Mistress Eustacia sat on the wooden bench and motioned for Annabel to sit beside her. The kind woman wrapped her arm around Annabel’s shoulders.
She was warm and snug against her mistress’s soft, cushiony side, which only made her feel guiltier. What was wrong with her? She’d be inciting suspicion if she wasn’t careful. And she appeared to solicit compassion she had no claim on. She tried to force the tears back, but they kept coming.
“You just cry if you want to.” Eustacia’s voice was kind but firm. “Women cry. Men don’t understand it, but crying is what we do.”
If she hadn’t felt so weighted down with guilt, she might have laughed.
“You’ll get married someday, and then you’ll be so busy with your husband and children, you won’t have time for grieving.” Mistress Eustacia patted her on the arm.
“I will never marry.” Annabel shook her head.
“Of course you’ll marry. Why do you say such a thing?”
“I have always wanted to be a nun. It’s been my wish for many years now.”
“My dear, the cloister is only for those born to tragedy, it is. Not for sweet maidens like you. Trust me, dear girl, you were born for love, for loving and caring and healing.” She pulled away to look at Annabel’s face. “Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”
Beauty? She was supposed to be happy because she was beautiful? What good had beauty ever done her? “Beauty is a curse.”
“A curse? How can you say that? Every girl wants to be beautiful.”
Annabel didn’t know what to say. Mistress Eustacia’s words made her feel as if she was being ungrateful for a nice gift. But the bailiff wouldn’t have bothered her if she had been plain.
“The convent isn’t for girls such as you. In a convent, whose heart would be made glad by your fair smiles?”
“In a convent I can study God’s Word and not be harassed and bedeviled by men.” She lowered her voice to a mumble. “In a convent I might be safe.”
“Who has harassed and bedeviled you? Who?” Mistress Eustacia’s face reminded Annabel of a mother badger protecting her babies.
“It doesn’t matter.” Annabel shook her head, wishing she could take back the words. “No one is harassing me.”
“If you mean Gilbert Carpenter, he will leave you alone in time. Things will smooth out for you in the future, you’ll see. But you must marry a good man, and you will have your pick of them, my dear. Men always want a beautiful maiden like you to be their wife — one as beautiful of heart as of face. My husband thought I was a beauty once, if you can believe that.” She chuckled as a faraway look came over her, and Annabel breathed a grateful sigh that her mistress had moved the topic away from her.
Just then, the door opened and Lord le Wyse stepped inside. He looked first at Annabel, then at Mistress Eustacia, then back.
Did Bailiff Tom die? The words stuck in her throat.
“I need to speak with you for a moment, Annabel. Mistress Eustacia, can you spare her for — “
“Oh yes, you go ahead. You probably need her to help tend Bailiff Tom. That is a very good idea, aye, indeed it is.” She shooed them with her hand.
Mistress Eustacia seemed overly pleased by Lord le Wyse’s request, but Annabel didn’t have time to linger on it. Worry over what would happen if Bailiff Tom died pushed every other thought away.
Lord le Wyse stepped aside and Annabel preceded him out the door into the hazy late-afternoon sunlight. She held her breath as he began to speak softly, looking at the bush beside him rather than at Annabel.
“I want you to go down the path that leads to the river. Wait for me at the big rock. Do you know the place?”
“Yes. Is he dead?” she whispered back.
“No, he lives. Go now. I’ll be only a few moments behind you.”
She took a small but well-worn path that wound away from the manor and past the construction of Lord le Wyse’s castle, which sat on a bare knoll just above her. Heading toward the river, she tried to walk at a normal pace and settle her breathing, hardly noticing the two rows of linden trees between the fields and the river. She reached the large boulder on the riverbank and sat down to wait, trying not to imagine what Lord le Wyse might say to her.
Moments later, as promised, he was walking down the path toward her, holding his burned arm — she used to think of it as his wolf-attacked arm — against his midsection with his right hand cupping his left elbow. His shoulders and head were high and erect, but his face bore an odd expression, whether of sadness, anger, or frustration, she couldn’t tell.
He seemed much older than twenty-five. She tried to imagine him in the fresh glow of youth, smiling and cheerful, but couldn’t get a picture of it in her mind.
Lord le Wyse stopped and sat at the other end of the large, flat stone, about two feet away. He didn’t look at her, only watched the river below them.
His voice was deep and a bit raspy, as he was trying to speak softly. “The bailiff is no better and no worse. He still hasn’t awakened, but we must be prepared for it if he does.”