Scoundrel of Dunborough

by Margaret Moore

  “This is my son, Lewis,” Norbert said. She recalled that Norbert’s father had been a chandler and the shop that the young man had been opening had been full of candles. Clearly Norbert had become a candle maker, too.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Lewis,” she replied, hoping to dispel some of the lad’s obvious embarrassment.

  Lewis raised his head and bright blue eyes met hers. His gaze was unexpectedly intense before he looked down again and mumbled, “Good day, Sister.”

  Disconcerted by the boldness of that swift glance so at odds with the rest of his demeanor, she turned toward his father.

  “Forgive him, Sister,” Norbert said, regarding his son with displeasure. “He’s a shy lad. Takes after his late mother that way.”

  That glance had been anything but shy. Nevertheless, Celeste let the remark pass. “It’s a pleasure to meet a modest young man. So many are not these days.”

  “That is sadly true,” Norbert agreed. He came farther into the house. “I hope, Sister, that you have not had any impertinence from that young rogue in the castle.”

  She certainly wasn’t going to tell Norbert about her dealings with Gerrard. “If you mean the garrison commander,” she replied, “he has been courteous and accommodating.”

  Most of the time.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Sister, very glad!” Norbert cried. “When I heard you’d spent the night there, I confess I feared...”

  He fell awkwardly silent, and she wasn’t about to ease his discomfort.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to,” she said. “I thank you for coming, Norbert, and I’m happy to have made your acquaintance, Lewis.”

  “Anything I can do to help, you have only to ask,” Norbert replied. “I was a good friend of your sister’s. A very good friend.”

  Celeste doubted that, given what Audrey used to call him.

  “Ah, Norbert! Trust you to be first to pay a call on a lovely lady!” a voice boomed from the doorway.

  A middle-aged man dressed in a fur-lined red cloak and long black tunic strode into the house. He had a belt of silver links around his broad middle, and his hair was cut in the Norman fashion.

  It was not a flattering style for a man with such full cheeks, and his eyes above his wide nose were beady and rather too shrewd.

  Nevertheless, she smiled in return. “Greetings, sir.”

  “You must forgive me for not waiting to be introduced properly,” he declared. “I came as soon as I heard you’d returned to the house.” His gaze darted to Norbert, who did not hide a scowl. “I wanted to express my condolences. I cared very much for your sister.”

  “Thank you...?”

  “Ewald!” he bellowed. “Ewald of York, and Dunborough, too.”

  “He deals in hides and tallow,” Norbert clarified, his tone implying that Ewald’s profession merited disdain.

  “Indeed I do! Best hides, best tanning, best tallow, although this fellow won’t agree.”

  “Most expensive tallow,” Norbert retorted, “and not worth the cost.”

  Ewald’s eyes narrowed until they were mere slits. “Plenty of folk in York disagree, but then, they make better candles.”

  Celeste noted Lewis edging his way toward the door and didn’t blame him. “Please, gentlemen, I must ask you both to excuse me. I have much to do.”

  “No doubt, no doubt!” Ewald agreed, giving her a sympathetic smile, though his tone was no milder. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to sell the house quickly and get back to the convent?”

  “I shall be wanting to sell the house, yes.”

  “I’m your man for that!”

  Norbert stepped in front of him. “If you wish to sell the house, Sister, I wouldn’t deal with this fellow.”

  “Who should she deal with? You?” Ewald demanded as he elbowed Norbert aside.

  “Better me than you,” Norbert retorted, shoving him in return.

  Ewald tried to ignore him. “About this house, though, Sister, should you wish to sell it, I shall be more than happy to—”

  “His offer will be far too low,” Norbert interjected.

  His thick fingers balling into fists, Ewald glared at the chandler. “Shut your mouth, you—”

  “Gentlemen!” Celeste hurried to interrupt before they came to blows. “I am not yet ready to discuss the sale of this house.”

  Ewald loudly cleared his throat and straightened his belt. “Of course. You need to take an inventory of the furniture and other goods first. I understand. Take as long as you like.”

  “How magnanimous!” Norbert sneered, fairly trembling with rage. “She has no need to deal with you at all, you...you scoundrel!”

  “And I suppose you came here because of your vast sorrow over Audrey D’Orleau’s death? I’ve heard you denouncing her more than once in the Cock’s Crow because she owed you money.”

  “I’m not the only one complaining about that. You yourself have sat in the tavern bemoaning how much she owed to you.”

  Celeste regarded them both with stunned disbelief before she managed to speak. “What are you saying? Did Audrey owe you money?”

  How could that possibly be true, with all the fine and costly garments upstairs?

  The men blushed and neither one would meet her gaze.

  “Did Audrey owe you money?” she repeated.

  “As a matter of fact, Sister,” Ewald began, after darting another angry look at Norbert, “she did. I’m sorry to say there are likely a few other merchants who will be looking to you to pay her debts. But the house alone—”

  “If Audrey was in debt, I will repay all that she owed,” Celeste interrupted. “Any debts she left will be honored once I sell the house.” Or find our father’s wealth. “Now if you’ll please excuse me, I do have things to do.”

