The Lady Series, Two Books for the Price of One

by Denise Domning

  “I do, indeed,” Anne replied, but it was Patience she liked more. Gone was the pale, pinched spy. Love for Bertie Babthorpe revealed a fine woman with shimmering eyes and a mouth that ever curved into a pretty smile.

  “It’s a wedding gift from Bertie,” Patience said, fair glowing. On the morrow, she and Kit’s servant left for London where they were to be joined by Patience’s uncle. Patience’s family, Calvinists all, paid no heed to banns and required no celebration of the event.

  Anne did her best not to let her mood destroy her governess’s joy. “Then, it was no bad thing that you caught him in that other woman’s arms,” she teased gently.

  Satisfaction filled Patience’s smile as she ran her hands down the new bodice’s front. “A woman does what she must to get what she wants, is that not right, mistress?”

  Then she caught Anne by the arm and drew her in amongst the willows. “Come now, let’s get you changed. Bertie and the musician must be waiting.”

  At the center of the copse’s drooping branches was a small open space. The bundle of Anne’s practice garments lay on the moist ground. Kit, worried that someone might discover their secret lessons, had come upon this strategy. Anne strode into the garden as a maid-of-honor, changed into these far humbler garments, then departed, looking more like a servant than a woman of consequence. The process was reversed at the lesson’s end. And, also for concealment’s sake, Patience now walked with the musician, while the disguised Anne was escorted by Bertie. Aye, and neither Patience nor Bertie knew where they were off to until the last moment.

  Easing around Anne’s back, Patience tore at the lacings that held her charge’s bodice closed. “Is all well with you, mistress?” she asked as she worked. “You seem out of sorts this day.”

  As much as Anne wanted to tell her governess her news, she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words aloud. It was all too horrible. “In all truth,” Anne lied, “I long for home, being sick of this place and its stench.”

  Patience laughed as she pulled off Anne’s bodice, leaving the sleeves attached. “Aye, two months here with so many people and not enough river to wash away the offal has made it foul, indeed, even to one such as I, who has lived all my life in London!”

  As the woman folded this garment, Anne shucked her skirts, along with farthingale and all the underpinnings. Her ruff and corset followed, leaving her dressed in only her shirt.

  Anne pulled it closed over her bare breasts as Patience handed her the one-piece garment country girls wore. The dress combined both skirt and bodice, the bodice’s front scooping low beneath her breasts. Dyed a pretty red, it had served Anne well on cleaning days at Owls House.

  Once she’d donned it Anne discarded her black velvet headdress, braided her hair, and tied on a coif, not unlike the one Patience wore. That left only her shoes. Anne leaned against a tree trunk to don them, while Patience wrapped the expensive court attire in the oiled cloth against an unexpected shower. When the bundle was set aside, Patience turned to look at her mistress.

  “Where do we go today?”

  “Duke Humphrey’s tower,” Anne replied.

  “Right, then. I’m off to meet the musician,” Patience said, only to stay where she stood.

  Anne looked up. Her servant smiled, the movement of her mouth sad. “Each time you step out with no one at your side I think of the Maying and Lord Deyville’s attack,” she whispered. “I worry for you every second, mistress.” With that, she slipped from the glade.

  Anne stared at the swaying branches. She was worried for herself as well.

  Kit stood in the tower’s gateway, dwarfed by its thick walls. Duke Humphrey’s tower, an old defensive structure not unlike the one that crumbled at Graceton’s heart, stood at the top of the hill behind Greenwich Palace. All in all, it was a marvelous spot. Looking one direction a man could see the hodgepodge of buildings that filled Greenwich palace’s compound. Looking in another, Kit could see the rooftops of London. That was, if the day was clear and the man was looking.

  Kit stared blindly out through gritty, burning eyes at the gentle, rolling landscape. Last night, for the first time in two months, the nightmare returned, all the more stunning for its long absence. With a sigh, he leaned against the cold stones of the gateway.

  He knew why. The queen had commanded him home.

