8
Graeme felt much relieved that his betrothed had agreed to give him a second chance. Knowing he didn’t deserve it made it all the more important. She was, as her parents and brothers had repeatedly declared, a sweet and kind young woman.
After escorting her back to her room, he climbed the stairs to the third floor and went to his bedchamber. ’Twas very late at night, and though he was weary from all the traveling these past weeks, sleep was evasive. Tossing and turning, he could not get his mind to stay quiet. How would he make up for his spiteful behavior? What could he do to prove to Josephine that he was sincere in his request?
He finally gave up trying to sleep, tossed his blanket aside and went to stand in front of the small window. Pulling back the fur, he looked out at the land below. This was his home.
While he loved being here among his kin, there was a part of him that missed Venice. There was something about the town that spoke to his heart. He felt quite at peace when he was there. Still, there was much to be said for being surrounded by those people who loved you and knew you better than you knew yourself.
He left the window and set to pacing. His mother had said Josephine had dreams, dreams like his. How did Kathryn know that? His parents were confident that once he got to know his betrothed, he would adore her as much as they did. His brothers had all said the same thing. How had they come to know her so much better than he?
The letters.
While he had sulked like a spoiled child, his family had taken the time to get to know her. While he had ignored all the letters she sent with the false belief that they had been from her father or brother.
He scanned the room in search of the trunks he had sent ahead weeks before he left Venice and was much relieved to see them stacked in the corner of his bedchamber. An idea began to form – one he hoped would prove not only to Josephine, but also to his family, that he was not quite the eejit and horse’s arse they believed him to be.
Lighting a candle, he went to search through his trunks. He found what he was looking for in the second one. There they were, all the letters Josephine had ever sent him, on the bottom under his most prized possessions — books. He had not thrown away the letters; he simply hadn’t read them. He had saved them on the off chance that he might be able to find some loophole later that would help him out of the marriage contract. He hadn’t read them out of fear they would not contain such a reprieve.
Five thick bundles of letters, each bound with string. He removed the bundles and returned to his bed. Setting the candle on the table beside him, he began thumbing through the bundles, until he found the first letter Josephine had ever written him.
Why he suddenly felt excited at the prospect of reading these old letters, he was uncertain. But there it was, flopping about in the pit of his stomach, as tangible as the letters he held in his hand. Carefully, he unfolded it. The ink was faded from age, but still legible.
The Twentieth Day of April, the year of our lord, thirteen and seventy one
Graeme,
A sennight ago, my father informed me that I am to marry you after I reach the age of eight and ten. I would have written sooner, but I felt I should wait until the astonishment of my father’s announcement wore away. At first, I was uncertain just how I felt about this arrangement. I have come to the conclusion that I am relieved, in that you and I are not complete strangers. You probably do not remember me as, according to both my father and my brother, I am quite an unremarkable and easily forgettable person.
But we have met on three occasions. The first time so long ago that sometimes I wonder if it happened as I remember, or if the memory is skewed by the child I once was. I believe I was five or six and had hidden my brother’s pup. He was quite angry with me, so I went to hide in the oak tree. You were very kind and very patient with me that day, and much to my relief, you took me to my mother.
It is that display of kindness you showed to me then, and again when I was hiding under my father’s desk, and years later, when I was hiding in the garderobe. You must think me a girl prone to flights of fancy or exaggeration. Mayhap I am.
Your mother tells me you are in France, studying with monks. I envy you that opportunity, to live abroad and to drink up all the knowledge and wisdom the world has to offer. My mother was French, from a little village in the north called Laon. Mayhap you have visited there? Maman used to tell me stories about living in Laon, the merchants, the scenery and its people. Mayhap someday I will be blessed by being able to visit there.
Your father tells me you speak many languages. Alas, I am limited to French, Gaelic, English, Latin and Italian. While I do not dare lead you to believe that I am as educated as your parents tell me you are, I am interested in learning everything I can about the world. Philosophy, Science, Politics all interest me, even though my father and brother tell me that women cannot possibly comprehend the complexities of these topics. I dare not argue with them.
