Maybel sighed. “Another old husband! I do not know why you would prefer Lord Leslie to Logan Hepburn.”
Rosamund laughed. “I cannot explain it to you, dearest. I simply did not love Logan, but from the moment our eyes met, I knew Patrick Leslie was my destiny.”
“A bitter destiny, I’m thinking,” Maybel muttered.
“But it is mine to choose,” Rosamund replied quietly. “No longer will I be told what I must do and whom I must wed. Those days are over.”
“I never thought to hear you speak like this,” Maybel responded. “That you would throw away your responsibilities astounds me.”
“I am not eschewing my obligations, Maybel. I will always fulfill my duties where Friarsgate and my family are concerned. But why must I be unhappy by doing so?”
Maybel sighed. “I do want you happy, but I don’t understand why you could not be happy with the lord of Claven’s Carn.”
“Well, I couldn’t,” Rosamund said, her patience wearing thin. “And he is wed now to a good lass who has given him the desired son and heir.”
Maybel opened her mouth to speak again, but her husband leaned from his chair and put a warning hand on her shoulder. With a sigh of frustration, Maybel grew silent at last.
“Will Uncle Patrick return to us soon?” Philippa asked her mother.
Rosamund shook her head. “We shall not see him until next spring,” she said.
“I want him to come home!” Bessie wailed, large tears rolling down her rosy little cheeks.
“So do I, baby,” Rosamund replied, “but we must winter alone before we see the Earl of Glenkirk again.”
“I want Uncle Tom back,” Banon spoke up. “When will he return, mama?”
“Now, your uncle Thomas may well be back in time for the feast of Christ’s Mass,” Rosamund told her daughters with a smile. “I am certain he will bring you all lovely presents. He will soon be our neighbor, and won’t that be fun?”
The three little girls all agreed it would indeed be grand to have Uncle Thomas as their neighbor.
“What will happen to your uncle Henry when Uncle Tom comes to live in his house?” Philippa queried her mother.
“It will no longer be Henry Bolton’s house,” Rosamund answered her daughter, surprised that she even knew of the man. She had not seen him in several years, and while Philippa might have seen him once, she would have been very young. How had she remembered this relation? “Who has spoken to you of my uncle Henry?” she asked.
“I have,” Edmund replied. “She is the heiress to Friarsgate, and it is important that she know her family’s history, niece. It is better that it comes from me. I am more objective in the matter.”
“And I do not understand why,” Rosamund answered him. “Henry Bolton was never kind to you.”
“But even given that I was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” Edmund responded, “Henry could not take away the plain fact that I was the eldest and that our father loved me every bit as much as he loved Richard, Guy, and Henry. Because he was the youngest of us, he always felt it necessary to try harder. That trait developed into a foolish superiority as he grew older and comprehended that Richard and I were not legitimate while he and Guy were. Yet our father showed no preference among us. It has been quite frustrating for him, Rosamund. He has lived his entire life being haughty and arrogant because he was legitimate, and what has it gained him? His dismissive and overbearing attitude did not bring him happiness or love. It brought him two legitimate sons, one who died young and the other who is a thief. It brought him a second wife who whored with any and all, spawning a passel of bairns your uncle dared not deny for fear of being made a fool. And yet everyone knew. It gained him naught but your scorn. And now he is brought low. Only the kindness of Thomas Bolton will allow him to live out his days in comfort.”
“He doesn’t deserve it,” Rosamund said bitterly.
“Nay, he does not,” Edmund agreed. “Yet your cousin Tom will keep his word. He is a truly good Christian, Rosamund, whatever else he may be. And you have found your own happiness at last, so be generous of heart, niece, and forgive Henry Bolton. I have, and Richard did long ago.”
Rosamund was thoughtful for a long moment, and then she said, “If Tom returns for Christ’s Mass and the feast days following it, perhaps I shall invite my uncle Henry to be with us.”
“More you the fool,” Maybel said low.
“He is a toothless dog, wife,” Edmund answered her.
“Even a toothless dog may be dangerous if he is rabid,” she snapped sharply.
“If it would make you uncomfortable then I shall not ask him,” Rosamund said soothingly to her old nursemaid.
“Nay,” Maybel replied. “I’ll not be responsible for preventing you from making your peace with the old devil, if you will make it. He’ll be dead soon enough.”
In early December a letter came to Friarsgate from Glenkirk, brought by one of the Leslie clansmen. He was given shelter for the night and a hot meal. Dermid returned with him just in time for his son’s birth. Rosamund sat down to read what her lover had written. She would give the messenger a letter to return to Glenkirk. Patrick wrote that his trip home had been uneventful. His son had taken fine care of Glenkirk in his absence. He had already spoken to Adam in confidence regarding their marriage. His daughter-in-law, Anne, was not told.
