Uh-oh.
“Anything you wish to say to Esme can be said in my presence,” her aunt insisted.
Bless you, Mother. Bless you.
“You always were a bothersome bitch,” her father said lazily, his eyes piercing the nun with hatred. “No wonder you could never find a man to spread your legs.”
“That’s enough!” Esme said, standing suddenly and letting the surplice float out of her hands down to the floor. Esme had defied her father’s wishes over the years, but she’d never taken a stand openly. It was well past time that she did so, even if it meant suffering the consequences. She could not allow her father to take out his frustration with her by attacking those who protected her. “You will not speak to my aunt in that manner. You will treat her with the respect which her holy office inspires.” Are you there, St. Jude? I might be needing you in a moment or two.
Mother Wilfreda darted a look of surprise her way. No wonder. Esme had suddenly developed a spine. About time!
Both of her brothers took a step forward menacingly, low growls coming through their gritted teeth, but their father raised a halting hand.
“Have you gone mad, girl?”
Undoubtedly. “Nay. In fact, I’ve never been more sane. I am sick to here of your ranting and raving,” she said, slicing a hand across her throat. Oh, God, some strange being has taken over my tongue. “It is always about what you want. You. You. You. Well, listen good, Father. You cannot bend me to your will. Not in the past. Not now. Not ever.” Well, I must say I am impressed with myself. Very good, Esme. And I’m still alive.
Her father clapped sarcastically to show his disdain for her “performance.”
She held on to the back of the chair, white-knuckled, then inhaled and exhaled to catch her breath. Being brave took more energy than she would have thought. She hoped her legs didn’t collapse.
“This is your fault, Freda,” her father said, addressing her aunt. “You have been nurturing this hostility in my daughter, just as you did with my wife all those years ago.”
“Anything my sister Anne did was of her own doing, John,” her aunt said with a calmness that would do a saint proud.
“I doubt that. Where did Anne get the idea to pass her dower lands on to a daughter, if not from you?”
“Mayhap from you, John,” Mother Wilfreda answered, again without rancor. She continued to grind her herbs as she spoke, as if a visit by three armed men, a sudden display of independence by a novice nun, and the growing anger of a Saxon nobleman were everyday occurrences at the abbey.
“M-m-me?” her father sputtered.
“Yea. If you and your sons had not treated Esme so cruelly, Anne never would have insisted on passing Evergreen to her daughter. You forced her to take every precaution the law allows.”
“Esme never lacked for anything.”
How about love? Esme thought.
“How about love?” her aunt asked, as if reading her mind.
“Love? Pffff! She could have been wed to any one of a dozen thegns over these ten years, and she scoffed at every one of them.”
“Men of your choosing,” Esme interjected. She was tired of everyone speaking over her as if she were a child, as if her opinion were of no importance. “Puppets who would do your will. Decrepit old men on their deathbeds, who would pass my mother’s lands on to you. Weak young milksops who tripped over themselves to do the great Lord Blackthorne’s bidding. All men who would ensure, in the end, that my lands would become your lands.” By the saints, I must have a death wish.
“That is neither here nor there. Since when do daughters get to choose their mates? ‘Tis a father’s role, and always has been.”
“Well, this daughter says nay.” Did I say that? Really? I am beginning to be really impressed with myself. Of course, I may be dead soon, but impressive.
“What would you do with Evergreen, even if I were barmy enough to allow you to receive it? You are a woman. What know you of handling a landed estate, small as that one is?”