Red’s mouth tightened. I thought, how little they know him, his own family. Even I understand him better. He cannot be pushed like this.

“It is my household, and my decision,” he said. “If Elaine is seeking companionship, let her visit us at Harrowfield. For her, there is always a welcome here. But the other—I will not consider it. And now, this conversation is finished.” He walked over to Lady Anne and kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, Mother.” He looked at Richard, who was leaning on the mantel again, his eyes hooded by their lids, the quirk of his mouth mischievous, dangerous. “You’ll be making an early start tomorrow, I’ve no doubt,” said Red. “We’ll provide an escort as far as the bridge.”

Richard lifted his brows. “Seeing me off? Thank you so much. I’ll be sure and let Elaine know you’d like her to pay you a call. Let her see for herself how things are here. Of course, she must take charge of Northwoods in my absence. But I can spare her for a few days. For naturally the wedding will be held here. This will give her a good opportunity to plan the festivities. May Day, Anne and I thought, would be most appropriate. No need to wait until midsummer. This time my campaign will be swift and deadly. I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

Chapter Ten

Then followed what I looked back on later as the last good time at Harrowfield. Richard was gone, and spring burst on the valley as if celebrating his departure. My little garden bloomed with brave crocus and tiny pale daffodils and fragrant herbs. The sun warmed the stone walls and the old terrier stretched her stiff limbs and ventured out to explore under the blossoming lilacs. I took to rising early and walking forth while the air was crisp and the day new. This way, I could almost imagine I was back home at Sevenwaters, and that everything was all right again. Almost. As often as not, I would walk to the orchard with its lichen-covered walls to find Red already there, cloak over his shoulders against the cold, ink pot on the bench beside him, quill gripped somewhat awkwardly in his large hand. Sometimes I would sit there for a while, and he would give me a grave nod of acknowledgment, and go on with his work.

It was clear to me that what he made with such care was some kind of record of the estate, where purchases and profits were marked down methodically year by year. And yet, I could see it was more, for I glimpsed intricate diagrams that seemed to show the layers beneath the soil, and the different roots of plants, and the way the rain fell and nourished them; and here and there a tiny representation of tree or leaf or flower, done with a delicate control. This was the man whose uncle chided him for playing peasants; whose hands were so big mine were swallowed up by them. I liked sitting there quietly with my back against the smooth stones of the wall, watching him work. It came to me how much easier such a task would be if he knew how to write. I began to realize what a rare gift we had been given, I and my brothers, when Father Brien chose to share his skill with us. For it had become plain that there were none at Harrowfield, save the household scribe, with the ability to set down letters and to decipher them. And the scribe himself seemed to struggle when asked to make out a message of any complexity. Had matters been different, I could have offered to help. That would have raised a few eyebrows.