Lucy was perched atop the forwardmost of the two horses pulling the wagon. Caught in the safe circle of Richard’s arm, she leaned far out over her steed to look back at her mother.
“You are, my love,” Belle called to her, answering the same question for at least the dozenth time in the last hour.
Lucy's face glowed with the praise. Or perhaps it was the sun. Despite Belle's warning her daughter had removed her hat. With a wave, the child straightened, the sound of her happy chatter filling the air.
“Why didn’t we think to let her ride with Richard days ago?” Peg asked, peering up at Belle from beneath her hat’s broad brim as she took another stitch in her own project.
Next to Peg, Brigit laughed and closed her prayer book; she’d been reading to them as they plied their needles.
“Would that we had.” A brief grin touched her lips. “Sweet as that child is, she’s a busy one. After so many weeks trapped in this tiny wagon with her, I’m grateful for the respite.”
Such honest sentiment catapulted Belle out of her worries, at least for the moment. For all Brigit’s faults she was truly fond of Lucy and Lucy, of her. She laughed. “If we’re all telling the truth here then I’m grateful as well.”
As quickly as it had come, her amusement died. It was hard to think of anything happy when she knew within the hour she’d be meeting the monstrous man she must wed. Belle sighed. Even after ten days spent trying to become accustomed to it, she still wasn’t ready to face her future.
Against all her commands that she shouldn’t, Belle again scanned the landscape for some sign of her new home. Fields of wheat, burnished now that the harvest season was at hand, rolled out on one side of the road. Green and lush, a meadow stretched along the other. A bright stream looked like a silver ribbon as it snaked its way across that rich expanse. Ahead of them, the road descended into a wee tree-filled vale, only to rise again and circle a small hill.
As she traced the route to the apex of the hill a mounted man appeared on the horizon. Dressed all in brown, he rode toward them briskly enough to make the road smoke behind him. Belle’s heart lurched.
Never mind that Master Wyatt hadn’t looked her way since that first night in the inn, all communication between them having been carried out by his servants. Early this morn, Graceton’s steward had ridden ahead to warn the household of their new lady’s arrival. Could he be returning to escort her to her new home?
Even as she tried to snatch back the thought it found fertile soil in her wayward heart. Bravery, it suggested, would be so much easier if Master Wyatt were at her side. Trapped in breathless and sinful hope, Belle watched the approaching rider until the sun sparked golden on the rider’s hair. It was Sir Edward.
This, her mind scolded, was swift and just punishment for encouraging her sinful longings toward a man who wasn’t her husband. Dislike took hope’s place. The young knight’s attempts to win back her good opinion and ingratiate himself into her party were beyond irritating.
“Beware,” she warned her servants in a low voice, “the pretty pest comes and off his schedule at that.”
“My lady, you shouldn’t speak so disrespectfully of Sir Edward,” Brigit said in gentle reproof. “What if Mistress Lucy should hear and ape your manner?”
Fickle woman, Belle wanted to chide in return. Although Brigit was right to correct her, it wasn’t for Lucy’s sake that the governess spoke. Belle watched as Brigit set aside her prayer book, then straightened her hat and brushed the dust from her gown. Delicately craning her neck, the governess peered around Peg for a glimpse of the knight.
Belle’s stomach turned. However improbable Richard might be as an object of Brigit’s affections he was a better man than the scheming, underhanded Sir Edward. Even if Brigit and the knight were of a class, the governess was a fool to set her heart upon one so unattainable. Ambition was the only thing powerful enough to overcome Sir Edward’s pride and send him back, day after day, as he sought to win Belle’s forgiveness.
But what right had she to judge? Was she not also longing for a man she couldn’t have? At least Brigit was an unmarried woman, free to hope wherever and as foolishly as she may.
Sir Edward met the wagon at the vale’s bottom. As the knight brought his horse around so he could ride alongside them, Belle pushed her empty needle into the petticoat’s fabric. She looked up in time to see him offer Brigit a quick smile. Pretty color bloomed on the governess’s cheeks.
