After a while, when Rolfe still had not come, Leonie searched through her chests in the anteroom until she found the Pershwick accounts. She took them with her to one of the chairs by the cold hearth and settled herself there. She had brought the accounts with her so she could put them in order before turning them over to Sir Guibert.
All the long hours she had spent learning to read and write so she could keep her own records, and now her skill would go to waste—for a while anyway. How long would he keep her there? If only she knew.
Hours later, Rolfe found Leonie curled up in the chair, the parchments spread over her lap, an inkwell on the low table beside her. He had not expected this. The church, which dispensed all learning, frowned on imparting any at all to women. Very few men outside the church could read and write. Rolfe could write, but it was a skill he did not make use of, relying on clerks to see to such things.
Rolfe picked up one of the parchments and examined it. But her eyes opened, and he dropped it back on her lap.
“Do you make sense of those scratches, my lady?”
Leonie sat up, startled. “Of course. They are my records.”
“Who taught you to write?”
“A young priest at Pershwick.”
“Why would he?”
Leonie was wary, but his tone was agreeable. He seemed merely curious.
“I threatened to dismiss him if he would not.”
Rolfe had to stop himself from laughing. “Did you? I take it he succumbed to your threats. But why would you want to learn? Did he not keep accurate records for you?”
“Accurate, yes, but he balked at certain changes I wanted made. It is a long story, my lord. Rather than involve the priest in what I wanted done, I decided to do it myself, so I insisted he teach me.”
“I am pleased, then. Here is one thing you cannot object to doing for me,” Rolfe said. “You will serve as my clerk.”
“Me?” she cried. “You mean you do not write?”
“I spent my youth on the training field, not cloistered with a tutor.”
He felt no embarrassment over the half lie. It was true that he had not given up any training time for learning, nor was he ever cloistered with a tutor. His tutor had had to follow him onto the training field, an inconvenience the old priest did not appreciate.
“But surely you have a clerk?”
“I am not asking you to take over the Crewel accounts,” he said. “But you can deal with simple correspondence.”
She bristled. “I suppose I can, if you do not think it will overtax my intelligence.”
Her sarcasm amused him. “Not at all.”
Leonie rose stiffly. “Very well, my lord.”
She put her accounts away, and when she came back into the room, Rolfe was sitting in the chair she had vacated. His eyes fastened on her, hooded, unreadable. She raised a hand to hold her linen bedrobe closer together, acutely aware of how thin the cream-colored robe was.
“Come here, Leonie.”
It was a soft command, but it was a command.Nervously she glanced at the big bed. As abhorrent as it was to her, it did offer an excuse.
“It is late, my lord, and—”
“You have had a nap, so do not say you are overtired.”
She met his steady gaze, but it was a moment before she could get her feet to move. Finally she stood near him.
“Closer.”
She took another step, and then Rolfe reached out and pulled her down onto his lap. His hands locked around her, resting on her hip. Hesitantly, her eyes met his.
