“She birthed a healthy son in early October,” Rosamund answered him. “A peddler returning to England brought word some weeks ago.”
“But Logan Hepburn has not communicated with you,” Tom noted.
“I would not expect Logan to do so,” Rosamund replied. “We did not part on the best of terms, Tom. The night Patrick and I were forced to seek shelter at Claven’s Carn, he fought with me and then drank himself into a stupor. We did not see him the following morning before we left, for which I was most grateful.”
“Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom!” Rosamund’s three daughters were surrounding him. “What have you brought us?” Their small faces were eager with anticipation.
Tom swept Banon up into his arms and kissed her rosy cheek. She giggled happily, glad to know she was still a favorite. “Now, my little lasses,” he said. “I have one gift for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas for each of you.”
“But uncle,” Philippa responded, “Christ’s Mass is not for another four days.”
“I know,” he replied, eyes twinkling, “and so my little poppets, you will have to possess your wee souls of great patience until then.”
“ ’Tis not fair,” Banon, who was six, protested.
“Shame on you all,” Rosamund scolded her daughters. “I cannot believe you are so greedy. Run along, now, and have your suppers. Philippa, you will remain.”
Tom put Banon down, but not before giving her another kiss. Then he watched fondly as the two younger girls made their way from the hall. “They have grown even in the few months I was away,” he said.
Rosamund nodded. “I know,” she said. “In the months I was away, the same thing happened. I don’t ever want to leave my lasses again.”
He took her hand, and they sat together on a settle by the fire. Opposite them, Henry Bolton dozed, the greyhound now lying across his feet. “Your uncle has found a friend,” Tom observed. “God help the man, for he has no others.”
Rosamund sighed. “I must forgive him his treatment of me as a child,” she said. “He is to be pitied. I have not feared him since I was six and Hugh took my care upon himself. Poor Uncle Henry. Arranging my marriage to Hugh Cabot was his downfall.”
“More your salvation,” Tom chuckled, and Rosamund smiled.
“Aye,” she agreed.
“So you are to be the Countess of Glenkirk, dear girl. He loves you deeply, but you know that, for you love him every bit as much,” Tom said.
“It seems so strange,” Rosamund replied, “to have found such love as I have found with Patrick. How I wish he were here now, Tom! God’s blood, I miss him more with each passing day. I do not know if I can wait until April to see him again, to marry him, and be his wife. His title I care naught for, but I know I have never loved anyone as much as I love him.”
Tom shook his head. “I will admit that I have never seen such passion as I saw between you two. I am glad you changed your mind, cousin, and decided to wed him. You would never again be happy otherwise.”
“He will not live forever,” Rosamund noted. “I will one day have to be without him, but I care not! I can think only of the months we have had together and the years we will have together. We met just a year ago on the eve of Christ’s Mass, Tom.”
“Even as poor Logan Hepburn was contemplating a marriage to you,” her cousin said.
“Why must everyone speak of Logan Hepburn?” Rosamund asked him. “I do not love him. I did not give him my promise to wed him. I wanted no other husband in my life a year ago. Logan sought only a broodmare, and the swift results of his eager couplings with Mistress Jean prove my point.”
“Indeed they do,” her cousin agreed calmly. “I suppose we all speak of him because we expected that you would wed him eventually. We thought you desired a bit of courting, Rosamund, nothing more. That when he had softened your heart, you would agree to marry him. Did you feel nothing at all for the man?”
“At first he fascinated me,” she admitted, “but then his constant nattering about an heir began to seriously irritate me. He never wanted me for myself, Tom.”
“I think, mayhap, he did,” her cousin said softly. “But he is a rough borderer and knew not how to express himself properly to you.”
“ ’Tis water beneath the bridge now,” Rosamund said. “He has his son, and I have my love. We should both be content and happy, Tom. I know I am.”
Henry Bolton listened to their conversation, eyes closed, his breathing shallow. So that damned Hepburn from over the border had been so bold as to seek Rosamund’s hand at long last. Perhaps he had made a fatal error years back when the then lord of Claven’s Carn had asked for the wench for his eldest son. They would have taken her away from Friarsgate, and he would have been left with it. He might even have offered the old lord a gold dowry in exchange for the estate. He could have borrowed on the land to raise it. But as his niece said, ’twas water beneath the bridge. And she, bold creature, had somehow attracted the attentions of a Scots earl. She would be a countess, and her small daughter would be left at Friarsgate when her mother went north. If only he could find a way to contact his son Henry. If he could kidnap this new heiress and wed her to his son, all should not be lost. If he did not woo his son away from the wicked life he was now leading, the lad would eventually end up at the end of the hangman’s rope. He must think on this, Henry Bolton considered as he sat in his niece’s hall eavesdropping.
Rosamund kept a good Christmas. Yule logs burned in the hall’s fireplaces. The chamber was decorated with pine, boxwood, ivy, and holly. Fine beeswax candles burned about the room for the entire twelve days, and there were feasts each afternoon. Mummers from her estate came into the hall to entertain them. There were roasted apples and gingerbread men to eat, mulled cider and wine to drink. There was a side of beef that had been packed in rock salt and roasted. The Friarsgate folk were invited into the hall each day, and on the feast of St. Stephen Rosamund gave every one of her people gifts of fabric, small coins, sugar creatures, and in certain cases, fishing and hunting rights, to help them survive the winter months. No one was overlooked in the celebrations, especially Annie and Dermid. Their son had been born on the fourth day of December, and Rosamund’s gift to them was the promised cottage.
Tom was as good as his word. He gave Rosamund’s small daughters gifts on each of the Twelve Days of Christmas. And so none of the trio be jealous of the others, each day’s gifts were almost identical. There were new leather boots one morning and new blue velvet gowns another. There were fine leather gloves sewn with seed pearls. Gold chains one day, jeweled ear bobs another. Pearl necklaces were tendered on the sixth day, a packet of silk ribbons on the seventh. There were small woolen cloaks trimmed with rabbits’ fur on the eighth day, carved wooden balls and painted hoops on the ninth. The tenth day brought little red leather saddles, the eleventh day red leather and brass bridles. And on the Twelfth Day of Christmas each of Rosamund’s daughters was gifted with an animal for riding. Bessie and Banon had white ponies. Banon’s beastie had a single black hoof and Bessie’s had a black star on its forehead. Philippa was given a pure white mare just fourteen and a half hands high.
“You are so very, very generous to them,” Rosamund said, truly touched by his great kindness.
“Nonsense,” he protested. “What is my wealth for if not to purchase small fripperies to give pleasure to my girls?”
“You can hardly call your gifts fripperies,” Rosamund laughed.
“When you wed with your earl,” Tom told her, “it is not likely we shall have another Christmas together again, particularly if you winter in Scotland.”
“You will come to Glenkirk at Christmas,” she said quickly.
“What?” he exclaimed, looking quite horrified, “I think not, dear girl. You may enjoy a winter in your lover’s Highland eyrie, but I should not.” He shuddered. “The very thought of it is most distressing.”