Chapter Eleven
She would not, Becca told herself firmly, marry Sir Jennet. It was not the first time this afternoon that she had assured herself of this, and she had a sinking feeling that it was not nearly the last.
Despite her strength of purpose undergoing periodic wiltings, she was steadfast in her decision. Even should she discount Altimere's parlor trick with the wine cup—and a wise woman did discount magic—even then, she could not discount the bracelet of bruises around her left wrist or the angry man who had all but dragged her from the dance floor, to fling her into a chair, and—No. She would not marry him.
She had, however, wronged him; which she had freely admitted to Mother last night—or, rather, early this morning—as the two of them sat tete-a-tete in the elder lady's dressing room.
"Your indiscretion angered Sir Jennet very much," her mother said, inspecting the bruises circling Becca's wrist. "That may be a reminder to you, my love, to behave with the good sense and circumspection you have labored so long to achieve." She shook her head. "You must apologize to Sir Jennet. Yes—I know he hurt you. That was ill-done of him. But the first fault was yours, Becca. He would have had no cause to be angry if you had behaved as you know you had ought."
Becca had hesitated, the vision in the wine cup still strong in her mind. Almost, she spoke—but her mother had leaned forward at that moment and clasped her hand.
"Promise me, Becca!" she said earnestly, tears standing in her blue eyes.
And so Becca had promised.
Her father, on the other hand, had not bothered with promises, but had descended immediately to orders, leavened with sarcasm.
"A fine way to treat your affianced husband. By all means, show that world that you are still the wild, abandoned piece of baggage that should have broken her neck in that accident and saved us all pain and grief!" He had shouted.
"Now, miss," he'd continued after a pause to see if Becca would cry. "Sir Jennet has asked to speak with you alone this morning. I have given my permission. You will await him in the ladies' parlor and you will be meek and mild. You will apologize and make whatever amends Sir Jennet deems appropriate." He paused, staring at her hard.
"Whatever amends he deems appropriate, Rebecca, am I plain?"
"Yes, Father," she said quietly. "You are quite plain."
"Excellent. I suggest you go now and wait for him to come to you."
She curtsied, turned—
"Rebecca."
She turned back. "Father?"
"If Sir Jennet calls off the marriage, I will remand you to the Wanderer's Village," he said coldly. "I cannot have you disrupting my household any longer."
Becca took a deep breath, made another curtsy—and left.
It had been several hours since that interview. Becca sat behind her embroidery frame, alone in the ladies' parlor. Cook had twice come in to give her tea, and to leave a plate of biscuits. The tea was strong, and it was the reason she was slightly . . . less dull than she might be, with a dance, and an hour's sleep in her immediate past.
"I will not," she whispered to her embroidery, "marry Sir Jennet."
The threat of banishment to a Wanderer's Village—that was frightening. Still, she might yet escape to Sonet, and Dickon had said he would—
The door opened, loudly. Becca started, and rose as Sir Jennet strode into the room.
She bumped the embroidery frame as she did so. It wobbled crazily; she snatched at it with her good hand, missed—and the whole went crashing down, silks and needles dashing across the floor in tangled confusion.
Sir Jennet looked down at the minor disaster, then back to Becca, a frown on his ruddy face.
"You were scarcely so clumsy on the dance floor," he remarked, and it came to her with a slight shock that he was angrier now than he had been last night.
"Dare I hope to receive an apology for last evening's outrageous and immodest behavior, madam?" Jennet continued, his voice hot and hard.
Becca felt a flicker of temper, and took a breath to still it. You did wrong, she reminded herself, and hurt his pride. For that, he is indeed owed an apology.
"Indeed, sir," she murmured, dropping into the slight curtsy that was the most her one-handed state allowed. "I am very sorry to have distressed you, especially after you were so kind as to offer to sit with me."
There came from Sir Jennet, not a bow accepting this olive branch, but a glare, and a silence so heavy Becca feared it might crush him.
"Is that," he said finally, "what you consider to be an apology, madam? How differently we judge your crime!"
