Until You

by Bertrice Small

  She had scarcely arrived back at her destination than Tom was at her side. Philippa was not with him. “Where is Philippa?” she asked.

  “I have introduced her to several young ladies, all close to her in age,” he said. “A young girl should not be shackled at court to an older relation. Now, tell me at once, dear girl, what has happened?” He led her to an alcove where there was a bench, and together they sat.

  “There is little to tell,” Rosamund began. “He demanded to know why I had gone to Scotland and San Lorenzo. Lord Howard had indeed reported my presence there with Patrick. I explained all, but I will admit to keeping it as simple as possible. Then he thought perhaps we might take up where we had left off.”

  “No!” Lord Cambridge actually looked shocked, though he should not have been surprised.

  “I have dissuaded him, of course, Tom, but he would have us come to Windsor. He says we may return home from there, but we must bide a while,” Rosamund explained.

  “Actually,” her cousin replied, “if you departed now it could cause gossip to arise, especially as Inez de Salinas has been sent publicly from court. They say she and her husband will leave for Spain soon, ostensibly to visit her elderly parents. And a few weeks of the court’s amusements will not harm Philippa. She can make some valuable connections, Rosamund. Just recall your own stay as a girl. There are few who can claim a friendship with two queens.”

  “But I have no friends at the court,” Rosamund said.

  “It is time, then, that you made some,” he said.

  “I don’t intend returning if I can possibly help it,” she told him.

  “But Philippa will return, and it is probably from those who people the court that we will choose Philippa’s husband, Rosamund. It cannot hurt you to make friends,” he explained patiently. His cousin had always preferred her own company and that of a few relations over strangers, but that needed to change.

  “I suppose you mean to introduce me to some people,” she grumbled at him.

  Tom grinned at her. “My habits, dear girl, may not conform to most, but I assure you I know many people of the right sort. I am considered witty and amusing, you know,” he said mischievously. “Now that you have concluded this business with both of our dear monarchs and you have been commanded to Windsor, it is time for you to meet others of your own kind, cousin. How do you expect to find the right husband for our Philippa if you do not mingle among the nobility?”

  She laughed. “That is the difficulty, Tom. I think Philippa too young for a proposed marriage.”

  “Of course she is,” he agreed. “But it will take us two or three years to find the right connections, and then another year for Philippa to decide which among her suitors will please her. These things must be done delicately and with finesse, my dear girl. One does not purchase a pig in a poke, Rosamund.”

  “You make it sound so calculated, Tom,” she told him.

  “It is,” he agreed.

  “But I want Philippa to fall in love and be in love forever,” Rosamund said.

  “If only life were that simple, my dear girl. With luck, she will indeed love the man she marries before they wed—if they have the time to know each other. But more than likely, that love will come afterwards. Your marriage to your cousin was arranged to keep Friarsgate in the family. Your marriage to Hugh Cabot was for the same reason. You were too young to know of love then, but when you were wed to Owein Meredith, you did not love him, did you?”

  Rosamund shook her head.

  “But you came to love him because he was a good man and he respected your position as the lady of Friarsgate. With careful planning, dear girl, we shall gain the same good fortune for Philippa. But unless we begin our search now, what chance have we? And do not, I pray you, bring up the love that you and Lord Leslie shared, cousin. It was unique and rare. Few in this world have such love.”

  “I know,” she whispered to him, feeling the tears coming again.

  “Dear cousin,” Tom said, and he brushed the tears from her cheek, “be grateful that you knew such love, but also be sensible where your child is concerned.”

  Rosamund nodded. “I will meet these people you seek to introduce me to,” she said with a small smile. “But can I meet them another day? I have had all I can bear today, cousin. I want to go home and sit out in your garden to watch the river.”

  “And think, mayhap, of your brazen Scot?” he teased her.

  “Aye,” she said, surprising him.

  “Take your own barge, dear girl. I will return later with Lucy and Philippa,” he told her.