I look forward to getting to know you better through correspondence. Feel free to ask me anything you wish and I shall answer it honestly and with forthrightness. I ask one boon of you. When you write, could you please tell me in vivid detail what France is like? The sights, the colors, the smells? I would also very much like to know what it felt like when you saw the ocean for the first time. Was it as magical as my mother always told me? Do the waves truly sound like a thousand lovers whispering to one another all at once? I eagerly await your response.
With respect and admiration,
Josephine MacAdams
Unremarkable? Forgettable? He grew angry that a father could say such a thing to one of his children. Regret had sunk in, for he had thought along similar lines, that there was nothing special about Josephine MacAdams.
Had he read that first letter, he imagined he would have come for her sooner. After reading the next, he would have been waiting outside the gates of her keep like a besotted fool and carried her off at the first hour possible. By the time he read her sixth letter, he was certain of it. He would have written to her and told her all about France and its culture. He would have told her he thought the ocean rather loud but now, after hearing her mother’s description, he would have looked at it in a much different light. And he would have eagerly anticipated seeing her face when she saw the ocean for the time.
Suddenly he was struck with what he thought a tremendously clever idea.
He would respond to each and every letter. He could only hope the gesture was enough and not too late in coming.
Josephine took some measure of pride in knowing she was not the type of young woman to burst into tears with any amount of frequency. Nay, she considered herself to be a level-headed young woman with a good measure of common sense.
Whether it was from sheer exhaustion or the fact that Graeme had apologized and begged forgiveness, or a combination thereof, she did something she hadn’t done in an age. She cried herself to sleep.
’Twasn’t a loud, obnoxious, screeching or wailing kind of cry. Nay, she cried as she had done after her mother’s death. Softly and quietly so no one would hear her. Laurin had heard her weeping and had come to let her know that all would be well and to not give up hope. “Ye’ll feel better in the morn, Joie.”
Josephine’s mind would not settle. Her thoughts ran hither and yon, from missing her mother to worry over the Gladius to the way Graeme had treated her, and then his apology. In less than a week, she would marry, and her mother would not be there to help her celebrate. Nor was she here to help her work through the confusion assaulting her heart.
Being the guardian of the Gladius was a tremendous responsibility. Her mother had been convinced it was cursed, destined to bring heartache to anyone who possessed it. Unless, of course, the woman who possessed it could give the Gladius to her one true love. Josephine closed her eyes and could almost hear her mother’s voice. “Only true love, love built of trust and respect, can break the curse. If you give it to the wrong man, he will use it for evil, Joie. If you cannot trust your husband with your heart, your life, or your love, nothing else matters.”
Could she truly trust Graeme? There had been a time, long ago, when she would have been completely certain she could. Until these past days, she did not know he could behave so nastily toward another living soul, let alone her. But he had come to her, had begged for her forgiveness and a chance to start anew. That, she believed, had to count for something.
As the night wore on, she tried to envision what her life with him would be like, but could only come up with more questions and lingering doubt. Would he be as kind as he had been when they were younger? Did that kindness continue to exist? Would his heart soften toward her? Could she eventually trust him with her heart, her life and her love? Mayhap not now, but at some time in the distant future? And what, pray tell, had made him change his mind? Why had he come to her asking for another chance?
Eventually she succumbed to sleep. If she dreamt at all, she could not recollect it when she finally woke late the following day. The cold ache that had settled into her bones was now gone. The throbbing in her head had also passed. Mayhap all she had needed to clear her mind was a good night’s sleep.
When she sat up and looked around the room, she noticed first that Laurin was not abed. Then she noticed the fire had gone out and a chill had settled into the room. Grabbing her robe from the end of her bed, she slipped her feet into her boots and crossed the floor to start a fire. Once she had it going, she headed toward the basin to wash up. ’Twas then she noticed something on the floor in front of the door.
When she knelt to inspect it, she realized what it was: a bundle of letters, bound together with twine. On top of the bundle was a note.
Dearest Josephine,
I should have read and answered your letters long ago. Because I am at times a fool, I do not always see as clearly as I should. Please accept these as a token of my apology and admiration.
