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F rida ignored the pain in her newly chapped knuckles as she plunged her hands into a pitcher of cold water. Any expression of discomfort would lead to Agnes shooing her from the kitchen. And Frida didn’t want that.

She was determined to prove that an earl’s daughter could fend for herself.

Agnes was a woman of few words. If she thought it odd that Lady Frida de Neville insisted on scrubbing her own vegetables, she kept quiet about it.

Gritting her teeth, Frida rinsed the last of the turnips and placed them to dry near the window.

At the other end of the room, Agnes leaned over the long, scrubbed table, her long greying plait swinging over one shoulder as she rolled out pastry for a tart.

Despite the early-morning chill, Frida enjoyed these times in the kitchen, with sunlight dappling across the plastered walls and glinting off the copper pots and pans.

But today had dawned extra chilly, and the big fire beneath the roasting spit had not been lit long enough to generate much warmth.

Frida dried her hands on her apron, trying not to shiver.

“What shall I do next?” She made her voice light.

Agnes looked up from her work and gave her a rare smile. “You can go and warm yourself in the great hall. At least until this fire takes hold.”

“I do not feel cold,” Frida lied.

“Then milady had best depart now. For soon it will be hotter than hell in here.”

Frida schooled her face into an expression of mildness.

She was growing accustomed to her cook’s plain speaking, even though no servants in Wolvesley Castle had ever spoken to her so boldly.

But she was no longer a pampered lady in her parents’ grand home.

She was many miles north at Ember Hall; mistress of all she surveyed and determined to display no weakness.

“If the temperature rises to such an extent, you must summon my brother. He is forever complaining of the bitter chill in this house.”

Agnes let out a bark of laughter. “I’ll do that.” Her nut-brown eyes lingered on Frida’s before returning to her perfectly rolled pastry. “Lord Jonah seems to miss his home comforts.”

“I do not know why he has come,” Frida found herself confessing. “His injury is little more than a scratch and Wolvesley does not lack healers. I can only think that my father wanted him out of the way to better conduct the business of finding a husband for my sister, Lady Isabella.”

Agnes’s thin lips pressed together, mayhap to repress her smile. “I’ve been a widow for longer than I was married, but the ways of men remain constant. Lord Jonah most likely thought you’d greet him with open arms, eager for his council and guidance. You and Miss Mirrie being—” she hesitated.

“Mere women?” Frida supplied.

“Exactly that.” Agnes began placing neat rounds of sugared apple onto the pastry.

Frida folded her hands together, preventing her hands forming into fists.

How she would love to stride out of the kitchen and demand the truth from her younger brother.

Alas, they were no longer children squabbling in the school room.

She must at least make the appearance of decorum; especially as she and Mirrie had so recently taken up residence at Ember Hall.

Especially as the servants were already gossiping.

Instead of giving voice to the angry tirade buzzing around her head, she sighed heavily. “You and I both know how much can be achieved by women, Agnes.”

“Aye. True enough.” Agnes cut a decorative pastry leaf and positioned it with a steady hand. “If we can withstand the pain and blood of childbirth, we can withstand anything.”

Frida smiled to hide her shock. As an unmarried woman, she was unused to hearing tales of childbirth.

Indeed, as the eldest child of the Earl of Wolvesley, there was much she was unused to hearing.

But times had changed and so had Frida’s position in English society.

Not so long ago, she had been a sought-after prize: a cossetted and fragile flower.

Now she was a self-proclaimed spinster; no longer looking to a man to provide for her future, but shaping it herself.

This was the life she had chosen.

Nay, this was the life she had fought for.

She would not allow her sour-faced younger brother to spoil her plans.

Jonah had arrived a sennight earlier, claiming that Frida’s healing skills and the peace of Ember Hall would aid his recovery from a slight sword wound gained in training.

Frida had been sympathetic at first, but her patience was growing thin.

Not least because compassionate Mirrie was running herself in circles tending to his every whim; abandoning her own duties and pleasures in the process.

Frida and Mirrie had come to Ember Hall to live a life free of men, not to serve one.

Mirrie chose that exact moment to stumble in from outside, mist clinging to the ends of her light brown hair. She was wrapped in a faded shawl and over her arm she carried a wicker basket filled with herbs.

“It is like a winter’s day out there,” she exclaimed.

“Go and stand by the fire,” instructed Frida, taking the basket from her.

