“Six. How old are you?”
His chest puffed out. “Almost nine.”
Her nose wrinkled. It was a tiny nose, so there were only one or two, but they were kind of cute. “When is your saint’s day?” she asked.
“The twenty-third of November.”
She grinned, and he was embarrassed again. It was still a full five months away.
She was quiet again for a while, before she asked, “Don’t you like the fair?”
Hearing the gentle probing of the question, he stiffened. His mouth turned in a scowl. He didn’t want to talk about it. He was about to tell her to go away and leave him be—lady or not—when he looked over at her face and all the anger seeped out of him. She didn’t mean to pry; she was just trying to be nice.
He picked up a small, flat rock from the ground and threw it into the river. It skipped twice before sinking into the water. “My mother died Sunday last.”
He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t look up, not wanting to see her compassion. “You must miss her a lot.”
He nodded, his throat squeezing hot again. He missed her terribly—the beautiful, smiling woman who’d loved her husband and son with such abandon. But that was no excuse to bawl like a baby.
She must have guessed the direction of his thoughts. He felt a gentle touch on his arm, as if a butterfly had landed and spread its wings. The sensation enveloped him with a strange warmth. For a moment it reminded him of the way he felt when his mother hugged him.
“I never knew my mother, and I still miss her.”
He frowned. “You didn’t know her?”
She shook her head, her flaxen hair floating around her shoulders like a veil of spun silver and gold. “She died giving birth to me.”
“My mother died giving birth, too.” He paused. “To my new brother.”
She must have heard something in his voice. “He didn’t mean to hurt her,” she said softly.
Thommy sucked in a startled gasp. He stared at her in horror, realizing what he’d said.
“My brother blamed me, too, when I was little.” Those big blue eyes pinned him. “But he forgave me.”
“There was nothing to forgive, it wasn’t your fault.” The response was automatic, but Thommy realized as he said it that he meant it. It was no more her fault than it had been his two-week-old brother’s.
Someone shouted her name, and she made a face, crinkling up her nose again and pursing her pouty mouth. “That’s my nurse. I better go. It was nice to meet you...”
“Thom,” he filled in. “But everyone calls me Thommy.” Somehow it was very important that this lass never think of him as “wee.”
“I’m Elizabeth,” she said. “But you can call me Ella, since we’re such good friends now.”
He nodded, trying to hide his smile. She was sweet and all, but almost-nine-year-old lads weren’t “friends” with six-year-old lasses—especially ones who looked like princesses.
She jumped to her feet so quickly she would have slipped in the mud had he not caught her arm, steadying her. “Careful,” he said. “You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”
She laughed as if that were the funniest thing she’d ever heard and ran off to find her nurse.
He watched her go and realized that for the first time since his grief-stricken father had told him the news of his mother’s death, Thommy felt as if the dark cloud surrounding him might have lifted just a little.
One month later
Thommy was about to tell Joanna to hurry up—again—they were going to be late to join the others, when he heard her voice. “Hi, Thommy.”
He looked over to see Lady Elizabeth standing beside him. He’d noticed her arrival in church with the rest of her family, including the black-haired lad of about his own age who was hastening none too happily through the crowd toward them.
“Hi,” he said uncertainly, aware that some of the other villagers who were milling around the churchyard following the Sunday services were looking at them—probably wondering why the little lady was talking to the smithy’s son.
