of her woolen shawl closer and tucked her long strands of hair back behind her ears. Dappled sunlight on the plastered wall told her that much time had passed since the first cock crow, mayhap Jennifer had been sent by Agnes to discretely enquire if milady was well?
Esme was not sure that she was.
Ever since that unfortunate ball at Wolvesley, she had been summoning a smile and making the best of things.
She had not allowed herself to skulk about in her chamber, like a fractious child.
But the events of yesterday had shaken her fortitude.
She could not fasten ribbons to her bonnet, grasp Adam’s arm and expect entertainment.
Not now she knew how much anger shimmered beneath his calm exterior.
To think, he was the man who made her feel safe.
But she had heard him roar with the rage of a caged bear, driven to torment by memories of the past.
She could not help but feel disappointed. Bereft, even. Just like Crispin, perchance he was not the man she once thought he was.
Adam was, as he himself had declared, a man who had seen and brought about death.
Esme winced at the patterns of her thoughts.
That was unfair. Adam was a warrior, not a man to ride away from a woman he had professed to love.
She had seen how much emotion surged within him at the mere mention of Clara, his one-time betrothed.
Yesterday, at the standing stones, her heart had ached with pity.
But mixed in with this was the bitter sting of rejection, for he had not wanted her sympathy. Had even spurned it.
I am unaccustomed to being spurned.
And she had not anticipated it from him.
Esme rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and put her head in her hand.
The silvery notes of a ruddock’s winter song drifted in from outside; seemingly giving voice to the sadness that had taken root in her soul.
Were she in better spirits, she might stand by her window and try to glimpse the red-breasted little bird, who must be perched on a tree nearby; but she did not have the energy to stir herself.
She had not known, before yesterday, that Adam’s heart belonged so utterly to another.
To Clara.
To a ghost, whose beauty and goodness would never now be challenged by the passing of the years or capricious dictates of fate.
Why does this trouble me so?
Esme could not help feeling a stab of envy toward this unknown Clara. And how ridiculous was that? To covet the life of a farm girl who had met such a sorry—and untimely—end.
But at least she had known true love before she died.
Esme closed her eyes and attempted to quell such unworthy thoughts. But her long-suppressed self-pity was now fully awakened and would not be easily shunted aside.
Would any man ever speak of her with such uncomplicated ardor?
Fair-haired and fair-spoken. Honorable and true.
She reflected, grimly, that she would most likely succeed on one of those counts. Possibly two. But no more.
Perchance that was for the best.
No man could love her truly—nor could she love any man—without confessing what had occurred in the hayloft with Crispin. She knew how much store men put by virginity. Yet even knowing this, she had let hers go with barely a squeal of protest.
And she could never confess it without bringing shame to her family name.
Esme’s head throbbed and she fought an urge to sob. A knock at the door made her straighten her back and hastily wipe at her eyes.
“Come in.”
She half expected Jennifer again, but it was Jonah’s golden head that appeared around the door.
“Are you well, Esme?” he demanded, his blue eyes fixing her in a piercing stare.
She took a trembling breath. “I am not.”
“What is it?” He walked more fully into the room and gazed at her consideringly; his arms folded.
“I have a headache,” she answered honestly.
“You have not yet broken your fast. Jennifer says you have not been down.” His voice was accusing. “You are not even dressed.”
She was still clad in her white night rail, but the shawl ensured her decency. Esme would not be made to feel guilty.
“As I said, I have a headache.”
Jonah tapped the toe of his boot onto her wooden floor. “Mother always told me, no matter how out of sorts one might feel, ’tis important to rise up and dress.”
She shook her head, pouting a little to demonstrate her disinterest. “She never said this to me.”
“Most likely because she never had to. You have enjoyed good health and good humor for almost all of your two and twenty summers.”
He is insufferable.
“Jonah, I will not be lectured by one who shuts himself away from the world.” Esme rearranged her shawl and half-turned in the chair, so she was facing away from him.
Nonetheless, she sensed his chilly disapproval wash over her.
“’Tis precisely because I am so oft afflicted that you should listen to me now.” His voice grew hard. “Do not allow yourself to become self-pitying. It does you no favors. Forsooth, sister, I have always admired your resilience.”
She was too cross to hear the compliment.
“Am I to be permitted no peace at all? Even when my head aches I am expected to don a pretty gown and smile at everyone?” Esme tossed back her hair and looked fixedly out of the window, though the winter light was so bright it hurt her eyes.
“Exactly that. ’Tis little enough to ask, when others must sweep our floors and fix our fires and bake our bread.”
“You are a man of the working people now, are you, Jonah?” She raised one eyebrow, aware of his gaze upon her face.
“I am a man who observes what is happening around me.”
Esme was neither inclined nor willing to acknowledge Jonah’s fine sentiments. She only wanted him gone.
“Perchance you should look to participate rather than just observe. Then you might find occupation and meaning in your life.”
“I have already found both occupation and meaning,” he interjected calmly.
But Esme had not finished. “And you might stop meddling in mine,” she concluded with a note of triumph in her voice.
For a moment, silence fell between them. Esme opened her mouth to apologize but Jonah held up a restraining hand.
“I have oft said the truth is preferable to a lie. Therefore, I thank you for your honesty, sister.”
She rubbed her temples, regret swirling in her stomach. “Jonah, I did not mean it.”
She swiveled around in time to catch his short, polite bow.
“I bid you good day, Esme.”
Jonah walked from the chamber with surprising alacrity. He had closed the door well before she fixed on a response.
Esme stayed where she was, aware of the futility of going after him. Her brother’s sulks were legendary.
A small mew alerted her to Felicity’s presence; she must have crept inside whilst the door was open. Glad of the company, Esme scooped up the little black cat and settled her on her knee.
“What a mess it all is,” Esme crooned as she stroked the soft fur.
Felicity purred loudly, seemingly in raptures to find Esme not only sitting still but also wearing wool thick enough for a good kneading.
If only I were a cat, thought Esme. It was not a bad life. Sleeping, eating, sleeping again. Felicity only had to mew to gain loving attention.
’Twas not unlike Esme’s own life at Wolvesley Castle.
Before I ruined everything.
Hoofbeats outside made her lift her head until she could see out of the window.
One of the grooms was leading a chestnut horse out of the stables and toward the mounting block.
As Esme watched, her brother Jonah walked steadily from the front door of the hall, checked the horse’s girth and took the reins from the groom.
Jonah was going for a ride!
This was not, in itself, surprising. Despite his wasted leg, their mother had insisted that he learned to ride at a young age.
Like the rest of his siblings, Jonah had spent much of his childhood in the saddle—making good use of some specially adapted stirrups which meant his disability was scarcely apparent.
But Esme had not known Jonah to willingly get up on horseback for many years now. When he was obliged to travel, he did so by carriage. He had not ridden for fun since his youth.
That was, apparently, about to change.
Esme rose from her chair, much to Felicity’s displeasure, and put her hands onto the windowsill, leaning out as far as she dared without attracting notice from the courtyard. She watched the groom link his hands together, offering a boot up into the saddle. And she watched Jonah wave him away.
“Good gracious,” she muttered.
The chestnut horse snorted and pawed at the ground as Jonah climbed cautiously onto the mounting block, and Esme held her breath as her brother found his balance for long enough to put his good foot into the stirrup.
Even from this distance, she could see what the effort was costing him.
He was white-lipped by the time he had finally swung himself into the saddle.
But he had made it!