Lady Of Fire (28 page)

Silently, Alessandra conceded the woman was right. Were Lucien to share her bed, there would be no need for covers or fire.

“Shall I guess who occupies your mind?” Melissant asked.

Alessandra straightened from the hearth and moved toward the bed. “No one occupies my mind.”

Melissant drew up her knees and settled her chin on them. “No one but Lucien de Gautier.”

Alessandra nearly tripped over her toes. “Wh-what makes you think that?”

Her sister smiled knowingly. “A good guess, aye?”

Though Alessandra had been fairly open about their escape from Algiers and the events up until Lucien had rescued her from slavery, she had downplayed their relationship. What had revealed her?

Lowering herself to the mattress, she pulled the coverlet over her legs. “It is wrong of me, I know—improper, you English would say—but I cannot stop thinking about him.”

“You love him?”

Alessandra nodded, forgetting what Melissant had earlier told her of playing coy with men.

“And he you?”

“It seems not. Perhaps had I remained Alessandra, daughter of Jabbar, he might have come to love me, but I am Alessandra Breville, daughter of his enemy.”

Melissant looked to the bitten nails of her right hand. “Methinks father should offer you in marriage to keep the peace.”

Alessandra shook her head. “Lucien would refuse me as surely as he did you.”

“One does not know until one asks.”

“I know.” Wishing she had not been dissuaded from throwing another log on the fire, Alessandra dragged the coverlet around her shoulders and buried her nose in it.

A knock preceded Ethan’s entrance. Cheeks flushed, the boy thrust his head around the door. Beaming, he said, “A messenger has come from Falstaff.”

Alessandra sprang from the bed and rushed forward to pull the door wider. “He brings word of Lucien?”

Ethan frowned. “What did you say?” Though he was becoming accustomed to her accent, it bemused him when she spoke too fast.

“She asked if the messenger brings word of Falstaff’s lord, Lucien de Gautier,” Melissant interpreted.

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Nay, the message is that the De Gautiers shall attend the tourney.”

 
Alessandra gripped the door’s edge. She had not known James had issued them an invitation. What did Lucien’s acceptance mean? That he would overlook the loss of his lands, embrace peace?

“Does Mother know?” Melissant asked.

“Not yet. She is with the physician and will not allow any to enter her chamber until he is finished.”

Melissant grimaced. “She is being bled again?”

Ethan nodded.

Alessandra shuddered at mention of that repugnant thing English noblewomen did to attain a pale complexion. Melissant had described the procedure, admitting she had undergone it herself—and been sick for days thereafter. Now she opted for painting and powdering her face to achieve a similar look.

Alessandra thought both methods unsavory and refused Melissant’s offer to instruct her in applying paint and powder. She had always preferred her skin honey-colored, and now without sun, it was much too pale. Even Agnes’s taunts and Ethan’s teasing about her freckles would not make her give in to the bleaching Melissant suggested.

But though kohl for her eyes and rouge for her lips would suit her better, she hesitated to apply them, as she had not seen them worn by her stepmother or Melissant.

Ethan touched Alessandra’s arm. “It is not something you have eaten again, is it?”

“What? Oh, nay, Ethan. I am well.”

He shrugged and ran back down the corridor.

“Father says things meant to be are, and not meant to be are not,” Melissant said as she crossed toward Alessandra. “Mayhap you and Lucien de Gautier are meant to be.”

Alessandra wished to believe it, but she feared disappointment. Had the messenger carried a missive from Lucien to her, she might have chanced it, but it was as if he had completely forgotten her. “Nay, Lucien has made it clear he has no thought for me other than as a Breville.”

“We shall see.” Melissant pecked her on the cheek, stepped into the corridor, and tossed over her shoulder, “Do you not put another log on that fire, it will surely die.”

Arriving in the hall before the evening meal, Alessandra halted at the sight of Agnes and Melissant poring over journals she had only ever seen in the company of the steward.

Pale, appearing weakened by the bloodletting, Agnes flipped through the pages, muttered something, and pushed the journal in front of Melissant.

Sabine had said it was not uncommon for English noblewomen to be versed in household accounting, but Alessandra had given it little thought. Intrigued, she watched as mother and daughter discussed the entries.