He turned his gaze on Belle. Shadows of the panic she’d seen in Richmond’s garden filled his eyes. “My lady, you’ll soon be at Graceton Castle.”
It was an insipid statement and she gave it worthy retort with just the lift of her brows.
His gaze flickered nervously. “Ah, aye, I thought it best we discuss your wedding ceremony before we arrive.”
Irritation boiled into anger. There was nothing he wished to discuss with her.
“What is there to say?” she asked, lifting her wooden sewing box into her lap. She took out another length of thread to fill her needle then began again to stitch at the half-made garment. “I will wed the squire and you will watch.”
“The ceremony, my lady,” Sir Edward replied. “There can be no ceremony until we’ve dealt with the squire’s chapel, which I suspect is filled with illegal Popish idolatry. It’s the law that such trash should be swept from all English sanctuaries and burnt.”
Belle looked up so swiftly her hat nearly tumbled from her head. “Nay!”
Although she knew little of Papists or their rights, she was certain the burning of religious possessions wasn’t likely to endear her to either her new husband or his folk. Elizabeth couldn’t have commanded this. “I’d see the queen’s writ requiring such a purge.” Belle prayed such a thing didn’t exist.
His brow creased in concern. “My lady, you surely don’t mean to be wed among blasphemous emblems and idolatrous statuary?”
Belle’s eyes narrowed. Her chin lifted. He’d already once tried to use her faith as a tool against her; she wasn’t going to give him an opportunity to use someone else’s. “Since the queen sees fit to give me a Catholic husband, I cannot—nay, I will not refuse him his beliefs.”
“You cannot be serious,” Sir Edward cried out.
His gaze shifted to Brigit. “Mistress Atwater, I see by your face that you too, think your lady misguided. As a faithful woman is there nothing you can do to show her the sin in her course?”
Brigit, who had already blanched at Belle’s inference of conversion, grew paler still. With her hands clutched together in her lap, she gave a frantic shake of her head then looked at the wagon’s floorboards, too shrewd to be used this way.
“I will add you all to my prayers,” Sir Edward said tightly, then spurred his horse back in the direction he’d come.
“You cannot be serious, my lady,” Peg cried, coughing in the dust his departure stirred. “You’d convert?”
“Oh nay, my lady, you cannot,” Brigit pleaded, ready now to do as Sir Edward suggested.
“Of course I won’t,” Belle returned, her voice sharp. “How can either of you believe me so capricious? I just don’t think it's any of Sir Edward's business what I intend or how I practice my faith.”
Richard's quiet laugh floated back to the wagon on the breeze. “Well done, my lady,” he called to her as the wagon made its way around the hill. “Well done indeed. Now, I think we’ve arrived.”
All the pleasure Belle felt at standing up to the knight drained away. Now that they had crested the hill they could see a distance ahead of them.
“Oh,” Belle breathed as both Brigit and Peg shifted on their bench to look.
Caught in the river's bend, a tall gray wall rose up, cloaked in ivy and topped by great stone blocks. At either end stood rounded towers, their conical roofs rising high above the village dwellings, their slate tiles glowing like pewter in the sun. Glass winked from the row of tiny square windows that marched across the wall just above the water’s surface. Far la
rger and more graceful openings soared across the wall's second and third story.
The road led them to a massive gatehouse. Built of a slightly darker stone than the wall it pierced, two squat towers framed the arched opening of its gateway. Clinging to the outer wall at either side of the gatehouse were a goodly number of barns and outbuildings. One was the stable, for Sir Edward was dismounting before it, a groom holding the horse's reins as his manservant unbuckled the saddle packs. Tom, Master Wyatt's servant, stood not far away, as if waiting on the men.
“This is not a house,” Peg said, her voice heavy with disappointment.
“Not a house?” Brigit exclaimed. “How can you say that, when there are windows and a roof?” The sweep of her hand traced the line of that slate-covered peak barely visible above the wall's crenellation. “And chimneys.” She pointed to the slender columns of brick that rose at regular intervals from the rooftop.
