CHAPTER TWELVE
When Isabel woke, it happened slowly: first with a growing awareness of the body pressed snug against hers', then the blanket tucked around both of them, and finally the steady drumming of rain against the roof.
The bed felt different from what she was accustomed to - somehow softer, though she knew intellectually that it was stuffed with the same straw as her pallet at home.
Perhaps it was the width of the bed that made it seem so much more comfortable, or the equal distribution of weight across its surface.
Or perhaps it was just Constance's presence, the way her nose pressed against Isabel's neck, how each breath stirred the strands of hair that had escaped from Isabel's braid.
Isabel could not remember ever sleeping beside someone and enjoying the experience: up until now, she'd assumed the fault was her own, that she was too cold by nature to share a bed and revel in the knowledge of another person beside her.
Another old experience that Constance had made new for her.
Constance was always so warm.
Isabel turned her face to Constance's hair, inhaling deeply.
She could stay right where she was for the rest of the night, enjoy the closeness and the stillness until sleep claimed her again or it was time to rise with the dawn.
No one was going to come and demand she rouse herself.
And she felt a thrill just laying there as she was, her lips against Constance's forehead, their arms around each other to no purpose other than a desire to be close.
She knew this occurrence would be a rare one; surely she ought to linger as long as she could.
Except - Walter wasn't here. He was tucked into the little cot upstairs, spending the night away from her side for the first time in his short life.
Most likely, he was still asleep - he was not prone to waking during the night, and Peter surely would have called downstairs for her if he had.
But his absence still pricked at her. She was so used to half-waking, rolling over, and reaching into his cradle to reassure herself that he was still breathing: now, she couldn't. The chance that anything had happened to him was vanishingly small, but still - the thought squirmed in her brain, and she knew it would give her no peace until she went to check on Walter herself.
Slowly, carefully, she slid away from Constance until their bodies were no longer entwined, and sat up.
Neither of them had bothered to put their shifts back on after their earlier activities - she felt herself blush to remember it - so she leaned over and fished around on the floor until her hand made contact with familiar linen.
She slid the garment on, then eased herself out of bed as quietly as possible, making sure to pull the covers back up to cover the spot where she'd lain.
Behind her, Constance sighed and turned over in her sleep, but she did not wake.
The sound was enough to make Isabel want to crawl back in with her, but she steeled herself against the impulse.
She felt around on the floor beside the bed until she'd located the reed lamp, then picked it up and tiptoed out, one hand extended out in front of herself so she didn't walk face-first into a wall.
She lit the reed lamp from the embers of the fire in the main room - it cast enough light to see by, but only just - then made her careful way up the stairs.
The door to Peter's room was cracked open just wide enough for her to slip through, but the light afforded by the lamp did not stretch far enough to see if he was awake or not.
She paused in the doorway, remembering past confrontations: they'd put that behind them, but she was still reasonably certain that Peter would not take kindly to waking and finding her standing in his bedroom.
"You may as well come in," came a rumbling voice from the bed. Thankfully, he sounded amused rather than irritated. "You can't very well see him from there."
Isabel took him at his word, still moving with slow, careful steps to avoid an accident. "How did you know it was me?"
"Heard you on the stairs," Peter said. It was odd, talking to him in the dark - with no face to put to his voice, it was hard to properly gauge his mood. "Constance's tread is heavier than yours'. You creep everywhere like a thief."
That could either be a jibe or an innocent observation. She still didn't know Peter well enough to guess. "I'm sorry if I woke you," she said. Her knees brushed the edge of what must be Walter's cot, and she knelt. "I'm sure you need your rest."
"You didn't wake me," he said, "the pain did.
It happens most nights." If he was in pain, she couldn't detect it in his tone - but then, if he was as accustomed to it as he was implying, perhaps it had simply ceased to register.
"Jack usually sits up with me when it happens, but as he's trapped at the cooper's for the night, I've nothing to do but listen for footsteps on the stairs. "
"I'm sorry," she said again. Lifting the lamp, she was able to make out the blurry shape of her son's face as he slept on the cot; when she lowered it, his features came into focus.
