“What did she sing?”
He shrugged. “Songs for children,” he said. “I seem to remember a fairy song. Something about dilly, dilly. I remember telling her to sing the Dilly song.”
Isobeau grinned. “I know that song.”
“You do?”
She nodded, lifting her sweet soprano with the lyrics:
“Dilly, dilly, lady fairy, how shall you fly? Long to the day as slumber grows nigh;
On gossamer wings, you touch the stars.
On the wings of angels, you steal our hearts.
Come touch my heart, O fairy dove,
And take me from the world above.”
By the time she finished, Atticus was looking at her in shock. “Where did you learn to sing like that?” he demanded softly.
Isobeau smiled, averting her eyes modestly. “Didn’t Titus tell you that I sang?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“I write songs, too.”
Atticus smiled faintly, impressed. “I would like to hear one of your songs.”
Isobeau was rather coy about it, shrugging with modesty. “I am sure you will soon,” she said, her smile fading. “I… I wrote several songs for Titus while he was away and I was hoping to sing one of them at his burial. Do you think the priests will allow it?”
Atticus nodded, his gaze lingering on her. “I will make sure of it,” he said quietly. “I am sure my brother would be very touched.”
The servants finished with the bed at that point and gestured to Atticus to lay the lady upon the faded silk coverlet. Atticusgently set Isobeau down on top of the bed with linens that used to belong to his mother, thinking it was especially appropriate for Isobeau to sleep upon the same linens that had touched his mother’s skin. He knew his mother would have been pleased with finally having a daughter. She had wanted one badly, so much so that she had died giving birth to one. Rosalie and her infant daughter had been buried together, in fact, but it was something that hadn’t been mentioned since her passing. It was too painful for Solomon to hear.
As Atticus lingered over thoughts of his mother and coverlets and infant daughters, Isobeau was inspecting Rosalie’s fine bed covering; she ran her hand over faded silk that had once been red. Now it was an uneven shade of pink. But her interest soon shifted from the coverlet to what she was wearing; it was oversized and unfamiliar. Somehow, she had been stripped of her bloodied traveling clothes.We stripped you of your clothing, the physic had said. She didn’t even remember changing. She lifted her arms, inspecting the garment.
“Who does this belong to?” she asked. “I do not seem to recall putting it on.”
Atticus eyed the linen gown. “I am not entirely sure,” he said, “but your clothes were ruined and the servants came up with something. I would suspect they raided more of my mother’s things for something to dress you in.”
Isobeau stopped inspecting the heavy garment and craned her neck back to look at her trunks, over against the wall. “My things are here now,” she said. “I can change into something that belongs to me.”
Atticus put a hand up to prevent her from climbing off the bed in her weakened state in the hunt for familiar clothing. “Mayhap you should wait,” he said. “You should rest and I am sure my mother would not mind you wearing one of her dressing gowns. When you are feeling better, I will have hot waterbrought to you so that you may bathe and dress properly if you wish.”
Isobeau gazed up at him, smiling gratefully. “I would appreciate that,” she said. “I actually feel much better than I did when I awoke. Whatever the physic gave me to help me sleep must be wearing off.”
He eyed her, as if he wasn’t convinced. “Surely you do not feel completely well,” he said. “You were… that is to say, you were very sick. It seemed that you lost a good deal of blood.”
He was trying to be delicate about it and Isobeau chuckled. “I am weary, that is true,” she said. “But I feel better. I could eat something, I think.”
Atticus was pleased to hear that. She also seemed to have some color back into her pale cheeks, which was encouraging. He felt like saying something warm to her, something almost silly and sweet, but he refrained. The woman had just been through a terrible emotional and physical event, and any foolish romantic notions he might be entertaining were sorely out of place. All he knew was that he was content to be with her and vastly relieved she was feeling better. More relieved than he realized. As he gazed at Isobeau’s blond head, watching her as she inspected the embroidery on the coverlet, he heard a voice in the chamber door behind him.
“Is everything well with my lady?” Warenne said as he entered the chamber, his gaze moving between Atticus and Isobeau. “When you ran off with the servant, Atticus, we feared the worst.”
Atticus turned to his friend. “She is well enough,” he said, gesturing at Isobeau who was now smiling up at Warenne. “Ask her yourself.”
Isobeau nodded her head before Warenne could speak. “I am much better, thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your concern.”
