The small leather sack that Evelyn had brought with her contained what seemed now like rags, and she gave them to her hand-maiden Alice to sell. She felt strange at first in her new clothes, but they put her at ease. Made from the fine wool of the neck and underbelly of the sheep, they were airily light with fashionably broad sleeves. Her underclothes, linens of a fine weave, fell lightly against her skin. Her favorite article was the belt, engraved with eagles and set with polished stones that hung neatly from her hips. Her father gave her a case of jewels but she did not want to wear them. She did not want to seem ungrateful, so she covered her fingers with rings that she could hide at any moment under her sleeves. The rest of the jewels she kept in the leather case, opening them every day to marvel at them.
She had been there almost a year, and could have passed- in appearance at least- for any of the ladies in Perevil's retinue. But these were not her clothes: her rings were borrowed and would in time be taken from her. The castle's silence, from the whispering maids to the still flags in the high tower, spoke to its impermanence. She could not shake the impression that it would vanish, leaving her in a pile of glittering dust.
He had been pleasantly surprised how quickly she picked up needlework. Her years of tedious stitching under her mother's guidance had left her with nimble fingers. Lady Perevil had been no proficient and Perevil had always wanted a daughter who could weave and stitch extensive scenes. His knowledge of the craft was steeped in folklore, in the tale of Philomena, who wove a history that only her sister could read. He would have liked to have such an understanding between Evelyn and himself, and they designed a scene together rich in symbols only they could decipher.
They were happy together. Perevil had found someone that would listen to him. So long caught up in his own thoughts, his speech, a blend of poetry and reality, bordered on delusional. But Evelyn listened carefully, and it was some time before she realized that the stories he told her, that she interpreted as fables, he believed to be true.
She loved to hear of her mother. What lies he told her! His stories transformed the worn and secretive woman of her memory into a relic, a physical embodiment of enchantment. It was too laughable to take in earnest, and yet over time he managed through his lyric gifts to move her. She had two mothers now, the bitterly proud Saxon matron and also the fairy, delicate and universal as the dawn.
It had not occurred to Perevil that he had loved Leuruna and only her in the years since he had seen her. He had made no effort to find her and support her and though at times, and when Evelyn looked up at him in placid innocence, he struggled with a brief guilt, he comforted himself that she had never sought his aid, simply allowing him to meet his daughter when it suited him. She was in ways a difficult woman, easily irritated by words. In truth he had ceased to love her before his parents signed his marriage contract. It did not fit easily with his vision of himself to fall so quickly out of love- it was akin to breaking a promise. He should have seen her married! It would have been more just and would have saved her the discomfort of a fragile reputation. But he could not have borne it, the look of reproach. It would break her heart to be married off by his hand. Let her choose with time. She would come to see her own good, for the sake of the child, and he would provide a generous dowry.
But Leuruna did not choose, and though her love for him was clean hewn and healed over, she never settled as a comfortable wife.
He now fancied he loved Leuruna again, as he did in his distorted memory, and loved her through all the familiar features of his daughter's face. He did not realize that his memory of Leuruna was shapeless and all the features that stirred him were his own. Her nose was straight with a high bridge and her eyelids were deeply hued. He stared at her hands- though they were smaller he recognized Leuruna's coloring; each knuckle was pink, as though dusted over with color. But her hands were his hands, only smaller and more tapered.
Occasionally a wicked thought would overtake him-was she really his? His retainers believed so. They bowed their heads in approval and they were gentle in their support. She was so like him, and it was no evil thing for a man of his rank to have a natural daughter, the fruit of a simple youthful transgression. A son would be different. A son would grasp for land and rights he had no claim to. No, it was a good thing, a very innocent thing and a blessing to have a daughter to ease his old age.
But he swore he would test her. He would not accept her by her looks alone or her mother's promise. A woman's visage could deceive a man, and witchcraft lingered in appearances. Perevil recited the dangers and vowed to test her.
He read to her from his manuscripts, pulling his nose from the parchment every so often. How did she respond? She sat unspeaking, and his heart swelled when she did not smile, but looked at him with understanding.
"You don't respond," he said.
"It reminds me of a story I once heard." And she recited a simple tale of the crusades, a siege and rescue, but Perevil was convinced it was a story he had chronicled himself. His retainers had no choice but to agree.
She was curious, and wanted to learn to read. Her mother and all the men and women she had known had been illiterate, but she was fascinated with her father's expression as he sorted through his documents or turned to her and read aloud a phrase that he especially liked. He did not like devotional works, only poetry. He preferred the stories of knights on crusade. His own experience had been gruesome. He had seen poor men trampled underfoot by their own commanders and his battalion failed to make any conquests. But his memory was growing weak, and he was able to selectively insert the glowing scenes from epic verse into his own experience. Evelyn wanted to collect and keep her father's poetry, but the phrases were so alien to her that she could not remember them. So Perevil taught her a little reading. It was a game for him. He did not expect her to be truly literate, and would not have liked it either. But it was the first time in years that he had felt useful.
Evelyn's entrance into his life, with all its pleasures, had saddled Perevil with a new sense of uncertainty. He did not see his death in the future but he felt a faint sense that something should be done. She could not be his heiress, and he needed to find her a home before his death. Her situation was highly unusual. He could fit her with a formidable dowry, but he knew the inestimable pride of the surrounding families- his daughter's blood and uncouth history would inevitably close marriage agreements. Among the native families, the gruff Saxon lords that sat on their holdings like a toad over a jewel, her virginity would be more crucial than any dowry. He believed in her purity because it suited him, but could not vouch for it. And the story of her birth and discovery was so doubtful- the only document alluding to her existence was a paltry sentence in a Saxon church in Harvens.
But most great houses carried some stain of illegitimacy. Perhaps a powerful family could provide the backing to proclaim Evelyn heir to Perevil. Then at least his descendants could enjoy his estate rather than dying out in a distant house. His name was great though he sensed his character was suspect. The northern lords, with their constant warring and political rivalry, considered scholarly work and an excessive interest in appearances effeminate, and he could not, for all his capacity for delusion, escape the sense that they despised him.