There were several mutters of approval. Even Bythe nodded agreement. She watched from her post near the stoves, keeping a watchful eye on her ovens.
“There’s hot water aplenty if yer in the mood for a bath, Mistress.”
“Thank you.” To refuse would have undone the fragile truce she’d just forged. Helen nodded once more, approving of her. The tension in the kitchen dissipated, giving way to soft banter once more.
It was work well done, Anne decided. Something she might be proud of because not everyone could handle the prejudices of centuries. Maybe that was the true use of Philipa’s sourness. Serving the woman had taught her patience.
She had done well, if she did think so herself.
More importantly, she had not shamed Brodick. That was the true reward and she hugged it tight as she followed Helen towards the bath chamber.
Very tight.
“Och look at that puppy dog look of affection.” Cullen moaned.
Brodick threw a broken loaf of bread at him. “Yer daft to joke about her. Fate has blessed me and I’ve no desire to tempt her to take it back because I’m nae grateful.”
He was too. His wife was taking command of Sterling. She was doing it with kindness, something that was far too rare in English noblewomen. He could sit and watch her for hours, absorbing the way she moved, the way she dealt with difficulties without temper.
Aye, fate had been kind and he was grateful.
Chapter Eleven
“Oh now, don’t ye look lovely.” Helen fussed over the fire, poking it when it was blazing very well already. “I suppose I should leave ye to awaiting yer husband. Good night.”
Await her confession…
Anne swallowed roughly, trying to maintain her resolve to do as she’d promised herself she would. She had to do it. Find the courage to trust in the love he’d offered her.
There was no more time for her. Besides, she did not have the heart to deceive him further. She could not do that to the man she loved.
But the candles burned low and the fire became a bed of coals blanketed by thick ash. The warm coverlet lulled her into slumber long before the chamber went dark.
Anne awoke at dawn, a sleepy yawn on her lips. She was the only one in the bed, the sheet beside her still smooth. A patch of scarlet caught her attention even in the dim light. Moving from the bed, she pulled the window curtain to let the rising sun shine in. A piece of silk was carefully folded around a box, a parchment sitting on top of it that bore the wax seal of the Earl of McJames. Her hand shook when she reached for it. The wax snapped in the chilly morning air, the sound as piercing as a pistol shot.
Dearest wife—
With regret I must go to court by royal command. Be very sure that it took a King to summon me from yer side.
Write to me…Yer letters will strengthen me.
Brodick.
She traced his name with a finger. Never once had she had a love letter. Today she did.
Brodick.
Only that name that she used in their bed. It was a sweet intimacy that touched her heart. Setting the letter aside, she unwrapped the silk to find a lady’s writing desk. It was smooth and crafted with skill. Two hinges allowed the top to lift up. Stored carefully inside were sheets of paper. A small pottery jar with another piece of expensive and rare cork stood there. Two bone quills lay near the ink well. There was a scarlet strip of wax and a small brass seal along with it. Lifting the seal, she choked on a sob when she noted the rampant lion of the McJames. There would be very few of these seals because they represented the earl. Each one would be carefully guarded.
It was a gift worthy of the mistress of the manor.
Anne carefully closed the lid. She finally understood her mother completely. Ivy Copper was in love and that emotion blinded her to every insult or slur the world cast at her. She could no more stop loving than she could cease breathing.
“Och, I thought I heard ye moving about.” Helen lacked her normal joy this morning. “I see ye found the lord’s letter. He was most distraught at leaving ye. But those toads from court wouldnae hear of waiting. Kept him up most of the night arguing with him over this and that until the earl just mounted his horse and rode, wanting to end the matter the soonest. He wrote that letter with his own hand.”
That was a gift of intimacy. A man of Brodick’s station normally did not write his letters himself. She had written most of Philipa’s. There had been a time when a part of the value a noble bride brought to her husband was her knowledge and finesse of being cordial with all the other great houses. She would carefully dip her quill and pen letters that maintained friendships with all the correct people.
Helen bustled about, pointing the two maids with her toward tasks. “Still ye’ll have to get used to it. Being an earl means answering to yer king. Ye must have learned that in yer years at court.”