Elsbeth’s hands continued embroidering.  Indeed, now that her thoughts were more fully occupied elsewhere, the work went more easily, as well-learned movements performed themselves with greater ease — and skill — than when she had been trying to distract herself by concentrating on them. 

Douglas had remained in Garland for only a few days after the betrothal.  Elsbeth had not been sorry to see him go.  Her concerns about his suitability both as husband and Roth had only been stoked by the time she spent with him. 

She could see him easily in her memory, his hands tumbling over one another like puppies. 

“Do you like the knife?”  He had asked.  “It was my mother’s.” 

He had already mentioned this, at the ceremony, but Elsbeth did not say so.  “It is lovely, my lord.” 

They were walking together in the castle’s garden, admiring Lady Garland’s Ragoni roses.  It was difficult to get them to grow in Elbany, where it was cooler than in Ragonne, but Lady Garland, Ragoni herself, had persisted until she found a way. 

“They’re lovely,” Douglas said, stretching out a hand towards one but not quite touching it.  “My mother is Ragoni by birth as well, but she’s never been able to make roses grow in Rothbury.” 

“Perhaps my mother would be able to tell her what needs to be done.” 

“Perhaps.” 

There was a pause.  “I hope you will like Rothbury.  Have you ever been there?”

“No.”

Another silence.  “It is beautiful,” he said at last.  “The sight of the bay, far below, looking out from the uppermost floor of the castle…like how a bird must see the world.”

“As you say, my lord.” 

Douglas turned suddenly towards her.  “Elsbeth…” 

But she stepped forward, sinking her nose into one of the full-spread blooms.  “They are lovely, my lord.”  Very carefully, she broke the stem and handed him the rose.  He flashed a quick smile as he took it, and his eyes closed as he inhaled its scent. 

But when he tried to step closer and tuck the rose into her hair, Elsbeth slipped away, looking minutely at the blooms of another bush.  From the corner of her eye she could see him stop, hurt and confusion flitting in his face before being wiped away.      

Elsbeth wondered, now, what he had meant to ask.  It had seemed, then, that he had wanted to know about Murrow, that he had noticed after all, or someone else had, and told him.  But it had seemed intolerable that he should. 

Now, she thought, it might have been better to hear his question, and if it were about Murrow, tell him.  But she couldn’t.  So she had plucked the rose and given it to him; what was due him, would be his.  It was the best she could offer. 

The Roth’s party had left the next morning.  Elsbeth could not help but wonder, in the solitude of her own heart, whether he had abandoned the field in the face of a rival.  It was worrisome, this sudden departure.  If he fled from his betrothed when she seemed to prefer another, how would he face down disgruntled lords?  How would he lead his warriors if he feared the favor of a woman?  Concern uncoiled again, as Elsbeth wondered about the worth of the man in whose hands lay not only her own future but that of Elbany.