He'd flung one arm over his head as he slept, and - she noted with fond amusement - managed to pull his coif off as well.
His cheeks were round and rosy, his eyelashes fluttering in his sleep - dreaming, she assumed - and his mouth hung just open enough that she could see the protrusion of his two front teeth.
He was snoring softly, and the hand not flung over his head was clutched around the blanket she'd tucked him in with.
She reached out to trace the round of his cheek, feeling something deep inside her unclench at the downy softness of his skin. He looked so peaceful.
"What have you to be sorry for?" Peter said.
"Unless you have some otherworldly power you've not mentioned, you didn't call up the weather.
Although I suppose you might have, just for the chance to spend the night.
" Now she could hear a smirk in his voice.
"Enjoyed the bed, did you? It's a comfortable one. "
She was glad then that it was too dark for him to see her blush. "And why would you assume that?"
He snorted. "Well, because I could see when you came in that you were wearing my wife's shift, to begin."
Startled, she glanced down. Sure enough, the sleeves of the shift she'd put on were several inches shorter than they ought to be, leaving almost half her forearm bare.
She'd been too preoccupied trying to keep quiet when she put it on to notice.
She tugged on the hem to try and pull it down over her wrist - a futile gesture, to be sure, but better than nothing.
"I only tease." Peter's voice was gentle.
"I have no cause to complain about your presence here, and no place to do so besides.
It's Constance's decision to have you." The bedcovers rustled as if he was shifting in his seat.
"The little one is well, by the by - or he ought to be.
He's not stirred since you brought him up. "
'No, I didn't expect he would," Isabel said. "He's always slept deeply. I just . . . wanted to be certain. For my own sake, I suppose."
"Mm." His tone was non-committal, and she wished anew that she could see his face. Then again, in this darkness, her own expressions were safely concealed from view. There was freedom in that. "It's just the two of you, isn't it? Constance mentioned your husband had passed."
Now it was Isabel's turn to make a non-committal noise. "A little more than a year ago," she said. "But it's not only the two of us. We live with my niece and her family."
Peter made a sound that might have been a snort. "And are they a great help to you?"
Walter's blankets had bunched up under his arms. Isabel smoothed them out, pausing to let her hand rest on her son's chest to feel the rise and fall. It gave her a moment to gather her words before she answered. "I help them," she said. "And so I have lodgings for myself and my child."
"Ah, the kindness of family." Now his tone was most definitely mocking. "To put up a widow and child on sufferance, so long as they are useful. Your niece must be well assured of her soul's eternal rest in Heaven."
She ought to dispute that, she knew. It was one thing to confide her troubles in Constance, inasmuch as she had; it was quite another to go about complaining to all and sundry.
Even if Peter was in no position to report her words back to Hilda, he could easily tell Jack, who might tell his master, who might tell a friend .
. . Gossip spread so easily. Better not to complain.
But the darkness of the room felt almost solid, like a curtain falling around the conversation.
It was easier to be honest when she sat in a puddle of light no larger than a hands-breadth.
Sitting here, like this, she could imagine her words falling into the dark and vanishing there.
No wonder churches had built confessionals to be so dark: they knew the power of mystery.
Had Christ not risen in a lightless tomb?
"It was the best choice I had," she said. "The best choice I have, for both our sakes. Life could be far worse."
There was a pause, and she thought briefly that Peter might have drifted off to sleep. Then the bedclothes rustled again. "So you mean to stay there?"
"Where else would I go?" Isabel was almost in disbelief that he'd even asked. "What else would I do? Unless you've some suggestion -"
"Mm. No." More rustling, then a sigh. "Constance is quite fond of you."
Isabel looked down at her too-short sleeve. "Yes."
"And you of her?"
That struck a little too close. She glared at him - or where she thought he was - though she knew it was pointless. "Have you any right to ask me?"
Another snort. "I am her husband. Although I suppose she's explained to you by now what we are to each other?"