Page 11 of My Hero
“Is that what they are?” Elspeth asked, pausing in her labors to cast them a critical gaze. “Those scrawny sticks?”
“Wench!” Cynthia shot out a grimy hand and playfully swatted her maid. “You’ll be raving over the beauties by June, and you know it.”
“Aye,” Elspeth conceded with a wink. “You do have a way with sticks.”
Cynthia rocked back on her haunches and rubbed the aching small of her back. Her joints complained like the rusty hinges of an abandoned garden gate. “I’ve been indoors too long, El.”
“Well, you take care not to work too hard. And don’t burn your fair skin.”
“I’ll try, El,” she promised halfheartedly, scrabbling in the loose soil and discarding a stone.
But she always worked too hard the first day. And she always felt the effects of the sun the second. But the ache was part of a familiar cycle, a rite of passage, and she welcomed the soft burn that pressed its heavy hand even now upon her shoulder.
“Your body’s not as forgiving as it was when you were a young thing,” Elspeth said, kicking the stone closer to the growing pile, “and you have to bear in mind you’re a widow now.” She nudged the soil nonchalantly with her toe. “If you’d only pay a little mind to your appearance, there’s a world of fine men out there—”
“Elspeth,” Cynthia warned. She planted her fists on her hips. For two short years of marriage she’d had a reprieve from Elspeth’s nagging. Now it looked like the mother hen had come home to roost. But Cynthia was older and wiser. She knew what marriage was like, and, despite her vow to John, the vow she wished she could forget, she didn’t intend to rush into it again. “You know how I feel about appearances,” she said, dusting her palms together.
“Aye,” Elspeth said with a sniff. “But you’re too young to stay alone the rest of your life. And if you’d only pay as much heed to yourownappearance as you do to the garden’s, you’d have the gentlemen falling at your feet.”
“I don’t want gentlemen falling at my feet. Any man who’d love a lady for her looks—”
“Isn’t a man worth having,” Elspeth recited. “I know.”
Cynthia nodded succinctly. She’d never fooled herself about her looks. She knew she was far from beautiful. Oh, she supposed she had the potential for beauty. She’d been born with milky-white skin, and, according to Elspeth, her azurine eyes had made Cynthia the infant look as ethereal as an angel. She had straight, even features, and her bone structure was bred of generations of handsome Norman ancestors.
But then her hair had grown in, hair the color of a Seville orange, a startling, undesirable shade that made people shake their heads in sympathy.
After that, her lack of concern for her looks drove her further and further from what was deemed desirable in a lady. Instead of worrying about attracting a mate, she cultivated her affection for the outdoors. Day after day, three-quarters of the year, she’d toil in the garden, often from dawn to dusk. Consequently, by the end of summer, her skin was always as tawny as a crofter’s. No amount of wheedling or cajoling from Elspeth could entice her to stay out of the sun. Her nose was commonly sprinkled with freckles, her hands callused from hard work, and, like a flower, Elspeth told her, all that extra sunshine had made her grow beyond what was common, for she was exceptionally tall for a woman.
Frankly, Cynthia didn’t care.
“You see this rosebush?” she said. “It’s all brown and barren and ugly, aye?” She tapped her forehead with a finger. “But the wise gardener knows that the beauty lies within the plant.”
“Aye,” Elspeth grumbled, rolling her eyes. “And the wise gentleman knows there’s beauty in the homeliest of wenches.”
“Exactly.”
Elspeth crossed her arms and screwed her face into a disapproving pout. “Well, you’ll have to find a very wise man, then, and one with good sight, to evenseethere’s a lady under all that muck!” Then she muttered a soft curse, and Cynthia saw moisture beginning to fill the old woman’s eyes despite her cantankerous words.
“Oh, Elspeth…El,” she said gently, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder, “don’t you see? I’vehadmy husband. I’ve had a marriage. I’ve had a man to love and—”
“Nay, my lady,” Elspeth blurted out, her chin quivering. “You’ve had a man to fetch for, to wait upon hand and foot, to feed and clothe and help to the garderobe, to care for like a wee babe. You’ve never had a man to love.”
The words hung in the air between them, stark, raw, powerful, shocking. Cynthia swallowed. But before she could protest, Elspeth escaped her grasp and fled toward the keep.
That wasn’t true. It wasn’t true at all, she thought, lowering her eyes. Was it? John had shared all of his dreams, his laughter, his tears with her. How could she not love him? Of course she’d loved him. He was her husband.
She sighed, wiping her forehead with her grimy sleeve, staring down at the ugly rose twigs.
Hadshe loved John? There had been warmth between them, and understanding, and a sweetness that tugged at her heart. But had she truly loved him? Or was the ache in her breast a yearning for something she’d never known?
Sometimes, deep within her, she was certain there had to be more between a man and a woman—something powerful, something wondrous. She felt the fire of it in her body sometimes, dancing just beyond her reach, taunting her. Always she smothered the vague longing, relegating it to the place she’d left all her childhood fantasies. But she couldn’t suppress the feelings forever. Not when spring blew through her soul, and she felt like a bud aching to burst into bloom.
She gazed out through the open door of the walled garden to the moisture-hazed orchard beyond. The smell of freshly turned earth was strong, the clarity of the sparrows’ songs astonishing. On such a perfect day, she should be content. But suddenly she was as restless as a cat in the north wind. Her gaze rambled across the distant expanse of pale green sod, over tufts of weeds and bare patches, until it caught on a spot of vivid yellow at the far end of the orchard. Shielding her eyes with her forearm, she looked closer. Then she blinked.
It couldn’t be. Not the daffodils. Not yet.
She scrambled to her feet, dusted the dirt as best she could from her surcoat, and set out through the trees.
