As they ate that night, Annabel’s eyes skirted to Lord le Wyse, sitting at the head of the table. He kept his head down and said nothing. The quietness of the workers increased her feeling of foreboding. She’d never seen the people so hushed, as if they shared a secret and dared not talk for fear of divulging it. Their gazes darted from person to person, to Lord le Wyse, and back to the food on their trenchers. No one hurriedly ate and left either, but all lingered, as though expecting something to happen.
Was she imagining it? All day it was as if little bugs were jumping under her skin, making her rub her arms to try to get rid of the feeling. Now, as she looked around the room at her fellow workers, she was sure something was about to happen. But what?
The only person in the room who didn’t seem anxious was Lord le Wyse, though every time she tried to meet his eye, he refused to look up at her.
God, what is happening?
Annabel left her food almost untouched. How could she eat when her stomach was twisting like a contortionist? She began cleaning up, hoping to inspire the others to get up and leave. She had no idea what she would say to him, but she wanted time alone with Lord le Wyse the way a thirsty man wanted water. How could she leave tomorrow without speaking with him one last time? A twinge of fear pinched her at what he might say tonight, fear about whatever was making him avoid her eye. Still, she couldn’t resist the craving to look into his face — and have him look into her eyes and speak to her one last time.
She should be concentrating on her new life, on getting away from the place that had caused her pain, on finding peace and tranquility in the house of God. Prayer and contemplation would be the tasks of her day. She would be happy in her new home. Her life would change for the better and she would have no more reason to fear.
Finally, a few people shuffled out the door, looking over their shoulders. She longed to ask someone what was afoot. Beatrice had a wide-eyed, expectant look, but when Annabel caught her eye in hopes of asking her what was happening, Beatrice just turned away.
At least everyone was finally leaving. Mistress Eustacia was one of the last to go, and she gave Annabel a sad, backward glance, pursing her lips together as though she was holding back tears.
At least she could account for her mistress’s sadness. Mistress Eustacia would never see her again after tomorrow and would miss her. Annabel would miss her too. The realization struck her so forcefully that tears pricked her eyelids and she had to blink several times to drive them away.
Lord le Wyse was watching her, his face suddenly alert.
“My lord, may I read to you tonight?” She was surprised at the way her voice shook as she looked into his eye.
He regarded her for a moment without speaking, staring intently, as though he was trying to sear her face into his memory.
“Do you wish it?” His voice was deep but barely above a whisper, and yet his words seemed to bounce off the stone walls of the empty room.
Of course she wished it. “It is the last time I will be able to read to you.”
The line of his mouth hardened. He turned his head and seemed to focus on the darkest corner of the room. “Very well then.”
Her heart sank at his obvious bad mood. She swallowed before settling into her usual chair by the fireplace. Had she displeased her lord by asking him if she could read? Perhaps he wanted to be alone tonight.
A sudden pain squeezed her chest and inexplicable tears pricked her eyes again as Ranulf set the Holy Writ on her lap. She took a deep breath to calm herself, opened the book, and began to read. At once it felt like the fifty other times she’d read to him, and nothing at all like any time before.
Certainly she would have a Bible available to her at the abbey. So why was she hardly able to blink back the tears at this moment? Why did they blur her vision so much that it was impossible to read on? Because I will never be with you like this again?
She squeezed her eyes shut while catching the tears in her hand, horrified at the thought that they might fall on the precious pages and damage the book. How could she explain this embarrassing show of emotion? She should be showing her gratitude for all her lord was doing for her, not crying because he had given her what she wanted.
“Forgive me.” Annabel wiped her face as quickly as she could.
“Pray, don’t read tonight.” Lord le Wyse’s voice was deep and ragged. His face was contorted, as if he was in pain. “I’m not in a humor for listening. Just sit here with me.” His voice trailed off so that it was hard to catch his last words.
She sat still, watching her lord’s features relax in the flickering firelight. He was now staring down at the floor off to his right, lost in thought.
His was such a kind, masculine face. She still wished he would shave his beard, wished she could see his face smooth, as it had been before the wolf attack. She couldn’t imagine a more pleasing face on any man, ever. He didn’t realize his own appeal.