Hal was silent a long while. At last he wrapped his arm about Cecily’s shoulders, drawing her to his side. She nuzzled in the crook of his shoulder, taking in his familiar, musky scent of leather and horses and strength.
“Then it is God’s will that we have another child,” Hal said. “Because He knows you are strong enough to bear it. He allowed it to remain because He knows your conscience would not be able to bear the weight of that sin. He spared you. He spared me,” he added in quiet tones.
Cecily pulled away. “You aren’t angry with me, Hal?”
Hal lowered his eyes. “I am hurt that you would grow so desperate as to think you would not have help and support, that you would take such a heady decision upon yourself. I am hurt that you give yourself so little credit after all we have endured in this life.” He bowed his head, gazing once more at the sandglass. “You are strong enough to bear God’s will, for good or for bad. You have proved it before; you will prove it again. And all the while, I will be at your side.” He raised his head, facing her once more, determination replacing the momentary pain lighting his eyes. “Only come back to me. Come out of yourself. Join me as my wife once more.”
Cecily cupped his face between her hands. “I haven’t left you, Hal,” she whispered. “I’ll never leave you.” She leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a gentle kiss. “Mark this day on the sandglass. Mark it as the day I decided to rejoin the living.”
“Done, my lady,” Hal assured, a smile in his tone. “Done.”
Cecily’s pregnancy advanced as normal as her others had been. She experienced very little discomfort. The baby quickened, filling Cecily’s heart with relief at each kick. When she announced her condition to the rest of the family, Father Alec’s face emanated a mingling of relief and a flash of something else. Pain? Cecily cared not to analyse. She focused on the children’s reactions. Harry seemed indifferent. He was looking forward to joining the Earl of Surrey’s household, where he would receive his formal education alongside the Howard children, and his mind was occupied with the prospect of a new adventure. Kristina’s eyes lit with excitement at the news. Cecily knew this would give her a chance to play the little mother. She had doted on baby Charles during the brief span of his life and this baby would serve to fill the void he had left in Kristina’s heart.
As happy as Kristina was, her joy seemed muted in comparison to that of Mirabella, who was more demonstrative than she had ever been in her life, fussing over Cecily to no end. Cecily could not help but wonder at the girl’s motivation. She had seemed to distance herself as much from Cecily as Cecily had from everyone else these past months.
“After your loss, I am just glad to see you pressing on,” Mirabella told her as they sat in the gardens, taking in the crisp air. Summer was ending. Autumn advanced in a subtle flirtation with nature, dusting the foliage with a rich golden hue. “And very glad to see you and Father doing well.”
Cecily smiled. “And you, Mirabella? What of James? We have not seen much of him of late. I had hoped you would reconcile.”
Mirabella was silent. The moment was thick with awkwardness.
“I told you. It was not meant to be,” she said at length.
Cecily bit her lip, unsure as to how to proceed. “You seemed so close and so alike.”
“Not alike enough,” Mirabella said, but she averted her eyes. Cecily wondered whom Mirabella was lying to more, Cecily or herself. “I do not wish to speak of it again, Cecily. Now is a time to focus on your happiness, not my disappointments. Please.”
Cecily sighed. “I just do not want you to have any regrets,” she said.
“My regrets are my own.” Mirabella’s tone was hard, inaccessible once more. Perhaps always.
As unattainable as Cecily could be at times, Mirabella was that much more so.
Cecily wondered if anyone would ever be allowed a glimpse into her soul.
Mirabella could not say that Cecily’s condition did not fill her with immense relief. This meant that relations were good between Cecily and her husband. This meant that Mirabella had misinterpreted the strained glances exchanged between Cecily and Father Alec. All was well. All would stay well. The Pierce family was strong, loyal. Impenetrable from the forces of lust and sin.
Leaving Mirabella safe to nurture her own dreams.
She still spent much of her time in Father Alec’s company. She sat in on many of his tutoring sessions with the children, trying to instill in Harry, the more malleable of the two, a strong foundation in the True Faith. She attended calls with Father Alec to sick tenants, offering whatever assistance she could, feeling that, in a way, she was still fulfilling part of her holy calling.
And she relished his friendship. Their spirited debates, their companionable silences, the work they did together, filled her with purpose, with meaning. She tried to reconcile herself to her decision regarding James. She tried to put him out of her head. Nonetheless, he crept in unbidden, his innocent face laced with disappointment and betrayal and knowing, always knowing, that her intentions with Father Alec were less than holy.
