The Braeswood Tapestry

by Robyn Carr

  “Thank you, Sire,” Trent said appreciatively. “I take that as a very rich compliment.”

  When Trent left his king to go seek out other diversions, George asked, “Did you tell him?”

  “I did. He took it rather well.”

  “No doubt,” George laughed. “Haven’t known a man yet to blush and deny a title.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Wescott has worn that title since the day his father was executed by Roundheads. But he’s hotheaded and has never held the responsibility of an estate. I only wanted to give myself a chance to observe that he had matured and was prepared for a position of such importance. I stand corrected; he was more prepared than I.”

  George fell silent and looked closely at his king. “You sound as though you are not suspicious of him,” George observed.

  “Then I’ll remind you, lest you of all people forget: I am suspicious of everyone.”

  “I stand warned,” George chuckled.

  “Good. That is where I like to see you stand.”

  There is a certain staging to be done among those aristocratic personages that is more intricate and complicated than a Shakespeare play. The nobles with money and those in need of money sniff out each other like stags scratching through the snow for grass in the worst of winter. Pacts to join forces in business ventures rise out of the smoke-filled lodges and pubs. Sons and daughters are bartered and married or properties bought and sold. Marriage emerges as one of the most likely sources of revenue.

  A noble dame lets it get around that she or her daughter has a sizable piece of land or considerable dower jewels. A man in want of greater fortunes looks closely at the ladies in hopes of finding one whose disposition and looks he can abide and whose purse he can put to good use.

  Whether he meant it as a sensible gesture or practical joke would never be clear, but King Charles made mention on only two occasions that Lord Wescott of Braeswood seemed to be the most popular object of women’s attention at his newly reunited court. The ticklish side of the joke was that until the statement had been made, Trent was not approached by a single woman of means. His tastes seemed to lean more toward tavern girls and actresses.

  Swiftly following the king’s loose gossip, invitations to dinners, the theater, cockfights, and other events began to litter the new baron’s desk. He was at odds with his newfound popularity until he chanced to speak with his sovereign, and the ever mirthful Charles simply responded, “I thought we agreed you would establish a better reputation here and begin to replenish fortunes and heirs for the Wescotts … and me?”

  Trent could easily take that as an order, for he knew full well the king’s intent for him. Charles had only a few good men in a full kingdom who held any measure of his trust. Those men he would like to become rich, powerful, and prolific.

  Lady Marianne Emory, a rich and widowed baroness from the north country, accompanied Trent through two dinners and an afternoon at the Exchange. He bristled under her nasal tones and pointed chin and could not imagine locking his fingers into her frayed and thin gray-gold hair.

  Sir Troy laughed heartily at the combination. “She is rich and well fixed, and if her ribs don’t break under you, she may let you get a child on her. I thought her bony legs too weak for either pleasure or work, but her fat purse will cushion your fall.”

  “God’s blood, is there a bed in England you haven’t visited?” Trent asked.

  “One or two,” his friend replied. “If you’ve developed a taste for virgins, I can gather a list of them. I would guess they are few, now the dancing has resumed.”

  The snide jokes about the new morality roved London from taverns to royal bedchambers. Cromwell’s puritanical rule had been hard and sure. Women were stoned for giving birth out of wedlock and adultery was the greatest sin. There was a disapproval of frivolity in the city during his time; all pleasure pursuits were discouraged, and there was a serious lack of gaming, dancing, theater, and wenching.

  As the king returned, so returned hedonistic behavior. Some old-timers were shocked by the moral decay, while the youth of the court were intrigued and somewhat overindulgent. Men who wished to marry virtuous maids were finding them few. Women who wanted sober, serious men who would be faithful had the same problem.

  Sylvia Douvier, the daughter of an earl, hung on Trent’s arm for a brace of days before becoming discouraged by his sour mood and lack of attention. She was barely seventeen, plentiful of figure, and relentless of chatter. She talked, giggled, babbled, and gossiped until Trent thought he would lose his mind.