  Elizabeth writhed with fear over a Catholic uprising. Although indebted and yet without his rightful title, Nick’s holdings were substantial and his Catholic leanings well known to his queen. Elizabeth wanted assurances that Graceton’s squire wouldn’t encourage those who lived on his lands to rise against her.

  Unfortunately, Kit’s nightmare was no respecter of causes. It knew only that Kit was returning to the source of his guilt.

  A movement below him caught Kit’s attention. He watched a couple emerge from the park gate. They crossed Woolwich Road then made their way across the grassy expanse that was the Lawn to start up this hill, confirming they were of his party.

  Kit freed a bitter breath, torn between anticipation and frustration. These lessons were sheer torment. No longer was it only lust for Anne that plagued him. Somehow his need to protect her had twisted into an emotion Kit didn’t care to name. This was dangerous, indeed, tempting him into thoughts of permanence, even when he knew such a thing was impossible.

  The couple was halfway up the tower’s hill now. Kit frowned. The lute player he recognized, but who was that woman at his side? She wore a pretty blue bodice atop her brown skirts, while beneath her coif soft wings of brown hair framed a fine, oval face. As she chatted to the man beside her, her hands dashed and darted in lively punctuation.

  He straightened, eyes wide. Mistress Patience? As if she’d heard his thought, she looked up the hill and smiled. Kit gaped in astonishment. How could she have changed so, and he not notice? No wonder Bertie was in such a hurry to wed and bed her.

  Once she and the musician strode into the tower’s gateway Mistress Patience offered him a respectful bob, while the musician more touched than doffed his cap in deference to Kit’s gentle status. “A fine evening, master,” the man said. “So where’s it to be tonight?”

  “In the garden,” Kit replied. “Tap upon the gatehouse door,” he pointed to the opposite end of the tunnel-like passage that led into the tower’s grounds, “and the caretaker will show you the way.”

  As the musician strode past him through the shadowed gateway into the courtyard beyond it, Bertie’s bride-to-be stayed where she stood. The maid watched him, her look intense. Kit shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny then tried to smile. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  A small frown creased her brow. “Master Hollier, am I right in thinking you hold some affection for my mistress in your heart?” This was the probe Kit expected from her in May. She offered it now but with none of the harsh accusation he’d envisioned her attaching to that question.

  He opened his mouth only to have an admission of love crowd onto his tongue. Kit choked it back, stunned at himself. Where had that come from?

  Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Mistress Anne has become a good friend, well liked by me for her wit and humor. Does that satisfy your question?”

  “Indeed, it does,” she replied, her smile beautiful. “Bertie said you’d not speak the whole of it, only skirt around your true feelings for her.”

  Kit started. Bertie had spoken to her of him? By God, the man was worse than a sieve!

  “Nay now,” said Mistress Patience as she all-too-rightly read his outrage, “you mustn’t think Bertie spilled some secret. What he said was offered in passing. He said you were a private man and not one to share your inner thoughts with others. By that do I judge your words.”

  “Take no insult, but I can only hope marriage to you will teach him better manners,” Kit replied, only a little soothed by her attempt.

  “I’m sure it shall,” Mistress Patience promised with a surprisingly wicked twinkle in her eyes, then she sighed and sadness ch
ased the smile from her lips.

  “Master Hollier, against your fondness for my mistress I now presume to tell you something, praying you’ll keep my words in confidence. Sir Amyas writes that Lady Deyville departed for her heavenly home yesterday. Once Lord Deyville has spent his proscribed two months mourning his wife, Sir Amyas intends for Mistress Anne to wed with him.”

  Kit stiffened at this news. Anne was his, Deyville couldn’t have her.

  Only Anne wasn’t his, nor would she ever be his no matter what he willed. Should he dare to wed her she’d be a widow within a week. Either Lady Montmercy, Sir Amyas, or Lord Deyville would see to his death.

  “Why do you tell me this?” he asked, fighting his need to protect Anne.

  “Because she cannot wed Lord Deyville,” Patience replied, a frantic edge to her voice. “You saw him at the Maying.”

  So he had. The image of that nobleman trying to force himself on Anne turned itself into a vision of his Anne suffering beneath that godless lecher on her wedding night.

