Page 8 of Castle of Refuge

Edwin read the letter again. The mentions of Wat Tyler’s Rebellion, and Edwin’s injury and those responsible, felt like a renewal of the weight their memory brought to his shoulders, bringing back the cloud of gloom that had been over him for the better part of a year.

But the worst part was that there was no mention of Lady Ophelia, whom Edwin intended to marry.

Just over a year ago she’d whispered into his ear at a ball at her father’s castle, “I will marry you.”

He’d asked her to marry him without even consulting his father. She had smiled at him so beguilingly that he’d instantly fallen in love that night at the ball. He loved everything about her—her dark hair and light eyes, the way she moved so gracefully she seemed to float, the way she smiled and laughed—all of it drew him in.

Father had been pleased at the match and had written to Lady Ophelia’s father to negotiate the terms of the marriage. A few weeks later, Lord Essex had promised her to him with the benefit of property and jewels.

It was a good match for both of them, as Lady Ophelia and Edwin were wealthy, he destined to be an earl, she an earl’s daughter. But shortly thereafter, Edwin’s father was dead and he and his brothers were accused of murder and treason. Then he lost his arm, maimed for life.

Edwin had not seen Lady Ophelia since the ball. After his acquittal of all charges, he had written to her not once but twice without a reply. He’d finally written to her father, a vague missive inquiring after his health and whether he and his family had weathered the uprising without mishap, knowing already that they had. And this was his answer. It was strange that Essex would take the trouble to write and send a courier without insisting his daughter also include a reply to her future husband.

Was Lady Ophelia simply a poor correspondent? Did she still want to marry him after hearing that he was now lame? Would she be ashamed to be his wife? Honestly, he did not know her character all that well.

Leaning back in his chair, Edwin stared out at the rain that had just started falling from the gray sky.

The right thing to do would be to tell her that if she could not face being married to a man with one arm, then he would let her out of her pledge. But such delicate information would best be conveyed in person rather than a letter. He should go to her and speak with her. And he would. But not until he was moreconfident in his ability to keep his balance and not fall off his horse.

***

Audrey’s looking glass told her the ugly truth: her dream of being a bright light in the world, of doing something significant, was lost forever. Most of the time she avoided looking at herself, but last night she’d had a particularly disturbing nightmare. In the dream, one whole side of her face had literally melted off. Gone. In her dream she’d started screaming, which had her pushing herself up in bed, a hoarse sound coming from her aching throat.

Gazing at her reflection now, she could see her face was still there, though the burn had deformed her ear and the scar extended over a small section of her face about two fingers wide. Hideous, to be sure, but thankfully not half her face.

She touched the alternately smooth and puckered, reddish skin, remembering the terrible pain that had lasted for weeks until the burns had finally healed. She had been so frightened in those days that she had entreated her father to protect her from her sister.

“Send me away,” Audrey had begged. “I cannot bear to be in the same house with her. Please, Father. I cannot bear it.”

“It was not intentional,” her father had said. “She said you tripped over her foot. She did not purposely send you into the fire.”

“She did, she did.” Audrey had covered her eyes with her hands, reliving the horror of what her sister had done. Overand over the image haunted her, the moment her eyes had met Maris’s, the cold, malevolent smile on her face as she stuck out her foot to trip her.

The one time Maris had come into her room—to comfort her, she had said—Audrey screamed. She couldn’t help herself. She screamed until the servants put themselves between her and Maris. Audrey’s mind had gone back to the moment Maris had tripped her, and she couldn’t seem to separate that event from the present moment. She’d screamed until the servants and her father convinced her sister to leave the room.

Then her father turned on Audrey. “What’s the matter with you? Screaming like a mad woman. There is no peace in this house.”

Peace? How was she ever to have peace again?

Her hands shaking and her heart racing, she cried, “How can I have peace when I’m not safe?”

A few days later, Maris was gone. Her father sent her to a convent.

Father said little about it and seemed cross for several days afterward, so Audrey did not ask him any questions. She was only too glad to have her sister gone.

Despite not having seen her sister in four years, Audrey’s memory still seemed so vivid. She recalled a dream she’d had several nights before.

Audrey was lying in her bed when she opened her eyes and saw Maris standing in her doorway. Audrey’s throat constricted. She tried to ask Maris what she wanted, to tell her to leave her alone, but she couldn’t speak. Her throat was too tight and dry.

Suddenly, Maris was holding a torch, fiery and glowing orange.

No!Audrey struggled to scream, desperate. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. She’d awakened gasping for air, her heart pounding.

She still felt shaken by the vivid dreams, but the four years since Maris left had been good, despite her father sending her tutor away soon after the accident. She had cried bitter tears, knowing he did it because he no longer thought she had a chance to wed anyone wealthy or powerful and therefore would not need any further education. She would miss having someone to speak to in French and German and to teach her various other subjects.

But in the following months and years, Audrey spent her days doing the things she loved and continuing her education on her own—studying her books and practicing her languages by reading books in French and German, gathering wildflowers, and embroidering tapestries. She began to feel safe, and how good it was to no longer feel beaten down and oppressed. She could be herself, laugh, speak her mind without someone deriding and criticizing her, hitting or pinching her.

Four years had not changed her very much, though perhaps she was less dreamy and she worried more about the kind of man her father would marry her off to. Her father made it clear he had much lower expectations—and standards—now that she was scarred. She was ugly, people saw her as ugly, and she had to get used to it.