“Miss Mirabel.” Agnes nodded respectfully. “Shall I warm you some ale?”

“Nay please, do not trouble yourself.” Mirrie held her narrow fingers out towards the tentative flames.

“What were you doing out at such an early hour?” Frida frowned, noting how her friend shivered despite her heavy shawl and proximity to the fire.

“Picking mint leaves.” Mirrie flashed her a small smile. “For Jonah,” she added.

Frida shook her head. “Mint is for an open wound and Jonah’s scratch had closed e’en before he arrived here.” She spoke severely but regretted it when Mirrie’s kind eyes clouded over. “’Tis comfrey we need, for the bruising.”

“I should have known.” Mirrie bit down on her bottom lip. “I will go out again.”

“You will do no such thing.” Frida placed the basket on the table and took her arm. “You need to get warm and dry before thinking of my brother.”

“But I don’t mind,” Mirrie protested.

Frida couldn’t help a lurch of jealousy. Mirrie was her father’s ward and had grown up beside the five de Neville siblings. Although Frida and Mirrie shared a very dear friendship, she had always suspected the bond between Jonah and Mirrie was equally strong.

Although the cynic in Frida knew that Mirrie was a compassionate soul. And Jonah had long since learned how to work that to his advantage.

“Let us go to the great hall. The fire there was lit before dawn,” she said, evenly. When Mirrie looked to say more, Frida spoke over her. “Do not fret, Mirrie. I shall go out myself and find some comfrey for Jonah.” She glanced at Agnes. “I’ll take the mint to the store and dry it when I return.”

“Very good, milady.”

Arm-in-arm, Frida and Mirrie walked slowly along the stone-flagged passageway from the kitchen and emerged into the heat and light of the great hall.

Two fires blazed from hearths situated at each end of a wood-panelled wall, while opposite a series of high, narrow windows invited golden light to slant across the polished wooden floor.

Although large and ornate, the great hall at Ember was welcoming and somehow cosy.

Frida nudged a tapestried chair closer to the nearest fire and waved Mirrie into it, ignoring the burning pain in her ankle.

“Can I fetch you anything?”

“Nay.” Mirrie sank back into the chair and stretched out her slender arms to the blaze. “Thank you, Frida.” She paused. “Do not feel you have to stay.”

Better than anyone, Mirrie knew how Frida hated to be still. Sitting by the fire on a day when there were jobs to be done would be a torment to her. E’en now, Frida itched to be moving. But at the same time, she was reluctant to leave her friend’s side.

One question plagued her, this morn more so than usual. Did Mirrie regret coming here?

Mirrie rarely complained, but Frida thought her good-natured friend had struggled to settle here in the northern hills.

She openly admitted to missing the colour and gaiety of Wolvesley Castle, and the whirlwind of social engagements therein.

But that wasn’t the whole of it. Something else tugged at Mirrie’s heartstrings; Frida felt it in her bones.

Whatever it was—and Frida had a strong suspicion it was intrinsically linked to her eldest brother, Tristan—the arrival of Jonah, complete with greetings and tales from their childhood home, had stirred it all up again.

Frida would never forgive Jonah if he ruined this new arrangement. Her father had been reluctant to permit the two of them to take up residence in Ember Hall. He would never allow Frida to continue living here if Mirrie returned to Wolvesley.

“Frida?” Mirrie spoke quietly, jolting Frida from her reverie. She had been gazing into the hypnotic depths of the fire, lost in thought.

“Sorry.” Frida came back to herself with a little shake. “Is there something else you’d like me to fetch for you?”

“There’s nothing I need. I shall be quite myself in another moment or two.” Her small hand briefly laid over Frida’s. “You mustn’t fret so.”

“Are you happy here?” Frida blurted out.

Mirrie’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Of course.”

“Even though it is cold and the work is never done?” Frida ploughed on. “There are no parties and I know how you love to dance.” Her gaze flickered down to the polished expanse of wood beneath their booted feet. The hall would be plenty big enough for a dance, if they should choose to hold one.

Mirrie was young and pretty, with bright hazel eyes and heart-shaped lips that were quick to smile. Loyalty to her friend should not force her to miss out on the life that Frida had chosen to leave behind.

Mirrie smiled in return, although there was a sadness in it. “You are kind to speak of parties and dancing, when we both know that a young woman past twenty with an insignificant dowry to her name can hardly expect a choice of dancing partners.”