Mirabella ignored the last statements, latching on to what she considered most valid. He would marry. Her heart quickened. He would marry. …
When Father Alec and Mirabella returned to Castle Sumerton, James Reaves was there to collect the horses.
“Mistress Mirabella, may we have speech?” he asked as he took her hand, helping her dismount.
When she was satisfied Father Alec was out of earshot, she faced him. He kept a firm hold on her hand.
“You have never given me an answer,” he noted. “For months now I have been waiting, hoping you would recall that I asked you to marry me. And yet, still I wait, as though my proposal meant nothing to you.”
Mirabella bowed her head, her face flushing. How could she give him an answer when everything had changed today, when Father Alec admitted there was a chance he would marry? How could she give herself to anyone else? Yet Father Alec never said he would marry her. And who could anticipate when or if that reform would ever be pushed through? But if it did go through … It made sense that Father Alec would marry her; they challenged each other, they enjoyed each other’s company, she loved him. The last thought startled her, but she could no longer deny it. She loved him. She would have him, no one else.
“I’m sorry, James,” she said in short tones. “I cannot marry you.” She withdrew her hands, turning away from him.
“Then all these years, all the time we have spent together—”
Mirabella whirled toward him. “Have I ever behaved as anything less than a lady? Have I ever indicated any feelings toward you other than friendship? For love of God, James, if you feel you’ve wasted time on me, then perhaps you have!”
“For love of God,” James repeated in quiet tones. “Yes, I rather thought it was the love of God that drew us together. I see now that I am wrong. The love of God does drive you, that is certain, but not toward me.” He shook his head, pity lighting his eyes. “It’s the priest you want, isn’t it?”
It was instinct. She brought her hand across his cheek in a stinging slap that echoed in the stables. From its stall a horse whinnied its disapproval.
James shook his head, unaffected. “You’ll not get what you want from that man. He’s an honourable one, if he’s anything at all. And you’d have to be a blind fool to see that if he were free to love ’t-wouldn’t be you.” He drew in a quavering breath. “It would be the Lady Cecily.”
Hot tears stung Mirabella’s eyes. She shook her head. “You’re wrong, James. Cecily is devoted to my father—”
“That is not in question, is it?” James returned coolly. “I only said who he would choose if both were free to. But they aren’t, are they? Yet you’ll throw your life away on a chance, a slight chance, when before you stands a man ready to give you a life filled with love, children, a home, whatever is in my power to give. But that’s too easy, isn’t it? That’s too safe. You like the risk, the danger. That’s why you stayed on at Sumerton Abbey, that’s why you went to London, and that’s why you throw yourself shamelessly before a man you can’t have. My apologies for being simple. My apologies for not being forbidden.”
With that, he turned on his heel and quit the stables, his steps brusque with purpose.
Mirabella stood alone, burying her face in her hands and sobbing for herself, for James, and for the fact that he was right.
Father Alec returned to find Hal gone to Lincoln and the children abed. Lady Alice Camden had come calling and was keeping company with Cecily, embroidering in the bower. Father Alec paused outside the door, taking in the scene, his breath caught in his throat. The sun filtering through the bay window created an ethereal glow about Cecily; her hair shone as though it were lit from within. Her skin, bathed in the soft light, radiated with a warm lustre. In a peculiar way, Father Alec found himself likening her to the Virgin Mary.
“There is the woman in the woods, you know,” he heard Alice tell her.
Cecily inclined her head. “The witch?”
Father Alec knew it was impolite to eavesdrop; he should withdraw. But he found himself rooted in place, curious at the nature of this conversation.
“I would not call her a witch,” Alice corrected. “A wisewoman to be sure, perhaps like a pagan druid priestess of old …”
“The law would not discern one from the other if she were caught,” Cecily warned. “Both witches and druid priestesses burn the same.”
The dark statement caused a chill to course up Father Alec’s spine. He edged closer to the door.
