The Tailor’s Treasure (Lovers of Linden #2)

CHAPTER ONE

Isabel was awake, but she willed herself to pretend otherwise for just a few moments more.

She could hear Aline and Petronilla murmuring to each other on the other side of the curtain, and her son was shifting around in his cradle, but she could ignore that for now.

She had slept the night through but was still so desperately tired: a single snatched moment of rest would do nothing to ameliorate that, but it was at least something.

She could survive another day, if only -

The noises from the cradle grew louder, more determined. Just as she had resolved to open her eyes and sit up, they changed: an infant grunt of effort, followed by a thump, a yelp, and a thin, rising wail.

In a flash, she was up and out of bed, bending to pick Walter up off the floor.

"It's all right," she murmured, cradling him against her chest, "shh, shh, you're all right.

" Her son tilted his head back to look at her, his face tear-stained, and she felt a familiar stab of guilt.

She knew Walter was wont to try and climb out of his cradle when he woke up, just as she knew he couldn't manage it without overbalancing and tumbling headfirst onto the floor.

She should have fetched him out of bed as soon as she heard him stirring, but she'd lazed away in her own bed instead, and now he was sniffling as he wound his arms tight around her neck.

"Is-a-bel."

Isabel hid her wince with the ease of habit.

Her older charge's voice pierced her ear like a skewer.

Both of the girls in her care – such as it were – had inherited their shrillness from their mother, but only Aline had perfected tone and pitch to such an extent that everyone in her hearing came running whenever she called.

It was a unique blend of whine and scold, and even after a year of being subjected to it daily, Isabel still had not accustomed herself to it.

She pressed her face to Walter's curls, inhaling deeply to fortify herself, then looked up at Aline. "What is it?"

Aline, still in her shift, huffed and crossed her arms. She looked nothing like Isabel's late husband – her great-uncle – but in moments like these, Isabel could somehow still see traces of him in her face.

Most likely it was the sharp twist of her mouth, the sardonic laughter that always seemed to dance behind her eyes.

"We can't sleep," she said peevishly, "for all his caterwauling. "

Walter - whose sobs had died to whimpers - began to cry again at the sound of her voice.

Isabel didn't blame him. Listening to Aline made her want to cry, too.

She knew it would do no good to point out that the girls had both been awake before Walter started crying; she'd only be called a liar for her pains.

So instead she patted her son's back, bouncing him gently until he settled, then looked at Aline. "He's quiet now."

"And will he remain so?" Aline demanded. "It's not yet sunrise, what right has he to rouse us from our beds?"

Isabel bit down on the inside of her cheek.

"I'll see that he remains so," she said.

"Go back to bed." If it was, as Aline said, not yet sunrise, then it was a near thing - she could see watery rays of light peeping through the cracks in the shutters across the room.

But, as before, there was no use arguing with Aline about it.

She would plant her flag on a patch of ground and retain her position by simply refusing to concede until her opponent was exhausted. And Isabel was exhausted already.

"See that you do," was Aline's parting shot, before she turned on her heel and ducking under the curtain that separated Isabel and Walter's little sleeping nook from the rest of the nursery.

Isabel could hear giggling on the other side, with Aline's voice soon joining the chorus.

Most likely she and Petronilla were enjoying their latest petty triumph; poking at Isabel was one of their chiefest pleasures, and one that they never seemed to tire of.

Isabel had long since accepted her lot in life - or at least, she knew better than to wish for better things - but she did permit herself, on occasion, to hope that the girls in her charge would move on to other amusements soon.

Walter had now stopped sniffling entirely, and was squirming in her arms. Isabel loosened her grip and set him down on her lap, keeping her arms looped around his torso so he wouldn't topple backwards.

He leaned as far back as she would let him, eyes red but clear, and beamed up at her, blowing bubbles with his mouth.

The resilience of infancy, Isabel supposed: each small injury was a catastrophe, but it would also be forgotten in five minutes' time.

She kissed his forehead, and he patted her face with both hands, giggling.

At the sound, she felt some of the tension between her shoulders uncoil. At least she could still do this right.

"Breakfast?" she said to him, and his face lit up in a toothy grin.

Shifting him to one hip, she pulled her robe down from its peg above her bed and shrugged it on.

The table wouldn't be set this early, but the cook would be busy at the ovens already, and there would be food set out for the servants.

Isabel was not a servant – not in name, anyhow – but she also was not invited to dine at the family table, and so it was in the kitchen where she and Walter always took their meals.

It was better company than dining with the girls and their parents.

Sure enough, when she descended to the kitchen, there was a half-sliced loaf of bread, a pot of honey, and a hunk of cheese set out on the table. The cook, Bet, straightened and scowled when she saw them approach. "What do you want?"

"Just something to eat," Isabel said, voice flat and neutral.

She wondered at Bet sometimes – she had been the cook in the days when Isabel had been the nominal head of the household, and while Isabel would never have considered them friends, she'd at least believed them cordial.

But since Isabel's displacement with the arrival of Hilda and her family, Bet had taken her cues from her new mistress and treated Isabel as a drudge by rights, if not by birth or marriage.

Had she been that poor of a mistress, or did Bet simply wish to cleave to whoever held the balance of power in the household?

If it was the latter, Isabel could hardly blame her; she'd made the same calculation herself, once upon a time.

Long as she might for a kind word or a friendly face, she knew what it was to be a woman alone in the world, and she'd not begrudge Bet her survival.

Bet jerked her head at the table, turning back to the fire.

"Help yourself, then. But not too much, Bridget and Ellyn will be wanting their breakfast when they finally rouse themselves.

" She bent over the cooking pot, muttering to herself about lazybones who wouldn't stir without a pail of water to the face, and ignored Isabel as she settled herself and Walter at the table and reached for the bread.

Breakfast passed peacefully enough – well, Walter shrieked when she moved the honey pot out of his reach after he dribbled it down the front of her shift, but as a mother of nearly two years, Isabel was used to that sort of thing – until Hilda swept into the kitchen.

As soon as she saw her, Isabel stiffened, and Walter – sensing her distress – began to squirm and fuss in her arms. Hilda's eyes swept across the room, taking in Bet at her cooking pot and the two kitchen-maids (who, contrary to Bet's complaints, had appeared in the kitchen not long after Isabel) chopping parsley, and, finally, Isabel and Walter. Her eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean by this?" she snapped. "Out of bed and about your business when the girls are not up and dressed yet! Do you mean to let them languish in bed all day? I had better give them to a rooster to raise!"

Walter whined, fisting his hand in the front of Isabel's robe.

Isabel kept her eyes lowered; Hilda, like most predators, could read fear in a look.

"They were awake when I came down," she said.

"But they begged a few minutes more to lie in, and I considered it no great matter. And Walter needed his breakfast."

"And my daughters do not?" Hilda's nostrils flared, and Isabel could have kicked herself.

She knew better than to try and offer a defense.

"Are their bellies less empty, their bodies less needful of nourishment?

Should they wither and die for want of good care because you would rather fuss over your own child?

Though I wonder how well you may be trusted with him, if you cannot properly look after two girls thrice his age!

With such as you for a mother, I fear for his future.

No wonder Uncle Geoffrey commended him to our care, if he knew what sort of woman you are . . ."

She went on, but Isabel had stopped listening.

She slid out of her chair and stood, jogging Walter in her arms until he'd stopped whining.

"I will see to them," she murmured, and sidled along the wall, still careful to keep her gaze downcast. It was owing to this that she didn't duck in time when Hilda caught up an apple that had been sitting on the table and hurled it at her, but that was no matter.

It was only a small apple, and it didn't hit Walter.