by D. L. Bogdan
“What are you implying?” Hal demanded, his tone sharp.
“My lord, I should hope you would know better than to think I would imply anything,” Father Alec returned, matching Hal tone for tone. He sighed. “It is others I worry about. At the very least, you must understand that such a move would appear disrespectful to your lady wife’s memory. Was she not disrespected enough in life?”
“But I told you—”
“It does not matter,” Father Alec cut him short as he rose from the chair to pace before the fire. “Innocent or not, Lady Grace was still sinned against and deserves the respect of at least a full year of mourning. Let Lady Cecily grow up a bit.”
“Then she cannot reside here any longer, you must know that,” Hal said, his heart sinking. “If I send her away, she will no doubt be betrothed to another to benefit the house—”
“That is all she has ever meant to you, hasn’t she?” Father Alec cried, whirling upon Hal, his face contorted in a display of rage so contrary to his usually calm countenance that Hal was shocked into momentary silence. “You wish to amass her lands and wealth for yourself!”
When Hal found his voice it was sharp. “Father! Don’t be naïve! You know how fond of the girl I am, that she would be cherished and well cared for. But you must also know that from a practical standpoint, the Baroness Burkhart is an asset to any house granted her wardship. You know that was why we took her in, that is why she was to marry Brey. That is life, Father. The fact that we came to love her as we did was an unexpected, and much appreciated, gift.”
“Then if you love her so, wait,” Father Alec advised him. “Wait till the girl is sixteen at least.”
“And who will care for her in the meantime, Father?” he asked. “I have no living relatives. And no one else will take her in if they cannot benefit from her themselves.” He ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair in frustration. “And in truth, Father, I cannot bear the thought of sending her to strangers. D’you honestly wish to see her uprooted from all she has known after she has been through so much already? God knows who she could end up with. I may be far from perfection, Father, but I would never be cruel to her. I would never raise my hand to her and God knows the marriage will not be consummated till she is of a proper age! ...” His voice softened. “And I would never stray from her—believe me that is not a mistake to be made more than once. With me she would at least have some of the life she had planned on before ... before ...”
“You are not Brey,” Father Alec said in low tones.
“I know that,” he said. “But neither am I a lecher. I am young and vital, still in my thirties, for love of God! I need heirs, Father, or all that my family stood for ends with me. My fortune will revert to the Crown and that is the reality. My God, man, you behave as if it has not been done before! Why, I can name dozens—”
“They do not matter.” Father Alec’s voice was soft with disillusionment. “I had hoped you were above such things.” His shoulders slumped. He sighed. “But you know better. You are noble. I am but a humble tutor. Be advised, however, that I will not stay on. The lady of the house will be far too preoccupied in acquainting herself with her new station to carry on with the lessons of childhood.”
“I had hoped you would remain as our personal chaplain,” Hal said, his tone thick with sadness. “As our friend. Lady Cecily loves you so.”
Father Alec shook his head. “That is not possible,” he told him. “I am sorry, my lord. For your friend I am, but this ...” He searched Hal’s face. “Yet you will stay your course, won’t you?”
“There is no other way, Father,” Hal said. “I am sorry you cannot see that.”
“I am not leaving because I cannot see it,” Father Alec said. “I am leaving because I can.”
With this he turned on his heel and quit the apartments, leaving Hal alone to contemplate this new decision, one of the biggest and most startling he had ever made, that of taking on a second wife.
Never in his wildest imaginings had he thought life would necessitate such actions.
And never in his wildest imaginings had he thought the bride in question would be his ward, the Baroness Cecily Burkhart, the child selected for his son.
8
Hal had taken her to practice archery the day he broached the subject. Dressed in a smart gray velvet gown, her rose-gold hair flowing down her shoulders, she was the picture of a lady, drawing back her bowstring and hitting her marks with ease. Hal’s shoulders slumped. However ladylike she appeared, she was very much a child. Her face was tender even in concentration; the sweep of her jaw, the curve of her neck, the soft glow of her skin indicated that beneath the blossoming figure was an innocent.
If he could convince her that it made sense. If he could convince her that he cared as much for her welfare as his own ...
He began with as much gentleness as possible. “Cecily—my lady—”
She started at this, not accustomed to him addressing her as such, and she offered a timid smile.
“There is something you must know,” he said. “Before I say anything else I want you to know about—about what happened with Sister Julia.”
“You do not need to tell me,” she said in her soft voice. “I was informed.”
“But you must know,” he began awkwardly, “you must know that ... that I did not—that I did not ... violate her.”
Cecily averted her head, her cheeks flushing.
Hal flushed as well. “I had believed that for many years but was recently assured by her that—that it was not the case,” he told her. “I know this makes me no more honorable, that I still sinned against the Lady Grace, and for that I am eternally remorseful. But if it elevates your opinion of me in any way—”
“My opinion of you has never been affected,” Cecily told him. “I always knew you were a good man, Lord Hal. Even the best of men do terrible things and I know you have endeavored to lead a righteous life since then.”
“Still,” he said, bowing his head and shifting his weight, uncomfortable with the conversation. “I thought it important that you know.”
