The Silent Songbird (Hagenheim #7)(21)

He wanted her to know that he felt bad for what she had been through, for the abuse she had suffered. And perhaps he was motivated by the way her sympathetic eyes shone, as if they saw past the outside and into his thoughts, discerning his feelings.

Eva made him think of the girl he had heard singing at Berkhamsted Castle, probably because they both had red hair. His heart quickened at the thought of the mysterious woman and her singing. He thought of her often, wishing he could hear her again, wishing he knew who she was. He’d even dreamed about her.

If only Eva could speak. He imagined she had a beautiful voice as well. But mostly he wanted to know what she was thinking.

“Why do you let them send you to feed the pigs? Why don’t you show Golda and Mistress Alice your skills and talents? I’m sure you are good at many things.”

She smiled, a genuine smile. Then she shook her head.

“Why are you shaking your head?”

She looked up at the sky and sighed. Then she shrugged.

“I wish you could tell me.”

Eva’s face suddenly lit up. She held up a finger. She stood and looked all around. Then she motioned with her hand for him to follow her. She walked several feet, back toward the pigpen. When she was in front of the gate, she bent over and started doing something in the bare ground where the grass had been worn away.

He drew closer, then squatted.

She was drawing in the dirt with her finger. No, those were letters.

“I can read and write.”

He stared at the words in the dirt. This meant they could communicate. Just as he suspected, there was much more to this peasant girl than anyone knew.



Evangeline nearly laughed with joy at the look of surprise and the smile that spread over Westley’s face.

“Where did you learn to read?”

She brushed the dirt with her hand to erase the words and wrote, “Hard to explain.”

“I’ve been wanting to ask you, how did you cut Reeve Folsham? Did he get too close? He was so upset he wouldn’t tell us.”

Evangeline winced. “No. I lost my grip.” She waited for him to read the words, then erased them and wrote, “It flew out of my hand.”

Westley laughed, then he pressed his lips together.

“I was very sorry.” She erased it. “I would have died”—erased—“if he had been badly hurt.”

“Had you ever used a scythe before?”

Scythe. That was the word they had used for that long, curving blade with the wooden handle. She shook her head.

“What have you done?”

She wrote, “Embroidery.” Then, “I can sing.”

She instantly realized her gaffe and her cheeks heated. She erased it and wrote, “Or I used to sing, before I lost my voice.”

“I am so sorry for what happened to you.” His voice was low and kind. “In a small way, I feel responsible for all the terrible things masters have done to their servants and villeins.”

“Why?”

“Because my father owns so much land and has so many servants and villeins, not only here, but in three other counties. His stewards could be mistreating people and we would not know it. Besides that, I suppose I feel a bit guilty that my family lives much better than anyone else in Glynval—better food, better house, better everything.”

So he felt guilty for having more than everyone else. It had hardly even occurred to her that she had better food and shelter and clothing than other people around her. A stab of guilt went through her middle. She was too busy feeling sorry for herself that she did not have the freedom of a peasant, while Westley felt sorry for her because of a lie.

She was a terrible person. She did not know how to do anything useful. She had nearly killed a man, and she ruined everything she touched. She was deceiving everyone around her by making them think she could not speak, and she and Muriel were taking jobs other people genuinely needed. And the worst thought of all was that Westley would be hurt if he knew the truth.

“The Bible says masters should treat their servants well.”

Evangeline brushed out the last words she had written and wrote, “You have read the Bible?”

“Yes.”

“You own a Bible?”

“Yes. Would you like to read it?”

Evangeline’s heart leapt, then sank. “Does your priest approve?”

“He does not disapprove. My father has owned a Bible all his life. He commissioned one to be transcribed into English a few years ago.”

Evangeline sat back on her heels. She’d never even heard of such a thing. Westley and his family must be terribly powerful to be so unafraid of translating the Bible into the people’s base language. Priests she had known only read and quoted it in Latin. Was it wrong to read it in English?

There was a look of peaceful reflection on Westley’s face. Could such a person be wrong? Could someone who was wealthy, who had risked his life to save a child from getting injured by a runaway horse, who had helped her get the pigs she had let out back into their pen, could such a person be committing a grievous sin by reading the Holy Writ in the people’s language?

“Would you like to read it? The Bible?”

Suddenly she wanted to, more than anything. To be able to read the very words that God spoke, that Jesus said, everything written in that holy book . . . And since she understood Latin . . . “Yes, please. The Latin one.”