“Her health continues to deteriorate?”
“Aye. She accepts my marriage is necessary, but I think it has been hard on her heart. Though I keep her isolated from Lady Laura and her daughter, she has rarely arisen from bed since my betrothed’s arrival—as you know, not even to attend her husband’s service and burial.”
“She has not forgiven him.”
Lothaire shook his head. “And never will, methinks. But I believe she would have been at the service had she been able to arise.”
“Her end may be near, my son. At long last, peace for a hurting and angry soul if she will but seek the Lord. I pray when the time is nigh, she will summon a priest.”
“Would you come, Father?”
“If she asked for me.” He sighed. “What of your sister? She remains determined to accompany your mother and the physician to the dower property?”
“Aye. Though I shall regret Martin’s departure only for the need to buy the services of another physician, Sebille…” Lothaire drew breath. “Even if my mother’s days are reaching their close, already my sister has given too much of herself. It may be too late for Sir Angus and her, but I would see her remain at High Castle and be cared for as ever she has cared for our mother.”
“I understand your feelings, my lord. ’Tis unfortunate she will not be dissuaded from being at your mother’s side when she passes.”
“Aye. As ill as Lady Raisa is, she could linger a long while. It might be years ere Sebille returns home, and more damaged she may be.”
After a long silence, the priest said, “It may be best she not return to High Castle.”
Lothaire sat straighter. “What say you?”
“Methinks Lady Sebille will more likely gain her deserved peace and rest within the walls of a convent, whether you are able to persuade her not to accompany Lady Raisa to her dower property or after your mother passes. Of course, such will cost a goodly sum.”
“I would pay it if ’tis what she wishes, but I would not refuse her if she prefers to live at High Castle.”
“I am not saying to refuse her, but if she is not amenable to entering a convent, you must be prepared to persuade her it is of greater benefit.”
“I do not know it would be. High Castle is her home.”
“Aye, and there is the man whose affections she has lost, and there is the woman who has taken her mother’s place, and God willing there will be the children you make with Lady Laura, reminding her of those she will never make with one she loves.”
There was sense in what he said, but little heart. Lothaire raised a hand. “I will not reject Sebille who has greatly lightened my burden by giving herself to our mother’s care.”
Father Atticus inclined his head. “At least offer the convent as a sanctuary when the time comes. I know you do not see it now, but the family you make with your wife is of greater import, just as you will profess before God on the morrow.”
Lothaire did not like being irritated with the priest, but he was, and it surely showed, for the man said, “I pray you will forgive me for speaking thus, but know I do it out of love for you and your sister and concern for your marriage that has enough to overcome without adding to the strife.”
“I thank you for your counsel, Father.” Lothaire stood. “Now I must see how many sheep I can shear ere nightfall.”
The priest rose with a creak of bones that better revealed his age than his face and body. “Ought I remind you ’tis the eve of your wedding?”
Lothaire smiled. “As you have now done so, I will defend myself by saying my betrothed has enough to do in ordering the household without finding me underfoot. Better I increase Lexeter’s revenues.”
“She might disagree.”
Lothaire started to wave away his concern, hesitated. “I know you exchanged few words with the lady the day of my father’s burial, but how did you find her?”
“What I saw and heard I liked—and her daughter. If you allow none to come between you, I think she will make a very good wife.”
“That is more in her hands than mine.” Lothaire bent and kissed the priest’s cheek. “’Til the morrow, Father.”
“You are a good son, brother, and lord,” Father Atticus called as Lothaire strode opposite. “You will be a good husband and father.”
Lothaire freed his horse’s reins and swung into the saddle. “That is as I intend.” He turned his mount in the direction of the shearing. Since soon there would be fewer excuses to distance himself from Laura, he hoped the priest was right about their marriage. But as for sending Sebille to a convent…
Father Atticus was mistaken.
Chapter 23
“I know not why you concern yourself over my regard for other women.”
“You know not?”
The shrill rejoinder stayed Lothaire’s hand on the garden gate. Though he had no wish to listen in on Angus and Sebille, his destination the kitchen’s rear entrance, he was held there by Father Atticus’s belief Lothaire’s sister should enter a convent.
“’Tis worry for your soul, Angus!”
Curt laughter. “Methinks it is more that you, who did not want me, would have no other want me.”
“I did want you.”
“Only enough to play—and continue to play—the jealous girl.”
“I am not a girl.”
“Then behave a woman. Cease snatching up the jagged ties you yourself severed and wrapping them around the necks of servants upon whom I smile.”
“You do more than smile upon them! And now I wonder how long ere you do more than smile upon your lord’s betrothed.”
Lothaire nearly flung open the gate, but the ensuing silence kept him from revealing his presence.
“Oh, Sebille,” Angus said with such sorrow Lothaire felt his ache. “You do ill by me, more by Lady Laura. Even were I not unsparingly loyal to my lord and did I not love him well enough not to desire what belongs to him, the lady would not want me. I have seen how she gazes upon your brother, how she goes so still ’tis as if breath is but an afterthought. Regardless of her mistake, I do not believe she ever stopped loving him.”
Lothaire closed his eyes, wished it were so.
And it seemed neither did Sebille believe it. She laughed, said, “She lay down for another, Angus. That is not love.”
The knight sighed. “Neither is this, Sebille. What was between us is gone, and though I have said it before, I have never been more certain. My only regret over your departure from High Castle is how much more it will make of you a martyr.”
More silence, then footsteps across the stone-laid path, the slam of the kitchen door, the groan of the wooden bench that told the knight had dropped onto it.
Lothaire started to turn away, but Angus called, “How much did you hear, my lord?”