Bertrice Small - Until You

“Aye,” Rosamund answered her.

“He’s a fine-looking man. You’ll be a countess, won’t you?” Jeannie smiled again, but her husband’s look was dark.

“Aye, I will be, but I do not wed him for his title,” Rosamund said.

“So you will desert Friarsgate,” Logan growled.

“Nay, I will not. Nor will Patrick desert his Glenkirk. We will spend part of the year in England and part of the year in Scotland. It is no different than others, even the king, with many estates. And my daughters will be with me.”

“I have bought Otterly from Henry Bolton,” Tom quickly interjected before the conversation took a dangerous turn. “I tore the old house down and am just now beginning to build a new one.”

“Which will be identical to his houses in London and Greenwich,” Rosamund said, and she laughed. “My cousin dislikes change or discommoding his servants. The same people serve him wherever he goes. They, however, have spent the winter in the south without their master.”

“They have been quite busy,” Tom defended himself.

“Doing what?” Jeannie asked.

“I have a passion for beautiful things,” Tom explained. “Consequently, I have too many possessions for two houses. I sent a list of what I wanted transported north to Otterly, and my servants have spent these last months collecting the items, cleaning them, and preparing them for their journey.”

“Ah, I see,” the lady of Claven’s Carn replied. Then a servant came to her side and murmured in her ear. “The meal is ready now,” their hostess said. “Let us to the high board. Lady Rosamund, please sit on my husband’s right. Lord Cambridge, you will sit on my right, and Mistress Philippa will be on my left.” She led them from their places before the fireplace to the great oaken table where the food was now being brought.

The meal was a simple but well-prepared one. There was trout sautйed in butter and served with watercress; a fat capon stuffed with bread, apples, and sage; half a ham; and a lovely game pie with a flaky crust. The bread was fresh and warm. There was cheese and butter. To drink they were served an excellent brown ale. And when the meal had been consumed, a tartlet of winter pears in a wine sauce was brought forth.

“You keep a fine table, lady,” Rosamund praised Jeannie.

The young woman smiled. “I was well taught. Logan does enjoy a good meal, as do his brothers.”

“I notice them missing,” Rosamund said softly.

“They are often late to table these nights,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said.

“Their wives are jealous that I have such a fine son, and even though they have bairns of their own, now that I am again with child, they seek to birth more bairns themselves,” Jeannie giggled. “They are also not pleased that I have taken over the management of my household. They were most lazy. They flout my authority when they can, but it is unforgivable they are not here to greet our guests, Logan.”

“The authority is yours, and they will eventually bow to it,” Rosamund said. “You have simply to hold your ground, lady.”

“My wife does not need advice from you,” the laird growled.

“Logan!” his wife cried, blushing for him. “The lady of Friarsgate but meant to support me with her advice, which is good advice, I might add. I tell you little of the rudeness and disrespect your brothers’ wives give me, but be assured that if it were possible for them to have their own homes, I should not be unhappy!”

“I did not realize, Jeannie,” he quickly excused himself. “I will correct the situation as soon as I may.”

“Nay, you did not know, for I do not complain. Now, ask the lady of Friarsgate’s pardon, my lord,” his wife instructed him.

“Nay! Nay!” Rosamund quickly spoke up. “I realized the laird meant no harm. He is but protective of his wife. I understand. My Patrick would be the same way.”

“Your pardon, madame,” he said nonetheless, and their eyes met.

Rosamund nodded. Then she leaned forward to say to the lady of the keep, “We must leave you early in the morning, madame. Might we be shown to our sleeping places now?”

Jeannie jumped up. “Of course, lady! Please follow me.”

“I think I shall remain in the hall a while longer,” Tom called after them.

“So,” Logan said, after the women were out of earshot, “she is going to marry her earl.”

“Aye,” Tom responded.

“Do you like him?” the laird asked.

“Aye, I do,” came the answer. “He loves her deeply. I have never before seen such passion between two people, Logan Hepburn. It is the right thing for both of them.”

“If you say it, my lord,” the laird replied gloomily. “I shall always love her.”

Tom nodded. “I know that,” he said. “But fate has given you a good wife, and God knows she is doing her duty by you. Two bairns in two years. You can ask no more of the lass. She is a gracious hostess, and she is devoted to you. I have never seen your hall look so fine. Be content. None of us ever gets all that we want in this life.”

“Haven’t you?” came the query.

Tom laughed. “Nay, not until recently,” he admitted. “You mean to live at Otterly?”

“I do, indeed. I sold my home in Cambridge. Finding my family here has made a new man of me, Logan Hepburn.”

The laird nodded glumly. “Family is important,” he agreed. “When is the wedding?”

“We will meet the earl and his son on the first of April at the Unicorn and Crown. Rosamund and Patrick are hoping that the king will allow their marriage to be performed in his chapel by the bishop of St. Andrews. The ceremony should be celebrated sometime in April. When is your new bairn due?”

“In early autumn,” came the reply.

“Yon laddie is a fine boy,” Tom noted.

For the first time Logan’s face grew cheerful. “Aye, he is!” he replied enthusiastically. “He is very strong, my lord. Why, when he grips my finger I fear he will bend it. And he smiles all the time. He has obviously gotten his mother’s sweet nature.”

“You are fortunate,” Tom said quietly. Then he arose. “Where am I to lay my head, Logan Hepburn?”

The laird arose. “ ’Tis a small chamber, but one wall is against the chimney. You’ll not be cold this night, my lord.” And when he had settled his guest, Logan returned to the hall to sit before the fire. His son was gone from his cradle. A servant had obviously carried the lad to his mother for nursing. He sighed deeply. What the hell was the matter with him? There was peace. His lands prospered. He had a sweet wife who was as fertile as a rabbit and already one son to follow him. Why could he not be content with his life? But he knew the answer to his unspoken question.

