Atticus pointed a finger at her. “I did not,” he agreed, “but if you do not agree to marry me, I can only look forward to more of the same humiliation. Until and unless I have a wife, these ravenous females will never stop in their quest to acquire me as a prized husband. Therefore, my lady, I beg you… please consider my marriage proposal. It would make Titus happy and it would save me from a lifetime of shame.”
For the past several moments, Isobeau had been swept up in Atticus’ charm. She had no idea the man possessed such charisma, for he was a gifted and animated storyteller when he put his mind to it. If only this man, this charming and witty man, could be the man she saw from now on and not the bitter and nasty one. It was enough to give her hope that perhaps they could settle into a comfortable relationship with pleasant conversation such as they were having now. She was still torn, still indecisive, but that resistance was barely holding on. Her gaze lingered on the top of the coffin, thinking of the man inside,knowing that she, indeed, wanted to make him happy. And Atticus had a pledge to fulfill.
With a sigh, one of resignation, she finally nodded her head.
“Very well,” she said. “If that is truly your wish, I will consent. I suppose you need someone to beat all of those women away from you.”
Atticus smiled, one of genuine joy. “You are most gracious, my lady,” he said. “But please know that your role in the marriage would be one of honor. I would never expect you to chase foolish women away. I would put you upon a pedestal whilst you watch me do it.”
It was a kind thing to say, as if he meant she simply wouldn’t be an excuse or a bit of baggage he happened to be tied to. But along with her consent, Isobeau was coming to feel as if a part of her life unfulfilled were slipping away from her, something she wasn’t ready to let go. She put her hand on the coffin lid again, realizing she was fighting off tears. Visions of Titus and the last time she saw him alive filled her head.
“You do not need to put me on a pedestal,” she said softly, stroking the coffin lid. “Sweet Jesus, this is all happening so quickly. The past few months of my life have been like a dream, so fast and fleeting. I married Titus and came to adore the man and just as quickly he was gone. Now I find myself pledged to you… Atticus, I do not want to forget Titus. I do not want to look back on this time of my life and think I only imagined it. Titus is worth remembering.”
The smile was gone from Atticus’ face. He, too, put his hand on the coffin lid, feeling the pangs of grief clutch at him. All humor aside, it was a horrible thing that had united them.
“He is worth that and more,” he said hoarsely, realizing he had a lump in his throat at her words. “I will tell you something I have not told anyone. As Titus lay dying, he told me how proud he was to be my brother. I… I never got to tell him how proudI was to have beenhisbrother. I realize I am the one who has earned the moniker;The Lion of the Norththey call me. I am a prideful man, my lady. I would bask in the adoration of others whilst Titus would stand in my shadow and applaud me just as others were. He never once showed any jealousy or envy. He was the first one to praise me. He was the rock upon which I stood to show my bravery and receive my accolades. But my rock is gone now and I am not entirely sure how I am supposed to go on.”
He looked at Isobeau then, tears in his eyes. But she was far ahead of him in that regard; tears were streaming down her face as she felt his pain, deeply, for the very first time. Reaching out, she put a gentle hand on his arm.
“I miss him dreadfully,” she whispered, fighting off a sob. “I know we were together for such a short time but in that time, I saw such perfection in him. I wanted to know him as my rock just as you knew him as yours, but that will never come to pass. I envy you your time with him, Atticus. Mayhap… mayhap someday you will tell me of the Titus you knew. Mayhap you will tell my child of his father, as you knew him. I hope you will.”
Atticus averted his gaze, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill down his face. He sniffled loudly, struggling to compose himself.
“Of course I will,” he said quietly. “I will tell my nephew how his father used to steal coinage from the knights he squired for and how, when caught, he was once put in the stocks for two days. I will also tell him how Titus risked his life to save a young page whose horse became stuck in a quagmire of mud and Titus slithered across the mud to secure a rope to the horse’s saddle so we could pull them both free. Titus was both hero and devil, my lady. He was the greatest man I have ever known.”
Isobeau wiped at her eyes, smiling faintly at Atticus as the man gazed upon Titus’ coffin. In the weak light of the livery, illuminated only by the cooking fire directly outside in theyard, there was something very private and personal about the moment, sharing their common grief and coming to terms with it. Isobeau stroked the coffin one last time.
“I am at peace now,” she said softly. “I have told Titus everything I wanted to say and I have a measure of peace. Thank you for giving me these few private moments with him and for not becoming angry that I ran from you.”
Atticus touched the coffin lid one last time as well, giving it a pat, before pushing himself away from the wagon. “I was not angry that you ran from me,” he said. “But I will admit that when I realized you were gone, I may have upended the tavern a bit. Just a little.”
She looked at him, cocking an eyebrow. “A little?”
He shrugged, averting his gaze. “A lot.”
Isobeau thought on that. “I see,” she said. “Can I assume they will not welcome us back now and that we will be sleeping in the livery along with the animals?”
He cast her a long glance, his eyes twinkling. “Would that upset you?”
She threw up her hands. “Of course not,” she said mockingly. “Why sleep in a warm tavern when I can just as easily sleep in a freezing livery stable amongst the pigs? ’Tis every woman’s dream, I say. Thank God for Atticus and his ability to provide me with luxuries.”
Atticus gave her a half-grin, holding out a hand to her. She was still up on the wagon bed and she took his hand as he carefully helped her off. Her hand was soft and warm in his big, rough palm. He rather liked the feel of it there.
“I am not entirely sure they will not welcome us,” he said. “If they do not, I can always upend the tavern again. I will get you a warm bed one way or another, my lady.”
She looked at him, drolly. “Perfect.”
Atticus laughed softly at the wry expression on her face. As he led her from the livery, he was coming to think that Isobeau’s choice to run from the tavern that night had evidently been something of a fortuitous happenstance. It had given them a chance to speak, to be honest with one another, and to bond just a bit more over their common grief.
Come to see what Titus saw in the woman. Those words kept echoing in Atticus’ head, words of wisdom that had helped him come to understand the aura and mindset of Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe. What he saw, he was coming to appreciate. He hoped that they would have a warm and civil relationship towards one another in the coming years but he seriously wondered if he would ever stop viewing her as Titus’ wife and come to see her as his own. It was a thought he had.
He further wondered if Isobeau would ever stop seeing him as her dead husband’s brother and start viewing him as her husband.
Only time would tell.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ionian scale in C– Lyrics to I dreamt that you loved me still