Graeme
Her heart skipped a beat or two. She scanned the note twice to be certain she had read it correctly. Holding the bundle to her chest, she grabbed a blanket from the bed, wrapped herself in it, and returned to sit by the fire. With trembling hands — and just why they trembled she didn’t know — she opened the first letter.
Dearest Josephine,
I apologize for not responding to your letter sooner. As you’ve learned by now, I am at times a foolish man who tends to make assumptions instead of seeking the truth of the matter. I beg your forgiveness.
I move on now to answer your questions from the first letter you wrote to me. I have enclosed it for your reference as it was written long ago.
I too, was surprised to learn of our betrothal. You’ve proven far more mature and common sensical on the matter than I, for you were able to get over the shock much faster than me. I now hold you in great esteem for that.
I pray you will forgive me the blunt manner in which I am about to speak, but your father and brother are fools. As I reflect back on our three encounters, I remember each with vivid clarity. And upon closer inspection — and from what I have learned from your subsequent letters — you are, in fact, a quite remarkable young woman. That you taught yourself to read, write, and speak Italian proves my point.
The French countryside is most beautiful, especially in the summer months, when the grass is greenest as flowers of varying kinds blossom and bloom. Though no land could ever compare with the beauty of Scotland, France does come close. I have not been to Laon, but after you have described it so eloquently, I hope to someday visit. I can only pray you will do me the honor of accompanying me there.
As for the ocean, aye, it is quite loud, but in a most spectacular way. As I reflect upon it now, I believe it closely resembles many things. If you happen by fate to be on a vessel during a great storm, it sounds like the angry roar of a thousand cat-o-mountains, all snarling and hissing at one another. When it is quiet, the gentleness of it reminds me of being a wean and in my mother’s arms and the soft way in which she used to sing me to sleep.
I, too, look forward to getting to know you better.
With much respect,
Graeme MacAulay
A flood of emotions washed over her. Surprise, relief, happiness and hope. His next letter was even longer than the first and just as endearing. Again, he begged forgiveness as he answered the questions she had written in her second.
And so it went for eight long letters, each one sweeter and filled with more emotion than the last.
This was the Graeme MacAulay she had remembered, the one she had admired all these years. This was the Graeme she had longed to see again.
His last letter was one that brought tears to her eyes.
Dearest Josephine,
Dawn has come and gone. The more of your letters I read, the more hopeful I am about our upcoming marriage.
However, I feel I must be completely honest with you, so that you understand why I behaved so poorly toward you all these years.
I have come to realize many things about myself whilst reading your letters. To begin with, I am not nearly as smart as I so often held myself out to be. I may be able to recite poetry or numerous Greek mythological stories, or cipher large numbers in my head. Those things alone do not make a man intelligent. It only means he is book smart.
Apparently, I was not born with the same good sense that my brothers or my parents were. I seem only to know what I’ve read in books. I was so busy learning that I forgot to live. I forgot that there are other, far more important things in this life than poetry, art, or philosophy.
When my father first wrote to inform me of our betrothal, I was horrified. I had assumed that, because I was the youngest son, I would be able to take a wife of my choosing. I was certain that, had I been given the chance, I would have chosen a smart, witty, worldly, intelligent woman whom I could impress with my boundless knowledge of the world.
I assumed you were not that woman.
I assumed that you were not educated, that you could not even read or write your own name. I assumed that I was doomed to a boring life with a boring woman who could never appreciate just how highly intelligent I was.
In short, I was an utter idiot.
It is you who impresses me, sweet Josephine. You leave me in awe. Not just for your wit and keen mind, but for your heart as well.
I can only pray now that you will someday find it in your heart to forgive this dimwitted man you have been promised to. If you wish to break our betrothal, while it would certainly cleave my heart in twain, I would never hold it against you, for it is nothing less than what I deserve.
With a hopeful heart,
Graeme
The tears she wept were not of sorrow but of hope. The future, their future, no longer appeared so dismal. Excited, she went to the little table that sat under the window and searched for quill, ink, and parchment. She found the quill and ink, but no parchment. She decided she would use the back of Graeme’s note, the one that had been tied to the top of the bundle.
Graeme,
You are completely, wholly forgiven. I look forward to receiving more letters.