Alice expelled a sigh tinged with frustration. “Regardless, Cecily, I’m telling you she may be the answer to your prayers. I have not borne a child since seeing her, thanks be to God. She could do the same for you.”
Cecily’s hands ceased their sewing. She bit her lip. Father Alec noted the beads of perspiration gathering at the base of her throat. “How?”
“Pennyroyal. It’s an herb, administered in very small doses.” Alice’s voice was hushed with the excitement of a conspiracy.
Father Alec had heard of pennyroyal and the damage it could cause. It was an abortifacient. In the worst cases, it could prove lethal to the partaker. His heart raced. No matter the grief of her loss, Cecily could not justify this. A child was a gift from God; she must see that. Basic contraception was one thing, and another difference between Father Alec and the Church of Rome was that he could truly see no harm in regulating the size of one’s family. But this … this was different. This was dangerous.
He could not bear to see Cecily put herself in any kind of jeopardy.
“All right,” Cecily said, the gaze falling upon Alice pointed. “Procure me some, if you will. But I do not want to see her. Not just now.”
Alice nodded. The two commenced their sewing in silence.
Father Alec slipped away, his heart heavy, his mind restless.
“You mean to say that Master James asked for your hand and you said no?” Cecily asked, gazing at Mirabella’s tear-streaked cheeks, incredulous. “Why?”
They were in Mirabella’s apartments. Cecily had all but chased her down when she saw Mirabella flee to them, head buried in her hands.
Mirabella’s green eyes were emerald fires of indignation. “You would not understand,” she said. “You cannot understand how it feels to know one’s first calling is to God. Can you expect me to abandon my inclination just because I am no longer formally tied to monastic life?”
“I appreciate how difficult that would be for you, Mirabella,” Cecily told her, her tone sincere. “But it has been seven years. You have had time to adjust. And James has been so good to you. He is a kind, honourable man who shares your convictions.”
Mirabella offered a frenzied shake of the head. “I cannot!”
“Mirabella, I understand you have fears,” Cecily went on. “But Master James can give you your own home, your own children, your own life. Don’t you want those things? I often feel for you, watching how wonderful you are with your sister and brother. You deserve to be a mother yourself. Don’t you want your own space?”
Mirabella turned away. “I am happy here,” she said.
“Are you?” Cecily challenged. “Or is it just that it is safe here? Here you can live through others without ever really experiencing anything yourself—”
“Do you want me gone?” Mirabella demanded. “Is that it? I can leave. I can go to my mother’s family in York. I can go to court, to Sumerton Place. If that is it, just say the word.”
“You know that is not it,” Cecily told her, appalled and frustrated that she remained so obstinate, so impossible to reach. “But I worry that you are not really living here, that you are treading water, passing time. I want you to be happy, Mirabella. I know that if you gave Master James the chance, he could provide a great deal of what you are missing now.”
“He is not the one!” Mirabella screamed.
Cecily was silent a long moment. She would not entertain her suspicions. Surely Mirabella was more honourable than that.
Ceci
ly shook her head. “Then who is?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.
Mirabella said nothing.
Cecily quit the apartments.
Father Alec knew there was no other course but honesty. He sought Cecily out in the stillroom two days later, where she had been gathering lavender to put in the linens.
“Lady Cecily, I must confess that I heard your conversation with Lady Alice,” he told her.
Cecily arched a brow, pursing her lips. “You had no right to conceal your presence,” she said. Her tone was so cold, so formal. Her distance saddened him.
“Then neither of us are right, me for concealing my presence and you for concealing your child.” He drew in a breath.
Cecily’s face contorted as tears lit her teal eyes; they shone brilliant as a moonlit sea. “You do not understand, you cannot understand, what it is to lose a child, what it does to you. … I will not risk it again. And Hal … he doesn’t deserve any more loss after all he has endured. He cares not if we have other children; Harry is healthy and secured as his heir and Kristina is our hearts’ delight.” She shrugged, returning her gaze to the lavender she arranged and rearranged in its basket. “And I do not want any more children.”
