Silken Threads by Patricia Ryan

Author:Patricia Ryan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: 12th century, historical romance, rear window, medieval city, medieval england, historical romantic suspense, medieval apothecary, leprosy, medieval romance, medieval needlework, medieval london, middle ages, rita award
Publisher: Patricia Ryan
Published: 2010-07-10T02:29:26.132818+00:00

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Chapter 14

Not wanting to appear too interested, Graeham waited until after supper, when Joanna sat down at her embroi¬dery frame, to question her about her visit to Ada le Fever.

“How did it go today?” he asked as he lowered himself onto the chest against the front wall, a cup of wine in his hand.

She sighed as she took her seat, inspecting the orange tree painted on the silk, and the knotwork border with which it was embellished, with a critical eye. “Not well.” Plucking a needle off its parchment card, she threaded it with brown silk.

She’d kept her veil on tonight, for he’d made the mistake of telling her at supper that he’d be joining her again. He missed seeing that extraordinary hair glimmer in the lamplight, like rippling waves reflecting a fiery sunset. But even with the veil, it was, as always, a struggle to keep from staring at her like a besotted youth.

“No one commissioned anything from you?” he asked, although he’d surmised as much from her solemn demeanor when she came home this afternoon. She hadn’t even smiled when he’d suggested she take up burglary, so ingeniously had she gained access to le Fever’s house.

“Nay, no commissions.” She retrieved a leather thimble from the basket and fitted it over her finger. “I never even got to show my samples.”

“What happened?”

She pierced the silk from underneath, on the edge of the orange tree’s trunk. “Mistress Ada is too ill to have any interest in such things, and Mistress Rose was preoccupied with trying to soothe her husband’s temper.”

“Ada le Fever is ill?” He raised the cup to his lips, watching her over the rim.

“Aye, very ill—thin, wasted,” she said, swiftly tracing the outline of the tree with a line of neat stitching. “She’s confined to a bed in her solar. A rheum of the head, supposedly, plus an excess of black bile, according to Aldfrith.”

“Aldfrith—the fellow who set my leg?”

“The same. Her husband thinks she’s just looking for attention and pity.”

Graeham took another slow sip of wine. “What do you think is wrong with her?”

“I think if she has an excess of anything, it’s exposure to Rolf le Fever.”

“You don’t think he’s...doing anything to harm her, do you?”

“Not unless...” She frowned; the needle flashed. “Nay, I have no business speculating on—”

“You can speculate. Is he doing her harm?”

She looked at him curiously before returning her attention to her orange tree. “His mere presence in that house must worsen her melancholia—perhaps even cause it. But there’s no reason to think he’s actually hurting her. She showed no sign of bruising. And she said he hadn’t even been up to the solar since before Lent—that would be over three months ago.”

“How did she appear to you?” he asked.

Joanna shrugged without looking up. “As I said, very thin—although I know she’s getting nourishment. There was a bowl of broth on the table, and she’d eaten it. She was deathly pale, with dark circles beneath her eyes. Despite that, she’s a pretty little thing.

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