“Who else is to wed?” Alys asked, her stomach dropping in alarm. Was Matthew to marry someone else? Of course not, she admonished herself. He would have told her.
“Marjorie Ashcombe,” Will replied. “John was up at the manor house yesterday and heard the happy news.”
“Who is she to wed?” Alys asked, curious despite her misery.
“I don’t know, but John says it’s all arranged. The bridegroom will come to live here, at Ashcombe. Must be a younger son with no property of his own,” Will added. “It’s a terrible thing, it is. Such a grand family and no male heir to carry on the name or inherit the estate.”
“Am I meant to feel sorry for them?” Alys snapped. The Ashcombes had lorded it over the people of the valley for generations, since the days of Henry VII, or so it was said. They weren’t bad masters, as masters went, but they owned everything from the land beneath her to the church where she prayed and the graveyard where her parents were buried. How could there be any justice in the world when one family controlled the livelihood of so many?
“Don’t be flippant, Alys,” Will said, and handed her the empty pail. “Our very lives depend on the goodwill of the new lord and his ability to sire a living child on his wife.”
“I’m sure he’ll do his utmost,” Alys replied bitterly. “As ye have. Father would have been proud of ye for making me such a grand match.” She meant to sound sarcastic, but Will took it as praise, smiling at her, his relief obvious.
“I knew you’d come round to the idea. I’d never do anything to hurt ye. Surely ye know that.”
Alys nodded and left the smithy, desperate to get away. She’d known her life would change with Will’s marriage, but she hadn’t thought it’d happen this soon. She’d thought she had some time, but time had suddenly run out.
Chapter 5
Nicole
The wind died out by morning, and the rain had given way to a sullen gloom that seemed to settle on the house like a wet blanket. I pulled on jeans and a warm sweater, coiled my hair into an artful bun, and headed downstairs, desperate for a cup of coffee. Breakfast was as sumptuous as dinner had been the night before, with eggs, sausages, croissants, and homemade jams. The coffee was strong and hot, and for the moment, I was utterly content. Until Yvonne walked in.
“Good morning,” she said, looking past me to see if anyone else was present.
“Good morning. It’s just me, I’m afraid,” I said.
“Hm.”
“Are you still going down to the reservoir to see the tower?” I asked, wondering if Yvonne genuinely wanted to see it or was just looking for an opportunity to take a walk with Len. For a happily married woman—her words, not mine—she had certainly looked intrigued last night, her attention almost equally divided between Len and Kyle.
“I don’t know. It’s muddy out there. I didn’t bring my boots.”
“There are a dozen pairs of wellies in the mudroom,” Lisa said as she brought in a carafe of fresh coffee, reiterating what Alastair had said last night. “Feel free to borrow any that fit you.”
“Thanks,” Yvonne said, clearly less than enthusiastic at the prospect of wearing someone else’s boots. “Has Len been down yet?” she asked as she helped herself to a slice of dry toast and spread on a bit of marmalade, rationing it out as if it were wartime.
I looked down at my plate, heaped with sausages, eggs, and toast smothered in butter. I ate sparingly at home, but it was my rule that when I went away, I was going to enjoy everything, including the food, and I found that I was surprisingly hungry. Maybe it was all the fresh air.
“No, not yet,” Lisa replied. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“An egg-white omelet,” Yvonne said, staring at my plate with obvious distaste. “I’m very health conscious.”
“Of course,” Lisa replied. “Give me a minute.”
Yvonne nodded, her attention already on something else. She seemed distracted, anxious even, clutching her cup of Earl Grey as if it were a life preserver.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
Yvonne turned to look at me, and for a moment I thought she’d forgotten I was there and had been forcibly reminded she wasn’t alone. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”
“You seem a bit preoccupied,” I replied, wishing I hadn’t asked.
“I’m fine,” Yvonne said, her gaze sliding toward the window. “Please don’t feel you need to make small talk.”
I shrugged and pulled out my mobile, taking the opportunity to check my email. If Yvonne didn’t want to talk, that was just fine with me. I wasn’t a big fan of early morning chit-chat either. Having finished eating, I replied to several emails, then fetched my coat from my room and went in search of the mudroom. I had every intention of going down to the reservoir. Besides, it wasn’t as if I was ready to get down to work. I had a vague idea for a book and hoped a long walk would help it crystalize in my mind.
Initially, I had thought of setting my new book in Scotland during the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 but quickly changed my mind. The Jacobites had become unexpectedly popular over the last few years, everyone documenting their plight and setting heart-wrenching love stories against the backdrop of their epic defeat. Every period in British history was well documented, in both fiction and nonfiction, but I hoped to find a path less frequently traveled by popular authors. Unfortunately, my mind was frustratingly blank. My first foray into fiction would set the expectations for my subsequent books, and although historical romance was a highly marketable genre, I longed to write something