“I mean, it’s not a house, but a castle remade into a house,” Peg retorted, her expression sour as she glanced at Belle. “Do you remember Lord Montmercy’s seat, my lady? Drafty and damp, it was. Dark and cramped, too. I hoped for something more civilized.”
Irritation washed through Belle. What right had Peg to complain? She didn’t have to marry the owner of this place.
“It will be what it is,” she muttered.
“Nay, it will be what you make of it, my lady,” Peg replied, “and here's the first change that calls for your hand.”
The maid pointed to the gatehouse. They were near enough now to see that its forward section spanned the river. This made the opening so long it appeared more tunnel than doorway. A portcullis was raised high into the gateway's arch, so nothing of it was visible save for its rusting iron spikes.
“What sort of welcome can a body feel when the doorway looks a slavering maw waiting to devour the unwary?”
Brigit gave a tiny, fearful cry. Opening her prayer book, she began to read, her lips silently forming the words her eyes saw.
What remained of Belle’s confidence evaporated. Her fingers clenched into the linen in her lap, her nails biting through the fabric until they dug into the solid, square outline of her sewing box beneath it. A raft of horrid little thoughts raced through her, one after the other and each worse than the last.
What if her husband believed her a spy and never welcomed her? What if he took one look at her and knew she'd entertained sinful thoughts for his steward? What if he was so hideous she couldn’t bear to bed him? What if Squire Hollier, monstrous as he was, found her so ugly he spurned her?
Even imagined, the humiliation of such an event made tears sting at Belle’s eyes. A tiny whimper escaped her lips.
“Ach my lady, you’ve gone all white.” The wagon bench groaned as Peg shifted to sit next to her mistress. Her brown eyes were dark with concern. “Nay, now, you mustn’t worry so, my little lovey,” she crooned, removing Belle’s hat to straighten the coif Belle wore beneath it and smooth a few stray hairs back within that cap’s confines, just as she'd done when Belle had been younger than Lucy. “You'll see,” she whispered, patting her mistress's hand, “it won't be as awful as you imagine.”
Rather than comfort, her words made Belle feel hopeless, helpless and foolish. Reclaiming her hat from Peg, she settled it back upon her head so it hid her face then sniffed as the wagon rumbled up to the gatehouse’s mossy foot.
With the squeal of metal-shod wheels and the steady ring of horseshoes on stone, the wagon entered the long gateway. Lucy hooted from her perch on the lead horse then giggled at the sound of her rebounding voice. So taken with her echo was she that she began to chant, “We're here, we're here,” just to listen to the words reverberate.
Such fearlessness in her child only made Belle feel worse. “Oh, Peg, I'm such a coward.”
“Nay, not cowardly, only sensible,” the maid said, defending her lady from herself. “Who wouldn’t fear being forced into a marriage as you are no matter the man’s rank?”
As the wagon at last trundled out of the gatehouse and into the castle’s yard, Belle straightened and lifted her chin. For her daughter's sake she'd at least pretend courage.
Peg turned on the bench to scan what lay within the walls and loosed a happy gasp. “Oh my lady, I was wrong,” she crowed. “This is much nicer than I expected. Did I not tell you things were not as bad as they seemed? Look Brigit,” she demanded of the yet praying governess, “put away your book and look at this marvelous place.”
Within its walls Graceton Castle looked far more residence than fortress. Directly ahead of Belle, across the lush turf that carpeted the yard's wide expanse, was the building whose roof they’d seen. Built of a yellowish stone, four long, graceful windows cut into its face while the grand, sheltered doorway at the far left end proclaimed it the hall. What was surely the family's living quarters stretched out from the hall's right side. A wooden gallery clung to the ell’s second story, five fine oriel windows marking its exterior.
An ancient and crumbling ivy-clad square keep tower stood on a mound at one side of the wide yard, its tiny, empty windows staring forlornly down upon the house that had replaced it. Roses tumbled over the low wall around its base, suggesting a private garden.