"Crime, sir?" Becca felt her cheeks heat. "Is it a crime in the Corlands to dance at a dance? For I assure you that it is not here!"
"To mock one's husband in public is certainly a crime; and women have been placed in the stocks in the marketplace for less cause than you gave me last night!" His face was darkening toward purple.
"To characterize dancing with one as mocking another, sir—"
"An entire set!" he roared, overriding and shocking her. "Your father assured me that the incident which crippled you had broken you of any further desire for wanton and abandoned behavior! I see that what he characterized as an acceptance of proper female modesty was merely a lack of opportunity. Let one pretty man come into your orbit and you immediately throw over every propriety, with no thought of what hurt you may do to those who are responsible for you—and show no remorse, even after your error has been taught to you!"
"Re—" Her voice failed.
Perhaps Sir Jennet took her silence for a sudden understanding of her so-called crime, for his face softened somewhat, and he inclined his head.
"Just so. Come, madam. Soon you will be my wife, and removed to a strange land. It will profit you to be my friend, and not anger me. Make amends, sweetly, as I know you can, and let us begin again."
She stared, seeing—not him, not the ladies' parlor and the bright spill of embroidery across the sun-drenched floor, but long dank hallways, and a room so cold her bones ached with the thought of it.
If I die, she thought, very clearly and calmly. If I die up there, of cold and neglect, he will have my portion. It is that which he wants, not me. No one will rescue me, not Dickon, nor even Irene. What woman needs rescue from her husband?
To place yourself wholly in his hands, Altimere spoke from memory—it is a bold act. But is it a wise one?
No, she thought, panic rising. Not wise at all. Nor was it wise to anger him again—and already his face was beginning to darken.
Becca dropped into the lowest curtsy she was capable of sustaining, head bowed modestly.
"Sir Jennet, I do apologize most humbly for my folly of last evening," she said, her voice chaste and soft. "Of course I cannot wish to anger you, or to harm you in any way."
Sharp scythe, she thought, staring down at the floor, let that be sufficient.
The silence grew, then he moved, his heels hitting the floor hard, and his boots came into her line of vision. He reached out and raised her. When she lifted her eyes to his face, he smiled.
"There, then," he said, jovially, all trace of his former anger vanished. "I knew a firm hand was all you needed. We'll get along famously, you and I. And you will never mock me again, will you, Rebecca?"
She glanced aside, hoping he would take it for maidenly modesty.
"No, sir," she whispered, and swore in her heart that it was true.
"Good—indeed, excellent! Then I know that you will be pleased to know that your father and I have agreed that it will benefit no one to put off our marriage until Midland's harvest. I am here, now. There is no need for me to make a second lengthy journey just as winter is setting in. He has today written to the Governors' Counsel, requesting a special license." Jennet smiled, and Becca felt her blood freeze in her veins.
"We shall be married and on our way home to the Corlands before the week is out!"
They would not tell him how long he had slept—or perhaps the one who attended his awakening simply did not know.
He bore scars, livid against his brown skin, which argued for a slumber of some uncommon while. The wounds he had borne were terrible, and in his lucid moments he had not expected to survive them. That he had done so was well, however, for duty lay before him.
They brought him clothes, the leather leggings and vest of a Wood Wise, and good, sturdy boots, which was also well. They gave him a belt, but neither knife nor bow, from which he deduced that one with more insight into his case than his present attendant would soon wish to speak with him. Those who were newly wakened were sometimes confused in their minds. Naturally, one would not wish to arm such, for fear that they might do themselves a hurt.
He was in no danger of doing himself a hurt—but no matter. They would learn so, soon enough.
He dressed himself deliberately, covering the scars with clothing, stamping into his boots. The belt he considered, frowning, for it were very nearly an insult. Yet, the healers would think of it as honoring his kest.
Not wishing to offend those who wished only to convey honor, he threaded the belt 'round his waist, settled the patch over his right eye, and turned as the door opened, admitting the attendant, who bowed low, stammering that the chyarch would see him now.