  “Now, mistress,” Kit said, attempting to soothe them both at the same time, “what we saw that day was a man trying to convince a woman that she should return his affections.” It was a sour lie. Deyville had no affection for Anne. “He’ll not treat her so, not once they’re wed.”

  “So you’d say, being a man,” Mistress Patience retorted with surprising spirit, “but I have a different experience with one much like that nobleman. Bowing to my father’s will, I agreed to wed a man he called his friend. Within a month I came crying to my parents of his abuse. Rather than heed me my father blinded himself to my bruises, saying they were my fault. He wouldn’t”—she paused to draw a ragged breath—“nay, he couldn’t believe ill of his friend. Instead he abandoned me to my marriage just as Sir Amyas will do to my poor mistress.”

  She stepped closer to lay a hand upon Kit’s arm, the need to protect her charge flowing into him from her slender fingers. “Sir Amyas will come soon to claim her. If you care for my mistress at all, Master Hollier, you’ll not abandon her.”

  The woman’s mouth set to trembling as tears swam in her eyes. She turned abruptly on her heel as if embarrassed to have revealed so much about herself and followed the musician and caretaker to the garden’s gate. Her shoulders were square, her spine pike-straight. Kit watched her until he could see her no longer.

  What sort of world was it that offered his Anne naught but abuse, yet left him incapable of saving her? What sort of coward stood idly by while the woman he loved entered into marriage with a monster? This was worse than watching Nick fall into the fire, for Kit knew his brother had survived, however badly marked. Anne wouldn’t fare as well.

  He closed his eyes, feeling the impotence of his dream close around him anew. Once again, someone he cherished was going to be destroyed. Once again, there was nothing he could do to stop it, for not even his death would save her.

  Duke Humphrey’s tower was a building like none Anne had seen. But then again all she’d seen of the world was Owls House and its nearby village, her grandsire’s London house, a glimpse of Whitehall and Westminster, and now Greenwich. She eyed the place. Massive, squat and square, the tower rose high above its thick enclosing walls, tall arched windows piercing its stony sides. Glass glinted in its westward face. Above the crenellations that edged the tower’s top like giant teeth perched a steep, conical roof, lead tiles the color of pewter.

  Glancing to the side, thinking to ask Bertie about this place and its history, she caught back the question. Kit’s servant had the look of a man going to his execution. His brow was clouded, his gaze aimed at the hillside a few feet ahead of them. Anne fought back a laugh at the thought that Patience should beam so over marriage while her husband-to-be walked beneath a cloud.

  Kit stepped into the center of the tower’s arched entryway. Anne set aside all worry over her future to drink in the sight of him. Against the evening’s warmth and their upcoming activity he’d shed his doublet, cap and gloves, leaving him dressed in naught but his full sleeved white shirt and a pair of brown breeches. Dark stockings displayed his well-made legs while the evening’s breeze made free with his hair, tossing the golden-brown strands. Dark circles hung beneath his green eyes, and his face was drawn and tight.

  “Is your master ill?” she asked Bertie.

  “What?” The startled servant glanced up at his employer, then to the woman he escorted. “Nay, he’s well enough, only tired. That nightmare of his kept him from his rest last night.”

  “Nightmare?” Anne asked, hoping for Bertie’s explanation. She was too late. He was once again lost in his own thoughts.

  That left her no choice but to smile at her tutor as they strode into the entryway. “Good even, Master Christopher.”

  He returned her smile with his own, and Anne sighed. How she loved that slow turn of his lips. Right now, the pleasure meeting with her made his eyes glow.

  “Where is she?” Bertie asked in what was nearly a demand, his voice echoing oddly in this short, stone tunnel. He fell silent as if startled by the effect, and began anew. “Where are we to be tonight, master?”

  “In the garden through yon gate,” Kit replied, pointing the direction for his servant.

  Bertie moved off like a sleepwalker. Anne waited for Kit to offer his arm for them to follow after, but he didn’t. Subtle pleasure flowed through her. Kit intended a moment alone for them. Once again, the breeze lifted and his hair shifted with its breath.

