Pushing aside the oilcloth and gazing out of her bedchamber window, Esme amended her question.
What should a lady wear to learn to fight with a sword in the swirling fog?
The green hills around Ember Hall were blanketed in grey. Esme could make out little save the hulking shape of the barns. Even the usual sounds of the stable yard were muffled.
She withdrew to her closet, shivering slightly, and rapidly discarded the choice of several flimsy gowns. This was a day for warmth, not ribbons, but she had little that would suit. She considered a day dress of stiffened wool, but the sleeves were too tight for the activity in question.
Esme was not one to readily accept defeat. Fastening a cloak about her shoulders to preserve her modesty, she left her bedchamber and crept along the gallery until she reached Frida’s light and spacious room.
I am doing nothing wrong, she told herself sternly. But she felt like a child rummaging in her mother’s closet.
Frida had long since learned to dress in accordance with the seasons. She had taken the best of her gowns with her to Kielder Castle, but Esme found several heavy tunics that would suit her purpose. Then, at the very back of the closet, she found something else.
Braccae.
She shook them out, hardly believing her eyes.
When would my decorous sister wear such an item?
At once, a dozen answers presented themselves to her. Frida had always made a point of working out in the fields. No doubt braccae were a sensible choice for herding sheep or hoeing crops, or whatever else she might do. Esme was hazy on the detail.
An outrageous idea was taking shape in her mind.
I could wear these in my lessons with Adam.
What could be better than clothing that allowed her to move about freely, without danger of tripping over long skirts?
Would it be proper?
Esme forced herself to consider this, but then remembered that her own mother, the erstwhile Countess of Wolvesley, often wore braccae when horse riding. Albeit, she had not done so for a number of years. But most certainly when Esme was a child, she could remember her mother striding about in braccae.
That settled the matter. She tucked the braccae under her arm and selected the shortest of the tunics before rushing back to her own chamber. Once dressed, she surveyed herself in the looking glass and smiled at the results.
Had her legs always been so long?
She belted the tunic with a twist of leather, then plaited her hair. What liberty to dress with such speed, without requiring the ministrations of a maid.
She was ready. Which meant she must consider the next important matter.
Will he come?
Esme put a hand to her heart, hoping to steady it. In truth, ’twas not just the lessons in sword-fighting that she was looking forward to. Her heart fluttered beneath her fingertips at the prospect of seeing Adam again.
Last night, in the great hall, conversation had flowed between them as readily as the wine. Beneath his dour exterior, Adam was a man of surprising warmth. She would never have expected to share confidences with someone of such short acquaintance.
Not once had Crispin taken the time to probe at the truth of her heart.
Pursing her lips, she closed her mind to thoughts of Crispin.
She went down to the great hall, where the trestle table was laid ready for her to break her fast. Jonah was nowhere to be seen, as was becoming the norm.
Esme filled a trencher with bread and cheese but found herself too nervous to do anything more than nibble at the edges. She tucked herself onto the window seat and only then remembered Felicity.
She had forgotten her charge!
Esme pushed herself upright, looking about her for the small black cat. She hadn’t followed her up to her chamber last night. The last time she had seen her was here, on the window seat.
Acting on impulse, Esme walked through to the kitchen.
