“If she marries, it won’t be because she wants a baby,” Maloren retorted. “It’ll be because she wants a man at her beck and call, and beholden to her, too. She’ll have her marriage contract ironclad so she keeps control of the purse strings—you just watch and see. She’s a greedy, selfish bitch in heat, that’s what she is.”
Beatrice had to admit that in her own heart, her estimation of Lady Celeste was not far different from Maloren’s.
“Is that potion going to be ready before the sun goes down?” Maloren demanded.
“Just as soon as I add it to the wine,” Beatrice said, carefully doing so.
When the potion was ready, she said, “I don’t suppose you want to come with me when I take this medicine to her?”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, no! The perfume that woman wears makesmyhead ache. I’ll stay here and make sure Much doesn’t burn the meat.”
Beatrice felt a moment’s pity for Much, but under Maloren’s supervision, the food had definitely improved.
Covering the goblet holding the potion with a square of clean white linen, Beatrice made her way to the hall. She regarded the servants’ work with a critical eye, but saw nothing amiss and much to praise with a quick word or smile. She had some words of compliment for the soldiers who were not on duty, too, all of whom were busy tending to their armor, either seeing to small repairs themselves, or polishing it until it shone. More than one of the soldiers blushed when the pretty young woman said something about their attention to their duty, or the zeal with which they polished.
When she reached Lady Celeste’s chamber, Beatrice took a deep breath before she knocked on the door and waited until Lady Celeste’s maidservant, Emma, opened it for her. Try though Beatrice might not to feel it, she was still a little intimidated by Celeste’s exotic beauty and superior manner.
Lady Celeste lay in her bed, one made with linens she, too, had brought from home. They were finer and more expensive than those from Tregellas, and much better than those Beatrice had found in Penterwell. There was also a thick silk coverlet on the bed and fine white candles in a large brass candle stand beside it. Several small jars of unguents, perfumes and what Beatrice suspected were cosmetics, as well as a mirror, were on a collapsible table Lady Celeste must have brought from her home, along with the cushioned stool before it. She had brought a considerable number of garments with her, too, for several wooden chests and boxes also crowded the room.
Even sitting in a bed and unwell, Lady Celeste seemed to have the grandeur of a queen, making Beatrice feel, yet again, that she was very young and unsophisticated.
She never felt that way in Ranulf’s presence, even when he told her she was innocent and naive. She always felt very much a woman when she was with him.
“Ah, Lady Beatrice,” Celeste said, raising herself slightly. “I don’t know what I would have done if you had not been here.”
“I dare say Ranulf would have sent for a physician,” Beatrice replied, handing her the potion. “This should ease your aching head.”
Celeste took a tiny sip and wrinkled her nose. “I hope so, for truly, the taste leaves something to be desired. It’s too bad your medicine has to spoil Ranulf’s fine wine.”
It was too bad she’d fallen ill and been allowed to stay, Beatrice thought, but she didn’t say it. Nor did she reveal that the wine had come from Tregellas.
Celeste glanced at her maidservant, standing expectantly in the corner. “Leave us, Emma. I want to talk to my benefactress alone.”
Beatrice would rather talk to the poorest pauper in Penterwell than Lady Celeste. Indeed, she had, when she’d given the poor legless man some alms. He was certainly far more grateful for the loaf of bread she’d given him than this fine lady was for the medicine that eased her suffering.
As her maid departed, Lady Celeste patted the bed beside her. “Sit here, my dear, where we can chat like old friends. I think it’s time I told you the history between Ranulf and me.”
Beatrice didn’t want to be her friend, but she couldn’t resist the chance to learn what had transpired between Ranulf and this woman.
“I believe you may be somewhat aware of what happened,” Celeste said as she continued to sip the wine.
“Enough to guess that a woman once broke Ranulf’s heart,” Beatrice answered honestly, “and that it was probably you.”
“Guessed all that, did you? What a perceptive girl you are!”
Beatrice didn’t appreciate being called a “girl” or patronized. “He never mentioned you by name until you came here.”
That revelation did not sit well with the lady. Nevertheless, she grudgingly agreed. “The relationship between us didn’t end well.”
Celeste set the goblet on the table beside the bed. “My dear, I am going to be very frank with you, because I believe you care about Ranulf as much as I do.”
Beatrice would have wagered a great deal that she cared more about Ranulf than this lady ever would, or could.
“When I was just a little older than you, I met Ranulf at court. Oh, you should have seen him then, my dear! So charming, so witty. And handsome! Half the girls at court were in love with him, I vow, which might explain…”
She hesitated, but Beatrice didn’t think that was from any sudden modest impulse. “Well, those were only rumors, after all, and I, for one, refuse to believe them, although I suppose it’s not surprising that a young and disappointed man would seek solace in another woman’s arms. Or more than one.”
Celeste was watching her keenly, and although this revelation dismayed her, Beatrice wasn’t going to give this woman the satisfaction of knowing she’d distressed her.
