Nick’s words drew her attention from the forest. “I’ll see to your meal,” he said, and Simone noticed his guarded glance out the window. “Is there aught from the wagons you have need of?”
“I would change my gown and clean the dust from myself,” Simone replied. “If one of my trunks could be sent up?”
Nick moved toward the door. “I shall see to it directly.”
Simone’s call of thanks was disrupted by the closing door, and she frowned again. Nicholas was clearly displeased, and she replayed the events since their arrival in Withington but could not fathom the source.
Taking advantage of the privacy, Simone made use of the pot and then returned to the window. The western woods ringing the village stretched out before her, dark with autumn’s damp colors in the quickly fading light, and an oddly ominous feeling crept around Simone’s shoulders. She suddenly wished for Didier. She hadn’t seen him all day and wondered if he would show himself by nightfall, as was his habit. Or perhaps he would stay away, affording husband and wife a night of peace—and perhaps the opportunity to become intimate.
“I vowthatwould raise Nicholas’s spirits,” she said aloud, and then giggled at her scandalous self to throw off the sliver of disquiet the view of the woods had slid across her throat.
A rap sounded at the door. “Lady FitzTodd? I’ve yer trunk, ’ere.”
“Come,” Simone called, and one of the burly drivers shoved open the door, hefting the large trunk as if it weighed naught. Simone thanked the man as he set the cumbersome item in the middle of the floor and turned to go.
But he had brought the wrong one, Simone realized as she neared the piece. This trunk, with its age-colored brass hasps and ornate carvings, was Portia’s—Simone’s own containers were infinitely plainer and smaller than her mother’s.
“Pardon,” she began, but the driver had already gone. “No matter,” she said to the empty room. She stared at the trunk with a feeling almost akin to fear. She had not looked upon her mother’s possessions since before Portia’s death. These trunks had been packed by Simone’s mother herself, anticipating the journey to Simone’s wedding celebration. “Mamanhad lovely gowns. And since they now belong to me, I see no reason why I should not wear one.”
She dropped to her knees and fished the ring of keys from her chatelaine. Her hands trembled as she searched for the correct key, and her fumbling fingers fit it into the lock. The clasp let loose smoothly, but the sound it made was like a crack of lightning in the tiny chamber. Simone’s heart fluttered and her breathing came in short gasps. Steeling herself, she raised the heavy lid.
Portia’s scent hit Simone like a physical blow. In an instant, she could recall her mother in the most minute detail: her long, dark hair, her sparkling eyes with their tiny, fascinating creases at the corners. Her no-nonsense manner and secret smiles when she surprised Simone with yet another gift. All of these memories and countless more from the simple, musky-feminine scent wafting up from the trunk.
“Maman,” she breathed, and reached for the topmost gown as if in a dream. Slowly, she pulled the rose-colored material up and out of the trunk and crushed it to her face, inhaling deeply.
Simone, would that you wear rose more often. ’Tis my favorite shade and it becomes you so.
She let the gown fall into a puddle on her lap and reached for the next.
Do you like the trim? I’ll have one made for you if you desire.
With each kirtle or underdress pulled from the trunk—whether rose or green or midnight blue—snippets of Portia danced through Simone’s memory, spinning her emotions to the tune of bittersweet loss.
Where is Didier? Where is my darling boy?
Simone, Charles has arrived. Will you go riding today?
Go to your chambers, Daughter. Your Papa is displeased with me and I must speak with him.
’Tis merely a bruise—fear not. Your father cannot harm me, darling.
When Simone finally surfaced from the deep, cold pool of the past, her mother’s gowns were piled high on the floor around her. She had emptied the trunk of clothing and yet there were still items within.
Stacks of folded parchment, cracked and yellowed with age and tied with ribbon into thick bundles, lined the bottom of the deep trunk.
Simone forgot her sorrow for a moment as curiosity gripped her. She reached into the trunk and pulled out a stack, taking care not to bump the already crumbling sheaths. Rising, she picked her way amongst the discarded gowns and sat upon the bed. Simone tugged on the ribbon, and it fell loose easily, allowing her to remove the topmost square. She pulled the edges apart, once, twice, revealing a single sheet of her mother’s swirling handwriting.
1 July, 1068
I have a son. Didier Anton Edward du Roche came into this world early this morn, wailing as though it offended him highly to do so. He is a darling, though, perfect in every way. At first sight, he reminded me of his sire, and that thought did comfort me greatly. Simone is rather unimpressed, but even she had to smile and coo at his handsomeness. I do believe they will be great companions one day. When I am free from my childbed, I shall take them both to Marseilles. My children are my only joy.
“’Tis a journal,” Simone whispered, setting the page aside and rifling cautiously through the remaining stack. The sheets in the bundle were dated through the end of 1069, and Simone’s melancholy lifted. Here, perhaps at last, was a way to learn of her mother, as Simone had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to do while Portia lived. Perhaps in this way Simone might learn how the family’s fortune was decimated. Already, the first entry mentioned Marseilles—certainly there would be further insight in the remaining bundles.
And ’twas also a way she could once again feel close to Portia. As Simone had read, it was almost as if her mother had been speaking directly into her ear.
Simone rose from the bed and took two more bundles from the trunk, setting them on the thin mattress. She scooped up the gowns littering the floor, dumped them unceremoniously back inside the trunk, and dropped the lid closed. The tiny sleeping chamber had grown dark with shadow as the sun was nearly set, and Simone lit the thick, crude candle on the bedside table.
A tap on the door startled Simone into remembering her husband. She quickly crossed the room and swung the door wide.
