Despite what I claimed, my heart was with Sir Leander Rainford.
Burying my face in my hands, I resisted the urge to weep, to fling myself upon the pillow and cry the way one does when senseless, shortsighted dreams are dashed. Dreams that, until Tobias announced Sir Leander’s forthcoming marriage, I didn’t know I’d had—or did I? According to Tobias, they were obvious to everyone.
How could I be so stupid? I cringed with shame.
Resting my chin against my shoulder and wrapping one arm around my belly, I concentrated on quashing the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. An owl hooted, its movement swift against the starry firmament, making me jump. Releasing a deep shuddering sigh, I let go of my stomach and traced mindless patterns on the sill.
When Father was alive, I’d always hoped that one day a suitable husband would be found for me. Oh, we’d had offers. As soon as I turned sixteen, Father and Hiske were approached by the likes of the cloth merchant’s son, Robert Mercer, a cocky, ill-mannered man who spent his father’s money faster than he could make it. Father rebuffed him and Robert married Ellen de Lys, daughter of another merchant who specialized in fragrant unguents and oils. They’d taken their business to Saint-Germain. That was four years ago and I hadn’t heard anything of them since. Then there was Sir Abel Orped, an old knight who had lost an arm in France and four wives besides and was given land and a small annuity by Lord Rainford for his services. Making no secret that he wanted a wife and sons to farm it for him, I was his third effort at securing a woman in a month. Fortunately, despite Hiske’s assertions he’d be a fine husband, Father rejected his offer as well. I wonder if it was because of the man’s association with Lord Rainford rather than his violent reputation.
There’d been others too. None had been right, according to Father.
I’d always believed he was waiting for the best offer, the right man, before he gave me away in marriage.
And now? As an orphan and eldest child, I’d no one to speak for me, to tender a dowry that might compensate for my shortcomings: namely, two young siblings, brewing, an alehouse, and a blistering reputation.
All that aside, was there ever a time when I could have attracted the legitimate attentions of a nobleman? Once, mayhap . . . But ever since Mother died and Father made the contract with Lord Rainford, the best I could hope for in a husband was a struggling merchant or mayhap a poor knight . . . Never a peer of the realm, not even the youngest son of one . . . Not even a cripple . . .
I sighed. It was long, drawn from the depths of my being. Truth be told, before I decided upon brewing, Sir Leander was unavailable to me no matter what. The son of a lord forming a union with the eldest child of one of his vassals wasn’t possible. Though we’d all heard stories of nobles marrying farm girls and kings taking housemaids as mistresses, they belonged in the realm of make-believe, not my reality.
For the time being, marriage to any man was out of the question. And so was Sir Leander Rainford, no matter what my mind tried to whisper. Then why could I not dismiss him? Why was hope, despite my bold denials, still nestling in my breast? Tears welled, burning the hollow my heart had become.
The night was so quiet and still. The distant crash of waves could just be discerned. A dog barked, the leaves rustled, and the faint breeze carried the sounds of Father Clement’s novices chanting. The bells of St. Stephen’s chimed and St. Bartholomew’s began to answer.
It was no good; sleep wasn’t going to attend me this evening, not yet.
Staring across the yard, my gaze came to rest on the brewhouse, the place that had given me, in one way, such prospects, and in another, such misery. The place that ensured the family survived and I maintained independence. Yet it was also proving to be a millstone that might yet drown me in good intentions.
Thoughts of drowning led to Father, which then led to Lord Rainford, the house, and what started me brewing in the first place, which led to consideration of wine, ale, and beer. By God, I needed another drink. I needed to drink myself into oblivion and forget the nagging ache lodged beneath my breastbone, and either dam or shed the tears that stoppered up my throat.
Grabbing my shawl, I left the room and crept downstairs, avoiding the spots where the floor protested.
Entering the kitchen, I could hear Blanche’s soft snores from her room behind the fireplace. Searching for a cup in the dark wasn’t easy; neither was finding a jug of ale. I needed light and to make noise. I couldn’t risk drinking in here—not only might I wake Blanche, but I didn’t want the servants catching me in my weakness. I yearned for solitude, for the drowsy numbness ale or beer would hasten.
Unlatching the kitchen door, I ran through the garden and into the brewery.
My heart was beating savagely; I felt like a naughty girl or a woman embarking on an illicit liaison. The idea gave me pause and sadness began to crawl through me again. I shut the door, fumbling until I found a candle. The flame spat to life and cast a small halo. I looked around. The kiln and oven were still warm, emanating a faint, comforting glow. Beneath the windows, the cooling ale pooled in the troughs, the moonbeams making the surface sparkle. Singing softly to the ale and the crones as I moved around, I found a tankard, slipped my tunic over my head so as not to stain it, pushed up my elegant sleeves, and recklessly immersed the vessel in the trough, enjoying the mellow feel of the liquid against my flesh. Raising my voice slightly in honor to the goddess of brews, it was as though I drew from the source.
Lifting the tankard, the ale spilled over the sides, down my forearms and back into the trough. Before I lost any more, I slurped the foam and then drank deeply, relishing the way it slid down my throat, appreciating the notes of honey, mint, and even the richness of the mandragora I’d added. On a fancy, I’d paid a goodly sum for it from a hawker who had come to the house, wanting to re-create the draft it was said Circe gave to Odysseus’s crew.
Imagining myself to be the goddess Circe, I plunged my tankard into the ale again and drank, opening my throat. After all, I indulged not to quench a thirst but to summon forgetfulness. Even as I filled my cup a third time, I knew I would pay for this folly on the morrow, but as my mind clouded and thoughts became difficult to separate, my heart slowed and the pain afflicting my soul dissolved. Sinking onto the floor, my back to the trough, the agreeable heat of the stove offering solace as well, Leander Rainford, husbands, brewing, and the future became distant winking lands to which I one day might venture.
One day . . . maybe . . . if . . .
They erupted from nowhere, the tears I’d thought banished, the sorrow I didn’t know I carried so very deep within. They fell fast and furiously, for Mother, Father, Will, Patroclus and Achilles, for the cruelty of Hiske, for being thought a whore by a man I knew I could so easily love . . . but I didn’t. Nay. I did not. I do not love you, Leander Rainford. As God is my witness, I do not. Sobs were torn from my throat and, unable to sit straight any longer, I curled up in a ball on the floor, uncaring that rats scuttled nearby, or that ash from the kiln was my pillow. I wept, hiccuped, and wept some more.
That was how Westel found me, ten minutes or days later, I was uncertain; I didn’t care. My pride, my flighty ambitions, my dreams were nothing more than blemishes upon my bodice, runnels of moisture upon my cheeks.
He stood over me, head tilted, those great innocent eyes dark pools that stared and stared. Then, with a sigh I took for tenderness, he knelt down and lifted me into his arms.