The Countess (16 page)

Eglantine was oddly convinced that he did know. Her breath caught in her throat and she wished she could see his eyes. But then she remembered the truth of it and turned away.

She was alone, as she was always alone, and her responsibilities were hers to resolve.

Alone.

Eglantine lifted the flap of the striped tent, one of a trio of silk tents her father had had made for her and her girls. A lump rose in her throat as she missed her father with sudden intensity. He had been so good with the girls, so instinctive in guessing the right course. He had been a better father than either of her spouses. She realized now that her father would have had no tolerance for Theobald, or that man's suggestions for Esmeraude.

Her father would have seen through Theobald's thin charm as she had not. Her father would not have made this mistake and further, his counsel would have saved Eglantine from making it and several more.

'Twas true that he had arranged her match with Robert but he had believed his decision best; especially given his happiness with her mother.

But he was gone, along with his uncompromising love, his protectiveness, his essential goodness. Eglantine reminded herself that she had been fortunate indeed to have such a man as her father. She smiled to herself, recalling how she had once foolishly believed that all men were like her father.

She could not have been more mistaken

But thinking upon it would not change the past.

Eglantine took a deep breath, lifted her chin and crossed the threshold. The pair within the tent had just finished the toddler's bath and Esmeraude looked like a mischievous imp in the warm light. Her damp curls were stuck to her brow and she was playing with Célie. In other circumstances, Eglantine might have smiled at her babe's antics.

But not this night.

“Esmeraude,” she said quietly and stepped into the golden circle cast by the single oil lantern in the tent. Both maid and child looked up, Esmeraude's giggles fading abruptly. The toddler stared at her with obvious trepidation.

Eglantine's heart contracted that her own child should fear her. Only now she appreciated how simple matters had been with Jacqueline, how readily the bond between they two had been established. She had never had to fight for her child's affection before.

She only hoped she would proceed aright. All her conviction that she could be Esmeraude's rock ebbed away before the toddler's suspicious expression and a lump rose in her throat.

Eglantine lifted the cup she carried before the child could cry. “I have brought your milk, Esmeraude, and 'tis warm.”

Esmeraude reached for the cup with chubby fingers. Though the goat milk did not offer the comfort of her nursemaid's breast, she was coming to see it as the closest substitute. Indeed, she had had little choice.

“Give it now.”

At least she wanted the milk. “Nay, Esmeraude.” Eglantine deliberately kept her voice low and even. “I shall hold the cup for you. Come sit upon my knee.”

Esmeraude's face crumpled and Eglantine's heart hammered as she hastened on, hating how her words became tinged with urgency. She sounded desperate to her own ears. “I know you miss your papa, Esmeraude, but he will not return. 'Tis not an easy fact, but 'tis the truth.” Eglantine stepped closer, her knuckles white where she gripped the cup. “'Twill not change with your tears, Esmeraude.”

The way the child shrank away from Eglantine offered no encouragement, but she could not lose this encounter.

“I understand, Esmeraude, that you are frightened, but I will not hurt you. I swear it to you.” Eglantine smiled, though it nigh killed her to appear so tranquil when so much was at stake. “'Tis your choice alone.”

Esmeraude eyed her for a long moment, her grip fast upon the maid. “Célie bring milk,” she tried once more, though her voice held less conviction.

“Nay,” Eglantine argued gently. “
Maman
brings milk from this night forth.” She curved her hand around the cup and arched a brow. “And indeed, it grows cold.”

Esmeraude huffed. Her mouth worked silently as she watched Eglantine. Clearly, she gauged the potential value of crying. Something in Eglantine's regard must have dissuaded her, for she reached again with that hand.

“Milk now!”

Eglantine shook her head. She seated herself upon her own bed and patted her lap. “Of course you can have the milk now. You have but to come here.”

Esmeraude's brows knotted and she clung to the maid's hand. “Célie,” she insisted. Aye, the maid had become the one issue of certainty in her life, but 'twas not a role that should be filled by a maid. Though Eglantine appreciated all the girl had done, she could stand aside no longer.

She was Esmeraude's mother. Though Theobald had done his best to undermine that fact, he was dead and she would do what she knew was right.