He loved Rosamund Bolton. He had always loved her and always would. Nothing else mattered to him. It was a secret he must take to his grave, for he would not hurt Jeannie with his perfidy. She was a good lass. She was not the problem. He was. He asked himself again why it was he had not understood Rosamund enough to know she needed to hear the words “I really love you.” Pressed by his family, he had babbled about heirs instead of telling her that the very sight of her set his pulses racing. That he could not sleep for the yearning he had for her. And now she would wed once again. Yet she had told him once that she would never wed again. What had changed her mind? There could be only one answer, and he knew it. She really did love Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk. Loved him enough to leave Friarsgate for part of each year. The knowledge felt like a great weight on his heart. Why was it that she had loved Patrick Leslie at first sight, but she would not love Logan Hepburn? He had no answers to that question.

In the morning Rosamund and her party departed Claven’s Carn after breaking their fast and thanking their hostess.

“Let us know when you are returning, and break your journey with us,” Jeannie said graciously. “I shall look forward to seeing that handsome earl of yours again, lady.”

“We will,” Rosamund promised. She could do nothing else. She smiled and waved as they rode down the hill back onto the Edinburgh road.

“I do like the lady of Claven’s Carn,” Philippa said. “She was so nice to me. She said when we come back I may hold the baby.”

Rosamund smiled at her daughter. Everything was so new and exciting for Philippa. “I like the lady of Claven’s Carn, too,” she told her child.

“The laird is very solemn, isn’t he?” Philippa remarked. “I don’t remember him very well, mama. Was he always so grave?”

“I would not know, Philippa,” her mother said. “I do not know Logan Hepburn that well.”

“I can’t wait to see Uncle Patrick, mama. I am so glad he is going to be our new father. Banon and Bessie are, too, you know,” Philippa confided.

“You have discussed it amongst yourselves?” Rosamund was surprised.

“We are young, mama, but who you wed affects us, as well,” Philippa said wisely.

“Her mother’s daughter,” Tom murmured with a chuckle.

“When will we get to Edinburgh, mama? Will we get there today?” Philippa shifted in her saddle.

“Nay, tomorrow. Tonight we will shelter at Lord Grey’s home. He lives near the city, but not quite near enough,” Rosamund told her daughter.

“Scotland doesn’t look much different from England,” Philippa noted, looking about them as they rode. “I’m glad we are not fighting them, mama. But what will happen if King Henry does fight King James?”

“We will pray that that does not happen, my child,” Rosamund said, but a shiver ran down her back. She shook it off. “Come on, Philippa! I’ll race you to the top of the next hill!” And kicking her mount, Rosamund raced off, her daughter in hot pursuit.

They reached Edinburgh on a chilly spring day. Philippa was wide-eyed with this sight of her first city, as was Lucy, who had traveled with them. Philippa’s mouth fell open as a boy with a tray of buns on his head raced past them. There were women selling the first of the spring flowers and herbs. There were women selling milk, cream, and eggs as well as freshly churned butter, which was cut into chunks as their patrons desired. There was a man offering cups of water for sale, a poulterer with his crates of chickens, a fishmonger pushing his barrow as he shouted his wares. Philippa Meredith had never seen their like, and she didn’t know where to look next. Rosamund watched her daughter, smiling at the child’s amazement.

“Oh, mistress, look there!” Lucy pointed at a group of gypsies who were performing acrobatics on the street for whatever coins they might garner or steal.

They rode past the gypsies, turning into Barley Lane, where the Unicorn and Crown Inn was located. In the courtyard, stablemen ran forth to take their horses, and Tom paid the armed escort that had escorted them from Friarsgate, counting out the coins each man was to have and then buying them all a round of ale. The men-at-arms thanked him, then clattered out of the inn’s stone courtyard. There were less expensive inns where they might spend their earnings.

Rosamund’s heart was racing. Was he here? God’s boots! She was like a virgin with her first lovelorn swain, but the truth was she longed for the sight of his handsome face. They entered the Unicorn and Crown to be greeted by the innkeeper, a tall, thin man with a dignified stance.

“Welcome, my lord, and my ladies!” he greeted them, bowing as he spoke.

“Has the Earl of Glenkirk’s party arrived yet?” Lord Cambridge asked.

“They are waiting for you, my lord. Allow me to escort you,” the innkeeper said, his face impassive. He led them down a narrow hallway, opening the door at the end of it and ushering them inside. “I will fetch Lord Leslie at once,” he told them. “There is wine on the sideboard. Would the ladies desire anything special now?”

“Please escort my daughter and my servant to our apartment, Master Innkeeper,” Rosamund said quietly. She knelt a moment, putting her arms about Philippa. “I would greet Patrick alone, sweeting,” she told the child. “You understand.”

“Yes, mama,” Philippa said dutifully, following Lucy and the innkeeper from the chamber.

“I need some wine,” Tom said. “It becomes chilly as the afternoon wanes.” He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a goblet from the pewter pitcher. Sipping it, he noted, “Why, ’tis not half-bad, dear girl. Will you have some?”

“And greet Patrick with wine on my breath?” she said. “I think not, cousin.”

She arose and seated herself by the fireplace where a good fire was burning. “I shall warm myself this way.”

For some minutes they waited in silence, and then the door to the room opened and a gentleman stepped inside. He went immediately to Rosamund, taking her two hands in his and kissing them. “I am Adam Leslie,” he said, “and you are my father’s Rosamund.” He was tall and big, as his father was. His hair was a dark russet brown where Patrick’s was a deep auburn. But he had not his father’s deep green eyes. Adam Leslie was blue-eyed. “You are every bit as lovely as he claimed, madame.” Then he turned to greet Tom. “You will be Lord Cambridge,” he said, bowing.