Chapter 22
ROLFE woke Leonie with a long kiss, then inadvertently spoiled the moment by reminding her to begin the work of gathering hazelwort. He failed to note her stiffly set features as he left their room.
After spending such a lovely night, he was in a magnanimous mood. He doubted he could find fault with anything today, he was so happy. Leonie was no longer sulking, and had accepted his apology. The proof of her forgiveness was the offer of help, and he was delighted by her idea.
Help was far from what he’d expected from Leonie. Had their marriage made such a difference to her then? He regretted having married her for the reasons he’d had, because the truth was that if he’d met her before the wedding, he would have wanted her for the right reasons.
He sighed. Could Leonie be feeling the same happiness he felt?
On his way to the chapel, Rolfe stopped and took a good look at the hall. The whole look of the place surprised him, but there was even more.
“Damn me, this room actually smells…pleasant,” he muttered.
“Summer flowers, my lord.” He whirled around. “If only they bloomed in winter, so we could be graced by their fragrance all year round.”
Had Amelia been lying in wait for him? She had, and she spoke without really knowing what Leonie had ordered strewn on the new rushes. But she wanted him to believe the changes had something to do with the seasons, for then he couldn’t blame Amelia for not having done what Leonie had done.
Rolfe smiled. “You have been busy while I was away, Amelia. I heartily approve.”
Amelia lowered her eyes to hide her amazement. Hadn’t Leonie taken proper credit? Had she meant it when she told Amelia the credit would go to her?
“I did little, my lord,” Amelia said sweetly.
“You are too modest,” Rolfe replied. “If only my wife had the same ambition you have. What did she do while I was away?”
“She has spent much time in the garden,” Amelia said evasively, in not quite the same sweet voice.
Rolfe grunted. “I think me she loves gardens too much.” He looked around. “Where are the hounds?”
“They—have been penned.”
He considered that. “An unusual idea, but I can see the merit in it.”
Amelia was gaining courage under Rolfe’s continuing praise. As long as he thought she was responsible for all the improvements, she would not deny it.
“I think you will enjoy your meals more, too, my lord,” she said smoothly. “The cook has been dismissed, and the new one is considerably talented.”
Rolfe and Amelia moved away together, and as they did, they passed Wilda, whose face was livid. She had heard all she needed to. Walking as fast as she could, she found Leonie in a storage pantry near the kitchen, looking over baskets and jars.
“She did it!” Wilda hissed at her mistress. “That terrible woman is taking credit for all you have done. The gall! My lord has only to ask anyone here if he desires to learn the truth.”
Leonie was rigidly still for a moment, and then she shrugged as comprehension dawned.
“Surely you will tell him the truth, my lady?” Wilda urged.
“And let him think I seek praise? No. And he didn’t want me making changes here. He may like what I have done, but if he realizes I went against his wishes, he may not be so pleased.”
“I cannot—”
“We will not argue over this.” Leonie cut her off firmly. “You must help me, Wilda, for there is a task he has asked me to do and it will require much work.”
As the day wore on, Leonie gave a good deal of thought to Amelia and Rolfe. Since their night of love, she had begun seeing her husband in a new light, and come close to forgiving him for their terrible start.
Yet certain truths remained to trouble her, things that went beyond his keeping a mistress in residence. Alain Montigny’s assessment of Rolfe seemed exaggerated now. Hadn’t Rolfe shown consideration for her last night? Wasn’t he trying to win a battle with the least possible bloodshed? Rolfe didn’t seem like a man who would want to hunt down poor Alain and kill him, as Alain claimed. But despite the good things she knew about Rolfe, it wasn’t right that Alain had lost Kempston when he was innocent of any crimes.
Oh, it was all so unreasonable—and the king had forced all of it on her. She had a good mind to write him and tell him what she thought of this interference. But no one questioned the king’s will, certainly not a woman.
Leonie was busy gathering and steeping herbs all day, and when Rolfe came in that evening he was pleased to know that all was ready. He told her that everything was arranged at Wroth, and that he had a volunteer ready to be secreted inside Wroth Keep that night with her concoctions.
