She bit her lip, wanting to believe it was the same thing.
It had led to the same thing, in any case.
Enough. She could not sit around here like some meek creature, waiting to learn her fate. She gathered her shawl against the early autumn chill and walked from her bedchamber, taking care to slow her pace as she proceeded along the gallery. The children’s nursery was at the end of this hall, and she did not want to draw the attention of her niece and nephew. The wooden stairs squeaked as she descended, disturbing two hounds slumbering by the fire in the great hall.
But aside from the hounds, the room was empty.
Esme swirled around, her scarlet skirts flying outwards. In her mind’s eye, someone—preferably not Frida—had been waiting here to receive her, their hands outstretched to pass on the message she longed to receive.
A log crackled in the grate, mocking her folly.
She took a deep breath. Just because the scene was not as she envisaged did not mean that Crispin had not written to her; nor that the message was not making its way through the house. She smoothed her voluminous skirts and took a seat by the hounds, talking to them softly and trying not to flinch as her voice broke the near silence of the large room.
She had grown up amidst the noise and bustle of a great castle and consequently, had always found the tranquility of her sister’s home unsettling. ’Twas pretty enough, with glossy wooden paneling, high vaulted ceilings and mullioned windows framing sweeping views of the English countryside. But Esme was accustomed to musicians, men-at-arms and gossip.
Not this infernal peace and quiet.
She did not enjoy hearing herself think.
As if answering her prayers, footsteps sounded along the corridor and a moment later, her sister Frida appeared.
“Esme, there you are. I have a message for you.”
Esme blinked in surprise that her fancies had become real, but she recovered quickly, knowing she must take care to guard her emotions around Frida. Her eldest sister had once been gifted with the Sight and, even though an accident some eight winters past had dimmed her powers, Frida still possessed an uncanny ability to read people.
But Frida smiled warmly and held out the rolled parchment as if naught were amiss. She was a tall and attractive woman who moved briskly through life with a strong sense of purpose. The same accident that had claimed her sight had turned her golden blonde hair to a shimmering silver, enhancing her air of wisdom.
Six summers stood between them—the oldest and youngest of the five de Neville siblings. For as long as she could remember, Esme had always been a little in awe of her eldest sister.
“Thank you,” she said, affecting nonchalance and folding the parchment into a pocket of her skirt.
Frida eyed her speculatively. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
Esme made a show of rotating her shoulders, making her shawl slip down to her elbows. “I long for some exercise. Yesterday’s rain kept me too long indoors.”
“I see.” Her sister clasped her hands over the simple bodice of her grey-green gown.
“I shall go for a walk and find a quiet spot to read my message. It will be naught of import, I am certain.” Esme turned away from Frida’s all-seeing blue gaze and strolled toward the window, noting the nodding pink rose heads climbing outside. “Mayhap I shall walk to the standing stones,” she trilled. “You have always found them a good place to think, have you not?”
I must stop talking.
Frida always had this effect on her.
“Is that what you want to do, Esme? Think?”
The question was quietly asked, but Esme’s knees began to tremble all the same. Whilst she scrambled for an appropriate answer, Frida came to stand beside her. Together, they looked out of the long, narrow window, although Esme was no longer paying attention to the green hills beyond.
“Methinks you are at a crossroads, dear one. And you must choose your path carefully.”
How much has my sister already divined?
“Do not rush into anything,” Frida continued. “Certainly not anything so lasting as marriage.”
Esme froze. Her mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.
“I know that is what Father wants for you,” Frida added softly.
The rush of relief made her audibly exhale. “He has been lining up suitors for me all summer long.” She echoed Frida’s posture and clasped her hands over the pearl buttons of her bodice. As she did so, she couldn’t help but notice the difference between Frida’s practical day dress and her own, flouncy gown. “Many of these suitors are older than Father himself.”