“There are other ways to prevent that,” Father Alec assured her, embarrassed that he should be the one to shed light on such a sensitive subject. “But if you are already with child, you are putting yourself and the child in an incredible amount of danger. Does Lord Hal deserve that tragedy? Do any of us?” he added before he could help it.
Cecily squeezed her eyes shut a long moment, shaking her head. “I am barely gone with child; it is hardly there, hardly there at all! It hasn’t quickened!” She raised her head, her eyes lit with indignation.
Father Alec seized her hands from the lavender, clenching them tight in his. “My lady, I beg you, consider this with care … it may be ‘hardly there’ as you say, but when does God place the soul within the body? At conception? When it kicks? At birth? No one can know these mysteries; ergo, no one can be qualified to speculate, to take that risk. Can you honestly say you would want that on your head?”
Cecily’s knees buckled as she dissolved into tears. Father Alec caught her in his arms, pulling her near, stroking the back of her hair. It was like silk against his skin. He trembled as he withdrew, gripping her at the shoulders.
“It is my body, is it not?” she cried.
Alec shook his head, his heart laden with profound sadness. “That may be, my lady, but the body within you belongs to God, just as you do. Is it not for God to decide its fate, not you?”
Cecily lowered her eyes. “God will deal with me as He sees fit. I will answer to Him for my sins and Him alone.” With this she pulled away, running from the room as though her conscience had taken form and was hunting her down.
Father Alec stood alone, staring at the abandoned basket of lavender, dread pooling in his gut, immobilising him. Now he knew why he loved his time in London; there he was immersed in doctrine, something intangible, without heart, without life. Though the tragedies of the Crown affected him, they were on the periphery. At Sumerton everything was intertwined; the complexities of happiness and pain seemed to be inexorably tied to one person.
Cecily.
Alice delivered the pennyroyal to Cecily in her apartments with her usual nonchalance, infusing it in some mulled wine. Cecily lay abed in her nightclothes, claiming illness. She was unsure as to the effects of the herb and would be grateful for the time alone to recover.
Cecily held the cup in a trembling hand, staring at its contents a long while. Father Alec’s words swirled in her head, persistent as a migraine. She closed her eyes, sighing. She could not say she was unlike Mirabella, that she did take care to fear for her immortal soul. Guilt coursed through her veins. The thought that she was perhaps snuffing out the spark of life before it had a chance to truly ignite frightened her. What kind of person had she become? What would Hal make of her now? Would he see her as a betrayer, a murderess? The thought of her being the cause of any pain lighting his loving blue eyes would break her heart.
“Cecily, you don’t have to do it,” Alice told her in soothing tones as she sat beside her, rubbing her upper arm.
Cecily raised her eyes to her long-time friend. “I know I am selfish, Alice.” Tears strangled her. She choked them back. “But I truly do not know how I can bear another child now.” She chewed her lip. “Perhaps someday … but not now. I feel so tired. Losing little Charles has taken so much from me; it has been difficult to recover my spirit. The thought of going through all of it again—”
“You do not have to explain to me, Cecily,” Alice assured. “We are not afforded many choices in this life. We do what we have to do. There may be no justifying it to the world, but if it preserves our sanity one more day, that is all the conviction I need to carry these things through.”
Cecily cast her eyes upon the vessel once more. It looked so benign. Just a cup of death …
She drew in a breath, expelling it slowly. “Forgive me, Lord, I beg you.”
With this she put the cup to her lips, drinking deep, feeling as though she were taking part in some unholy communion. Upon taking in the last of it, she handed the cup back to Alice. Other than the slight mint aftertaste, she felt nothing. What she was expecting to feel she knew not.
“It isn’t instantaneous, Cecily,” Alice said with a smile. “You must drink of it for five days before anything happens. The pain is no worse than the cramping of your regular courses.”
Cecily sighed. She did not want to elongate her sin. She wanted it over.