“I am honored you told me,” Cecily said, reaching out to squeeze his forearm.
He fixed his eyes on her little hand, the slender, tapering fingers, the immaculate, well-sculpted nails. He covered it with his own.
“Lady Cecily, we have been grieving, you and I, for so much,” he went on. His heart raced. He could hear it pounding in his ears. His throat was painfully dry. “For Lady Grace and for our dear Brey. And I know what I am about to say will hardly seem fitting now, but ... Regarding your future, Lady Cecily.” He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “H-have you given it any thought?”
Cecily’s face paled. Her hand trembled in his. “I did not want to. I have been afraid of this moment, but I knew it would come. I knew you could no longer care for me given the circumstances. You have found another place for me.” She squared her shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut a long moment before reopening them. They shone luminous with unshed tears. “Where will I be going, my lord?”
Hal bowed his head. “It is my hope that you will remain here with me, if that is to your pleasure.”
“Oh, yes!” Cecily cried, blossoms of hope coloring her cheeks rose. “But who will attend me? Who will be my chaperone?”
Hal drew in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “If you are agreeable to my ... suggestion one will not be needed.” He regarded her carefully. As yet she showed no sign of comprehension. “Lady Cecily, as both of our situations have changed drastically we are both in a position to help one another.” Another long-suffering sigh. “I need heirs. You need someone to care for you, someone familiar, someone you know will never hurt you, and I swear to you that if my past has taught me nothing else it has taught me that—”
“Lord Hal?”
Hal nodded as realization settled upon her countenance. “I know I am a good deal older than you are and that till this point you regarded me as a father. But if you can find it
in your heart to see me as something else ... I would make you happy. And you would be here in familiar surroundings instead of being sent off to a new family whom you may not take to, betrothed to a man who might not treat you with the kindness you know I will.”
“Lord Hal ...” Cecily’s hand slipped from his arm. Her bow slid out of her hand, leaving her arms to dangle at her sides.
“You may not believe after everything you witnessed between Lady Grace and me that I am capable of making someone happy, but I know if you give me the opportunity I—”
Cecily shook her head. “No, it is not that. I am certain you are capable of it. It is just that ... it is so unexpected. Brey ...” She sighed, sinking to the ground. Hal sat beside her, wrapping an arm about her shoulders. “What would Brey make of it?” she whispered.
Hal shook his head. “It is my hope he would bless the union ... after mocking it, of course.”
The smallest smile played across her button mouth. “He would do that,” she agreed. “It is just that it is not what I thought would be happening to me now,” she sighed.
“I know,” he said, his voice soft. “Nothing has gone as expected.”
She shook her head.
“If you cannot do it, my lady, if it is too much to ask”—he drew in a breath, stifling a peculiar urge to cry—“I will understand. I will try to secure for you the best match possible with another family.”
“I could not bear the thought of leaving here,” she said. She turned toward him. “Or you. For however unexpected this may be, perhaps it is as Father Alec said, that this is the will of God, beyond our understanding but for our own good nonetheless.”
Hal smiled, touched at the simple thought, grateful Cecily did not know how against the match Father Alec was. He was certain the priest believed this as much against the will of God as was possible.
“I will be a good husband to you, my lady,” he said.
“And I will be a good wife,” she assured him. At once her face hardened with a rare sternness. “But there will be conditions.”
Hal was taken aback. “Name them, my dear.”
“I will oversee the management of the finances,” she told him. “With the help of a treasurer of my choosing. I have noted since my arrival there has been no treasurer and learned that the appointment has been vacant since Mirabella’s birth. Now, of course, I know why. But there is no excuse for it to have remained unfilled for so long.”
Hal’s eyes widened in surprise. He never imagined Cecily would have paid such close attention to the running of the household. But then Cecily had been close to Grace. No doubt she had proved an able instructor, even in her weakest moments. In any event, this was an asset he had not counted on and he smiled inwardly.
“Of course,” he told her. “Is there anything else?”
“I will allot you a small amount for gambling, as I know that pleases you,” she said, her tone all business, the tone of a woman. “But you will not fritter away my fortune or that of your future children.”
“You are very wise,” Hal said with a chuckle. “And I will not take to the sport so often.”
Cecily shrugged. “You may do as you like, but I will have you know that while I am very young, Lord Hal, I am no fool. I came to understand my value many years ago, when I first became betrothed to Brey. I will not pretend to believe your motivations have changed. Our fortunes will be joined just as you have always wished. But I will not let you squander it away. In turn I will give you heirs and your name will be passed down through the ages.”
Hal shook his head, impressed. “Be my governor, my lady. I give you all authority over my person!”
He felt Cecily relax against his side. He drew her to him, holding her close. She giggled, a girl once more.
“I promise you, Cecily, I will be good to you,” he said with fervency. He cradled her head against his chest, stroking the silky rose-gold tresses. “I promise you.”
Cecily nuzzled against his chest. “I have no doubt,” she told him.
Hal closed his eyes, allowing his tears to fall, murmuring a prayer of thanks to God that she was receptive to the news. He only hoped he could make her as happy as she would no doubt make him.
