An Uncertain Choice

Thus Sir Bennet’s special day arrived. I dressed in my finest, donned a smile, and did my best to enjoy his planned activities, especially when he’d gone to so much trouble to arrange an art fair outside the castle grounds. Local artisans, as well as those from neighboring lands, had arrived to display their crafts, including pottery, beaded jewelry, and woven tapestries.

After the first awkward moments, Sir Bennet’s utmost politeness and chivalry made me forget about everything but the displays that spread out in the open tents around me. We walked from canopy to canopy appreciating the fine workmanship, watching demonstrations, and discussing the merits of art and creativity.

“You have an eye for quality,” I said as we left the tent of a glassblower.

Sir Bennet’s raven hair shimmered almost blue-black in the sunshine. His dark blue eyes regarded me thoughtfully. “My parents have spent their lives collecting rare treasures and relics. I suppose it’s only natural that I should have an appreciation for art as well.”

The duke followed us a safe distance away. Since we were the only ones attending the fair, we’d been able to talk freely, and I’d found myself appreciating the more serious conversations that I could have with Sir Bennet. He was clearly intelligent and the topics steered toward issues of history and science, which fascinated me.

Sir Bennet stopped suddenly, and his dark brows furrowed over his flawless, handsome face. I took in his beautiful eyes with long lashes, as well as his perfectly straight nose and chiseled jaw. “I know a rare treasure when I see one.” His voice dropped. “And you are one of the rarest, my lady.”

“You’re too kind, sir. I’m not without flaws —?”

“If you have any, they are most certainly hidden beneath your beauty.”

His praise warmed me to the tips of my slippered toes. It was indeed high praise from one so handsome and schooled in discovering treasures.

“Lest you think me vain,” he continued, heedless of the artists and tents around us, “I believe that you’re made more beautiful because of the sweetness of your inner spirit.”

What was I to do with such compliments? I simply didn’t know. I glanced down at the grass, which had been clipped to form a level plain for Sir Bennet’s art show.

As if sensing my discomfort, he politely held out his arm, his expression once again dignified and calm. “I have a surprise for you, my lady.”

I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm, conscious of his hard muscles beneath my fingers. Sir Bennet matched his step to mine, and we strolled leisurely toward the last tent, one we had yet to visit.

Underneath the canopy, in the middle, stood a painter, his palette already filled with paints, his paintbrush in hand. He bowed to Sir Bennet and then to me. Then he waved at a chair placed in an area of soft light. I was surprised to see that it was my golden chair, the one from the Great Hall. It was elaborate, due to its elegant carvings, but I had no particular fondness for it. In fact, most of the time it only served to remind me of how much I had and consequently how much more I could be doing for my people.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re commissioning a painting of my chair?”

“It is a very fine chair.” Sir Bennet’s ready smile was heartstopping. “But I would much rather have a painting of you, my lady.”

Finally, understanding began to dawn.

“I would be greatly honored if you’d sit for a portrait, one that I might take with me and have forever.”

“Of course,” I said. But what if I didn’t choose him as my husband? Then what would he do with the portrait? Or was he so confident that I’d fall in love with him that he disregarded all else?

“I thought the chair would make a remarkable backdrop.” Sir Bennet led me toward the chair. “Although it could use a bit more polishing.”

At Sir Bennet’s declaration, the painter spoke quietly to his young assistant, a boy not older than ten. The child rushed forward with a rag. It wasn’t until he reached the chair that I saw his fingers — ?or at least what was left of them. Most were nubs of varying lengths, and those left were masses of flaking, peeling skin.

Compassion stirred in my chest, making me all the more ready to sit for this portrait and by so doing provide the painter and his assistant a purse of coins they likely hadn’t encountered in years.

But the moment the boy lifted his rag to the chair, Sir Bennet held out his hand. “Don’t touch it.” The knight’s attention was fixed on the rotting flesh still left on the boy’s few fingers, and his eyes registered first shock, then revulsion.

“I don’t mind if he polishes my chair,” I said, hoping to allay Sir Bennet’s concern.

The handsome knight swallowed hard, looked away from the assistant’s deformed fingers, and then cleared his throat. “I think the chair is just fine after all. It will not require additional polishing.”