What Rolfe didn’t tell her was the initial reaction of his men to her idea. Not a single man had trusted her, and Thorpe was especially vocal about it, sure the plan would bring them disaster, not success. Rolfe remained steadfast, however, and eventually one of the soldiers spoke up, telling the others that he knew from experience that hazelwort would do exactly as Leonie claimed. Once he told his story, Rolfe had trouble telling them the details of the plan because of all the laughter.
But he told Leonie none of this, and she saw only her husband’s grin. His good humor made hers worse. Why was everything so much easier for him?
“You are unhappy, my lady?”
Leonie turned to Mildred, working beside her, extracting juice from the hazelwort. Four tables had been set up in the bailey for the steeping of leaves, while the kitchen staff worked on the wine mixture.
She hadn’t spoken to Mildred in the week she had been at Crewel, though she knew Wilda had made friends with her. Leonie remembered Mildred from her visits to Crewel when the Montignys held the keep. She had even ministered once to Mildred’s mother. It was a minor thing that Sir Edmond’s stupid leech had been baffled over. But their prior acquaintance didn’t give Mildred the right to pry. How dared the woman ask such a personal question?
“Do you have so little to do, Mildred, that—”
“My lady, please, I mean no disrespect,” Mildred said hastily. “It is my greatest wish that you not be unhappy here at Crewel—for I fear it is my fault that you are wed.”
The declaration was so ludicrous that Leonie’s anger fled. “Your fault? How is that possible, Mildred?”
The older woman’s gaze fell away as she whispered, “I—I was the one who told my lord that you lived at Pershwick.” She faltered, then confessed, “It was then he decided to marry you so he could have Pershwick under his control. I am so sorry, my lady. I would never have caused you grief on purpose.”
The poor woman looked so miserable. “You blame yourself for no reason, Mildred. My husband would have learned what he wanted to know from someone else, if you hadn’t told him. I am the one who caused his attention to be drawn to Pershwick in the first place.”
“But he did not know you lived there until I mentioned it. He was terribly angry to learn that a woman was responsible for his troubles.”
“No doubt,” Leonie said dryly. “But I was responsible, so I have only myself to blame for being here now. Think no more about it, Mildred, you are not to blame.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Mildred replied reluctantly. “But I will pray for you that my lord Rolfe’s temper does not rise again, as it did on your wedding night.”
Leonie blushed, assuming Mildred was referring to her stabbing Rolfe. “I hope you told no one what you saw that night, Mildred.”
“I would never carry tales, my lady, nor would Edlyn. But everyone knows what he did to you. I did not think my lord was a cruel man—hot-tempered, but not cruel. Why, any man who would beat his wife only a few hours after their wedding—”
“What?”
Mildred looked around quickly, hoping no one was listening, but the others only glanced up, then looked away again.
“My lady, please, I did not mean to upset you,” Mildred whispered.
“Who told you my husband beat me?” Leonie hissed.
“Lady Roese saw you the next morning, and she told Lady Bertha, and—”
“Enough! Sweet Mary, does he know what is being said about him?”
“I do not think so, my lady. You see, only the women insist my lord Rolfe did it, though none are brave enough to speak to him about it. The men swear beating a woman is not in his nature, and the disagreement has caused many arguments. John blackened the eye of his wife, and Jugge flung a bowl of stew at her husband. Lady Bertha is not speaking to her husband after the tongue-lashing he gave her, so now he brings her gifts to try and sweeten her temper.”
Stunned and embarrassed, Leonie said, “Sir Rolfe did not beat me, Mildred. If you recall, I wore a heavy veil when I came here. Do you know why?”
“A rash.”
“There was no rash, Mildred. That was a lie, made up…never mind why. My father had me beaten because I refused to marry.”
“Then—”
“My husband is being blamed for something he did not do! I won’t have it. Hear me well, Mildred. I want you to see to it that the truth is known. Can you do that?”
“Yes, my lady,” Mildred assured her, considerably surprised by the revelation.
Leonie left her then, too mortified to stay in Mildred’s company. She needed a little time alone.