Joie
She sprinkled the drying powder onto the ink, let it set for a moment before carefully tapping the excess back into the container. As she was folding the note, someone tapped at her door. More excited than she could remember feeling in many, many years, she all but flew to the door in hopes that it was Graeme.
Her smile faded when she saw it was one of the kitchen maids, bearing a tray of food.
“Josephine,” she said with a curtsy. “Ye missed the mornin’ meal and again the noonin’ meal. Mistress Kathryn asked that I bring ye somethin’ to eat.”
Josephine’s eyes grew wide. “I have slept the day away?” she asked, feeling quite embarrassed.
The maid smiled brightly, “Do no’ fash yerself over it. Ye’ve traveled far in a short time. Mistress Kathryn said ye needed yer rest.”
Josephine waved her in and asked, “What is your name?”
“I be Bridgett,” she said as she cautiously set the tray down on the table, careful not to knock over the small jar of ink. She was a very pretty lass, with long, blonde hair and dark blue eyes, and Josephine estimated she was mayhap only a year or two younger than herself.
“I thank you kindly, Bridgett. Have you seen Laurin?”
“Yer sister?” she asked before turning to leave. “Aye, she only came below stairs a while ago. Albert was showin’ her the keep and such.” She offered Josephine a giggle and telling grin. “I think he be smitten with her.”
“I believe you’re right,” Josephine told her. “Bridgett, would you be so kind as to do me a favor?”
“Anythin’ fer ye, Josephine. Mistress Kathryn says I’m to care fer ye as if ye and Laurin were the queen and princess of Scotland.”
Josephine giggled lightheartedly. “Let us not go quite that far,” she said before handing her the folded parchment. “Would you please take this to Graeme?”
“Aye,” Bridgett said. “I will give ye time to eat, then will come back to help ye dress.”
With another curtsy she left the room.
Josephine went to the table and found she was ravenous. Remembering she hadn’t eaten since noon the day before, she enjoyed the stew, bread, and fruit, and washed it down with warm cider. She had just downed the last of the cider when another knock came and a moment later, Bridgett stepped inside.
“Graeme had me wait while he wrote this,” she said as she came to the table and handed over a letter. Eagerly, Josephine opened it.
Josephine,
I have not been to church since my last visit home. I am heading to the chapel now to thank God for your response. When I return, I shall answer more of your letters.
Thankfully, your servant,
Graeme
Josephine giggled and held the note to her chest, momentarily forgetting Bridgett was in the room.
“Josephine?” Bridgett asked, interrupting her reverie.
Josephine cleared her throat and tried in vain to wipe the smile from her face. “Aye?”
Bridgett studied her closely for a moment before asking, “Would ye like a bath?”
“Aye, Bridgett, I would very much like a bath. And as much parchment as you can bring me.”
After a long and much needed bath, Josephine slipped into a simple green dress and sat down to pen a letter to Graeme. For the next two hours, they passed letters back and forth to one another, using Bridgett as their messenger.
Laurin returned later in the afternoon, and while she looked happy, she was not quite as happy as Josephine.
“Pray tell,” Laurin said when she entered the room and Josephine looked up with a bright smile. “What has ye smilin’ so?”
“Oh, Laurin,” Josephine exclaimed happily. “Something quite remarkable has happened.”
Laurin hurried to sit opposite her at the little table. “What? What has happened?”
Josephine handed the stacks of letters to Laurin. “Begin with the one on top,” she said.
Laurin’s brow knitted into a line of confusion as she tried to decipher the handwriting. “Who wrote this?”
Josephine was beaming. “Graeme,” she said as she waited for the realization to settle in. “When I woke, there was a small bundle of letters just inside the door. All from Graeme.”
Laurin was not quite grasping the importance. “And?”
“Don’t you see? He begged my forgiveness last night and when I woke, I found the letters. He had begun to respond to all the letters I wrote him over the years. So far, I have eleven.”
Laurin shot her a look that said she was beginning to question her soundness of mind. “Why do ye no’ just go talk to him? If he be anythin’ like Albert, ye’ll soon find ye can talk to him about anythin’.”
