“It is beyond blessed.”
Her eyes brimmed. “Then more I am glad your mother shall no longer dwell at High Castle, though I vow I did not mean her to depart as she did.”
“This I know.”
She looked over her shoulder at the priest who inclined his head, then angled toward Laura. “There is something else of which I must be unburdened.”
“Aye, my lady?”
“I hated you for cuckolding my brother and hurting him so, but I mostly ceased years ago, thinking it emotion better spent on Lady Raisa than one he would not see again. Then it was you he brought home and the anger returned. And yet, I could not make it stick to you. It kept sliding off. Though you had the daughter to prove how ill you had treated my brother, the more I observed you, the more I found myself well disposed and thought you might make Lothaire happy if you would but remain faithful. But when I saw you with Angus—flirting with him…” At Laura’s gasp, she held up a hand. “I accept ’twas not your intention, but at the time I felt betrayed. And I wanted to punish you for fooling me.”
“Punish me?”
“Your wedding gown. It was not the dog. Nor was it Lady Raisa as I hoped you would suspect were you unconvinced Tomas was the ruin of it.”
“You burned it?” Lothaire said sharply.
Her eyes swept to him. “I had no choice.”
He breathed deep, managed one word. “Why?”
“When it was so perfectly stitched and embellished it was certain not to be worn until the wedding day, I rubbed foxglove over the bodice’s lining.” She returned her gaze to Laura. “I wished you to be terribly uncomfortable on the day you wed, not only as retribution for cuckolding my brother but that it serve as a reminder of the vows you spoke when next you thought to betray him. But in undoing the pearls and beads, you touched that tainted fabric ere you should have.”
Laura studied her hands. Though they no longer evidenced affliction, she surely recalled the pain and likely wondered how much worse it would have felt upon her chest and abdomen. “The physician believed it was in the garden I came into contact with foxglove.”
Sebille’s shoulders sank further. “I am ashamed to say it, but I was pleased by what I wrought, that it was no mere itch or discomfort you suffered. And further pleased knowing the shame the physician would impart, since he oft diagnoses rashes as sexual disease ungodly women inflict upon men. But when I realized the gown would be suspect were you further afflicted, I knew I must burn it and find another means of ruining your wedding night.”
Lothaire ground his teeth.
His wife drew a deep breath. “I do not understand how you could have set the fire, Lady Sebille. Shortly after I entered the hall, you came from the high table.”
Lothaire’s sister nodded. “From your window, I watched for your return to the donjon. When you appeared in the bailey, I tipped the chair, draped the gown over the brazier, and slipped belowstairs. You were so occupied you did not see me. Thus, I made it appear I approached from the dais. So you would think that mangy dog responsible—or Lady Raisa—I soon withdrew abovestairs to raise the alarm ere the fire got out of control.”
Laura nodded slowly. “You say you meant to find another means of ruining my wedding night.”
“I did, but unbeknownst to Sir Angus, he persuaded me to leave you be. The day ere your wedding, I accused him of pursuing you.”
In the garden, Lothaire realized, recalling the conversation to which he had been privy.
“He claimed never would he betray my brother, but were he so foul to do so, you would not want him—that one had only to see how you gazed upon him to know ’tis with love. Though I feared he was as fooled as I thought myself, for Lothaire’s sake I longed for him to be right. But at the shearing supper…”
“What of it, Sebille?” Lothaire asked.
“I saw her slip away, and thinking she went to a lover, determined she had only herself to blame did she encounter the men sent to threaten the stores at Thistle Cross.” She turned back to Laura. “When I learned ’twas Lothaire you were to meet, I thought I would die. Sir Angus was proven right, my plans exposed you to danger, and more, my brother might soon find himself in the path of those men.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, as I am for frightening your daughter. I like her for how fond she is of my brother and how hard she tries to please him. Indeed, she reminds me of my younger self.”
This Lothaire remembered—how hard Sebille the girl had tried to please the woman who no longer believed her worthy of worship.
“We have much in common—born outside of marriage, longing for a father, seeking a mother’s love. I was nine when I lost all. She is nine when what is lost might yet be found.” She bit her lip. “I did not mean her harm, but when she screamed I was confused and needed time to determine how to mend what was broken. I so ached to keep hold of my brother’s affection as ’tis all the love I have. Do I still, Lothaire?”
“Ever you shall, Sebille. Naught can change that.”
She gave a little sob, drew his hand to her mouth, and kissed his knuckles.
Lothaire pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. “How I wish you had told me this years ago. Did you think I would no longer care for you?”
She gulped. “I knew only that I was dirty, as Lady Raisa made me feel from the moment she rejected the daughter she had loved.”
He tipped up her face, and just as he had assured Laura at the lake, said, “You were never dirty. You were wronged. Now tell me what I can do to help you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Father Atticus and I believe I would be content at the convent of Bairnwood Abbey. He tells the abbess who administered that place when our father left me there yet lives. She was very kind.” She lifted her prayer beads. “These were hers, but too long for a girl, so she cut the necklace and gave me half.”
He forced a smile. “That was kind of her. But are you certain you wish to leave your home?”
“Dear Lothaire, this has not been my home since Father took me away. Thus, I would return to where I was born and should have remained. All I ask is that you visit, and when I am better, bring your wife and children.”
“Of course,” he said, unashamed by how choked he sounded. “You shall be missed.”
She eased out of his hold. “I would leave on the morrow.”
“So soon?”
“I am glad it seems that to you, but ’tis a long time coming for me, and I prefer not to be here when Lady Raisa is put in the ground alongside our father. Though I shall pray my heart softens enough that one day I forgive her, I am not able to now. And ’tis hard to bear even the thought of her being nearer our father than I am.”
“As you will.”
She drew a sharp breath. “I have something that should ease your financial difficulties, allowing you to spend more time with your family.”