My vision became distorted. The roaring in my ears grew. Marrying? Cecilia Barnham? Long-held plans? I tried to place the name, conjure a face. Why, she was a very wealthy widow, but old . . . so old . . . My eyes dropped back to the letter.
Good King Henry arranged this excellent match as a favor to Sir Leander’s father for, as you can imagine, being the youngest son and carrying an affliction as my lord does, a suitable union was difficult to arrange. But, typical of my master, who does not let that which would defeat a lesser man discommode him, he manages not only to find an heiress, but a noble one as well.
While Sir Leander wished to bear these good tidings to you and does intend to do so, I would not be fulfilling my brotherly duties if I did not inform you first. Perforce, I am also using this opportunity to call you to task once more. This gives me no pleasure, Anneke, but it must be said. It is apparent to me, and no doubt others, that you harbor improper feelings for my master, ones unbecoming of your station, as your shameless display Christmas Day and frequent missives to him attest. It is my solemn wish that upon learning of his forthcoming nuptials you will banish whatever foolish fancies or imprudent desires you may have accommodated, for such are the vagaries of females I do not doubt that you imagined some romantic attachment between yourself and my lord. Sir Leander was always destined to make a fine marriage and you were prideful to think otherwise. I hope this news reminds you of your place and duties. For now, you must set your sights on restoring your reputation and the name of the family in the hope that one day I can secure for you a match worthy of a Sheldrake.
I know you will add your felicitations to those I’ve already expressed to Sir Leander and I will be sure to pass these on.
May God have you, Karel, and Betje in his keeping,
Written in haste, Trinity Sunday,
Your loving brother,
Tobias Sheldrake
Waves of emotion washed over me. A mixture of disbelief, outrage that Tobias could presume to second-guess my feelings and address me so brutally, and frustration I couldn’t defend myself raged within. Most of all, I felt sadness. Sadness that my brother could write to me thus and sadness that Sir Leander hadn’t seen fit to tell me himself about his pending nuptials. I now understood the coldness in his letter. He’d already begun the process of distancing himself, of placing me at arm’s length.
Cecilia Barnham. Cecilia Rainford. Lady Cecilia Rainford. Why hadn’t he told me?
There’d never been so much as a hint of it. But why would there be? Sir Leander was under no obligation to confide in me, to discuss his private affairs . . . I knew so little about him. Only that, whatever I may have thought at our first encounter, I was wrong, hasty . . . Just as he confessed he’d been about me.
The way he kissed me . . . I thought . . . I hoped . . . I shut my eyes and inhaled deeply. I’d no right to hurt so.
I could hear my heart beating in my ears, feel it hammering against my ribs. It was hard to breathe. Tears pricked my eyes, and I fought them back. The noises from the churchyard next door were more subdued but no less joyous. They simply compounded my growing misery.
Opening my eyes minutes later, the room was darkened, the melting candles throwing only the faintest of lights as the velvet hues of evening and the crackle of the church’s bonfire closed around me. I glanced at the letter again and, though it was too dim to make out the words, they were burned into my memory. I wanted to deny Tobias’s accusations, point out to him how ludicrous, how priggish . . . Only . . . I did have feelings for Sir Leander. But they weren’t improper. How could they be, when they sprang from deep affection, friendship, and trust?
As for my shameless display at Christmas, why, Sir Leander had initiated that kiss.
Aye, but you did answer his passion with your own . . .
Oh God. And I would do it again—over and over . . .
Holding Tobias’s letter at arm’s length, I stared at it, the words beginning to blur. Leander Rainford was getting married. Soon. He was my confidant, a friend, nothing more. Nothing more . . . I wasn’t a fool. I wasn’t.
Except in your wildest and most secret imaginings . . .
Perhaps there, but only there, where dreams could run free . . .
“You’re wrong about my feelings for Sir Leander Rainford, Tobias Sheldrake,” I spoke to the empty room, my voice quivering. “I do not love him. Love and even imprudent desires have never entered my reckoning, nor will they. Not ever. Not where your master is concerned. Marriage is a call for celebration, not rebuke, nor false fancy.” I picked up my goblet and drained it. “Do not concern yourself with my heart or, for that matter, my reputation, Tobias. They’re mine to give, mine to make; and I will do so.”
Tossing my head, I walked slowly from the solar, proud that I’d shed not one tear.
Not yet.
Thirty-Three
Holcroft House
Midsummer’s Eve
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
I perched on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. As the moon slowly traveled its arc across the sky, the revels next door ceased. The bonfire subsided and the unseasonably cool summer’s night wrapped itself around me as the house descended into slumber. The servants had made their weary ways to bed, Adam slipping in through the mews door, Blanche closing the kitchen one below. There was the creak of stairs, followed shortly after by the rustle of the curtain behind me. Saskia entered my room with the familiarity of a servant of long standing, hesitating briefly by the curtained doorway before kneeling and throwing more wood on the fire Iris had lit earlier.
“Are you all right, Mistress Anneke?” she asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I didn’t turn around.
She sighed and, boring a hole into my back with that stare of hers, willing me to meet her gaze, stood to one side of the hearth.
“Because it’s not like you to come to bed without bidding us good night.”
“It’s not, is it? Forgive me. A headache prevented it.” My lie was as apparent as the flames licking the wood.
“A headache?” She tutted in false sympathy. “That’s too bad. It’s no trouble to fix you something. Or”—her tone altered—“I could comb your hair like I used to when you were small and we would chat. You found that soothing.”
I twisted and gave her a weak smile. “It’s not necessary. I’m hoping it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Good night, Saskia.”
Her face revealed how hurt she was by my abrupt dismissal and how unconvinced she was by my words. It didn’t make me feel any better.
Waiting till the curtain fell into place and Saskia’s soft tread faded, I rose and clambered onto the window seat. The window was open, the shutters flung back. As I inhaled deeply, the tepid scents of evening entered—mostly sweet, tinged with woodsmoke, salt, ale, and the faint ordure of the animals. High in the sky, the moon showed half her face, casting a silvery glow over the garden, forging dark shapes and unmaking others. Stars twinkled, scattered over the blanket of night like tiny treasures. Over the garden wall, a light bobbed within the church; Father Clement preparing for the midnight prayers, matins. I offered my own swift one to the Lord and to Mother Mary, though my heart wasn’t really in it.