Josephine patted Laurin’s hand. “Albert is a very good man. I am so very happy that you are warming to him.”
Laurin’s face flushed a deep pink. Josephine would not dare ask if they were doing more than just talking.
“He be a verra good man,” Laurin agreed before changing the subject back. “Why do ye no’ just talk to Graeme?”
“Well, we discussed that in our letters. Graeme is much better at writing his feelings than saying them. And in that process, we are learning much about one another.”
Laurin put the letter down and studied Josephine closely for several long moments. “I do no’ think I’ve ever seen ye this happy, Joie. I do no’ understand all this writin’ back and forth, when ye’re only a few steps away from each other. But if it ye brings ye happiness, I’ll say naught more about it.”
Josephine knew that others might not understand the significance of this breakthrough. What mattered was how important Graeme’s letters were to her.
She was about to tell Laurin something else, when someone knocked on the door. Josephine squealed with delight as she shot to her feet. “Another letter!”
Bridgett had barely stepped inside when Josephine grabbed the letter from her hand. “Um…” she asked with a hint of trepidation. “Will this be goin’ on all the night long? I be wearin’ a path out between yer room and his.”
“Oh! Bridgett, I am so sorry!”
“Do no’ fash yerself over it,” Bridgett said. “But would ye mind if I found a younger lad to help run the letters between ye and Graeme?”
For the next two days, neither Josephine nor Graeme left their rooms. Meals were sent to their respective chambers while the two young people wrote one letter after another.
Josephine felt she had learned more about Graeme in the past few days than she would have had, had they been locked in a room and forced to speak. She had to agree that writing to one another offered a safe barrier where one could in fact say what one was truly thinking or feeling without having to worry over a slip of the tongue or misstep that might lead to an embarrassing moment. Nay, writing was much safer.
While she spent her time in correspondence, Laurin spent her free time with Albert. Neither Laurin nor Albert, or anyone else inside the keep for that matter, could quite understand the appeal that Josephine and Graeme found in writing.
“Do ye plan on marryin’ the man through letters?” Laurin asked when she had returned from the evening meal. “Mayhap ye want to marry him by proxy.”
Josephine simply shook her head and smiled as she went back to writing yet another letter to Graeme.
“How will ye consummate yer marriage?” Laurin asked. “Will ye do that by proxy as well?”
Josephine’s face burned a brilliant shade of red as she looked away. She was at that moment responding to a question Graeme had posed on that very topic. Laurin shook her head and threw up her hands in defeat. “I am goin’ to bed.”
Josephine returned to her letter.
I was far too young when my mother passed away. I was unable to have a conversation with her on the matter of consummation. Your mother however, has been very helpful in that regard. She assures me that if you do everything correctly, then I shall quite enjoy that aspect of our marriage. She has also told me that if you have any questions on the matter, seek out her counsel, for it was she who taught your father the proper way to please a woman.
Within the hour she had Graeme’s short response on the matter.
Joie,
I find myself asking another boon of you. In the future, I ask that you never mention my mother or my father when we discuss the topic of consummation. I fear now that my sleep this night will be plagued with nightmares.
The hour is now late and I must bid you adieu. Sleep well, sweet Josephine.
Graeme
She knew he meant it in jest. She had learned that Graeme possessed a wicked sense of humor. Numerous times over these past days his letters had made her laugh to the point of tears. And yet there were other times when she was sincerely glad for the solitude Laurin had given her, so she could blush quietly and without question.
Most of all, Graeme had answered her questions honestly. She had learned that he was not prone to drinking heavily as her father and brother had often done. And nay, he had not enjoyed the company of dozens of women whilst he was away. Though the manner in which he had answered that particular question left her to wonder if he hadn’t enjoyed the company of at least a few. He wrote that he had been far too busy with his studies to “visit the numerous brothels or taverns”. Josephine was not so naive as to think that brothels and taverns were the only places to find an eager woman, but she let the matter drop, at least for the time being. In the end, it didn’t matter if he had or hadn’t. All that mattered was his subsequent vow never to stray from their marital bed.
