Page 135 of Laird of Flint
Naturally, it was also one of Carenza’s busiest days at Dunlop. Easter. After the long period of Lent, almost everyone looked forward to the lavish feast where the Dunlop tables sagged with roasts and pies, eggs and cream, succulent meats and rich custards.
She never let a few aches and pains trouble her. It wouldn’t be the first time she suffered the pangs of her courses while hosting a feast. With any luck, she would start her menses on the morrow, while the clan was recovering from their overindulgence today and she could lie down for a nap.
As she sat down beside her father at supper, she saw a familiar jar beside his platter of simnel cake.
“Is that Kildunan’s honey?”
“Aye.”
“Och, Da,” she teased. “Have ye been squirrelin’ it away?”
She expected him to give her a conspiratorial wink. Instead he said, “Nay. ’Twas an Easter gift from…” He cleared his throat. “From the monastery.”
An awkward silence followed. She could guess who had brought the honey. And the fact Hew hadn’t bothered to say good day to her was disheartening.
She should have let it go. She should have pasted on a smile to appease her father and murmured, “How kind.”
But she was wounded by Hew’s rejection. After all, soon they would be cousins. Now she felt as if she’d lost not only a suitor, but a friend.
So instead she muttered, “He might have lingered long enough to say hello.”
“I told him ye weren’t here.” He spread honey on a slice of simnel cake.
“What?”
He took a bite of cake and shook his head. “There’s no sense in draggin’ out the poor fellow’s torment. Ye’ll be gone in a fortnight anyway.”
Spent in Hew’s company, a fortnight would have been an eternity. Long enough to memorize every inch of his body. Long enough to speak aloud all the hopes and dreams they’d once had for the future. Long enough to make a lifetime worth of memories.
Now her father had stolen even that wee gift from her.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She couldn’t blame the laird. He was doing what he thought best. Like culling coos, a quick blow and a sharp knife probably caused the least amount of suffering. But no one ever asked how the coo felt about it.
John the kitchen lad set a trencher of creamy mushroom, leek, and saffron pottage before her. Normally, she would have slurped up the velvety soup with enthusiasm. But today the strong aroma troubled her nose. She pushed the trencher aside.
“Simnel?” her father offered.
She nodded. He carved off a fruity slice for her and placed the honey within her reach.
Bypassing the honey, she nibbled a corner of the cake. But she had little appetite for it.
The next course was roast lamb, which she abhorred. She tried not to guess which spring lamb had been sacrificed as she tucked bits of meat into her napkin to sneak to the hounds later.
None of the subsequent courses appealed to her. Not the rabbit stew. Not the buttered vegetables. Not the capons. Not the cherry custard. Not the gingerbread. And even the fine French wine her father opened for the occasion turned her stomach.
She caught John’s sleeve when he came to remove her untouched gingerbread. “Do we have any pickled eels left in the pantry?”
“I’ll look, m’lady.”
Her father chuckled. “Didn’t get enough pickled eels durin’ Lent?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. She supposed it was silly to crave something most of the clan was sick of, but they were the only thing that seemed worth eating.
That night, she wept again. For herself. For her husband to be. For Hew, whom she’d lost, not only as a suitor, but apparently as a friend.
Her menses didn’t start the next day. Or the next. Or the following week.
