“Isabella thinks only of making a suitable match before the winter sets in.”
“Our little sister Esme has no affection for me either.” He met her eyes as if challenging her to deny it.
Frida put her head to one side. “Jonah, I had no idea you cared so.” She took a firmer hold of his hands, leaning closer to the warm glow of the fire. “Our sister Esme has her head in the clouds, while Isabella rarely lifts her gaze beyond the looking glass.” She saw a smile trembling at his lips. “You know it is true.”
“I know it.” Jonah’s gaze grew reflective. “Truly, Frida, I should not admit this. But seeing as we are exchanging views…” His voice trailed off.
“Go on,” she encouraged him.
“’Tis a terrible thing for me to say. But when your ankle shattered and you could only walk with a limp, I thought this might prove a common bond between us.”
Frida opened and closed her mouth, unable to think of an appropriate response. “I do not allow my limp to define me.”
Jonah released her fingers so that he might spread his arms before him. “Nor I.”
“’Tis true,” she allowed. “You are an excellent horseman and highly skilled with a sword.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, thinking it through. “May I tell you what I really think?”
Jonah drained his goblet of wine and placed it down on the table. “I am ready.”
She chose her words carefully. “Tristan and I perchance were at fault for treating you differently, Jonah. You were born afflicted and have overcome it. That is a mighty achievement that I well know requires patience and resilience. Not just once, but every day.” She sipped at her wine, remembering a plucky young boy determined to follow herself and Tristan around the fields of Wolvesley. They wanted to be free of the whining youngster who only slowed them down.
But is that not true of all siblings?
“I know what you call me,” he said quietly.
Frida felt her cheeks growing hotter; not from the fire but the sharp prick of her conscience.
“The Scowler.” He pressed his lips together before relaxing into a smile. “Mayhap I deserve the moniker. I certainly did naught to dispel it.” He placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his head against his hand. “I only wanted you to notice me.”
“Oh, Jonah,” she repeated, catching his eye. “We noticed you.”
They both laughed, the slight tension between them evaporating like woodsmoke.
“Our family is full of strong-headed individuals,” he mused. “The only one amongst us who has any amount of patience is Mirrie.”
“And Mother,” she added quickly.
“Aye, Mother has the patience of a saint.”
“And Mirrie is kind and compassionate.” She thought of her friend’s gentle brown eyes.
“Whereas we de Nevilles are always running to the next thing before we have finished the first.” Jonah squeezed her hand again. “And ’tis hard to run when you have a twisted foot.”
“Or a shattered ankle,” she agreed. “Are you saying that we should slow down?”
“Slow down, look about us, appreciate what we have.” He sighed. “I have been doing that more since coming to Ember Hall. Dwelling more on gratitude than on envy.”
She allowed a moment to pass. “You are envious of Tristan?”
He sat back in his chair so his face was half hidden from her. “’Tis not easy to be the brother of Tristan de Neville. Nor the son of Angus de Neville.”
“You share many of their qualities,” she demurred.
“And you, sister? Do you pretend that it is easy to be the older sibling of Isabella? The one they call the Rose of England?”
His words pierced her, even as a denial rose to her lips. From childhood, Isabella had been hailed as a great beauty. Four years older, with hair not quite so thick, skin not quite so flawless and a smile not quite so enchanting, Frida had always felt plain by her younger sister’s side.
She bit down on her lip before releasing her discomfiture in a chuckle. “I do pretend, aye. But you are right, ’tis not always easy.”
