15
CECILY
Cecily found Finn in the yard behind the manor mending a broken latch on the stable door.
The morning’s work had churned the ground to mud.
Finn knelt with the iron clasp in his hands, his sleeves rolled up and his jaw tense with concentration.
He looked up when she approached and sat back on his heels.
They’ve set the household into mourning,” Cecily said quietly. “Black cloth for the hall. Candles for the chapel.”
Finn nodded. “I wonder if they will send us off. Lady Beatrix hired us,” he said. “Without her—” He broke off, rubbing his thumb along the iron. “I wonder how long we’ll have a place here.”
The same thought had kept her up nights since the lady’s death. This fragile life, which provided meals, wages, and beds for them, had been Lady Beatrix’s doing.
Finn stood and stepped closer. He took her hand, his rough fingers closing around hers.
“We’ll manage,” he said, though he did not sound sure.
Cecily nodded, holding fast to that moment. They were together now. A team. She wanted it that way.
As they parted, she glanced back toward the house. Sybil stood just inside the doorway, pretending to busy herself with a folded cloth.
But her eyes were fixed on Cecily and Finn.
∞∞∞
The hall was draped in black, the chapel lined with candles, and Lady Beatrix’s rooms were emptied one piece at a time. Cecily was sent to the solar to clear away Lady Beatrix’s things.
It was there, in the passage beyond the lady’s rooms, that she heard the first murmurs.
“She was with her again,” a maid said in a low voice.
“Aye,” another replied. It sounded like Sybil. “Every time she took ill, it was that new one fetched.”
Cecily stopped, her basket heavy in her hands.
“Like she knew when it was comin’,” the first voice continued. “Always there before the bell was rung.”
Cecily moved on before they saw her.
Later, near the kitchens, she heard it again, different voices, but the same bits of gossip.
“I seen her holdin’ the lady’s hand.”
“Sounded like she prayed somethin’ with her. Maybe it were a chant I heard instead of a prayer.”
“She was alone with Lady Beatrix too often.”
The words struck harder each time, reshaped and embellished as they passed from mouth to mouth.
By the afternoon, Finn found her near the kitchen entrance.
“The entire house is talking,” he said. “About us.”
Her shoulders tensed. “I know. What do you hear?”
“That you were always there,” he said. “That you and I were speaking together last night. Someone said we sounded… pleased that Lady Beatrix died.”
Cecily shook her head. “How can they say such things? Lady Hawthorne was very kind to me, and I grieve her death.”
“I know.” Finn’s voice dropped. “They’re just talking, spreading stories. But the stories are pointing at us, Cecily. I don’t know how to stop it.”
They stood close. She could almost feel the house watching them. Cecily had noticed the way people looked away now when she passed. How a woman she had worked beside all week crossed herself when Cecily reached for the bucket or stacked the pantry.
∞∞∞
That evening, as Cecily carried linens down the passage, she heard a man’s voice she did not recognize.
“No sickness takes a lady so sudden,” he said. “Not unless God wills it, or someone helps it along.”
Another voice murmured agreement.
She turned and nearly collided with two men in the lord’s colors. One wore the badge of the manor reeve. The other carried a staff marked with the parish seal.
“You will come with us,” the reeve said.
“Why?” Cecily asked. “What’s happened?”
“You are summoned.”
Finn was already there when they brought her to the hall where Lord Hawthorne stood. The lord’s stern face was rigid, his eyes narrow.
“You attended my wife,” he said to Cecily.
“Yes, my lord.”
“How often?”
“Every day, when I delivered the linens. And whenever she called for me.”
“You knew her weakness.”
“I knew she was ill.”
“You were present when she took her spells.”
“Many times,” Cecily said. “She sometimes had several a day.”
“It has been said,” Lord Hawthorne went on, “that you spoke words over her. That you touched her when she lay helpless. That you knew when the illness would come.”
“No, my lord. That is not true,” Cecily said, her voice shaking. “I brought water. I helped her sit. I stayed because she asked me to. I comforted her. But I did not know… I could not know when her sickness would come.”
Lord Hawthorne turned to Finn.
“You are no kin of this house. You speak with odd precision for a laborer. You were heard laughing after her death.”
Finn’s mouth fell open. “No, my lord. Cecily, my sister, and I are deeply saddened by Lady Hawthorne’s death. She was a kind mistress.”
Silence fell. Then Lord Hawthorne stepped closer to them.
He said to Cecily, “Some said they heard you chanting words over her as she lay gasping for air.”
Cecily gasped, her eyes wide. “Who has said such a thing? My lord, never! I prayed—”
“Enough,” Lord Hawthorne said, raising a hand. “The church will advise me. Until then, you will be kept apart. And secure.”
Guards moved forward and seized them.
“Cecily!” Finn cried as she was dragged away.
She twisted toward him, his name on her lips.
They dragged her down several hallways, then forced her into a small, windowless room. The door slammed. Then the iron bar scraped and fell into place, locking her in.