A Choice of Secrets. Barb Hendee
her body began to calm.
“Oh, Chloe,” I said. “You are so ill. I’ll run and get Mother.”
Our mother was a healer, a skilled practitioner in herbal arts.
But Chloe grabbed my arm, clutching me fiercely. “No!”
Taken aback, I stared into her pale face.
“Please don’t,” she said more calmly. “I had too much wine to drink at the banquet, and if Father finds out, he’ll be displeased.”
She’d drunk too much wine? Her concern made sense to me, but I was still worried for her health. “Are you sure? Mother wouldn’t say anything to Father, and she might be able to give you something to settle your stomach.”
Chloe still gripped my arm, but less tightly now. “I am sure. Just get me out of this gown and help me to clean up the mess. I’ll be fine.”
Nodding, I moved around to the back of her and unlaced her gown. As she slipped out of the gown, I carried the basin out into the hallway, peering right and left. No one was up, so I took the basin outside and disposed of its contents at the base of a tree.
Hurrying back to Chloe’s room, I found her in bed, still pale, but looking otherwise recovered.
“Nicole,” she said, “will you swear to keep this between us?”
“Yes. I swear.”
Of course I would keep her secret. We were sisters, and sisters kept each other’s secrets.
Chapter 2
The next morning I woke up hungry, as I’d hardly had a chance to eat anything at the banquet. But I knew my family and our guests would sleep in, so there would be no gathering for breakfast.
Rising, I donned a simple day gown of tan muslin that laced up the front and then brushed out my hair, pulling it back into a tail at the nape of my neck. But I was careful to be quiet for fear of waking Chloe in the next room. She’d been so ill last night that I wanted her to rest.
Once dressed, I headed for the kitchen, where our cook, Louise, was glad to make me a plate of scrambled eggs with diced tomatoes. And yet somehow, the light of day and the prospect of breakfast did not bring any relief over my father’s anger with me at the banquet.
I sighed. Nothing would most likely bring relief except finding out what I’d done wrong, and that would have to wait until my family had awakened for the day. Until then, I’d need to find a way to occupy my mind, so after finishing my morning meal, I decided to follow my usual routine. Here at White Deer Lodge, I had three main duties: my herb garden, our henhouse, and the beehives.
No one had ever assigned me to any of these pursuits. My devotion had simply happened. My mother’s need for certain herbs in her healing practices had led her to teach me about the growth and care of such plants, and I’d grown up with an affection for our hens and bees. Over the years, their care had gradually become my responsibility and no one—including me—ever gave this much thought.
Erik’s duty was to protect our home, and for all his good humor, he took this duty seriously. He managed our guards. He was skilled with a sword and the best archer I’d ever seen. When he married, his wife would live here and someday Erik would be lord. His wife would be the lady and she would be the one to run the household.
Father sometimes looked at Erik and called him a son of White Deer Lodge, of this place and this land.
Chloe was beautiful and admired. She spent her days entertaining any ladies who came for extended visits, planning tea and embroidery parties. Mother appreciated this, as she had little interest in gossip and tea. But Chloe also paid attention when our mother went over menus with the cook or oversaw our stores for winter. Chloe was training to be the lady of a noble house. Long before the betrothal to Christophe, my parents planned to make a great match for her, and their efforts had not been in vain.
She would soon be the lady of Whale’s Keep.
But me?
I would continue working with my mother to learn the arts of healing and remain here to care for my parents when they grew old. I would be aunt to Erik’s children and live under his protection.
Father once said to me, “It is Chloe’s destiny to make a great marriage, but you are a daughter of White Deer Lodge. Your life is here.”
When he said this, I heard truth in his words. I was a daughter of White Deer Lodge.
So no one cared that I knew nothing of running a household and that I spent my days learning healing arts from my mother or working in my herb garden or tending to my beloved hens and bees.
This morning, as my family and all our guests slept, I left the kitchens and headed outside, going first to visit the large henhouse that had been built years ago behind the hunting hall. It was a cheerful henhouse, painted white with blue trim, with a fenced yard outside the front door.
As I approached and passed through the gate of the yard, clucking sounds greeted me from inside.
“Good morning, my girls,” I said, opening the door and letting them into the yard. I kept them inside at night for fear of foxes and raccoons. One by one, they came out, clucking all the while. Currently, I had thirty-six hens, but my family and our servants required a number of eggs.
After scattering grain all over the yard, I changed out the water in their shallow basins, using one of our family’s water pumps, and then I went inside the house to gather eggs into a basket. These I took inside to Louise, who thanked me.
Upon leaving the kitchen for the second time that morning, I headed off to see my bees.
The beehives resided in a lovely spot at the edge of a meadow out back of the log building that housed our guards. The meadow was alive with color at this time of year, with a variety of wildflowers, butterflies, and dragonflies. It was my favorite place in all the lodge.
Sometimes, I would bring my lunch and remain out here all afternoon.
Standing near the hives, I let the sound of buzzing soothe me. Something about the bees at their work always soothed me.
“Nicole,” called a voice from behind me.
Turning, I saw Christophe and my father walking toward me, but my father’s face was tense, and he stopped at the edge of the building that served as our barracks and let Christophe continue onward to where I stood. This morning, Christophe was dressed in black pants and boots and a simple wool shirt. He hadn’t shaved and a dark shadow covered his jaw.
He’d always liked my beehives and this meadow, and I normally welcomed his company here, but not this morning. Not after last night and with my father standing well away from us looking as if he held the world on his shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as soon as Christophe had closed the distance between us. “Why is Father angry with me and why is he standing back there alone?”
At first, I thought Christophe’s eyes were bleak, but then I looked at him more closely and thought perhaps he looked…desperate.
Motioning to the ground, he said, “Sit with me. I would speak with you.”
A wave of anxiety passed through me. There was something terribly wrong here, and I had no idea what it was. “Christophe?”
“Just sit. Please.”
Slowly, I sank down into the grass of the meadow and he sat down beside me. Twice, he began to speak and stopped, as if uncertain how to formulate the words.
“I went to see your father this morning,” he said finally, “to ask that he change one clause in the betrothal contract.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What? You’ll not refuse to send soldiers to protect our coastline? Christophe, you promised!”
Blinking, he shook his head. “No. It’s nothing like that. I would never—”