Bertrice Small - Until You

Rosamund knew she was lonely. But did she want to marry again? Did she want Logan Hepburn? It seemed she had been running away from him her whole life. Or he had been running after her. She hadn’t, of course; nor had she even known of the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn until… God’s wounds! Was it that long ago that he had sat his horse atop a hill overlooking Friarsgate and told her he wanted her for his wife? Eleven years. Nay! It could not be eleven years ago! It had been just before she married Owein, and Philippa was now ten years of age. The realization dawned upon her. It was indeed eleven years ago that she had sparred indignantly with him and forbade him to come to her wedding. But he had, of course, with his brothers in tow. They had brought whiskey and salmon, and they had played their pipes for the bride and groom. Eleven years!

Yet she did not know him. Not really. She knew he was determined and that he was stubborn. She knew he had been willing to let his lands go to his brothers’ sons rather than marry another. For her. For Rosamund Bolton. Never before had she considered Logan Hepburn in any other way but an annoyance. She had called him a crude borderer, a Scots scoundrel. And she had meant it.

She had dismissed his offer of marriage because rather than saying he loved her, he had talked about sons. When she had upbraided him for it, he had claimed that he had always loved her, that he had thought she knew it. But he had not said it, and until this moment she had not understood that a man who was willing to give up his birthright for a woman did indeed love her. I have been a fool, Rosamund thought silently.

But it still did not answer the question of whether she was willing to remarry. And all of her newfound knowledge would not answer that question. She needed to get to know this man she had been so busy scorning out of pride that she could not comprehend the depth of his devotion to her. He would be awaiting her return, she knew, and suddenly she was more anxious than ever to return home. But if he won her, would he be satisfied with his victory? Or would that victory merely cause him to lose interest?

Rosamund felt her little vessel bump the stone quay of her cousin’s house. She opened her eyes, blinking once or twice to clear her vision as the sunlight filled her sight. She took the servant’s offered hand and stepped up from the craft, then hurried into the house. The summer gardens held no interest for her today. She needed to think. If she was going to allow Logan Hepburn into her life, they were going to have to get a few things straight before anything progressed beyond friendship. She remembered how kind he had been with her daughters and how they all liked him. Well, that was one point in his favor, she considered. But he was still a Scot. And there was certain to always be difficulties between England and Scotland. Yet would that matter in their tiny corner of the world? she wondered.

Lord Cambridge and Philippa arrived home as the long summer twilight was beginning to deepen into darkness. Rosamund’s daughter could hardly stop talking of the sights she had seen and the people she had met.

“We are going to Windsor, mama, aren’t we? Cecily will be at Windsor. Her family always goes on progress,” Philippa said.

“And who is Cecily?” Rosamund inquired, smoothing her daughter’s disheveled hair. “Is she someone Uncle Tom has introduced you to, my daughter?”

“She is Cecily FitzHugh, mama. Her father is the Earl of Renfrew. She has two brothers, Henry, who is the heir, and Giles, and two sisters, Mary and Susanna. They are younger than Cecily, who is the oldest girl. We have become best friends!”

“Gracious,” Rosamund laughed. “All in a single afternoon, poppet?”

Philippa ignored her mother’s teasing, saying, “It is her first time at court, too, mama. She has been left at home with her little sisters in the past. Her brother Henry is one of the king’s gentlemen, and her other brother is a page. We both like to ride.”

“Well,” Rosamund said, “it would appear that you have had a fine day, Philippa, but it is your bedtime now. Run along with Lucy. I will come and kiss you good night.”

Without protest, Philippa obeyed her mother.

“And what have you been doing alone and by yourself?” Lord Cambridge asked his cousin.

“I have been thinking of Logan Hepburn, Tom, and whether I do indeed want to remarry. And if so, whether it is he I want to wed,” Rosamund said frankly.

“And what have you decided?” he asked.

“I do not know,” she answered. “I need to really get to know him, Tom. I will not remarry simply for the sake of having a husband. Do you understand that?”

He nodded. “I do. Still, I think you wise to reconsider your former position on the matter, cousin.”

“What you mean,” she teased him, “is that you think I am becoming too long in the tooth for another husband. I am, after all, twenty-five now.”

He laughed. “You will never be too old for another husband, Rosamund. You are too fair and too clever by far. Why, if I were a man to take a wife, I should seriously consider you above all women,” he told her.

“Why, Tom, that is a lovely thing for you to say to me,” she exclaimed.

“Alas, I am not a man for a wife,” he told her with a smile.

“It would be so simple if you were,” she considered.

“It most certainly would not, dear girl! Your laird once threatened to kill me if I admitted to being your lover,” Lord Cambridge said with a shiver of remembrance. “He was very fierce, and I quite believed him.”

Now it was Rosamund who laughed. Then she said, “Tell me about the FitzHugh family to whom you have introduced my daughter, Tom.”

They sat companionably in the Great Hall of the house, ensconced in the window seats overlooking the river as they spoke.

“Edward FitzHugh is like your Owein, of Welsh descent. His holding is not large. It is in the marches between England and Wales. His wife, Anne, comes from a good family of English landed gentry in Hereford. Her dower was more than generous, for her family was delighted to have made a match with the son of an earl. Ned was the third son. He was never expected to inherit, but both of his brothers predeceased him. The eldest from plague one summer. The second son returning from Spain, where he had made a match. The ship upon which he traveled went down in the Bay of Biscay in a storm. The old earl died shortly thereafter, they say of a broken heart, and his third son inherited. Ned had been educated for a time with the king, for it was thought he might take holy orders one day. When he became the Earl of Renfrew, he used that ancient connection to bring his family to court. His lamented second brother had been betrothed to a distant cousin of Queen Katherine’s. The family is also devout, so the queen favors them. It is said that little Cecily will eventually be offered a place in the queen’s household as a maid of honor. She is too young now, of course, but if she and Philippa remain friends, your daughter might also serve as one of the queen’s maids of honor one day.”

“Thomas Bolton, you are amazing!” Rosamund said admiringly. “How on earth do you know all of this? I do believe you have surpassed yourself this time with your intimate knowledge of others.”

“Nonsense, dear girl,” he said, delighted with her words. “The Countess of Renfrew’s father knew my grandfather in London eons ago. They had some dealings that turned out well for both of them, but especially for the countess’ papa. The connection has been kept. I was even invited to the earl’s wedding to his wife years ago, when he was simply a third son. I was generous in my gifts. After all, dear girl, one never knows.”

“You are thinking of the second son for Philippa, aren’t you?” Rosamund said.