Betrothed (8 page)

Air
whooshed from Isabeau as she grappled with the insulting question.

“Syllba!”
she exclaimed in indignation.

“No? 
Did you just go to him with all of your pitiful little tales of woe?” Syllba
moved menacingly closer. “Why did he return to the manor today?  He was to
be gone for hours on his tour with Porter.”

Isabeau
shook her head. “I told him nothing. I’ve no notion of why he returned, nor why
he left so soon after.”

Syllba
stared at her through narrowed cold blue eyes. “Don’t you?” She tilted her head
in consideration. “Mayhap not. You might be book smart, even know how to tally
a column of numbers, but about some things—you are a decidedly stupid woman.”

“I
have given you no cause to be insulting.” The unexpected verbal attack flamed
Isabeau’s slowing rising anger. She had endured quite enough. “I have kept the
house of Olivet running in good order. I have done all that was ordered of me
and more. I am neither stupid nor do I carry tales. I have never understood
your contempt of me. I have never tried to usurp your place but only to see to
your comfort.”

Syllba
only stared before tossing her head back in surprise. “Oh, but how amazing the
transformation. Without even the betrothal vows exchanged.
already
the meek little kitten has changed into a wild cat with claws, no less. What a
grand lady you will be when you are a countess. You will preen and prance and
scratch with the best bitches of the high court. How long before you will be
spreading your legs for more comely men than the scarred beast who will be
coming to your bed on your wedding night?”

Isabeau
sucked in her breath in disgust. “I would never…”

“Oh,
you will.” Syllba’s smirk held an avaricious quality that sickened Isabeau.
“You will need the respite from the ugly visage grunting over you in the dark
of night. Marta shared all of her laments and the toils she was forced to
endure as countess to Donovan d’Allyonshire. Had we known what the future was
to bring, we would have invited you to share our—tête-à-têtes. You would have
found that most edifying—and we, well, we may have found it most enjoyable.”
Syllba’s laugh cut through the air like jagged glass. “Hindsight—most
enjoyable.”

Isabeau
shivered. She knew Syllba was double talking but she had no clue as to the
deeper meaning—and no desire to decipher through the muck. Escape became her
primary concern. Even if she had to leave behind her precious keepsakes.

She
made to step around Syllba but her sister-in-law’s hand snaked out and clasped
the soft part of her upper arm. Isabeau cried out as she felt Syllba’s sharp
nails pierce her skin—through her sleeve yet. She made a futile attempt to
disengage the grasp when the door opened without warning.

Syllba
slowly turned to the two men entering the gallery before just as slowly
releasing her hold.

“Begging
your pardon, milady.” Carstairs cleared his throat as he motioned Porter to
enter.

Isabeau
covered the ache of her arm with her other hand. “What is it, Carstairs? 
Is my hour up already?”

Carstairs
gently smiled at her. She had the feeling he missed very little. “Nay, milady.
You’ve a half an hour yet before you must present yourself at the chapel. If
you would point out your treasures we will see them secured in the wagon.”

“Thank
you.” Isabeau uncomfortably glanced back at Syllba before indicating the two
pictures and then pulling a few more volumes from the shelves to the small pile
she had begun before Syllba’s arrival. Isabeau made her selections quickly
though she hated to leave behind any of the precious tomes.

Carstairs
merely nodded when she indicated the task completed. He turned to Isabeau’s
smirking sister-in-law. “And now, Lady Syllba, I have a list of jewels from
Lady Isabeau’s dowry which you have kept for safe-keeping. The earl is now
relieving you of—the responsibility.”

“What?”
Syllba shook with her outrage.

“Some
of those items have already been secured from your chambers,” Carstairs continued
calmly as if not interrupted.

“My
chamber!” Syllba screeched. “How dare you think to put your filthy paws on my
things?”

“The
last few seem to be on your person,” he continued.