“Figure these two.” Agnes tapped the top of the page.

Alessandra, who had a flair for calculating without need for quill and parchment, itched to know the numbers.

Quill in hand, Melissant wrote out the figures and, shortly, provided the answer. “Two hundred seventeen.”

Annoyance spotting Agnes's pale cheeks, she clipped, “Two hundred twenty-seven. Where is your head today, child?”

Melissant groaned. “Elsewhere. Why must I know the books? It is our steward’s duty.”

Agnes harrumphed. “As you will someday run your husband’s household, you must know the numbers the steward puts before you.”

“Why?”

“I have told you—so you will not be cheated. ’Tis your duty to your husband to keep an eye on all that is his. Did I not do it for your father, much would be lost to thieving.”

“Is it not duty enough to bear my husband’s children? Surely he can do this better than I. I detest numbers.”

Agnes looked ready to vent her anger, but the bit of color in her cheeks drained, and she lowered her head into her hands. “If I have to explain it one more time, I shall scream.”

Melissant placed a hand on her shoulder. “You let him take too much. Why do you not just use powder and paint?”

Agnes started to lift her head but quickly returned it to her hands. “I must needs look my best, else the memories that have gained strength with the coming of Catherine’s daughter will supplant me entirely.” As if pained, she rolled her head side to side. “What am I to do about Alessandra? What?”

Guilt gripped Alessandra—guilt that James’s memories could hurt so much and had grown with her arrival at Corburry, and guilt at not revealing her presence. It was a private moment, one that would never include her.

Hoping to withdraw without being seen, Alessandra turned and gasped when her foot bumped the table she had stood alongside.

“Alessandra!” Melissant called. “I did not see you there.”

Alessandra came back around, looked first to Agnes.

Though the woman did not look up, her heartfelt groan revealed her chagrin.

“I was just…” Alessandra raised her palms. “I did not mean to intrude.”

Melissant beckoned. “Come assist me with helping Mother to her chamber. She is not well.”

As Alessandra started forward, Agnes raised her head. A moment later, her body followed. Swaying, she narrowed her eyes on Alessandra. “I am no old lady to be cosseted and carried about.” Chin high, she came around the table on legs that made it appear she had imbibed too much, and walked past Alessandra.

When Alessandra was certain Agnes was far enough up the stairs she would not hear, she said, “I am sorry.”

Melissant sighed. “It is not your fault.” After stacking the journals, she came around the table and halted before Alessandra. “The only one to blame is whoever stole your mother away. Hopefully, one day he will be found out.”

Alessandra hoped it as well, for she would not have Lucien and his family forever burdened by suspicion.

“Unfortunately,” Melissant continued, “Mother has given me the task of overseeing supper preparations. Would you like to help?”

Another lesson in being an English noblewoman. At least it sounded more interesting than spinning wool or embroidery. “I would.”

Within moments of stepping into the cavernous kitchens, Alessandra knew she belonged. It was not the wonderful smells wafting from bubbling pots. It was not the joyous clatter of cooking utensils. Nor was it the laughter and chatter of cooks and kitchen maids. Though all these things made her feel welcome, it was the glorious heat that appealed to her every cold place. It was so intense, it raised a sweat on her brow and caused her clothes to cling—just like in Algiers when she had ventured to the rooftop at midday.

“It is wonderful,” Alessandra breathed. Having never entered a kitchen, it being considered beneath harem women, she was deeply curious.

Wandering from Melissant’s side, she leaned over a cook’s shoulder to peek into the pot he stirred. “What is it?” she asked.

He stepped aside to give her a closer look. “Spiced wine custard, milady. One of yer father’s favorites.”

And soon hers, Alessandra thought as she inhaled a breath of it. “How is it made?”

“Ye truly wish to know?”

“Of course.”

He handed her the spoon. “Taste it, then I’ll tell ye.”

Uncertain, Alessandra looked around. Across the room, Melissant stood with elbows on a huge block table at which two women kneaded dough. She winked, nodded for Alessandra to try the custard.

Alessandra dipped up a spoonful, blew on it, tasted. “It is delicious.” She returned the spoon to the cook. “Now tell, how is it made?”