Richard whistled the horses into a leftward turn, giving Belle a good view of the kitchen buildings and brewery. They were small and tidy, some constructed of stone and slate, others, plaster and thatch. Nearly forty men and women dressed in maroon and gray stood in silence before these buildings. Their arms crossed and shoulders tensed. Nary a smile touched a face as they eyed the newcomers. This wasn’t a welcoming party, it was an army drawing its battle lines. They hated her even before they knew her.
Just when Belle was certain she'd embarrass herself and her daughter by bursting into tears, Master Wyatt stepped out of the hall's door. Her gaze clung to his familiar face and form as he strode toward the waiting mob. Gone was his traveling attire, replaced with breeches of black and a sleeveless brown doublet atop a white shirt. In keeping with a country lifestyle he’d eschewed a ruff and left his collar open, revealing the strong column of his neck. Beneath his brown cap, his neatly combed hair gleamed a deep red as it framed his sun-browned face. His expression was relaxed, the tiny lift of his lips confident.
“Hello, hello, Master Wyatt,” Lucy sang out, waving as she recognized him. “Welcome to my new home!”
A grin flashed across his lips. The crowd behind him wasn't as amused. Closing ranks, folk clutched together. A steely murmur rumbled from them.
Master Wyatt shot a swift glance over his shoulder. His frown told Belle that whatever it was they said hadn't been either friendly or welcoming. Belle’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. Beside her, Peg's eyes widened with the first inklings of fear. Brigit, who’d glanced up from her prayer book at Lucy's call, freed a quiet moan and turned her gaze back to its pages. No longer was her prayer silent. Instead, whispered pleas to the Almighty hissed steadily through her tight lips.
Richard pulled the wagon to a halt a few yards from the hall door. Master Wyatt stepped forward to catch the front horse's reins.
“Well now, if it isn’t Mistress Lucretia Purfoy,” he said to Belle's daughter, his voice lifted so it carried, his tone warm and kind. “I see you finally found yourself a mount.”
Oblivious to the glares aimed in her direction, Lucy beamed down at him. “Aye,” she chirped. “Do you see me riding?” She gleefully kicked her heels into the big horse's sides. The massive beast grunted at this assault.
He laughed, the sound deep and rich. “That I do, you little imp. But then I never doubted you’d charm your way onto a horse's back.”
Whether it was his words or his laughter, tension nigh on melted from the surly group. Men's arms were loosening, their fists opening. Women’s faces had relaxed, with more than a few smiling at Lady Purfoy’s daughter.
Belle looked back at Master Wyatt, only to find him watching her. His expression was noncommittal, but she read it in his gaze. He�
��d seen the hostility aimed at her and her party and had purposefully set out to diffuse it. Belle wished there were some way to let him know how great his gift was. Instead, all she had to offer was her smile and even that came too late, for he’d already turned away.
A wave of his hand brought one man forward to take the lead horse's harness. The two footmen who had journeyed with them from Richmond followed to lift out the wagon’s back gate. As they leaned it against the wheel, the elder of the two men glanced at her. A quick smile flashed across his lips. Although this was more an indication of recognition than welcome, Belle sighed. In that simple gesture lurked a promise. Given time, the other servants would come to accept her, just as he had.
Master Wyatt strode down the wagon’s length to stand before the opening. Belle searched his face. There was nothing for her to read in his expression.
“Welcome to Graceton Castle, Lady Purfoy,” he called out loudly enough that his voice rang against the enclosing walls.
Only then did it occur to Belle that she should say more than thank you in return. Pretty words congealed on her tongue only to melt away before she could string them into something both coherent and gracious. Scrambling desperately to say something, anything, she lurched to her feet, forgetting the sewing in her lap. Caught in the half-made petticoat, her needle box thudded hollowly against the wagon's bed. Without thought, Belle bent to snatch it up.
Instead, the tangle of box and linen flew from her grasping fingers to strike Master Wyatt mid-chest, then drop to the sod at his feet. Mortified at her display of clumsiness, she straightened, fingers pressed to her lips.
Master Wyatt glanced from the pile of fabric on the ground to her face. The tiniest gleam of humor came to life in his blue eyes. “Was that some sort of attack?” he whispered, his voice held so low that only she could hear him.
The Lady Series Page 40
