Becca lay staring up at the dark ceiling. The breeze murmured gently through the curtains, bringing her scents from the midnight garden below her window, the froglings paean to their pond, and the occasional giggle of a night hawk.
Ordinarily, such homey sounds soothed her into slumber. Tonight, they irritated. Moreover, her left arm ached; she was too warm—and too cool when she pushed the coverlet aside. Her pillow was lumpy, her nightgown chafed, and she was not, in any case, sleepy.
Though she was, she owned, infinitely tired of Caro's dance; a sorry circumstance, indeed, as the event was yet three days ahead of her.
Sighing, Becca gave up on sleep entirely, cast the covers aside, wriggled into her robe, stirred the fire, lit a candle, and curled into the battered chaise, Sonet's herbal on her lap.
It was a thin book; much thinner than Sonet's ledger, from which Becca had copied the pages to begin her own book, as an apprentice. The green ink was so strong it seemed that the entries, written in Sonet's clear and careful script, and the careful renderings of leaf, root and berry seemed to float slightly above the page
Bending above the vibrant, Becca read of the wonders of the herb alamister, which grew in the ice moors, and was efficacious as a sleeping draught; and of bentolane which, when made into a tea and drunk every day, prevented pregnancy; of cadmyon, used in elixir to soothe coughing. Of the dourtree, the bruised fresh leaves repelling biting insects, while the dried leaves disgusted mice and rats; steeping the bark produced a tea that gave relief from pain, and wine could be made from its berries. It grew along river beds, where it set shallow roots, and resisted cultivation.
Certainly, an altogether useful plant, Becca thought, around a tight feeling in her chest. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself, as her riding instructor had taught her to do, so that her unruly emotions not confuse her mount.
Her chest somewhat easier, she opened her eyes and turned the next page.
Duainfey, read the bold notation. The leaves, dried and steeped into tea, purifies the blood. The dried and crushed blossoms may be added to watered wine, or made into a sachet for the taming of unruly thoughts. The fresh leaves, taken by mouth, give surcease from pain.
The page blurred. Becca blinked to clear her vision, and a single tear among the green letters, like a rain drop into a welcoming garden. Lower lip caught between her teeth, she blotted the spot with her sleeve, as even more tears fell.
Gasping, she closed the book, and set it aside, closed her eyes and tried breathe evenly and deeply.
I will not cry, she told herself, the mantra that she had devised for herself in the long months after her accident. I will not cry. I will do my part without complaint.
She was panting, her chest so constricted she felt she must surely strangle, and still the tears flowed, faster, wracking sobs now, as if she mourned a death.
"No," she moaned. "I cannot go there—"
And yet, if she did not—How could she not? Refuse, after all, to marry the man who would make all as it ought to be: Herself a respectable wife, Caroline free to marry, her father rid of the sight of her and the daily reminder of his failure to rule a mere daughter? Would she run away entirely, and—and live as a wild woman in the hunting park?
Becca hiccuped, caught between a sob and a giggle.
No, she thought, using the sleeve of her robe to mop her face. No, Sir Jennet had been accepted, and so must the Corlands. She would . . . She would simply need to think practically. Was the climate she was bound for cold? Then she must see to it that her trousseau contained warm clothing, and plenty of it. Blankets and quilts—Mother's aid must be enlisted, to suggest such items as bride's gifts. She would need to—
Why, she would need to talk to the man, when she saw him at the dance, and—and be frank with her regarding her concerns. Perhaps—no, surely—he would be able to advise her, even, perhaps, assist her. It was, she told herself carefully, the old, useless pride that led to these frights and starts. Had she not resolved to ask for help when it was needed, and to do so with good grace? And if she could not ask for help form her affianced husband . . .
And, yet . . .Ice moors, and a land so inhospitable that even aleth would not grow—It was enough to take the heart from anyone.
She swallowed and put her hand on Sonet's book, recalling that there was another source of aid. Sonet was from the Corlands. Surely, she would have advice beyond herb lore, if Becca would simply ask her. It would take asking, of course, just as it had when she had been Sonet's 'prentice. But, she reminded herself sternly, Rebecca Beauvelley was not too proud to ask for help.
Granted, the next few days were overburdened with preparation for Caro's dance, but—after, she would certainly call upon Sonet. In fact . . .
She frowned at the notion stirring in her mind, the worn cover of the northland herbal gritty against her palm. Perhaps there was another way. She would, of course, still need to leave her family and her land. But she need not go so far as the Corlands, and she need not be married.
Indeed, if she jilted Sir Jennet, she would have ruined her chances of ever marrying.
She closed her eyes against a new rising of tears. Like any properly brought up young woman, she had supposed that someday she would of course wed, bear children and preside over her husband's household. Until the accident, she had never doubted that future, nor her desire for it.
The accident had—changed everything.
"You, Miss Beauvelley," she whispered, "have far too many thoughts in your head. Some worldly advice might not go amiss before you continue further down this path."
The nearest source of worldly advice, however, was—hopefully unlike his sister!—asleep in his bed. But no matter, she assured herself; the matter would wait as long as tomorrow morning.
And as if taking that simple decision had released all of her worries, Becca yawned, suddenly very tired, indeed. She uncoiled clumsily from the chaise and went over to the bed, not bothering to remove her robe before she lay down.