  “That one,” Troy said, “is both virtuous and rich. The riches I cannot explain. Her lack of lovers I understand.”

  Lady Stratton was a tall, voluptuous beauty with a decent estate in the south. Her thick auburn hair and large brown eyes were seductive, and she charmed the very breeches off every man who looked her way. She may have been slightly misled about Trent’s fortunes, for her tastes usually turned to much richer men. Or, it might have been that she was not finding all she needed in a hefty purse and was in want of good sport in addition to wealth and title. However she came to notice him mattered little, for this time he gained at least a passing entertainment from her presence.

  “Lord Stratton was killed in a duel over the lady’s indiscretion,” Troy explained. “It seems to me that the lucky devil to capture that one will be dueling on each full moon.”

  “She has no conscience,” Trent confirmed. “Nor morals, decency, or even good taste. But the one thing she has,” he sighed, “could trap a weaker man.”

  After a few weeks of playing the hunted bachelor to the widows and daughters of the noble rich, Trent began to think that the role of suitor was more exhausting than any profession. He was bored and disgusted most of the time. Nonetheless, he spent his time with his peers and developed a rapport with both returned aristocrats and those who had remained in England during Cromwell’s rule. He even found a few men with whom he shared an opinion or two that might lead to a nodding friendship. He thought the time fast approached when he could refrain from building his credibility and establishing a better reputation and return to Braeswood.

  It was at a dinner given in celebration of a christening that Trent encountered his neighbors. Over fifty people were pressed into the drawing room and sitting rooms of a fashionable London townhouse, all of them bringing silver and pewter gifts to the newborn, some easily able to afford this generosity and others giving in hope of receiving some favor in return. The family was not tremendously rich, but the king and his company made an appearance at the dinner and for that reason more than thirty others forced their way in. Trent had gone by invitation, but he suspected Julian Kerr and his formidable niece had followed a crowd in.

  Julian frowned in displeasure when he spied Wescott across the room and then begrudgingly made his way over. “Ahem, my lord, I am informed that your status has been elevated. I offer my congratulations to you.”

  “Thank you,” Trent obliged, giving the older gentleman a half-bow.

  “I was a little surprised,” he began. And then somewhat flustered by his quick tongue, tried to start again. “Ah, that is, I had thought … damn, I’m into it now. My apologies, my lord, but I had reckoned the title would follow later.”

  “Worry not, Lord Kerr. I am still obligated to you for a modest sum of money and you will receive it.”

  “That wasn’t my motive, I assure you. You deserve the damn title as much as I do. It was simply a surprise.”

  Trent raised an amused brow and smiled down on the discomfited baron. “As much as you do?” he asked.

  Julian stiffened at the insult. “How long do you suppose we shall be at odds, my lord? We share a common country and have been instructed to make peace where war once bled us both dry. Must we be bound forever in this hateful—”

  “Both of us? Where were your losses, my lord?” Trent asked somewhat hotly, keeping his voice low and maintaining a posture that implied he was well aware of the number of people w
ho might be inclined to eavesdrop if they thought an argument between lords was near enough to hear. “I will maintain a peaceful boundary, but I will not coddle your privy lordship. You may continue to consider me your cautious enemy, stayed and quieted by order of the king.”

  “I say, forget the duty you’ve been told to pay. Consider it a gesture of homecoming and goodwill. I’m an old man, Wescott. I have regrets large as oceans from the past and can’t live in this strife any longer.”

  “I insist on the payments. I accept no goodwill from you.”

  “There must be some measure of treaty we can discuss,” Kerr attempted.

  Trent smiled sardonically. He loved seeing the man squirm and had no pity for him based on age, infirmity, or conscience. “I allow you have much to regret, my lord, but you will find me as willing toward friendship as you were to my father and brothers many years ago.” He let a chuckle escape him. “If you can bring yourself to trust me as much as they trusted you—”

  “Look here, I’d very much like to talk about that. It was never as simple as cowardice, my lord. There are things that—”

  “I warn you, Julian, I am still too angry to have the subject discussed. And as far as I’m concerned, you are incapable of absolving yourself of guilt.”

