“She saved my life,” he finally said.
St. Alban’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
He gave the cat one last pet. “Just that. The night I was on the bridge… I had decided not to live any longer. I did not want to. But she stopped me from completing the task ofselbstmord. She saved my life, even though she thinks that I saved hers.”
The old man’s eyes closed briefly, painfully. He had suspected something of that nature that night when Brogan had wandered off. His depression over his son had gotten worse and worse. No one could help him or ease his pain, though St. Alban had tried. To hear it from his lips, however, made it a shocking admission.
“Brogan,” he went to his young friend. “You must never try anything like that ever again. Suicide is not the answer, lad. You will never see your son again if you do that. There are special places in hell reserved for those who would reject God’s gift of life. You know this.”
Brogan shook his head, clumsily. “It does not matter. It could be no worse pain than I am feeling right now.”
St. Alban stood in front of him, now kneeled down beside him. “But don’t you see? God was speaking to you last night. The fortuitous appearance of Lady Avalyn simply proves that. Godwas telling you not to despair. Good things will come back to you, Brogan. You must have faith.”
Brogan looked at him, the deep blue eyes full of anguish. “He brought me a lady I can never have.”
“He brought you a lady that showed you that you can, and will, feel happiness again.”
“But I want her.”
“She is out of your reach.”
The exchange was softly, urgently spoken, words overlapping. Then they gazed at each other in some bizarre standoff. Brogan finally stood up and went for the door, leaving St. Alban and the cat confused in the wake of such a rapid departure.
“Where are you going?” St. Alban demanded.
Brogan grabbed the iron latch on the door so hard that he partially dislodged it. Realizing his frustration had translated into unnatural strength, he rattled the broken latch a couple of times.
“I am going for a walk,” he rumbled.
The door flew back on its hinges and he disappeared into the dim corridor beyond. As quickly as his tired old body would allow, St. Alban stood up and hobbled to the open door. The cat scooted under the bed.
“Stay away from the river!” he shouted down the hall.
The only reply that came back was an unintelligible grunt.
*
Strangely, neither heraunt nor uncle had said anything to her about being with d’Aurilliac. From the moment Inglesbatch escorted her back to the apartments, Anne and Richard had been oddly silent on the matter. They spoke of the feast that night, of the duke’s enormous holdings, a minor skirmish in France,and little else. The lack of condemnation for her actions had translated into a very odd afternoon.
Avalyn sat most of the afternoon in the bed chamber she shared with her cousins, listening to the girls rattle on about the feast that night. Isobel, the lovelier of the two, literally took hours to plan her wardrobe. As Avalyn tried to concentrate on the needlepoint framed on an elegant loom, she alternately paid attention to the butterfly she was sewing and to Isobel’s fussing. Petite and curvaceous, with brown eyes and brown hair, Isobel looked a great deal like her mother, whereas Anne, a little taller and very thin, had the reddish hair of their father.
“Avie,” Isobel’s tone could sound as if she was whining at times. “What do you think? The dark blue or the aubergène?”
Over at the wardrobe, Anne snorted. “It is a normal shade of purple.”
Isobel’s dark eyes flashed at her sister. “Aubergène!”
Avalyn grinned as she put another yellow stitch on the butterfly. “I like the purple.”
Isobel’s nostrils flared. “Aubergène!” she corrected her cousin and sister imperiously. But her manner softened as she picked the surcoat up and examined herself in the mirror of polished bronze. “It is rather comely, isn’t it? Fit for a duchess?”
Avalyn paused at her loom. “Most definitely. You are very beautiful in it.”
Isobel smiled at her reflection and finally at her cousin before going on a rampage and yelling for servants. Even though it was several hours yet until the feast, she was convinced it was never too early to begin dressing. Avalyn and Anne exchanged amused glances and went about their tasks, watching as Isobel had fits and seizures because something wasn’t exactly to her liking. It was pure entertainment.
Serving women brought rosewater and heating irons and other beauty implements for Isobel. The lady had very long,straight brown hair that did not hold a curl very well and she would howl when her hair fell straight after so much work. Eventually, they were able to force her hair to hold a curl and she was quite pleased with the results so long as she didn’t touch it. Touching it was grounds for immediate collapse of the hair. She was ready for the feast long before anyone else.
Anne was the next to dress, in yellow brocade, while Avalyn finished shortly thereafter. She was dressed in a dark green satin with a softer green wool surcoat, the color which set off her magnificent eyes. Her hair was pulled away from her face with a green-painted comb, and a belt of rough uncut green stones with gold links hung around her slender waist. As much as her cousins tried to fancy themselves, they could not complete with Avalyn. No woman could. She was, in a word, breathtaking.