  Rosamund leaned over and kissed her cousin on his smooth cheek. “What, dear Tom,” she said, “should I ever do without you?”

  “If the truth be known, dear girl,” he responded, “I shudder to even contemplate it.” And he grinned.

  Rosamund arose. “Do not remain too late,” she said. “It is Philippa’s first day, and we will be leaving shortly for Windsor.”

  He nodded, then watched as she departed the Great Hall.

  Rosamund’s little vessel was brought to her, and after entering it, she sat down on the blue velvet bench and closed her eyes. “Take me home,” she told her rowers.

  The air was warm as they rowed, but some of the smells in the air were distinctly unpleasant as the barge moved along. Her servants rowed in midriver, as the tide was low now, and the mudflats along the bank were visible to the eye and discernible to the nose. Rosamund sighed to herself. The worst was certainly over now, she thought, and having thought it found herself longing for Friarsgate. But Tom was right. If she was to one day see her daughters matched with men of eminent families, she must socialize and make contacts now. A smile touched her lips as she considered that just a few short years back she had been considered a girl. Now she was a woman of twenty-five, widowed thrice and looking for husbands not for herself but for her three daughters. Yet the need for love had not deserted her. Surely not.

  Rosamund knew she was lonely. But did she want to marry again? Did she want Logan Hepburn? It seemed she had been running away from him her whole life. Or he had been running after her. She hadn’t, of course; nor had she even known of the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn until . . . God’s wounds! Was it that long ago that he had sat his horse atop a hill overlooking Friarsgate and told her he wanted her for his wife? Eleven years. Nay! It could not be eleven years ago! It had been just before she married Owein, and Philippa was now ten years of age. The realization dawned upon her. It was indeed eleven years ago that she had sparred indignantly with him and forbade him to come to her wedding. But he had, of course, with his brothers in tow. They had brought whiskey and salmon, and they had played their pipes for the bride and groom. Eleven years!

  Yet she did not know him. Not really. She knew he was determined and that he was stubborn. She knew he had been willing to let his lands go to his brothers’ sons rather than marry another. For her. For Rosamund Bolton. Never before had she considered Logan Hepburn in any other way but an annoyance. She had called him a crude borderer, a Scots scoundrel. And she had meant it.

  She had dismissed his offer of marriage because rather than saying he loved her, he had talked about sons. When she had upbraided him for it, he had claimed that he had always loved her, that he had thought she knew it. But he had not said it, and until this moment she had not understood that a man who was willing to give up his birthright for a woman did indeed love her. I have been a fool, Rosamund thought silently.

  But it still did not answer the question of whether she was willing to remarry. And all of her newfound knowledge would not answer that question. She needed to get to know this man she had been so busy scorning out of pride that she could not comprehend the depth of his devotion to her. He would be awaiting her return, she knew, and suddenly she was more anxious than ever to return home. But if he won her, would he be satisfied with his victory? Or would that victory merely cause him to lose interest?

  Rosamund felt her little vessel bump the stone quay
of her cousin’s house. She opened her eyes, blinking once or twice to clear her vision as the sunlight filled her sight. She took the servant’s offered hand and stepped up from the craft, then hurried into the house. The summer gardens held no interest for her today. She needed to think. If she was going to allow Logan Hepburn into her life, they were going to have to get a few things straight before anything progressed beyond friendship. She remembered how kind he had been with her daughters and how they all liked him. Well, that was one point in his favor, she considered. But he was still a Scot. And there was certain to always be difficulties between England and Scotland. Yet would that matter in their tiny corner of the world? she wondered.

  Lord Cambridge and Philippa arrived home as the long summer twilight was beginning to deepen into darkness. Rosamund’s daughter could hardly stop talking of the sights she had seen and the people she had met.

  “We are going to Windsor, mama, aren’t we? Cecily will be at Windsor. Her family always goes on progress,” Philippa said.

  “And who is Cecily?” Rosamund inquired, smoothing her daughter’s disheveled hair. “Is she someone Uncle Tom has introduced you to, my daughter?”

