Page 78 of The Blacksmith

Though she was beyond grateful for her mother’s improvement—and for her father’s reengagement in life at Stanton—she found it difficult to carry on as if all were well.

I wish I’d never met him.

It wasn’t the first time she’d had that uncharitable thought, but she didn’t quite believe it. Despite everything that had happened, despite the hurt that made it difficult to get out of bed in the morning, Idalia was grateful to have fallen in love with the blacksmith. To have known his touch, his love. He had made her feel as if she were someone special, and listening to him, she could almost believe she was as worthy of nurturing as Stanton’s people.

Tilly had been telling her as much for some time.

They reached the solar, and her father waved her inside. “Sit,” he commanded. She did, sighing inside. Idalia was certain her father didn’t realize how harsh he sounded at times. “It is his way,” her mother had always told her.

“I had hoped you would recover before now,” her father said once they were both seated, he behind his desk, she in front of it.

“Recover?”

“From the smith.”

He said it without mirth, straight-faced and serious.

“Father, I . . .” She stopped. What could she possibly say to that?

Had her mother told him? She’d assured Idalia she would not. So how did he know?

She crossed her hands on top of each other.

“I do not understand,” she said, forcing an even tone. “The blacksmith is long gone from Stanton, and he found a suitable replacement, just as you requested. In fact, just the other day at the market I spoke with the new smith. His work is nicely done—”

“You had affection for him, did you not?”

“He is much too old,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding.

Idalia had managed to force a rare smile from her father’s lips. “Wayland. Not the new smith.”

“How . . .” Nay, that would be admitting the truth. “I’m unsure how to respond, Father.”

She uncrossed her hands, laying them on her lap, and stared down at them, hoping for some divine intervention.

“You’ve resisted every match thus far.”

“You have been lenient with me, Father.”

It was true. He had not forced her to marry against her will. Not yet, anyway. And Roysa had, in the end, married a man she loved, or thought she loved, if Mother was to be trusted. That they had any say in the matter was unusual. She suspected it was her mother’s doing, especially after hearing about the man she had loved and lost.

“I have.” He cleared his throat and looked over her shoulder. Idalia spun in her seat, but there was nothing there.

He seemed uncomfortable and out of sorts. Unusual for a man who was typically very self-assured.

“Is all well, Father?”

“We shall see. The smith,” he continued. “Would you have taken him for a husband?”

Again, she stumbled on her words. “I . . . but . . .” Idalia took a deep breath. Somehow, he knew, and she could not deny it, not when the truth thrummed inside her, aching to be released. “Aye, I would have taken him for a husband.”

“Despite the lies he told?”

So Mother had told him. It was quite unlike her mother to break a confidence in such a manner, but there was no other explanation.

“I would have taken him as a husband”—she frowned—“before I learned he was here only for your support.”

“You do not approve of our alliance?”