  “My lord, in every man’s life there have been moments of weakness and indecision. I would have you know the facts as they—”

  “Why, Uncle, what a remarkable coincidence.” Julian stopped short as Adrienne approached them, her eyes aglow with happiness and a smile bright and eager upon her lips. “I was just about to approach Lord Wescott myself and beg a moment. I see that you sensed my wishes again.”

  “Damn bones, child,” Julian blustered. “Can’t you see we’re in a private conversation here? Get away with you and bother some other poor soul.”

  “Uncle Julian,” she gasped, feigning offense. “Forgive my uncle, my lord. He has been sick of the ague for several days and I believe his disposition is the worse for it.” Then she extended her hand toward Trent and beamed. “It is indeed a pleasure to see you again.”

  Trent couldn’t suppress his smile. He was amused at every conflicting emotion he saw before him. Julian was more disarmed by this seductive sprite he housed than by whole armies of men. And to her credit, it was impossible to believe she was but a child. He couldn’t say when he’d seen a maid of her tender years so promising of passion and so endowed with beauty. The gown she wore was not a modest, virginal pink, but a deep blue velvet with a plunging neckline meant to draw attention to her bosom. Her hair, likewise, was arranged in a woman’s fashion, piled atop her head and adorned with silver braid. She was jeweled and glittering to provide further bait, and not the least bit ill at ease.

  “My lady,” Trent said, bowing over her gloved hand and placing a kiss on its back. “I vow I can hardly believe it is you. I think you grow more beautiful every day.”

  “I’m honored that you would even notice. Of course, I’ve seen you about on many occasions. The women barely leave your side long enough for a plain maid such as I to have a word.”

  “Very well, Adrienne,” Julian coughed. “You’ve had your word, now go along.”

  Trent was fairly certain that Adrienne knew little about the origin of their feud. And of course, she had not even been born when the actual deed had been done. He saw in her a chance to cause Julian to writhe in misery, for he knew the lord valued this niece as bridal stock. He sought to play with the old man’s mind and add to his distress.

  “Don’t make her leave, Julian. I’ve grown so bored with all these women and she is so … fresh.”

  “See here, Wescott, don’t take any ideas about the girl. She lives in my house, but she’s poor as a church rat.”

  “Uncle Julian!” She stomped her foot.

  “But she’s very beautiful, and many men with secure purses have an eye for beauty,” Trent argued. “Has your uncle seen to your welfare, madam? Have you been introduced to a goodly number of suitors?”

  “Oh, many. But none of them appeals to me.”

  “Then I must take the matter under advisement. Come, Adrienne, and meet some of my friends.”

  He pulled her away from her uncle and began to make the rounds in the small room. She curtsied before this knight and that baron, bowed to the ladies whose eyes narrowed at her flamboyant neckline. Occasionally Trent peered over his shoulder to see how Julian fared the introductions and saw him nervously fidgeting as Trent playfully pulled Adrienne around the room, her arm looped familiarly through his.

  He finally paused beside a group of young courtiers and singled out Tronnier. “Sir Troy,” he beckoned.

  The younger man’s eyes lit with delight as he leisurely encountered the lovely maid with Trent. He withdrew himself from his fellows, not wishing to share this introduction with anyone at all. Troy, despite all his talents, was quite vulnerable to a pretty smile and flirtatious eyes.

  “I should like you to make the acquaintance of Adrienne Bougart, daughter of the departed Sir Adrian Bougart, niece to Lord Julian Kerr.”

  Troy postured over her hand with the flowery oaths to her beauty for which he was well known. His tongue was smooth and his mannerisms yet more skilled. Within moments Adrienne was filled with delight and was anxiously looking between the two of them to decide which might be the most handsome or the richest.

