Page 67

Clarissa sighed aloud, the lonely sound echoing in her small chamber. That future could be hers if she were bold enough to take it. A man who loved her, who did not believe her to be unworthy, wished to take her to wife.

What was the alternative? They’d not yet heard from Father Simon. She couldn’t very well go wandering about the countryside, alone, looking for the nearest convent, hoping they would accept her without a sponsor. Even if such a thing were possible, the thought of living out her life without Aidan, without ever knowing his touch again . . .

She feared it would kill her. And Aidan too.

Well, as Eda had always told her, lying in bed would certainly not help. When she rose from the bed to dress, Clarissa startled at the sight in front of her. A large wooden tray with freshly baked bread and an array of fruit sat waiting on the table. Had Morgan been here already?

After eating a handful of grapes while she dressed, Clarissa gathered up the cuts of bread with her and headed to the only place she felt safe in Highgate End. The bakehouse. As she entered the building through the underground corridor, Clarissa took a bite of the bread she carried, the small mutiny an answer to her training to never walk while eating.

“Good morn, Lewis.”

The gray-haired baker stood at the oven with his back to her. Though warm inside the bakehouse, the smell of freshly baked bread more than compensated for the small inconvenience.

“And to you, my lady,” he said, pulling out what looked like trenchers. As Lewis had told her the last time she visited him, he typically baked for the evening meal every morn. Occasionally, he provided special breads to the villagers, but much of his time was spent baking for those who lived here at Highgate Castle.

Theffield did not have its own baker. Her father thought the expense unnecessary, and so their cook did all of the baking as well.

“Tell me what to do,” she said, waiting for Lewis’s argument. Though she did not want to sit idle, he had stubbornly refused to give her a job on her past visits. “A lady should not work in the kitchens,” he’d said. Perhaps not, but this lady desired the choice to do as she wished. So, hoping it would spur him into action, Clarissa picked up a bag of flour.

“Shall I dump this onto the table to make dough?”

“Nay, lass!” He pointed to a waiting bowl. “There. Knead that dough, if you please.”

Poor Lewis. She did as he instructed, though not until she finished eating the bread she’d brought with her. Perhaps it was unladylike to do so, but she could not bring herself to care overly much.

“My lord found you, did he?”

Lewis had turned his back to the oven once again.

“Found me?” she asked, tipping the dough onto the table beneath it. Was he speaking of Graeme?

“Master Aidan. He brought you that bread you were eating, no?”

She’d just begun to knead the dough, but his words stopped her short. “Oh. Aidan brought that to me?”

“Aye, who else? Did you not speak to him then?”

“Nay,” she said, her hands resuming their ministrations. “He must have left that tray for me while I was asleep.”

“Forgive my impertinence, my lady, but it would not surprise me that he should do such a thing. Most men of his station would not serve those under him, serve a woman, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. But it is not so with Aidan.”

“Why do you say so?”

Lewis wiped his hands on his tunic and reached for the dough she’d finished kneading. Handing it to him, she watched in fascination as he quickly formed the sticky mass into what would become another trencher for the midday or evening meal.

“When his mother was ill, God rest her soul, my lord refused to leave her chamber. All of us were deeply affected when she passed, but none more so than he. There is no man kinder, or more loyal.” Lewis, who’d already finished shaping the trencher, started to move each of his creations to the stone that sat in front of the large, fire-stoked oven.

“There was no need to be a seer like my sister to know he’d find someone to love.”

Love.

“A seer?”

Lewis had a sister? Clarissa knew his wife was Highgate’s alewife, but she’d not heard of a sister.

“She fancies herself one,” he said, placing the last piece of dough near the oven. “But can hardly see the grass in front of her feet.”

Lewis laughed at his own jest. She could not help but chuckle as well as she awaited the answer to her question.