Head aching, and feeling unsteady, she forced herself from the bed, wiping at her eyes. She didn’t want to lie on the smelly bed any longer; she wasn’t sure where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do, but she wanted to find Atticus. Somehow, all roads pointed to him in her mind, as nearly the only familiarperson in her world, and she wanted to find him. She knew he wasn’t far away, for he never seemed to be far away. As she staggered to her feet with the intention of leaving the chamber to hunt for Atticus, the door suddenly flew open.
“Isobeau!” Atticus gasped, rushing to her and grabbing her before she could fall on the ground. “Jesus Ch… you must return to bed immediately.”
He sounded harried, concerned. He very carefully swung her into his arms and took her back to the smelly, oil-cloth covered bed, but the moment he attempted to lay her down, she balked.
“Nay,” she gasped, putting her hand down to prevent him from laying her on the mattress. “Please… I would rather lie on the floor than that bed. It smells and is horribly uncomfortable.”
Atticus, who had just run up three flights of stairs when a panicked servant told him that Lady de Wolfe was having a fit, looked down at his father’s horrible bed and knew that she was correct. He had simply wanted to lay the woman down somewhere to calm her down. He still wasn’t over his fright at the news of her fit and, with his heart still pounding against his ribs, he stood straight with her in his arms and turned for the door.
“I believe they are nearly finished with your chamber,” he told her. “I’ll take you there. We did not move you there sooner because the physic told us that you should not be moved at all.”
Exhausted, and feeling a good deal of comfort in Atticus’ arms, she laid her head against his big shoulder. “That physic is a fool,” she uttered. “I do not want that man near me again. Will you make sure of it?”
Atticus took her out into the corridor, careful not to bang her head against the stone walls. “If that is your wish,” he said. “But why? What did he do?”
She sighed, feeling quite calm now that Atticus was with her. It was both surprising and amazing that the sensation of beingheld in his arms should soothe her soul and her fears so much. She’d never known anything like it, ever. Somehow, she knew that she was safe and that everything would be all right as long as Atticus held her. He gave her peace.
“He told me that the loss of the child was God’s Will and that I should be grateful,” she murmured. “I do not want him near me again. If I see him again, I may have to kill him.”
Atticus fought off a grin because he could hear humor in her weak tone. “I see,” he said. “Well, I shall make sure if it, then. I should not want you to be forced to kill.”
She nodded, or at least attempted to. “It would be messy, for I have never done such a thing,” she said. “I would have to guess on the best way to kill a man. His brains would be in one place and his heart would be in another.”
He laughed softly. “That sounds quite messy, indeed,” he said. “I shall make sure he is kept away. Are you feeling better, then?”
Isobeau put her arms up around his neck, pulling herself closer to him, a gesture that was not lost on Atticus. She was warm and soft in all of the right places as far as he could tell. It was a rather enticing position he found himself in with her but he quickly chased those thoughts away. He was both embarrassed and intrigued by them.
“I am very tired,” Isobeau said softly. “The physic gave me something to drink and it has made me very sleepy. It was probably poison, whatever it is.”
They entered the chamber Isobeau had originally been put in, but now it was much different from the sparse chamber it had been before– servants had brought in a larger bed and a new mattress set upon it, now being sewn shut by an older, female servant. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, several sheep hides on the floor for warmth, and all seven of her trunks had been stacked neatly in a corner. There was also a pile ofwhat looked like linen on the table and the elderly male servant who serviced Solomon’s chamber was going through the linen, inspecting it and sniffing it. It was clear he was looking for clean things to put on the mattress.
When the servants heard Atticus and Isobeau enter, the old woman with the big, bone needle in her hand looked to them rather anxiously.
“M’lord,” she said, her heavy Scots burr evident. “We hadna the straw nor grass tae stuff the mattress with. We must have that for the livestock. Instead, we stuffed it with wool from the spring sheer. ’Tis quite comfortable.”
Atticus didn’t put Isobeau down yet. He eyed the mattress. “That should do nicely,” he said, looking over at the old man standing by the table. “What are those? Clean linens?”
The old man nodded. “These belonged to your mother, Sir Atticus,” he said. He had been with Solomon many years and knew the family well. “They have been stored away. Lord Solomon does not know I have brought them out. I fear he will be angry. He does not like his wife’s things touched.”
Atticus thought of his father, still in the chapel with Titus. The priest from Hawick was there, and Warenne and Kenton were in the chapel, too. In fact, they had been in the process of trying to convince Solomon that Titus should be buried this night when the panicked servant had come for Atticus. He had wanted to hold the burial off until Isobeau was strong enough to attend but he had no idea when that would be and Titus could no longer wait to be put into the ground. Therefore, there had been a strong movement underway between him and Warenne to convince Solomon to bury Titus this night. That was still the plan as long as Atticus had anything to say about it.
Atticus thought of his father and how broken he was over Titus’ death. The man never had recovered from the death of Rosalie, as indicated by the elderly servant. Atticus honestlywasn’t sure if his father would ever recover from Titus’ death. Atticus wasn’t so sure he would, either.
“I know,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “But I do not think he would mind it if Lady de Wolfe used Mother’s things since there is nothing else of feminine comfort to provide. Hurry and prepare the bed, now. There is no time to waste.”
The old man began scurrying, grabbing the clean linens and rushing towards the bed where the female servant had just finished stitching the mattress shut. Between the two of them, they managed to adequately make the bed up with old but clean linens and even two old, silk pillows that had belonged to Atticus’ mother. By the time they were finished, it looked rather inviting.
Isobeau, meanwhile, watched all of it from Atticus’ arms. She was not really sleepy now as much as she was simply weak and exhausted. Her head was still against his shoulder as she watched the servant woman smooth out the faded coverlet that was beautifully embroidered but creased in places where it had been stored for years, folded up.
“Your mother had beautiful things,” she said softly. “What a lovely silk coverlet.”
Atticus’ gaze lingered on it. “I remember that coverlet,” he said. “She slept in this room because my father snored so badly she could not sleep otherwise. That coverlet used to cover her bed and I can remember, as a child, laying upon it as she would sing to me.”
Isobeau’s head came up and she looked at him. “Your mother sang?”
He met her gaze, thinking she was far too close. Her lush, pillowy lips were too inviting and he found himself chasing off thoughts of interest once again.
“She did,” he said. “She had a lovely voice, as I recall.”