  But Trent’s motive was quite different. He was not going to remain in her company to be considered for a suitor. His plan reached only to the extent of causing Lord Kerr as much anguish as possible. He bowed. “It’s been a unique pleasure, my lady, but my presence is expected elsewhere.”

  “You’re not leaving, my lord? But we only just—”

  “I wouldn’t be the cad to leave you unattended, damsel. Sir Troy will take great pleasure in escorting you. See to her every comfort, will you, sir? It pains me that I cannot.”

  Troy let his eyes dip to her swelling breasts and then lit again on her lovely face. “I assure you, my lord, she will not be out of my sight. And she will most certainly be comfortable. More than that, she will be pampered as a princess.”

  Adrienne seemed to think the arrangement a fair one. She was not one to blithely ignore compliments, nor was she less than completely enchanted by her new escort. She smiled as prettily as she could and accepted his arm.

  As the new couple pulled away to find some quieter place to chat, Trent looked hopefully around the room to find Julian. The man was seated on a stool across the room, looking as though the wind had been knocked out of him. It was clear from the panicked look in his eyes that he had watched his virginal niece, from whom he hoped to amass a new fortune, as she had been passed along to the most notorious molester of young women to join the court. He sat paralyzed and red-faced, mostly, Trent surmised, because he had dangerously little control over Adrienne’s whims.

  Trent smiled victoriously and gave the gentleman a brief salute. Then he quickly left the gathering so that Troy could do his worst.

  Chapter Ten

  August passed and left the land and September burst upon them in the fullest autumn splendor. Jocelyn had been less than a fortnight in her noble house when Sir Trent left for business in London. The house and surrounding land was under heavy, roving guard to protect them well in his absence, many of the men a surly lot who had not been seen prior to the master’s departure. But oddly, in a little more than a month of his absence, there was no trouble uncovered on either the estates or in the tiny hamlets that surrounded them.

  The harvest celebrations came and went without Jocelyn’s participation, for the first time in her life. In Bowens Ash it was the time of year that frivolous holiday was enjoyed by even the poorest of families and she had joined in. But as an occupant of Braeswood, she declined any participation in both the festivals of the nearby towns and the feast in the hall. She simply could not boldly enter the festivities when her single reason for residing there was to play the part of Sir Trent’s mistress.

 
Glynnis pleaded with heartening grace. “It is not as though you do nothing here, dear sweet. Now he is away, you clean and cook with the rest of us.”

  It was true enough that she partook in chores but only as a means to keep busy and learn. Manor life was awesomely different from what she had known. And much of the time, she felt years would pass before she could possibly understand all of the responsibilities. Added to that, she knew she did not have years to spend.

  Avery let her decision to retire from any celebrating go unchallenged, saying only, “I don’t think his lordship intended you should keep to seclusion.” And Enid’s argument was brusque but endearing. “Whichever of us has never acted out of propriety has a right to ask you to hide your face from view. ’Tis not I, maid Jocelyn. ’Tis not I.”

  Nevertheless, the celebrations and fairs came and passed and Jocelyn did her best to stay occupied and fight loneliness. Trent delivered two messages to Avery: the first explaining that his length of stay was largely due to the king’s designs on his time, and the second to say that he was late in returning because of a problem in having goods transported to Braeswood. He neither mentioned Jocelyn nor sent her word in the letters. She found her spirits dampened slightly by this neglect, for by the time he left her, she felt rather close to him in many ways.

  The first week of October brought a third message that he was arriving by the tenth day, and she was alerted. Her anxiety rose with each passing day and she alternated between devastating fears that he had overcome his desire for her and excitement about their next meeting.

  A long string of weeks and new familiarity about the house had given her much time to ponder all that had changed in her life. She begrudged her position in his household less and less but worried over the future more and more. She was no longer fearful to be a resident here; the people she knew well had become mostly kind and friendly. But as each week passed with no sign of her menses, she feared being outcast with a child to bear in shame. And with Trent so long away, she had no way of knowing whether he had maintained his interest.