“Ye warm good wine, cast yolk of eggs in it, and stir awhile, but let it not boil, milady. When ’tis thick, ye toss in sugar, saffron, salt, mace…” He frowned. “Ah, galingale, then flower of Canelle.”

Impressed, Alessandra thanked him and crossed to Melissant who now stood at a spit lined with roasting hares.

“More sauce,” Melissant instructed the man tending the meat. “It would not do for them to be dry.”

He reached for a bowl of honey-colored sauce.

“What do you think?” Melissant asked Alessandra.

“I like it. Had I known it was such an interesting place—and so very warm—I would have ventured here sooner.”

Face aglow from the heat, Melissant took Alessandra’s arm and drew her away. “What were the kitchens like in Algiers?”

“I do not know. I was not allowed within.”

“Why?”

“Food preparation was the duty of slaves, often overseen by the chief eunuch, but never the master’s wives or daughters.”

“Ah, heavenly! How I detest this hot, smelly place. But Mother says a wife must assure her husband’s food is good and plentiful.”

Alessandra tried to temper her smile. Of all things she had thus far encountered in England, she thought the kitchen among the best—and possibly household accounting. To test the steward’s numbers would be more enjoyable than what she had thus far learned of being an English lady. Of course, those things paled next to Lucien. More than anything, he made England appealing. Without him…

Shaking her head, she returned her attention to the busy kitchen.

At last, he had come. The other participants having arrived hours earlier, Alessandra had nearly given up hope Lucien would attend the tournament.

Though her first sight of him was from the window of her chamber, and he was too distant to make out his features, she knew him by the head and shoulders he sat above most others.

Despite of his loss of property, his was an impressive entourage, numbering twenty or more, all outfitted in gold splashed on red. Banners of the same colors fluttered in the stir created by the speed with which they approached Corburry’s walls.

Would he come to the keep this eve to dine with the others? Or would he stay in the encampment outside the walls?

“Lady, come back to your bath,” called Bernadette, Alessandra’s recently acquired maid.

“I will not catch chill,” Alessandra said as she followed Lucien’s advance.

“For certain, not in this chamber,” the twelve-year-old girl muttered.

Alessandra grinned. The temperature suited her, even with the draft from the window. It was heavenly to be without garments and to not feel the English cold.

“Come, milady, I must needs rinse the soap from your hair. There is much to do ere the banquet.”

Not until the walls stole Lucien from sight did Alessandra comply. However, as she drew alongside the wooden tub, she paused.

The water from which she had emerged upon hearing the thunder of hooves was murky gray. The English way of bathing was something she did not think she would ever grow accustomed to. Rather than sitting on stools, allowing filth to be scrubbed from one’s body before finishing with a dip in water, one soaked, bathed, and rinsed in the same fouled water.

But though forced to use a tub, there was one thing upon which she could not compromise—the frequency of her baths. Worse than their mode of bathing, the English more often used heavy perfumes to mask the scent of unwashed bodies.

Days earlier, when Alessandra had called for heated water, Agnes had refused to allow the servants to deliver it. Thus, Alessandra had fetched the water up the stairs herself. If not for James’s intervention, she might still be doing so. Regrettably, his interference had added fuel to Agnes’s fire.

“Come, come,” Bernadette urged. “I must rinse your hair.”

“I am not going back in the tub,” Alessandra said, then knelt beside it, leaned forward, and instructed the maid to pour what remained of the fresh water over her head.

After it was done with much grumbling, Alessandra stood, crossed to her dressing table, and lowered to the stool.

“Ah, milady, have you no modesty?” Bernadette dropped a robe over her mistress’s bare shoulders.

Alessandra looked around. “There is only you in this room with me.”

“Aye, but ’tis improper for you to wander about with nary a stitch of clothing.”

As Alessandra fit her arms into the robe’s sleeves, she humored herself by casting Bernadette in the role of serving girl in a bathhouse. It would terrorize the poor thing to see so many naked women.

With an adeptness that surprised Alessandra, Bernadette made quick work of pressing the moisture from her lady’s hair and arranging it in thick braids that she wound around Alessandra’s head like a coronet. It was a compromise, for Alessandra refused to don the weighty headdress Agnes had sent to her. She was not ashamed of her hair’s color and had no intention of hiding it beneath that contraption.