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Roselyn ascended the steps onto the dais and found her usual seat. Servants scuttled about her clearing away the remains of the last meal, sweeping, polishing, stoking the fire which warmed her back. It was November and the climate had turned distinctly chilly in recent weeks. Snow was expected, the roads would soon be impassable. Not since her initial incarceration in the chamber off the solar had Roselyn felt quite so trapped here.
Her palm drifted to her lower abdomen and she rubbed absentmindedly. Had she displeased him in some way? She hoped not, prayed it was not so because she needed Blair now. She relied upon his public affirmation of her place here, now more than she ever had.
“How far along, d’ye think?” Roselyn recognised Betsy’s voice, turned to face her.
“What? Sorry, I was wool-gathering. Did you say something?”
“I asked how far along you might be.”
Roselyn continued to stare blankly.
“The bairn,” prompted her servant. “You be with child, am I right?”
Roselyn’s heart sank. Was it so obvious? “How could you tell?” she whispered.
“By the way you are caressin’ your belly, milady. My sister was the same wi’ all o’ hers.”
“Oh.” Roselyn folded her hands in her lap.
“Have you been sick? Many women are, at least in the early months.”
Roselyn shook her head. Were it not for the lack of her courses in recent weeks and a distinct tenderness in her breasts she would not have known anything was amiss. She had not dared to acknowledge the possibility, even to herself, for the first month or so but now could deny it no longer. She was pregnant, and to a man who professed to love her but who could—would—set her aside at any time. Blair might not even provide for their child. He had never said that he would should this situation arise. Unbidden, tears formed behind her eyelids and within moments she was sobbing quietly.
Betsy acted without hesitation. She tugged Roselyn from her chair and hustled her up the narrow staircase leading to the solar. Freya padded along behind and as soon as the trio were safe in the lord’s quarters Betsy shut the door. Roselyn heard the click of the lock.
“There, we shall not be disturbed. Now, you may tell me all about it. Is the laird displeased at the news, then, that causes you to take on so?”
Roselyn sobbed all the more, unable to form a response. Betsy was patient though, waiting quietly until the weeping subsided before pressing on.
“Milady, surely things cannot be so bad. The laird seems a fine man and he will not hold this against you. After all, it cannot be unexpected…”
“He does not know,” wailed Roselyn.
“He will, soon enough,” was Betsy’s wry observation. “These things cannot be kept secret for long. What is more, your laird does not strike me as a fool without even the slightest knowledge of women.”
“No, he is not.” There was no denying that. Most assuredly Blair’s knowledge of women was intimate, detailed, and extremely thorough. If anything, it was remarkable that he had not discerned her condition before she knew it herself. “I must tell him. Soon.”
“He will be pleased.”
Betsy sounded quite convinced, but Roselyn found herself a long way from being in agreement.
“What will happen to me? To us? What if he wishes to keep my baby, raise it as his own?”
“He will, surely, for itishis own.”
“He will not marry me. He has said so.”
“Ah, so that is it. Then, my lady, you must convince him otherwise. Why would he not marry you, especially now? It is clear to all that he adores you.”
“He loves me. He said as much…”
“Do you believe him?”
Roselyn paused, then nodded. “Yes, I do. He is most kind, most… protective.”
“Do you lovehim?”
Roselyn nodded emphatically.