There was nothing else to be done. Nothing but to wait.
17
Cecily was in the garden with Kristina when seized by the pains. She doubled over on the bench, clutching her belly. She had felt fine for a week; indeed, she felt fortunate to not have experienced any symptoms. But now was her time to make reparation. Now she would pay for her sin.
“My lady!” Kristina cried, rushing toward her. She sat beside her, stroking her hair. “What is it? What’s wrong? What can I do?”
Cecily met her child’s distressed brown eyes and tried to reassure her with a smile that translated into a grimace as she tried to right herself.
“I am all right, darling,” she told her. “No worries. You must not tell anyone of this; I do not want to raise any alarm.”
Kristina narrowed her eyes. She was too astute for her age. “Why lie about it?”
“It’s not lying, child,” Cecily said in sharper tones than intended. “It’s … it’s just leaving things out—omission.”
Kristina shrugged. “Seems the same to me, my lady,” she observed. She took her hand. “But I won’t say anything, I promise.” She offered a wink. The gesture so belonged to her father that Cecily laughed through her pain.
She had made the right decision. She did not need another child to divert her attention from those already here.
She would tell herself that until she believed it.
Cecily waited for some sign of miscarriage. None came. No spotting, no bleeding. The cramps ceased. Her heart raced. Had it not worked then? Now what?
She sat in the small chapel at Castle Sumerton alone, defeated, and hardly aware of the soft footfalls echoing against the stone floor.
“You got your wish, Father,” she said in tones laced with irony.
“Not Father.” Hal’s voice was soft as he slid into the pew beside her. In his hands he clutched the sandglass he had presented to her years before, the keeper of their hours, of each blessing and each tragedy. He sighed. “I brought this for you to reflect upon,” he told her. “See here?” He ran his fingers along the carvings. “Our wedding date. Harry and Kristina’s birthdays. Mirabella’s return. Charles’s birth and death dates. Father Alec’s return …” He drew in a quavering breath.
“And this?” Cecily asked, noting a date with no known sentimental attachment.
Hal met her eyes with blue orbs soften
ed by tears. “This was the day I felt you slipping away from me.”
A lump swelled in Cecily’s throat. She swallowed. She took Hal’s hand in hers, lacing her fingers through his, squeezing, trying to find the reassurance and security she once derived from his touch. She would not insult his intelligence and insight by denying it.
“It was my hope that Father Alec could lend you some guidance, some comfort,” Hal told her. He shook his head. “But I see now that things are never as we … expect.”
She did not know his implication. This she would not speculate upon. She would not let herself.
Hal reached out, tilting her face toward his, his fingertips soft and subtle as a warm breeze on her skin. In his eyes shone a plea.
“Cecily, you do not confide in me any more,” he said. “I do not think you confide in anyone, not truly.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Alice.” He sighed again, his shoulders slumping. “I do not know how to reach you.”
Cecily’s lips quivered. “Oh, Hal, I’m so afraid.” Cool tears slid down her cheeks unchecked. She leaned her cheek into the palm of his hand, feeling vulnerable as a child. “Since losing Charles I know I have distanced myself, as though numbing myself from any pain. In my fear, in trying to prevent us from future pain, I have fallen into sin.”
Hal furrowed his brows, as though trying to wrap his mind around a weighty issue that was just beyond his comprehension. His voice was soft, non-accusatory. “What sin, my love?”
Cecily bowed her head, her shoulders quaking in silent sobs. “I am with child.” She shook her head violently, then leaned her forehead into her hand. “I am with child and by God, Hal, I don’t want it … not because it’s yours, not because I do not love our children, but because … because … I … can’t … bear … to … lose … it!” Her sobs became audible, gulping gasps of despair. “And because of that I took in pennyroyal to induce a miscarriage … but it didn’t work and now—now …” She trailed off, burying her head in her hands, weeping with abandon.
Betrayal in the Tudor Court Page 25