In turn, she had answered all of his questions with the same level of honesty and respect. Some of the questions she found rather odd, but most were completely predictable and expected. “What was your first kiss like?” he had asked. She answered, “I do not know as I have yet to experience such. Mayhap I should find a willing young man to help teach me how to kiss before I marry. With you being such a worldly and experienced man, mayhap you would want a wife who is just as experienced and worldly?”
His response left her laughing almost uncontrollably. “It would bring me much relief to know you have not one grain of experience with kissing. I would hate to think you were comparing my kisses with anyone else’s. Equally important is the fact that I might be drawn and quartered before our wedding day, for gutting any man who dare even think about kissing you. You would, in truth, be saving countless lives by remaining ignorant on the matter.”
On the following morning, one of the many young lads they had bribed into running their messages back and forth, appeared bright and early at her door with another letter.
My dearest Josephine,
Whilst I have thoroughly enjoyed writing to you these past few days, I fear I am unable to continue on this path. You see, I have written so much that my fingers are now permanently damaged from all the hours of holding a pen. They will not, no matter what I do, uncurl.
I beseech ye to allow me to see ye in person.
Graeme
Excitement and eager anticipation swelled. She didn’t bother with writing another note. Instead, she gave a verbal message and sent the young boy off to deliver it.
As soon as he was out of the room, she quickly set about readying herself for her betrothed. She washed her face and teeth, and slipped into a clean chemise before stepping into what she thought was her prettiest dress. A pale green damask with fitted sleeves, a scooped neckline, trimmed in dark blue thread. Laurin was already gone, so there was no one to help her style her hair. She ran a comb through it and decided to leave it down. All the while she flittered about the room, her heart pounded against her chest.
She was just stepping into her slippers when a knock came at her door. Not wanting to seem too eager, she stood with her hand on the bar, took several deep breaths and counted to five before opening it.
Writing to her had been as easy and simple as breathing.
But let him gaze upon her face? Any eloquent speeches, poems of love, or words from his heart that he had planned to tell her, vanished in the blink of an eye.
She stood before him in a pale green dress, her hair unbound and tumbling down her back, her smile – the one he should have seen days ago – was enough to light up the darkest night. His mouth had suddenly become dry and paralyzed, as if he’d been born without the ability to speak. Or swallow. Or think any coherent thought.
Graeme felt all at once foolish, immature and unworthy. He was about to turn and run away like a boy, when Josephine all but flung herself into his embrace, twining her slender arms around his waist and resting her head against his chest.
“Graeme,” she said, a note of glee in her voice. “I’ve waited a very long time for you.”
The sensation of feeling foolish, immature and unworthy fell away as he wrapped his own arms around her. Why did I resist this for all these years?
She pushed away slightly to look up at him. He studied every inch of her lovely face. Josephine was quite beautiful, with her creamy skin and oval shaped face. Her green eyes reminded him at once of the summer grass that lined a French countryside. Dark lashes surrounded those eyes – eyes that were sparkling with joy and excitement as they looked into his. A pert, little nose and deliciously looking full, pink lips, which he was quite certain would feel as soft as a whisper against his own.
He wondered then if anyone would object if he married her now. This very day. This very moment.
“Ye’re beautiful,” he said.
Those cream colored cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink when he gave her the compliment.
“Jose—” he stopped himself. “Joie, I ken I am wholly unworthy of ye, but would ye do me the distinct honor of marryin’ me?”
Josephine had already agreed to such, more than four years ago. She had learned, however, through his letters, that it had been quite important to Graeme that he be able to marry a woman of his own choosing. Her heart felt close to bursting from her chest. He was choosing her of his own free will.
A joy-filled smile curved on her face and she flung her arms around his neck. “Aye, Graeme MacAulay, I will marry you.”
To his mind, ’twas too glorious a moment, and he could not resist the urge to taste those delicate pink lips. Without asking permission or giving much warning, he pressed his lips to hers. At first, she was quite surprised, but that fell away a heartbeat or two later. Josephine melted into him as she returned his kiss with equal passion and zeal.
Their long overdue kiss was interrupted far too soon for either of their likings.
“Well, it be about time!”
Nothing on God’s earth can douse a man’s ardor like the sound of his mother’s voice.