  Mercifully, or perhaps because he understood her tone of voice, Ewald gave a brisk nod and headed out the door. “Good day, Sister.”

  Norbert looked as if he was about to refuse. Once Ewald had gone, however, he likewise nodded and with a hasty “Good day” mercifully took his leave.

  Flushing as red as a holly berry, Lewis was the last to go. “I’m sorry, Sister,” he said quietly, his expression one of genuine sympathy, “but I’m afraid it’s true about your sister. She left many debts.”

  Sorrow and dismay washed over Celeste and she leaned against the wall.

  “Can I get you anything?” the youth asked anxiously. “Some wine perhaps?”

  “Lewis!” his father shouted from outside.

  “No, no, I’m all right,” she assured the kindhearted young man, even though she’d been shaken to the core. “You should go.”

  Lewis gave her a last pitying look, then hurried away, softly closing the door behind him.

  “Oh, Audrey,” Celeste murmured as she slowly made her way to the kitchen, “what did you do?”

  * * *

  Some time later, Celeste was in the storeroom looking for any signs of a hiding place when she heard a tentative knock on the kitchen door. She hurried from the room, grabbed the veil and wimple lying on the kitchen table and swiftly put them on. “One moment!”

  Going to the door, she tucked in any stray wisps of hair that might have escaped, then pushed down the rolled-up sleeves of her tunic. “Who is it?” she asked, dreading another creditor.

  People had been coming to the house ever since Norbert and Ewald had left, making it difficult for her to search, and adding to her worries. Apparently Audrey owed money to the butcher, the shoemaker, the smith for repairs to a kettle and some pots, the alewife, the wine merchant and the miller. Indeed, Celeste was beginning to think there was no tradesman in Dunborough to whom she did not owe money.

  “It’s me, Sister. Lizabet, from the hall.”

  C
eleste let out her breath slowly and opened the door, to find the young woman standing on the threshold. Instead of a cloak, she wore a large and colorful shawl and a kerchief over her dark hair. Her gown was of thick wool and she had an apron over that.

  Despite her heavy clothing, her nose was red with cold and she had her hands tucked in her shawl to warm them.

  “Please, come inside,” Celeste said at once.

  “No, thank you, Sister,” Lizabet replied, her teeth starting to chatter. “I can’t stay. I came to tell you that it’s nearly time for the evening meal.”

  Celeste’s brows contracted. If it was a busy time at the castle, why had she...?

  “It’s nearly time for the evening meal,” Lizabet repeated more firmly, as if she thought Celeste hadn’t heard her. “You’re a guest of Dunborough.”

  With sudden understanding, Celeste replied, “Only for last night. I should have made it clear that I had no intention of imposing on Gerrard’s hospitality for any longer than that.”

  The maidservant frowned with concern, or possibly dismay.

  Celeste gave the young woman her most pleasant, placid smile. “Please convey my thanks to Gerrard for the invitation, as well as my assurances that I’m quite content to remain in my family’s house while I’m here.”

  “If you say so, Sister,” she hesitantly replied.

  “I do. Now you’d best be off before you catch a chill.”

  Lizabet did as she was told and, thinking Gerrard would likely be as glad of her absence as she was relieved not to see him again, Celeste went back to searching the larder for any sign of money hidden there.

  Albeit with a heavy sigh.

  * * *

  The sun was setting when Gerrard and his men returned from their patrol. There was no reason for them to go so far that frigid day except that Gerrard wasn’t eager to return to Dunborough.

  This time, though, it wasn’t his irate, cruel father he was reluctant to see. It was a nun.

  He handed the reins of his horse to a stable boy and went to the hall. A few of the hounds trotted toward him, eager for a pat and a good word. The trestle tables had been set up for the evening meal and the servants and soldiers not on duty or seeing to the horses and other tasks were already assembled.

  Gerrard removed his cloak and hung it on a peg beside the door, then scanned the hall.

  He scanned it again, thinking he must be mistaken.

  He was not.

  Celeste—Sister Augustine—was not there.

  Gerrard sighed with relief, then frowned. It would look bad to the soldiers and servants if she kept to her room a second night, and rumors would start circulating in the castle and probably the village, too, that she refused to have anything to do with him.

  That could very well be true. Nevertheless, it would likely start other rumors, none of them good, at least where he was concerned.

  Or perhaps there was another reason for her absence. Maybe she was sick, exhausted from her journey.

  “Lizabet!” he called, summoning the maidservant standing with the others at the entrance to the kitchen.

  “Where is Sister Augustine?” he asked when she reached him. “Is she unwell?”

  The servant shook her head. “No, sir. She’s at the house...her family’s house,” she added when Gerrard’s frown deepened.

  “Did no one send word that it was time for the evening meal?”

  “Yes, sir, I went myself, but she said she wasn’t coming back. She said she’d rather stay in her own house.”

  “By herself?”

  Wringing her hands, Lizabet looked as if she was about to cry.

  Gerrard instantly regretted his harsh tone. The blame was not hers, after all.

