Page 36 of The Scot

Roysa ignored her sister’s shocked expression and the grin that followed, pretending it meant nothing. After what Lance had overheard, and the giggling that had ensued because of it, she could not deny the reason for this particular choice of dress.

“The maid is quite capable. She’s aired out all five of the ones I brought and even repaired the hem on one.”

“Only five?”

Roysa had been happy to see her sister at the door, asking if she wanted to walk down to the hall together for the evening meal. Maybe she should not have been so quick in her joy.

“I was advised to bring little. Or take nothing.”

They navigated the dark corridors with the aid of two candles, the scant light flickering against the walls as they walked.

“I hate him.”

Roysa slowed. Idalia never hated anyone. Not even the boy who’d tossed mud at her face when she was nine. It was preposterous for him to have done such a thing, to the lord’s daughter no less, but Idalia, in her typical way, had wiped it off and continued on to the market as if nothing had happened.

Roysa had always wished she could be more like her sister in many ways.

“I am not fond of him either,” she admitted. “Apparently Walter felt the same way.”

Idalia burst out laughing, and it was all Roysa could do not to join her. It had been an incredibly uncharitable thing to say. The man was dead. But she so wanted to be rid of the guilt that threatened to strangle her.

Besides, why should she spare a kind thought for a man who had mistreated her? For his brother, who likely wanted her dead?

But surely a good person would, wouldn’t they?

“Am I flawed?” she blurted.

It took a moment for Idalia to stop laughing, as if she did not at first realize it were a serious question. When she did stop, it was abrupt.

“Oh Roysa, whatever do you mean?” she said.

She wished she could take the words back.

“I cannot decide if I care for others too much, or too little. If I should be more like Father, or you.”

Two people she admired deeply, who were as different as can be.

“You’ve never asked such a question before.”

Roysa wished she hadn’t done so now. Her tongue had run way with her.

“You are my sister. Always dressed”—she gestured with her free hand toward Roysa’s gown—“to perfection. Father’s favorite. I do not begrudge it,” she rushed to add. “And neither does Tilly. Not”—she smiled—“that we understand it. Father can be . . .”

“Difficult,” Roysa finished for her.

“Aye. Tilly and I have always wanted to be more like you, not Father.”

Roysa did not want to disappoint her sister, but neither could she mislead her.

“I am far from perfect,” she confessed.

But Idalia did not react as she would have expected.

“Of course you’re not perfect. And as for who you should strive to be more like, the answer is evident.”

Roysa knew it too. Who would strive to emulate a man like her father when the very essence of a good, kind person stood before her?

“You should be more like you.”