He made his way down the aisle, checking left and right when he saw her. She was sitting on the stone floor, her knees pressed against her chest. The hood of her pelisse hung down her back and her slim shoulders heaved with sobs.
“Lady Ruth?” He called out and broke into a sprint down the aisle.
He slowed as he made it to her side, gently approaching as he was not sure she’d realized he was there. He knelt beside her.
Careful not to touch her he spoke her name again, quietly this time. She looked up at him with a start, her blue eyes wide with surprise.
“My lord, I did not hear you enter.” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
“I have been told I am rather light on my feet,” he winked, hoping his attempt to cheer her would work.
She gave him a small smile but appeared unwell. Her gown was stained with something black. Coal or perhaps ash. Yes, ash. There was a lingering scent of something burning that clung to the air.
He surveyed the area and spotted a small pile of something burnt on the floor, along with a used match and one of the glass containers for the votive candles was laying on the floor, broken into small pieces.
“What has happened, Lady Ruth?”
She sat up and leaned against the pew with her back.
“I was silly, my lord. I attempted to light a candle in memory of my mother when a thunderclap startled me, and I dropped the match setting fire to a leaf. It…” She nodded toward the ash on the ground. She stopped speaking, as her voice broke. “It was only a small… not even a fire. The leaf burnt up in a few moments. But the smell, the…”
Suddenly he realized. The fire, small as it had been, caused her to experience some kind of trauma. A memory, perhaps.
“Did it remind you? Of the day, I mean.”
She nodded; surprise evident on her face. Suddenly, she reached for the hood attached to her pelisse and frantically pulled it back over her face. It wasn’t until then that he realized he’d been looking at the left, burnt side of her face the entire time.
He felt a sadness settle over him. Not just because she found herself in such a terrible state, but also because she thought it necessary to hide her face from him.
She sighed deeply. “I am sorry for breaking the candle. I should not have attempted to light it. You are right, the small accident with the leaf reminded me of that afternoon in the wine cellar. It started the same way. Just a small flame.” She glanced at the ash pile and shook her head. “I have not lit a candle since then. I do not know why, but it seems ever so important that I do it today for my mother. Yet, I could not.”
He wanted to place his hand on hers to comfort her but did not dare. Outside the rainstorm worsened, drumming against the stained-glass windows which only amplified the sound. Thunder and lightning crashed above them simultaneously, but he found himself almost ignoring it, so focused was he on her.
“I understand. If you like, I will gladly light a match for you and I will light a candle on your behalf.” He rose to do just that, assuming she’d agree but instead her mouth dropped open with horror and she jumped up.
“No, please!” Her hand shot forward and reached for his arm as if to stop him from picking up the tinder box. “I cannot stand it. Let Charlotte’s candle be the only one burning on the stand if you do not mind.”
His heart went out to her. The terror in her voice cut through to his core.
What she must have been through. What she must be going through still. She seems to carry such infinite sadness, so much tragedy in herself. The loss of her mother, the fire, and now the scar as an eternal reminder. Although…
He noticed just then that he was seated on her left, the scar inches from him, and yet, he’d never realized. It looked as though it were of a leathery thick texture, red and raised with lighter grooves running through.
It horrified him the first time he saw it, yet today he’d not noticed it at all.
Strange as it may seem, now that he knew her and all the horror that she had been through, as well as what a kind compassionate heart she had, it did not appear grotesque to him anymore. Not at all.
He seated himself on a pew and she joined him, her left side still toward him.
“Is it because of the fire that you do not care for candles?”
“It is. The last time I lit a candle was the day the wine cellar caught fire. I have never been able to bring myself to light another. I cannot even stand to be near one.”
He frowned. “Not even for your reading in the evening?”
She smiled and he noticed how her lips were just a little bit crooked due to the scarring. Instead of feeling put off by it, he found it oddly charming.
“I go to bed when the sun sets, and I rise when it rises. I do not keep a candle holder in my chamber at home at all, and the servants know that I cannot sleep with a fire in the fireplace.”