  “She is Cecily FitzHugh, mama. Her father is the Earl of Renfrew. She has two brothers, Henry, who is the heir, and Giles, and two sisters, Mary and Susanna. They are younger than Cecily, who is the oldest girl. We have become best friends!”

  “Gracious,” Rosamund laughed. “All in a single afternoon, poppet?”

  Philippa ignored her mother’s teasing, saying, “It is her first time at court, too, mama. She has been left at home with her little sisters in the past. Her brother Henry is one of the king’s gentlemen, and her other brother is a page. We both like to ride.”

  “Well,” Rosamund said, “it would appear that you have had a fine day, Philippa, but it is your bedtime now. Run along with Lucy. I will come and kiss you good night.”

  Without protest, Philippa obeyed her mother.

  “And what have you been doing alone and by yourself?” Lord Cambridge asked his cousin.

  “I have been thinking of Logan Hepburn, Tom, and whether I do indeed want to remarry. And if so, whether it is he I want to wed,” Rosamund said frankly.

  “And what have you decided?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” she answered. “I need to really get to know him, Tom. I will not remarry simply for the sake of having a husband. Do you understand that?”

  He nodded. “I do. Still, I think you wise to reconsider your former position on the matter, cousin.”

  “What you mean,” she teased him, “is that you think I am becoming too long in the tooth for another husband. I am, after all, twenty-five now.”

  He laughed. “You will never be too old for another husband, Rosamund. You are too fair and too clever by far. Why, if I were a man to take a wife, I should seriously consider you above all women,” he told her.

  “Why, Tom, that is a lovely thing for you to say to me,” she exclaimed.

  “Alas, I am not a man for a wife,” he told her with a smile.

  “It would be so simple if you were,” she considered.

  “It most certainly would not, dear girl! Your laird once threatened to kill me if I admitted to being your lover,” Lord Cambridge said with a shiver of remembrance. “He was very fierce, and I quite believed him.”

  Now it was Rosamund who laughed. Then she said, “Tell me about the FitzHugh family to whom you have introduced my daughter, Tom.”

  They sat companionably in the Great Hall of the house, ensconced in the window seats overlooking the river as they spoke.

  “Edward FitzHugh is like your Owein, of Welsh descent. His holding is not large. It is in the marches between England and Wales. His wife, Anne, comes from a good family of English landed gentry in Hereford. Her dower was more than generous, for her family was delighted to have made a match with the son of an earl. Ned was the third son. He was never expected to inherit, but both of his brothers predeceased him. The eldest from plague one summer. The second son returning from Spain, where he had made a match. The ship upon which he traveled went down in the Bay of Biscay in a storm. The old earl died shortly thereafter, they say of a broken heart, and his third son inherited. Ned had been educated for a time with the king, for it was thought he might take holy orders one day. When he became the Earl of Renfrew, he used that ancient connection to bring his family to court. His lamented second brother had been betrothed to a distant cousin of Queen Katherine’s. The family is also devout, so the queen favors them. It is said that little Cecily will eventually be offered a place in the queen’s household as a maid of honor. She is too young now, of course, but if she and Philippa remain friends, your daughter might also serve as one of the queen’s maids of honor one day.”

  “Thomas Bolton, you are amazing!” Rosamund said admiringly. “How on earth do you know all of this? I do believe you have surpassed yourself this time with your intimate knowledge of others.”

  “Nonsense, dear girl,” he said, delighted with her words. “The Countess of Renfrew’s father knew my grandfather in London eons ago. They had some dealings that turned out well for both of them, but especially for the countess’ papa. The connection has been kept. I was even invited to the earl’s wedding to his wife years ago, when he was simply a third son. I was generous in my gifts. After all, dear girl, one never knows.”

  “You are thinking of the second son for Philippa, aren’t you?” Rosamund said.