  “You’re looking very windblown this even, master tutor,” she told him as she reached up to straighten his hair. “There.”

  Golden sparks came to life in Kit’s eyes. “My thanks, mistress.”

  When he didn’t extend his arm, but simply stood where he was watching her, Anne dared to breach the wall that stood between them. Hoping to tease him into further intimacy, she said, “Bertie tells me you suffer with a dream.”

  Kit’s brow furrowed. “He spoke to you of my dream?” he snapped.

  Disappointment ate at Anne. May God damn her, in hoping for more between them all she managed to do was ruin their last evening together. “My pardon, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  In the next instant his anger dissolved, leaving only regret in its place. “Pardon, mistress. It’s not you I meant to chide.” Kit turned his gaze toward the tower’s courtyard and watched Bertie disappear into the lush foliage of what was surely the garden. “It seems my servant speaks of me to every woman he knows.”

  A discussion over the behavior of their servants wasn’t what Anne wanted from him this night. Nay, what she wanted was to feel all of him against her when she knew full well it was impossible. She sighed. Better that she died at Deyville’s hands for her lack of purity than to suffer Kit’s scorn over it.

  Reaching out, Kit caught her hand. His fingers entwined with hers, his palm hard, his touch gentle. Anne shivered when he moved his thumb atop hers in a subtle caress. Startled, she once again met his gaze. Pleasure had returned to his eyes.

  “Come dance with me, Nan,” he invited, his voice low as he claimed the use of her pet name.

  As he waited for her response, his face softened until Anne was certain love for her glowed in his gaze. Her heart broke. Why couldn’t this moment have happened a month ago?

  Despite all that was loomed before her, exhilaration followed, driving away thoughts of what lay before her. Right or wrong, she wanted to follow up on the promise in his eyes.

  “I will, Kit,” she whispered, speaking for the first time the name she’d used for him in her mind these past months. He smiled, as if it pleased him to hear her name him so, then led her into the garden.

  Even the most forlorn of folk, of whom Anne felt sure she was one, would have been seduced by this evening. Clouds filled the yet blue sky like a herd of newly washed sheep. Blessedly free of stench, a warm breeze tossed the branches of the tall trees lining the garden’s four walls then played in the thick and tangled roses and hawthorn growing beneath them. A neat square
of grass sat at the garden’s center, this level bit of lawn lined by spicy smelling stock and pinks, a fragrant dance floor, indeed.

  They practiced a Galliard this night, the fast-paced dance requiring much footwork and a good amount of leaping on the man’s part, or so Kit claimed. Anne stumbled her way through the steps long after she knew them by heart. This she did, because each time she pretended to fall Kit caught her close. For that brief instant she’d lean her head into his shoulder and imagine he was hers, and she, his. Then, before her ploy became obvious to those who watched, she’d push away with a laugh at her clumsy footwork.

  As one hour became two the bouncing had loosened Anne’s braid. Her coif slipped back to dangle by its strings between her shoulder blades. Her collar, however, stayed primly tied. With no corset and a bodice cut so low, the opening of her shirt would reveal far more than she was willing to display.

  Colors marked the passage of her last hour in Kit’s presence as the sunset stained the tower’s western face. The gray stones glowed golden-orange, then melted into poignant lavender as twilight’s deep blue velvet curtain seeped up its eastern wall. When bats began to flutter from the tower’s cap, panic set it. Once darkness came their time together would be forever finished when there was yet so much she needed from him.

  “Master Hollier,” the musician called out, flexing his fingers as he paused, “‘twill soon be too dark to walk home.”

  Anne willed Kit to command him to play on. Instead the man she loved stopped and released her hand, then glanced in surprise about the garden. “I had no idea it was so late. I’ll get your pay anon.”

  As Kit went to fetch his purse Anne glanced to where Patience and Bertie had been seated in study. They were afoot and waiting to depart. Regret filled her, the emotion so deep she swore she’d die from it. She was losing Kit when nothing more than a lifetime in his presence would suffice.