“How many wives have you had before me, sir?” she asked him, curious.
“None,” he answered, a small smile touching his angular features.
“Why?” she demanded of him. Reaching out she stroked a large gray hound that had come to sit by her side.
“I had not the means to support a wife,” he explained. “I was my father’s youngest son. He died just before I was born. He, too, was a younger son, dependent upon his family for everything. Long ago I did my cousin a great favor, or so I thought. By convincing her brother to give her the small manor of Otterly, I made her a desirable bride for your uncle Henry. Agnes was a plain girl, but had no calling for the church. She needed something to set her apart from the other marriageable young girls of modest means. By convincing Robert Lindsay that a woman with her own property was more apt to receive an offer, I made Agnes an attractive marriage prospect.”
“Like me,” Rosamund remarked.
“Yes, like you,” Hugh agreed with a chuckle. “You understand a great deal for one so young.”
“The priest says that women are the weaker vessel, but I think he is wrong. Women can be strong, and they can be intelligent,” Rosamund told him frankly.
“Are those your own thoughts, Rosamund?” he asked her. What a fascinating little girl she was, this child who was now his responsibility.
She looked suddenly fearful at his question, sitting back in her chair, whereas before she had been leaning forward enthusiastically. “Will you beat me for my thoughts, sir?” she queried him nervously.
The question disturbed him deeply. “Why would you think that, lass?” he inquired of her quietly.
“I have been very forward,” she told him. “My aunt says a female must not be forward or bold. That it is displeasing to their menfolk and they must be beaten for it.”
“Did your uncle ever beat you?” he demanded.
She nodded silently.
“Well, lass, I will not beat you,” Hugh said, his kind blue eyes meeting her fearful amber ones. “I will always expect that you be open and honest in your thoughts with me, Rosamund. When people dissemble with one another foolish misunderstandings arise. There is much I can teach you if you are to be truly the mistress of Friarsgate. I do not know how long I will be with you, for I am an old man. But if you are to control your own destiny, free of interference, then you will learn what I have to impart lest Henry Bolton come again to rule over you.”
He saw a flicker of interest leap into her face at his words, but she quickly masked it, saying thoughtfully, “If my uncle knew that you planned to turn me against him, I do not think you would be my husband this day, Hugh Cabot.”
He chuckled. “You misunderstand me, Rosamund,” he replied smoothly. “I do not wish to turn you against your family, but if I were your father, I would want you to be independent of them. Friarsgate belongs to you, lass, not to them. Do you know your family motto?”
She shook her head in the negative.
“Tracez Votre Chemin.It means,Make Your Own Path,” he explained to her.
Rosamund nodded. “Please live long, Hugh, that I may be able to choose my next husband all by myself,” she replied, her eyes dancing with merriment.
He laughed aloud. It was, she decided, a good sound. Rich, and deep, with no malice in it at all.
“I will try, Rosamund,” he promised her.
“How old are you?” she inquired of him.
“Today is the twentieth day of October,” he replied. “On the ninth day of November I will be sixty years of age.” The blue eyes twinkled at her. “I amveryold, Rosamund.”
“Aye, you are,” she agreed soberly, nodding her auburn head.
He chuckled again, unable to help himself. “We shall be friends, Rosamund,” he told her. Then he fell on his knees before her, and taking her hand in his said, “I vow to you on this, our wedding day, Rosamund Bolton, that I will always put you, and the interests of Friarsgate, before all else, as long as I may live.” Then he kissed the little hand in his.
“Mayhap I will trust you,” Rosamund decided out loud. “You have kind eyes.” She withdrew her hand from his grasp. Then she smiled a mischievous smile. “I am glad that you were chosen for me, Hugh Cabot, although I think if my uncle Henry knew your true worth, he would not have picked you, no matter my aunt’s debt.”
“My child-wife,” he addressed her, “I suspect you have a taste for intrigue, which I find interesting in one so young.” He pulled himself to his feet and sat again.
“I do not know whatintriguemeans. Is it a good thing?” she asked him.
“It can be. I shall teach you, Rosamund,” he assured her. “You will need all your wits about you when I am gone and can no longer protect you. Your uncle will not be the only man who desires to gain Friarsgate through you. There may be one day a man who is even stronger and more dangerous than Henry Bolton. Your instincts are sound, lass. You but need my tutelage that you may survive and become stronger.”
So had their marriage begun. Hugh quickly came to love and cherish his child-wife as he might have loved a daughter had he had one. As for Rosamund, she, too, loved her elderly mate as she might have loved a father or grandfather. The two were easily companionable. The morning after their wedding day they rode out. Hugh upon a sturdy nut-brown gelding, and Rosamund upon her white pony, which had a black mane and tail. Hugh found himself surprised again, for Rosamund knew a great deal about her holding. More, he considered, than he would have thought any child could know. She was very proud of Friarsgate, showing him the lush meadows where her flocks grazed and the verdant pastures where her herds of cattle browsed in the autumn sunlight.
