Frida put a gentle hand on her arm. Esme could feel the warmth of her touch, even through her fine woolen shawl. “Father will not force you to do anything against your will. It is for you to decide your future. And that is why you are here, isn’t it? To give yourself time to think things over?”
“Aye.” Esme smiled, as if Frida were her confidant.
And how she wished that was true.
But she could not confide the truth of the matter to her respectable older sister. Frida would be shocked beyond words if she learned what Esme had done.
A rush of envy washed over her. Frida was settled in life, with a good husband who all but worshipped the ground she walked upon.
Esme tightened her lips. “If there is naught else?”
Frida stepped back, lowering her head so Esme could not read her expression. “Enjoy your walk. I hope you find good news in your message.”
Her pulse pounded at that, but Frida was already making her graceful way up to the nursery. Esme exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the outline of the parchment in her pocket.
Had Crispin been the one to write and roll this parchment? If so, ’twas the closest she had been to him in many days.
Esme straightened her shoulders and walked briskly toward the front door, leaving the lavender-scented calm of the hall behind her as she stepped into a chill wind which whipped up her skirts and made her grasp at the ends of her shawl. For a moment, she considered going back inside, but the unsettled conditions matched her heart’s tumult, and she ploughed on through the courtyard, scattering chickens in her path. Her long legs ate up the path over the hill, even as her eyes began to water. Her hair, hastily secured this morn by a somewhat reluctant housemaid, pulled free of its pins to lash about her face.
Esme was not well attired for a walk in the country. She paused atop the cliffs, gazing down at the blue-green waves rushing furiously onto the sandy cove. The sea looked anything but inviting. Naught would be inviting on this day, save a warm drink by a crackling fire. But Esme had made a show of wanting a walk and could not turn back now. Besides, she longed to read Crispin’s words someplace no one was likely to interrupt her.
She struggled on, pleased when she first glimpsed the harsh granite of the standing stones—a circle of rearing stones, some of them the height of a middling child. This had always been a favorite retreat of Frida’s, but Esme had never understood the appeal. There was something off-putting about the loneliness of the location, and the stones themselves exuded a forbidding air which made Esme feel almost as if she was trespassing. Buttoday, they provided welcome shelter from the cruel wind. Esme made a beeline for the widest stone and sank down onto the springy grass behind it.
’Twas a blessed relief to be out of the wind. She dragged a hand through her tousled hair and straightened her skirts as best she could. She must look a sight. So be it, the only witnesses to her dishevelment were the gulls circling overhead.
For a moment, she fixed her gaze on the endless expanse of rolling fields ahead of her. Autumn had brought the first hint of russet and gold to the treetops, and even Esme could not deny the beauty of it. Now that she was out of the wind, the rolling of the waves and the calling of the gulls lulled her into a sense of calm.
Crispin had written to her. Perchance he was on his way. All would be well. But when she unfurled the parchment, ’twas her father’s familiar writing she saw. Sudden tears made his words crabbed and she all but flung the message over the cliffs. She loved her father, aye. But disappointment made her inwardly rage at him. After several deep breaths, she was composed enough to read the missive, which contained no further surprises. The Earl of Wolvesley wished to know when his youngest daughter would return. He had several suitors asking for her hand and would give her the pick of them, if she were present.
Esme crumpled the parchment, gazing blindly into the distance. She knew she was fortunate to be offered a choice in the matter. Moreover, she was blessed with the freedom to come and go, much as she pleased from Wolvesley. Many of her peers were not permitted such liberties, but Esme had been raised to think and act for herself. Since early adulthood she had been accustomed to joining her brother Tristan on jaunts up and down the country, visiting friends and family.
But Tristan was no longer her willing accomplice. He was married now, to their father’s ward, Mirrie. Indeed, he had eyes for no one but his bride, especially now that she was expecting their first child. The two of them had excused themselves from the latest Wolvesley ball, claiming they wanted to spend the evening quietly together.
Esme wrinkled her nose, unable to deny a second stab of jealousy that morn. She was pleased her brother had found love. But must he make such a show of it? He was another example of a sibling who had waltzed, untroubled, into a happy state of matrimony. Neither Tristan nor Frida could have any idea of the torment she endured.
What a mess.
She hugged her knees and allowed tears of self-pity to roll down her cheeks. Without word from Crispin, all she could do was wait, as he had requested. She sniffed in a most unladylike fashion, wondering for the hundredth time what business was so important it should take him away—not only from his station at Wolvesley, but fromher.
There was another question lurking at the back of her mind, one that she had not dared give voice to. But out here, with the waves and the gulls and the disappointment, she could no longer ignore it.
Does he truly love me?
She gritted her teeth. That was only a small part of it.
Do I truly love him?
Releasing the thought she had suppressed all these long days was oddly exhilarating. Esme tipped her head back against the ancient stone and closed her eyes.
How was she to know if she was in love? ’Twas not like learning Latin; there was no text to follow. Her brother Tristan and sister Frida had seemed to slip effortlessly into the state. But Isabella made no pretense of happiness in her marriage.As Countess of Felsham, Isabella enjoyed wealth, status and comfort. But she showed naught but middling affection for the man by her side.
What would Esme enjoy as Crispin’s bride?
She cared little for wealth or status, but comfort was important. A feeling of being cared for. Cherished, even.
Ever since they began theiraffair, Esme had rarely gone a day without experiencing the thrill of a forbidden kiss. Their time together had been imbued with secrecy and drama, right from the start. And Crispin was so handsome, with his chestnut curls and deep brown eyes. Whenever he looked at her, she could hardly hear reason above the pounding of her pulse.
Secrecy, drama, giddy excitement.Was that love?Esme wondered if love was perchance something stronger and more steadfast than the tumult of emotions that had infected her like a fever.
