And on this day, Esme could not see the point of it either.
Esme turned her weary face toward the door and shook her head at the hazel-eyed servant.
“Not this morn, thank you, Jennifer.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, gently closing the panel behind her.
Esme pulled the folds of her woolen shawl closer and tucked her long strands of hair back behind her ears. Dappled sunlight on the plastered wall told her that much time had passed since the first cock crow, mayhap Jennifer had been sent by Agnes to discretely enquire if milady was well?
Esme was not sure that she was.
Ever since that unfortunate ball at Wolvesley, she had been summoning a smile and making the best of things. She had not allowed herself to skulk about in her chamber, like a fractious child. But the events of yesterday had shaken her fortitude. She could not fasten ribbons to her bonnet, grasp Adam’s arm and expect entertainment.
Not now she knew how much anger shimmered beneath his calm exterior.
To think,he was the man who made her feel safe.
But she had heard him roar with the rage of a caged bear, driven to torment by memories of the past.
She could not help but feel disappointed.Bereft, even. Just like Crispin, perchance he was not the man she once thought he was.
Adam was, as he himself had declared, a manwho had seen and brought about death.
Esme winced at the patterns of her thoughts. That was unfair. Adam was a warrior, not a man to ride away from a woman he had professed to love. She had seen how much emotion surged within him at the mere mention of Clara, his one-time betrothed. Yesterday, at the standing stones, her heart had ached with pity. But mixed in with this was the bitter sting of rejection, for he had not wanted her sympathy. Had even spurned it.
I am unaccustomed to being spurned.
And she had not anticipated it fromhim.
Esme rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and put her head in her hand. The silvery notes of a ruddock’s winter song drifted in from outside; seemingly giving voice to the sadness that had taken root in her soul. Were she in better spirits, she might stand by her window and try to glimpse the red-breasted little bird, who must be perched on a tree nearby; but she did not have the energy to stir herself.
She had not known, before yesterday, that Adam’s heart belonged so utterly to another.
ToClara.
To a ghost, whose beauty and goodness would never now be challenged by the passing of the years or capricious dictates of fate.
Why does this trouble me so?
Esme could not help feeling a stab of envy toward this unknown Clara. And how ridiculous was that? To covet the life of a farm girl who had met such a sorry—and untimely—end.
But at least she had known true love before she died.
Esme closed her eyes and attempted to quell such unworthy thoughts. But her long-suppressed self-pity was now fully awakened and would not be easily shunted aside.
Would any man ever speak of her with such uncomplicated ardor?
Fair-haired and fair-spoken. Honorable and true.
She reflected, grimly, that she would most likely succeed on one of those counts. Possibly two. But no more.
Perchance that was for the best.
No man could love her truly—nor could she love any man—without confessing what had occurred in the hayloft with Crispin. She knew how much store men put by virginity. Yet even knowing this, she had let hers go with barely a squeal of protest.
And she could never confess it without bringing shame to her family name.
Esme’s head throbbed and she fought an urge to sob. A knock at the door made her straighten her back and hastily wipe at her eyes.