  “It’s not your fault,” he assured her. “She’s always been stubborn.”

  That was true. Even when she was a child, it had been nearly impossible to make Celeste change her mind. Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to allow her to put herself in danger by staying in that house alone at night. Too many people believed there was a fortune hidden somewhere inside.

  “Serve the meal,” he ordered, putting his cloak on again. “I’ll be back soon with Sister Augustine.”

  Whether she wants to come or not.

  * * *

  With a sigh, Celeste sank onto the bed in the upper chamber lit by a flickering oil lamp. She hadn’t found anything in this room, either. She’d checked all the chests and boxes for hidden compartments and even looked in the rafters overhead. When she’d taken time to make a stew, she’d searched on and under the shelves in the larder again, sneezing from the dust, while the ginger cat stared at her as only a cat can.

  She was beginning to believe Audrey hadn’t found their father’s hidden hoard. Surely if she had, she wouldn’t have been indebted, unless she’d spent the entire fortune on fine clothes and furnishings. Audrey had often said a woman had to look wealthy to attract a wealthy husband.

  Celeste gazed again at the beautiful embroidered gown of scarlet silk that lay on top of the large open chest. It was, without doubt, the loveliest gown she had ever seen, and likely cost more than many a man earned in a year.

  But even so, and despite the other costly garments, Audrey couldn’t have spent all their father’s wealth on clothing. From what he had said, the treasure would have paid for a hundred costly garments and more besides.

  It was, unfortunately, more likely that Audrey hadn’t found the cache and that’s why she was indebted. Their father wouldn’t have made it easy to find his treasure, not for anyone. Celeste hoped that she could find it, and that when she did, there would be enough to pay all Audrey’s debts. Whatever remained, together with the sale of the house, as well as Audrey’s gowns and jewelry, she would give to the church, as she had intended.

  It had to be so. She couldn’t wait forever to take her final vows and begin a life of calm and quiet service. As long as the mother superior who detested her was in charge of Saint Agatha’s, Celeste might never see that day.

  Removing her veil, cap and wimple, she shook out her hair. It would be cut again the day she took those vows, but she wouldn’t regret it. She’d lost her hair once before and that had taken her to the peace of the convent.

  She wondered what Gerrard would say if she told him she was actually grateful for what he’d done, then dismissed the notion. She didn’t want to speak to him at all.

  She went to Audrey’s dressing table to get the comb, then paused and reached for the brush. As she ran it over her scalp, she sighed with pleasure at the sensation.

  It had to be nearly as sinful as that kiss, she realized, putting the brush down quickly. She grabbed the comb and worked it through her thick and curling hair.

  The beautifully embroidered red gown caught her eye again. Audrey must have looked so regal in it, to no avail now.

  Poor Audrey. So ambitious, so determined to be rich and titled, even if that meant a loveless marriage. All marriages were no better than a bargain made in the market, she would say, and she intended to get the most for what she had to offer. She had felt that way ever since a rich woman had called her a common brat for getting mud on her gown. Celeste would never forget Audrey’s angry, humiliated tears, or her defiance and determination as she vowed “to marry well, or never!”

  With another sigh Celeste put the comb beside the looking glass and began to undress. She took off the scapula and then her plain leather belt so that the tunic gathered at her neck hung straight to the floor. After removing her tunic, she untied the rough linen underskirt and stepped out of it. Wearing only her shift, she was ready to sleep, once she’d said her prayers.

  Before she knelt at the side of the bed, she glanced again at the embroidered gown. When she returned to the convent, she would likely never see such a garment again. She would certainly never h
ave the chance to wear a gown like that, or even try one on.

  She was alone. No one except God would see if she tried it on for a few moments. Surely He would forgive her this little indulgence. After all, it would be just this once.

  She went to the chest and ran her hand over the lovely, soft silk fabric, noting the details of the embroidery, certain Audrey herself had done it. She was very skilled at needlework and could have earned a living at it, if she hadn’t considered that beneath her.

  “Me? Work like any peasant?” Audrey had demanded when Celeste suggested it. “Never! I am made for finer things!”

  Such as this gown, and a rich husband. Not for Audrey the austere but peaceful life of a convent, where everyone wore the same plain garments every day. Celeste wished that might have been possible, but she knew her sister too well to hope that it could ever have been so.

  She picked up the gown and quickly stepped into it before she changed her mind. She pulled it up and reached back to tie and knot the laces.

  It fit surprisingly well.

  Smiling, she tried a curtsy, as if she were being presented to the king.

  She spotted a white silken veil, a wisp of a thing very different from the heavier linen one she had taken from the convent. There were lovely bronze hairpins on the dressing table, too.

  With the speed of long practice, she braided her hair and fixed it around her head before attaching the silken veil. She twirled around, letting the full skirts blossom out while the veil fluttered about her cheeks like a butterfly’s wings.

  What was that?

  She stumbled to a halt and listened. Something had made a noise below.

  Or someone?

  Gerrard had said there might be thieves who’d heard about her father’s money.

  And she was all alone.

  Chapter Six