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Amalia swallowed. “I met him at . . . through the order he mentioned. And was traveling with the others as their healer.”

“You are a healer?” Lady de Vere asked.

“I am an herbalist and reluctant healer,” she said.

“And is handfasted to me,” Roland said to his father, matching the elder de Vere’s tone from before. Authoritative. Almost frightening in its finality. It seemed father and son were alike in more than just appearance.

“Handfasted?” The earl did not appear at all pleased.

“Aye. I would have married her already but seek your approval. We traveled together, and I would not allow Amalia to be dishonored, and so, the handfasting.”

“Mistress,” the earl said. “And not lady?”

It was the moment she had been dreading. Tears sprang to Amalia’s eyes, not because she was frightened, but because she had never once been embarrassed by her parents, her heritage, until this moment. She should not be ashamed. Her father worked hard and was a good man. Her mother too. Wiping away a tear, Amalia held her head high.

She would not be ashamed of them.

“Aye,” she said, before Roland had the opportunity. “I am a lady’s maid. My father, a farmer. And a good man.”

To his credit, the earl’s expression did not change as she expected.

Lady de Vere rose from her seat. “Geoffrey. Amalia. Come. We will return to the meal and allow them a discussion.”

Amalia could not leave the chamber quickly enough. Roland glanced at her, as if asking if she wished to leave. With a small nod, she stood, bowed to the earl, saying, “Your Grace,” and followed Sir Geoffrey and Lady de Vere from the chamber.

“I do believe that went well,” Roland’s mother said when the door closed behind them.

Geoffrey snickered.

Amalia looked at her, certain it must be a jest.

It was.

Lady de Vere smiled.

“Come. Eat. All will be well. And . . . ” The lady’s smile reached her eyes. “Welcome to the family.”