Cecily found Father Alec in his apartments. As the door was slightly ajar, she offered a polite knock before allowing herself entrance. Her heart caught in her chest.
He was packing.
“Are you going on holiday?” she asked him.
He regarded her, his hazel eyes lit with a sadness she knew somehow had nothing to do with their losses.
“Where are you going, Father?” Her voice rose in panic.
He averted his head, attending to his trunk once more. “London. I have secured a position in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s household. It is a wonderful opportunity, more than I could have ever hoped for.”
Cecily’s heart pounded against her ribs in a painful, erratic rhythm. Her cheeks tingled. “Oh, Father, no! Why?”
“It is time,” he said, his husky voice low.
Cecily knelt beside him before the trunk, reaching out to still his hands. He avoided her eyes.
“But, Father, I need you now more than ever,” she told him. “I came to tell you that I ... I am to marry Lord Hal.” Her voice was taut with urgency.
“So he stayed the course,” he muttered.
“Pardon?”
He waved the thought away. “Pardon me, my lady.” He turned toward her at last, offering a strained smile. “May I offer my congratulations?”
Cecily nodded, tears pooling in the base of her throat. “Oh, Father, it is all too much to take in. So much has happened to us and now this. I know marrying Lord Hal is the right thing to do, and I do bear him affection. Yet still I am so afraid.” She lowered her eyes. “But not nearly as afraid as I would be had I been sent away. Mirabella told me of the men in this world—”
“Not all of which are the monsters and devils she painted them as, Lady Cecily,” he told her. “You may have been wed to someone of your own age—”
“Or not,” Cecily finished for him. “I could have been wed to someone even older than my lord. I could have wed someone cruel ... and I would have been all alone in a foreign place. This is my world, Father. I belong here. It may not have all come to pass as I had once hoped, but ...”
“I have underestimated your wisdom,” he told her, his voice wavering with admiration. “And your strength.”
“I am not strong,” she confessed. “I tremble with fear. I am to be a wife now and perhaps a mother soon. I admit I am not ready for it. But I must be. That is why I urge you to remain here with us.” Her eyes made their appeal. “Please. We are your family, after all. Do you really think you can help the archbishop more than you can help us? We need you.”
Father Alec laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Have faith that God will guide you. And have faith in yourself, Lady Cecily, just as I have always had faith in you,” he told her. “I am sorry, my lady. Please know my leaving has no bearing on you personally. It is just that I have outlived my usefulness. With you taking on the duties of a countess, you will have no need of a tutor. I cannot be expected to wile away my hours living off your charity. I need to be stimulated again, to find out who I am and what I am about. I feel a call to London. I feel that something is waiting for me there, something that I must be a part of, and that somehow the archbishop is tied to all of that.”
Cecily bowed her head. She understood. How could she not? “Then it would be selfish of me to ask you to remain where you would be unhappy,” she said in soft tones. She raised her head to meet his tortured hazel gaze. “There is only one thing I request of you, Father.”
“Ask and I shall try to accommodate,” he told her.
“I want you to officiate the ceremony,” she told him. “You have been a part of our lives from the beginning. It was you who brought me here, you who comforted me through all of my trials. What passed before is gone, but something new is about to begin. Be the one
to bless the beginning of this journey.”
Father Alec swallowed several times, bowing his head. He took her hands in his. They were small, smooth like lilies, the hands of a child-woman.
“Yes, my lady,” he told her. “I will.”
Father Alec did not understand his reaction to Hal’s decision. His unspecified sense of objection was gut wrenching, frustrating him to no end. Certainly he understood the practical necessity of the match—to a degree he even approved of it. It reassured him to know that Cecily would not be sent to a stranger’s house where there was no guarantee of her safety and happiness. At least with Hal that much could be counted upon.
Yet the reaction remained, the tightness in his throat, the desire to throw things and shout at the injustice of it all. It was Cecily’s age. That must be it. If she were not so young then perhaps he could be more supportive ... yet what was atypical about her age? It was not unusual for noblewomen to be wed much younger than commoners. Countless cases proved politics and wealth were put before any sensitivity to extreme youth.
Father Alec shook his head, cursing himself. He had grown too close to this family. London would be a welcome change. Things were happening there, exciting things. Changes were being implemented that he would be a part of. And working alongside the archbishop would be a thrill. In London he would be far too preoccupied to be troubled by the complexities of the Pierces.
But before he left there was this last thing, this last request. He was to marry Lord Hal and Lady Cecily, he, whose heart screamed out against some unknown force, was to go against his every sensibility and join them in holy matrimony. He would do it, of course. It was the least he could do for Cecily. And Hal was his friend. He must never lose sight of that, disagree with him though he might.
It was a small wedding with a handful of the local gentry in attendance. Cecily was dressed in a pale yellow gown of silk and a white kirtle embroidered with seed pearls. About her throat was a collar of amber, matching the circlet on her head. Her hair hung loose, flowing down her back in a cascade of rose-gold waves. The candlelight of the chapel was no competition; as she walked down the aisle she emanated a glow from within, softening her features like a painting. A living light ...