“Of course Célie will remain,” Eglantine promised softly. She smiled for the child. “Come for your milk. There is no reason why you cannot hold Célie's hand while you drink it.”

She held Esmeraude's gaze for an endless moment, certain she would burst if she did not take a breath, but terrified to move and frighten the toddler.

Abruptly, Esmeraude chose to cross the floor. How like her to suddenly make up her mind, then plunge ahead with no regrets or second thoughts! She paused before Eglantine and eyed her anew, too serious for a child.

“Up,” Esmeraude commanded imperiously, as though all the world existed to do her bidding, and lifted her arms to the hovering maid.

Eglantine drew a shaking breath of relief and the women exchanged a glance. Eglantine indicated the full cup of milk. “Célie, if you would lift Esmeraude I should appreciate it.”

The maid smiled and hefted Esmeraude in her arms. She kissed the toddler on the tip of her nose, making Esmeraude giggle and wipe at the embrace. Then she placed the child in Eglantine's lap, the affection between them making Eglantine all the more aware of what she had sacrificed.

Then the weight of Esmeraude was upon her thighs and the sweet smell of a clean little one made Eglantine smile. It had been so long since she had cradled Jacqueline thus! She longed to cuddle Esmeraude close, but knew that right would have to be earned.

Indeed, Esmeraude was reluctant, her posture stiff and her expression wary. She sat away from Eglantine, minimizing the contact between them. The milk proved to be a far more powerful lure than Eglantine had realized. The toddler reached for the cup, locked her hands around it and promptly bumped her upper lip against the rim.

Her tears welled and she began to cry, though she would not suffer the cup to be taken away. She fussed, her face reddening as the tears flowed.

Eglantine soothed her with wordless cooing, the sound coming to her lips of old habit. She rocked the toddler and shared another glance with Célie. “Esmeraude is tired this night.”

“She wants the milk, but cannot manage the cup well as yet,” Célie confided. “This one loved the breast too well.”

“Ah, so did her sister Jacqueline,” Eglantine said.

Esmeraude let herself be soothed, clearly too upset to realize who 'twas who cradled her close. When she did, her eyes widened in dismay.

“Did I not promise not to hurt you?” Eglantine asked, winning a cautious nod from her daughter. “Then let me aid you, Esmeraude. Let me show you a trick that Jacqueline used when she first took the cup.”

Esmeraude snuffled. “Jacqueline is big.”

“Aye, now she is a young woman, but once she was a little girl, just like you.” Eglantine smiled. “And she loved both milk and breast as much as you do. Each night, I held the cup for her, too.” She patted her upper arm. “If you lean back here, I will aid you. 'Twill work, you will see, just as it worked for Jacqueline.”

Esmeraude looked to Célie, who nodded. “Your
maman
knows.”

The toddler wriggled backward, settling herself uncertainly against Eglantine's arm. Eglantine pretended she did not note her daughter's wariness, and curled her arm around Esmeraude.

Eglantine smiled at her. “Ease back just thus, aye, there 'tis. Now, you hold the cup and I shall steady it. 'Tis still warm.” She ensured there was no bump against the lip this time and felt Esmeraude sag in relief as the warm milk crossed her lips. Eglantine forced her own posture to be at ease, knowing that the child would sense her tension.

Esmeraude sipped, her blue eyes bright as she studied her mother. After a long draw of milk, she pulled slightly back from the cup. “Tell a Papa story,” she demanded.

Eglantine looked to the maid in confusion.

“My lord Theobald used to tell her tales while she nursed.”

Eglantine blinked. A tale? She was no storyteller, that much was certain. Indeed, she seldom remembered fanciful tales, though she enjoyed listening to them. She knew but one, the one she was living.

'Twould have to do.

Eglantine settled back on her pallet. “Once upon a time, there was a very pretty demoiselle, who had two older sisters.”

“Esmeraude,” the toddler insisted, nestling closer. She sipped the milk diligently, her gaze fixed intently on her mother.

Eglantine smiled. “Aye, her name was Esmeraude. How did you guess as much?”

