Page 36 of Waking Roslyn

“But you’re bleeding.” She pointed at my chin, her eyes pinching with remorse.

I lifted a hand to my face and my fingers came away smeared with the smallest bit of blood. “It’s a scratch.” I shrugged and wiped my fingers on my trousers.

“But—” That momentary fierce streak that had flashed across her face was gone, and now her hands fidgeted. “You should take care of it. Put something on it.”

I sighed, knowing I’d lost her concentration. I was positive that any training we tried to do now would be useless. This tenderhearted girl was so distracted by a mere scratch on my chin that she was unraveling. I wanted to tell her not to worry about it and insist that we move on, but there was something in the way her hands curled at her sides so tightly that I wondered if her fingernails were digging into her palms. I reeled in the brusque response that waited on my tongue and instead decided to do something completely different. “Very well. I’m certain there is a salve in the stillroom at Sutton. Emeline is used to treating the kinds of scratches and bruises we all get from training.”

She nodded. “Good. I’ll let you go then.”

“Uh-uh,” I chided when she tried to turn away. “You have to come with me.”

She looked confused, but her body seemed to relax just a little. “I do?”

I smiled inwardly at the fact that she didn’t even try to argue with me on this point. “Yes. If you’re going to train, you should see how we handle little incidents like this.” I held out a hand toward her. “Come, I’ll introduce you to Emeline.”

She hesitated, her eyes going from my hand to my face and back again. I nearly retracted my hand, worrying she would think I was being too forward.

She eventually stepped forward and slipped her hand into mine. I tugged her in the direction of Sutton Manor, wondering if she would keep her hand in mine the whole way and swallowing at the thought.

My question was answered when I helped her over a fallen log and she took the chance to pull her hand away once she was safely on the other side. I told myself it was for the best, but I still missed the feeling of her small hand in mine.

She bent to pick a flower and held it to her nose as we walked.

We came out of the woods, and I noticed her nervousness as we passed by the stables and Ansel called out a greeting. I waved but said nothing, not wishing to draw the lad into conversation. I wanted to be sure that Rose made it into the kitchen. I had a feeling that meeting Emeline would be good for her, and if Cecily or Beatrice happened to be there…well, that was all the better.

As we approached the kitchen door, I could hear their laughter already. Good. I put my hand on the latch, but Rose stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Wait,” she said. “I don’t want to interrupt anyone.”

I raised a brow. “I thought my scratch needed tending.”

“Well, yes, but…”

“I promise we aren’t interrupting.” I opened the door and stepped inside.

The familiar sight that greeted me made me glad that I’d decided to come here seeking help for my “wound.” Emeline was cooking, of course. Cecily sat on a bench, looking over her two small children who played on the ground, and Beatrice sat at the table, a cup of tea in her hands.

Roslyn

I stepped tentatively inside, trying to stay behind John and perhaps go unnoticed. There were three women in the midst of easy conversation. The young lady who stood at the counter baking was younger than I would have expected. One long, blonde braid fell down her back, and an apron covered her large stomach. She would have a baby soon, no doubt. The woman who sat at the table had gray hair covered with a mop cap, and a chatelain hung from her waist, proclaiming her to be the housekeeper. The woman who sat with two children at her feet had auburn hair and held herself with a grace that seemed familiar. A drop spindle was in her hand, and there was a pile of wool on the table that she was drafting onto the spindle. On closer inspection, I noticed that both her children held their own spindles, likely to discourage them from trying to grab their mother’s work and ruining it. The warmth suffusing the room left me a bit speechless. It was like walking into a comfortable hug, except that no one was touching me.

“Good evening,” John greeted easily.

“Evening, John,” the woman with the spindle called, keeping her eyes on her work.

“Who’ve you got there?” This question came from the older woman, who was leaning to the side in order to see around John and look at me.

John stepped aside and put a hand behind my back, letting it hover close enough that I sensed it even though he didn’t touch me. “This is Miss Rose.”

“Are you the one John’s been teaching?” the pregnant cook asked, dusting the flour from her hands.

“Rose,” John said, “this is Emeline.” He gestured toward the cook, then pointed to the woman spinning yarn. “Cecily. And this is Beatrice,” he ended by gesturing to the older woman at the table.

“A pleasure,” I said.

“Likewise, milady,” Emeline said and dipped into a curtsey.

“Welcome,” Beatrice said with a simple nod of her head.

“I’m sorry,” Cecily said, her hands and attention already well occupied. “I know I should be proper and curtsey, but—”