  Lord Cambridge nodded. “Giles FitzHugh is fourteen now. He is still involved in his studies, and he is serving the queen. He will soon be too big for her household, Ned tells me, and will not return to court in the autumn. He will be sent to France and then to Italy to study. His brother is sixteen and has served the king since he was six. He will be married in August to a Welsh heiress. Giles, for all his half-noble bloodlines, has a bent towards business. Philippa will need a husband who understands such things.”

  “What if his brother dies?” Rosamund asked.

  “Is that likely to happen again?” Tom said. “Besides, the heir’s bride is already with child. Both fathers wanted it that way.”

  Rosamund was somewhat shocked. “I should certainly not allow my daughters—” she began, but he waved away her indignation.

  “This was a unique case, dear girl. Ned wanted to be certain that his eldest son’s heir followed them. The bride’s father wanted the title for his daughter. Both the young people, healthy and lusty, were content to comply with their parental demands,” he chuckled with a wink.

  “It could be a girl,” Rosamund said dryly.

  “It could,” Tom agreed cheerfully. “Both FitzHugh sons, however, are, praise God, healthy. The heir will continue to get children on his bride until there is a son or two, perhaps even three.”

  “What if Philippa and this boy do not get along?” Rosamund asked.

  “They have not even met yet, dear girl. That will happen at Windsor. But our lass is only ten, and the boy is not ready, by any means, for a betrothal. This is merely a small fishing expedition at best. I know other families with eligible sons.”

  Rosamund nodded. “But after Windsor, I want to go home. I have some business of my own to take care of, Tom. And before we depart London we must meet with your goldsmiths and choose a factor for our little venture.”

  “Agreed!” he said. “Tomorrow, after we deposit Philippa with her new friend, we shall complete our own business, dear girl. And when I get home I must go to Leith to see how our ship is coming along. I should like to call this first vessel after you, cousin.”

  “I think I have a better name than mine, dearest Tom,” she told him. “I think we should call our ship Bold Venture, for it is indeed a bold venture that you and I undertake.”

  He nodded. “Aye, I like it. Bold Venture. Aye!” he agreed.

  The following morning they took Philippa to court, leaving her with Lucy to find Cecily FitzHugh. They then went on to Goldsmiths’ Row, where the
banking of the day was conducted. Lord Cambridge introduced his cousin to Master Jacobs, his goldsmith. Rosamund put her signature upon a piece of parchment several times so the goldsmith would have it to compare with any message purporting to come from her. Lord Cambridge had brought Master Jacobs a copy of his last will and testament for safekeeping and so that the goldsmith would know that Rosamund and her daughters were his heirs. He brought the agreement they had both signed for their enterprise, giving the goldsmith a copy of it, too.

  “My cousin and I will both be depositing funds and withdrawing them, Master Jacobs,” he told the goldsmith. “Lady Rosamund is a large landowner in Cumbria, where I now make my home.”

  “What will you use the ship for, my lord?” the goldsmith asked.

  “We will export my cousin’s woolen cloth to Europe. There is none finer, and the Friarsgate Blue will be the most sought after,” Tom explained.

  “What will your ship return with in exchange?” the goldsmith inquired.

  “Tom!” Rosamund said. “We have not considered another kind of cargo. We cannot have our vessel returning with an empty hole. There is but half-profit in that.”

  “I have relations in both Holland and the Baltic, my lord, my lady. For a small percentage of your profits, they could fill your ship for its return journey,” Master Jacobs said.

  “It can be nothing that stinks,” Rosamund said. “We would never get the smell out of the wood of the hole. The next shipment of cloth would pick up the aroma. No hides or cheeses. Wine. Wood. Pottery. Gold. But nothing that would leave a noxious fragrance. My captain will have such orders, Master Jacobs. He will take no cargo that smells.”

  “Of course, my lady. Now I comprehend your need for a new vessel. The fee I suggest is fifteen percent,” he told her, smiling. “It is a modest fee.”

  Rosamund shook her head. “Nay,” she said in a hard voice. “It is too much.”