Esmeraude chortled, blowing a few bubbles in her milk. “Tell it!” Her fingers caught Eglantine's hair and she stared at the lock of blond hair for a long moment before resolutely closing her fist around it.

'Twas a start. “Well, this Esmeraude also had a
maman
and a papa...”

“And they lived in a castle.”

“Who tells this tale?” Eglantine asked with mock indignation, as Theobald might have done at his most charming. Esmeraude giggled again, looking unrepentant. “Indeed, you seem to know all of the tale already.”

When Eglantine related a tale about the pretty demoiselle Esmeraude who lost her beloved father at a young age but went on to find happiness in life and win the heart of a valiant knight, she felt her daughter snuggle more closely in her arms.

As Eglantine concluded her tale she tickled her daughter's chin and asked, “Do you know the ending?”

Esmeraude smiled proudly. “They lived happily ever after.”

“Aye, they did.” Eglantine bent and kissed her daughter's brow, using the ending her mother had always given to a tale. “And if I am not mistaken, they are happy together still.”

“And he was never a toad,” Esmeraude added as her own embellishment, the reminder of Duncan's tale making Célie laugh aloud.

“Would you not wed a toad?”

“Nay, not me!”

“Or kiss him?”

Esmeraude made a face, then dimpled as they laughed together. Oh, this was a rare gift! Eglantine eyed her happy daughter and could not believe she had made such progress already.

But victory was to be short-lived. The toddler poked Eglantine, her expression a quelling one.

“Another story,” she insisted, and Eglantine's worries returned.

“But I do not know another story.” Fear clutched her heart. Would she lose what progress had been made?

“A song.” Esmeraude nodded at her own suggestion.

Eglantine grimaced, her gaze flying to Célie. “I cannot believe, Esmeraude, that any song that might pass my lips would please you.” She met her daughter's gaze steadily. “I cannot sing, child, and if I tried, 'twould pain us all.”

Esmeraude sucked her thumb as she regarded her mother. She patted Eglantine's breast, as though just discovering it, and her eyes widened hopefully. “Milk?” she asked around her thumb, and Eglantine hated that she could not offer that either.

Just when matters had been proceeding so well. There was no chance of milk filling her breast, nor of another tale appearing in her practical thoughts. If only she had the gift of song!

But before Eglantine could reply, a familiar male voice began to hum. 'Twas Duncan, she knew it well, and he was not far away. Eglantine frowned, for he must have entered the camp to have come so very close.

The cheek of him! His very proximity made her tingle in a most unwelcome way. Was he close enough to have heard her tale? Eglantine did not doubt it.

Then he began to sing softly, the words obviously Gael as they were incomprehensible to Eglantine. But the tune was familiar. 'Twas the ballad he had sung before and 'twas clear he meant to sing it again.

For her child. Eglantine sagged in relief. She could not imagine what Duncan's motivation for this gift must be, but as much as she would prefer to avoid him, she would have to see him thanked.

Her cheeks heated with a sudden certainty of what a man like Duncan would demand in trade.

His voice grew louder, the melody filling their ears, the words wrapping around their hearts. 'Twas an achingly beautiful tune, sung by a man with an achingly beautiful voice.

Eglantine wondered what 'twas about. Again she noted the yearning in Duncan's voice that could not be ignored. Did he sing for a child? A lost child? A lost love?

Did he yearn for a woman compelled to wed another?

The very idea made a lump rise in Eglantine's throat. Had Duncan found and lost a great love? He was not a man who would take such a loss in stride, she would guess, and she wondered if that lay at the root of his determination to woo the woman of his choice.

She would not speculate on how well Duncan might woo a woman.

But she would savor this gift. Eglantine and Célie rearranged the pillows on Eglantine's pallet. She leaned back, Esmeraude cradled against her chest, the toddler sucking less diligently on that thumb as her eyelids drooped. The maid snuffed the lantern and curled on her own pallet as Esmeraude's eyes closed.

Eglantine's heart skipped as Duncan's voice rose and fell, like the rhythm of the sea, his song spinning a colorful tapestry that enfolded Eglantine and her child.

Her child feared her no longer, at least on this night. Eglantine held Esmeraude close, treasuring the child's warmth.