Syllba
went into a rant, her fingers curling as she swiped at Carstairs. He handled
the attack by simply grabbing the swinging arm and smoothly forcing Syllba into
a nearby chair.

“Do
you need assistance removing them, milady?”

Isabeau
snapped her mouth shut when Carstairs winked at her over Syllba’s still raving
head.

“Get
your whoreson paws off of me,” Syllba hissed.

“Are
you calm enough, milady?”

“Yes-s-s.”

“Very
well.” Carstairs released his grip and wisely took a step back. “The choker,
the broach and the chain and crucifix at your girdle are part of Lady Isabeau’s
dowry. If you would be so kind as to give them to my custody, I will see that
the earl secures them.”

Isabeau
sucked in her breath in surprise. Even though she had worn a couple of the
pieces when her father lived, she had had no idea they were to be hers. Simon
had simply confiscated all of the jewels as well as other things he considered
of value after her father’s funeral.

Syllba
possessively covered the broach before she began to sputter. Any semblance of
calm vanished. “You must be under a misapprehension. These were all wedding
gifts from my husband.”

Carstairs
shook his head with regret. “I am afraid not, milady. Lord Simon was never in a
position to gift them to anyone. They have been part of Lady Isabeau’s dowry
from the date of her birth.”

Slowly,
with shaking fingers, Syllba began to unclasp the broach. Isabeau’s stomach
twisted with her sister-in-law’s embarrassment. She knew personally, the
emptiness of losing beloved tokens to the hand of Simon.   

 Syllba
made to hand the bauble to Carstairs. He made a lightning move and avoided the
vicious jab she directed at his outstretched palm. Carstairs said nothing but
gripped her wrist in a tight hold while he relieved her of the pin with the
other hand.

“Do
you need any more help, milady?”

There
was a bite to his words and Isabeau wondered how tightly he clenched her wrist
when Syllba only shook her head in submission.

Syllba
mustered a smidgen of control as she relinquished the last two bits and pieces.
As Carstairs thanked her for her cooperation, Syllba stared at Isabeau over his
shoulder.

The
expression of hatred blazing in those iced blue eyes froze any remaining
sympathy Isabeau might have harbored for the other woman. Syllba had no use for
any of the gentler emotions.

As
Carstairs stepped back to hand the pieces over to Porter, Syllba hissed for
Isabeau alone. “You will pay dearly for each indignity. Wear them well for you
won’t enjoy them long.”

“Did
you say something, milady?”

Syllba
exaggeratedly fanned her face with her long fingers. “I am unwell. I must
retire to my chambers.”

“As
you will.” Carstairs stepped back, clearing a path to the open door, but he
made no offer of assistance as Syllba made her exit. He turned to Isabeau when
she was out of sight. “Are you sure this is all you wish to take?”

Isabeau
nodded distractedly. She wondered if any color remained in her cheeks. She
would have rather endured another of Simon’s beatings than the drama which had
just occurred. “Even though Simon has no appreciation for such things, I can
hardly take all of Father’s books.”

She
literally shook herself before she turned to Porter. “I must see to the
kitchens and speak to the housekeeper before I leave.”

Porter
reached out and gave a couple of reassuring pats on her shoulder. “All will be
well, milady. You see if it won’t. My lord has already promised to look out for
us all. A man of his word, he is.”

Carstairs
nodded. “That he is. Now, you had best be getting ready for the chapel.
 My lord appreciates punctuality.”

Isabeau
raced back to her chamber. She discovered Blanche had already laid out a gown
suitable for travel. She had chosen one from Isabeau’s meager wardrobe that was
quite appropriate for a visit to the altar in Olivet’s chapel if not for
Bennington’s stature. Already, Isabeau had cause to regret the earlier
destruction of her amber satin gown. She could have worn the garment at the
ducal castle with pride.

She
shook her head and pulled the outer dress over her head.
No use crying over
spilt
honey; at least, the ants would not starve.

