“Though I have not yet managed to conceive a child,” she said flatly. “And time is running out. My husband has been confined to bed these last weeks. He is not well. And his nephew, his current heir, has no fondness for me.”
“But you do not need to conceive a child,” Esme declared, grasping her sister’s hand once again and trying to inject some warmth into it. “You are the Countess of Felsham.”
Isabella laughed bitterly. “Only until my nephew becomes earl. Then I will be naught and no one. A widow without a child has no place in the world.” She crossed her arms over her belly and crouched forward as if she was in pain.
Esme gazed at her blankly, unable to comprehend the weight of sorrow on the shoulders of a woman who had always gotten everything she wanted in life.
She swallowed hard, realizing for the first time that Isabella must have nursed these sorrows, in secret, for many years.
“Whatever happens, you are the daughter of the Earl of Wolvesley.” Esme’s voice was firm. “You can come home, any time you please.”
“Nay. There is no place for me here, either.” She held up a hand to silence Esme’s protest, her rings glinting in the sunlight. “I know that Father and Mother would welcome me. But what am I to do, year after year, whilst the rest of you have families of your own.” Isabella’s voice broke and she sprang up from the bed to stand near the window, clearly reaching for her composure.
“Isabella, I had no idea you were so unhappy.” A knock at the door made Esme startle, so deeply was she drawn into her sister’s tale. “Come in,” she called.
A round-cheeked serving maid walked reverently into the chamber and laid a heavy tray on a side table. “Mead and honey cakes for the bride and her sister,” she said, smiling brightly.
“Thank you, Molly.” Esme summoned a smile for the maid who had served their family for many years. Molly wasn’t to know that her words had struck a wrong note.
But she was quick to read the situation. “I’ll leave you, milady.” She bobbed into a small curtsy.
As Molly left the chamber, Isabella dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “Forgive me, Esme. ’Tis not right that I bring you low on your wedding day. We should talk of brighter things.” She walked over to the tray, poured a goblet of mead and held it out toward her. “Let us make a toast to you and Adam.”
Esme accepted the goblet and drank deeply, but she could not forget the sadness in her sister’s eyes.
“Things could have been very different for me,” she said suddenly. “Not so long ago, I thought my future lay with Crispin de Gough.” She winced as the taste of the sweetened mead turned sour in her mouth. Just saying his name made her nauseous.
Isabella looked at her over the rim of her goblet. “The knight sworn to father—”
“Who betrayed the King,” Esme finished for her.
“And you had a fancy for him?” Curiosity filled Isabella’s voice.
“More than a fancy.” Esme pulled a face. “Though I should say no more than that. I believe I have shocked you enough, this day.”
“Mercy, sister.” Isabella placed her goblet back on the tray with a small shake of her golden head. “It seems much has happened in these last months.”
“Much indeed. Which is why I know that things can change.” Esme looked at her imploringly, “Do not give up hope, Isabella.”
Her sister smiled, but it did not meet her eyes. “What will happen to Crispin?”
“He is under house arrest at Windsor.” Esme picked up a slice of honey cake but found she had no appetite for it.
“Ye Gods.” Isabella put a hand to her chest. “Will he be put to death?”
Esme shook her head. “Father says ’tis unlikely. Crispin’s line is long and noble. His father will secure some arrangement with the King.”
Isabella nodded slowly, before straightening her shoulders and fixing Esme with an appraising stare. “We have chattered enough, I believe, on all subjects but the most pressing one. What are you to wear for your wedding?”
“My dress right here, laid out on the bed,” Esme laughed.
“I am surprised you are not already wearing it.” Isabella picked up the silken gown with utmost reverence and hung it on the door of the closet. “’Tis beautiful,” she said.
The dress was pale green and studded with small pearls. As testament to the season, it had a fur-lined hood and a full skirt which swept the floor.
“I have learned that there are more important things than pretty gowns,” Esme replied. “I would marry Adam wearing a sack and still be happy.”
Isabella put her hands on her hips and frowned with mock severity. “Well, I for one would not be happy about that.”
