She paused to see if he was going to believe this and he did. Obviously he was not used to deceit. As far as Talis was concerned, people told the truth.
“I…I know,” she said hesitantly, sounding as though pain ran through her breast. “I know that you love this girl very much but I want to ask a favor of you. Let me get to know you. Let your brothers and sisters get to know you before you pledge yourself to another. Before you have children of your own who take all your time. If you marry now and have children, we, my husband, my children, we will not get to spend any time with you.”
She paused. “I know it is a lot to ask of you. I have no right. I have not been here to be a mother to you. The night you were born I nearly died in the birthing. You were so very, very large and I am a narrow woman.” She laughed and put her hand on his head. “You nearly split me asunder with the size of you.”
Talis was frowning, not looking at her, embarrassed by this talk and feeling bad that his entry into life had so hurt his own mother.
“I am not complaining, but I feel I must explain why I was not as attentive to you as I should have been that night you were born. I was nearly insensible with the pain.” She lowered her voice. “And the blood. I lost a lot of blood that night. Your birth is the reason I had no more children. I was unable to bear more children after that night.”
Talis was feeling heavier and heavier. He owed this woman so much. He had nearly killed her, robbed her of her ability to have children, deprived her of the company of her own child.
“When I heard that, after all I had been through to bring you into the world, you had died in a fire, I nearly lost my mind. I was not well for a long time after your birth.”
She stroked his hand and looked into the fire. “I am telling you these things because I want to ask something of you
. I want to ask you not to marry until…until after I am gone.”
“But—” Talis began, but she cut him off.
“I know what I am asking. I know the hot blood of youth, how it rages. I had hoped you could control yourself, but perhaps not.”
“I can control myself,” Talis said, sounding affronted.
“Yes, of course you can. I did not mean to imply that you could not. Talis, my dear son, it is just that your father and I want to see you.”
All Talis could think of was Callie. Holding her, being near her. In the last weeks, since the day he’d first met John Hadley, having her with him had become an obsession. In fact, he was finding that being a knight was not as important to him as was Callie.
“How will you support her?” Alida asked.
“Pardon?”
“How do you mean to support your wife?”
At this Talis’s heart sank. He had two choices: farming with Will or relying on his father’s generosity. If his father did not want him to marry, then Talis would have to take Callie back to the farm—and see her spend her life wringing the necks of chickens.
Alida tipped Talis’s face up to hers. “If you will do this thing I ask, I will leave to you in my will my own estate of Peniman Manor.”
While he sat there blinking, she went on to describe the place: a stone house only fifty years old, gardens she had spent years on, with intricate knots of herbs, a rose garden. She talked of the stables, the cottages for the farmworkers. “With your knowledge of farming, think what you could do with the acres of land that go with the house.”
She could see the light in his eyes. “Have you thought of the people who raised you? They are not young and it will be hard for them to continue farming, will it not? Peniman Manor is large enough for them to live with you, to see your children.”
At that Talis smiled, thinking how much Meg would love to have a dozen grandbabies to dandle on her knees. She could feed them until they were bursting. And Will could still have his vegetable patch.
And Callie could have a fine house, beautiful clothes. She would not be burdened with a life of hard work. Their children would have the finest education, the best horses.
“Is it too much to ask that you wait two years before you marry, when the reward is so great?”
“No,” he said. “It is not too much to ask.” His mind was reeling with the thought of telling Callie about all of this. They could plan their future, plan what kind of horses to buy—or, knowing Callie, talk endlessly about the names of their children. Just the idea made him smile.
“You must not tell her,” Alida said, seeming to read his mind. “You cannot tell Callasandra.”
He looked at her sharply.
“You cannot tell her. If you did, then you would have to tell her that…about my health, and she must not know. She is no relation to me. I could not bear to have her look at me in pity. And she would. I am sure she has a soft heart.”
“Yes,” he said, “the softest. But she will not tell. I—”
“Talis! Listen to me. I am relying on you as I am on no one else. Not even my husband knows how ill I am.” To emphasize this, she fell into a fit of coughing, and, holding a handkerchief to her mouth, it came away with traces of blood, which she showed to Talis.