On
the way to the chapel, she stopped in the kitchens to dispense final
instructions and issue farewell hugs. Smiles mixed with tears greeted her. She
tried to ignore the glints of fear reflected in a few eyes. She could do
nothing to ease their anxiety. Afraid she would burst into tears of her own,
she rushed to the chapel.

Even
with her detours, she was the first to arrive. She sighed in relief and
absorbed the serenity of the holy sanctuary as she took her place on the family
pew. She dropped to her knees on the prayer cushion and of habit, offered up a
litany of prayers. Then for good measure, she added a list of her own.

She
genuflected, kissed her simple gold crucifix, and returned it safely under her
neckline when the earl’s deep voice washed over her.

“Will
you grieve for the convent?”

Isabeau
grabbed the wooden railing for balance as she stood. “My lord?”

“Only
yesterday, you were bound for the convent. Will you regret making vows to a man
and not to Christ?”

Isabeau
licked her lips.

Why do I suddenly feel like I am traveling a cliff’s edge?
 

“Only
God knows if I am now on His chosen path for me. I hope to do His will no
matter the road I take. I promise to work as hard at being a good countess to
your people as I would have served within the walls of the Sisters of Saint
Ignatius.”

“I
guess we will all see the veracity of your promises,” Donovan commented
quietly. “The priest is here to witness your signature to the betrothal
contract as well as your avowal that you sign without duress.”

He
held out his hand to guide her to the altar. Before Father Fredrich could begin
the ritual, Carstairs entered and cleared his throat.

“Begging
your pardon, my lord -- Father...”

The
earl turned to his lieutenant almost eagerly. “What is it?  The good Father
has not gotten to that part of his speech as of yet.”

Carstairs
widened his mouth in a big mischievous grin. “No objections, my lord. Only
felicitations. A few people would like to witness your betrothal vows. May they
enter?”

The
earl sighed. “Beg them join us.”

Carstairs
threw open the double doors, gave a swooping wave and bellowed, “Donovan
d’Allyonshire, Earl of Bennington, begs your presence at his betrothal to the
Lady Isabeau d’Olivet.”

The
people of Olivet swarmed in through the doors three at a time. In minutes, the
chapel filled to capacity with more pressing to get into the sanctuary. The
rush of enthusiastic well-wishers overwhelmed Isabeau. Her eyes began to burn
with tears.

She
would miss these people who had shared her childhood and shared her grief when
she had lost her mother and then her father. Over the years they had weathered
harsh winters, droughts and fevers. Together they had triumphed over enemies
and celebrated abundant harvests.  

Soundlessly,
she thanked them before turning back to the altar. Bemusement twisted a mild
grimace on the earl’s mouth but it was her concern about the light in Father
Fredrich’s eyes which dried her tears. She recognized his expression.

The
priest was hastily reformulating his simple service. She could read it on his
face as his mouth silently rehearsed the sermon he would soon trumpet over the
filled pews. He had a large portion of his flock as a willing captive audience
and he was going to take advantage of the unexpected blessing.

Isabeau
shook her head and warned in a whisper, “His Lordship wishes to be on the road
before the Compline bells. Keep his wishes in mind.”

Father
Fredrich’s mouth thinned and he huffed out his disappointment. He didn’t scold her
in front of the earl for her audacity as he would have under normal
circumstances. She was grateful for his restrain; also his restraint in the
length of the ceremony and the sermon he couldn’t quite surrender. Thankfully,
he only took three minutes to remind the people of Olivet to frequently attend
more Masses.

Before
she truly realized what at happened, she was being led down the center aisle
through the throng of well-wishers, her betrothed’s firm hand at her elbow. She
wanted to dig in her heels and protest the speed of events. She needed time to
think—to accustom her wits to this new path.

There
was no gainsaying her betrothed as they left the chapel and he led her to his
men—ready and waiting in the bailey. She was signed, sealed and delivered. Her
betrothed was lifting her into Meadowlark’s side saddle when she finally found
her voice.