She cursed him for it.
More than that, she cursed herself.
Cecily went into labour during a blizzard one February morning in 1546. The pains seemed close together and intense, despite the fact that her water had not yet broken. She retched violently, clutching her belly and whimpering feebly.
Mirabella attended her, her cheeks flushed with anxiety. This was her first birthing; she hoped it would be her last. She had no stomach for it. She swabbed Cecily’s forehead with a cool cloth and tried to soothe her with nonsensical banter, then fell into a restless silence, not knowing how to comfort the girl.
What was worst was that the midwife could not be fetched. The weather prevented it; the snow was thigh deep and mounting. Fortunately, some of the older female servants had some knowledge of childbearing, so Mirabella did not feel completely inadequate and alone.
The hours stretched on. Twilight, then night, at last yielding to an indigo dawn. Mirabella’s heart pounded. At last Hal entered the sanctuary.
“This birth echoes too much of Harry’s for me to keep away,” he told Mirabella in soft tones. “Something is wrong. It is taking too long; she is struggling too much. …” He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Something must be done to ease her pain, to help this along.”
“The woman …” Cecily murmured in a raspy whisper.
“What?” Mirabella asked, making for the bedside once more. She took Cecily’s hand in her own. “What, dearest?”
Cecily tried to open her eyes, revealing slivers of teal against her ivory skin. “The woman of Sumerton Forest … the wisewoman … Alice’s druid …”
Mirabella’s heart lurched with peculiar dread. “Druid? A witch? Cecily, you can’t mean—”
“Find her, Mirabella,” Hal ordered. “If Lady Alice trusts her, she’s good enough for me. She may be our only hope.”
“But Father—”
“Find her!”
Mirabella started at the harshness, so rare in Hal’s tone. She nodded her acquiescence and quit Cecily’s chamber to seek out a woman she knew nothing of, praying all the while she would not be the harbinger of evil at Sumerton.
Mirabella wrapped herself in furs and found the only conveyance she could think of to make traversing the snow easier, a pair of snowshoes Harry had fashioned for play. With them she trudged through the forest, not knowing where she was going or what she was really looking for. As she walked, bitter wind biting her cheeks, she was reminded of the day she took Cecily through the forest to the convent for the first time, so many years ago. How naïve they were then, how delightfully ignorant to what fate had in store.
Now everything had changed, every plan, every person. Her dearest brother Brey was gone along with her convent, her true mother, her innocence. … How she longed for that day in the forest, to reclaim the feeling of hope and a heart filled with dreams. Instead she was engulfed in a shroud of uncertainty.
Through a veil of snow a dark form came into view. Mirabella squinted, sniffling, shielding her eyes against the bright whiteness of the storm. A rough-hewn dwelling with a thatch roof stood before her. Mirabella had no idea who resided there; there was no guarantee this was the wisewoman Alice Camden consulted. Mirabella twisted her lips in frustration as she trudged forward, knocking on the door. It fell open. She bit her lip, peeking in.
A woman stood before a cook pot that hung over a fire, her back turned to her.
Mirabella cleared her throat. “I am looking for a friend of the Lady Alice Camden.”
The woman turned.
Mirabella’s heart stopped. Her chest constricted. Light danced before her eyes. She willed strength into her quivering legs. It couldn’t be … it couldn’t be. …
“My God, what have you done?” she breathed to the apparition before her.
The woman squared her shoulders and tucked a white tendril that had escaped her kerchief behind her ear. She met Mirabella’s gaze with hard blue eyes.
Mirabella shook her head. She did not know whether to leap forward and strangle the woman or turn and run, putting as much distance between her and Lady Grace Pierce as possible.
“I know you cannot understand, Mirabella,” Grace started slowly. “But I could not stay. That life would have killed me. I could no longer pretend to be something I am not. In order to preserve my own self, sacrifices had to be made.”
“So, instead of leaving, of divorcing Father, you fabricated your own death?” Mirabella returned in cold tones. “You are a monster,” she spat. “You were always selfish, wallowing in spirits and self-pity. But I never would have fathomed you to be capable of this. And all this time … all this time you have been barely a stone’s throw from Father and Cecily, who are married, incidentally! Of course, it is invalidated now, thanks to you, their children—their two children—bastards.” Mirabella could barely focus through her anger. She could not stop shaking her head.
“I had already shamed your father enough; I could not divorce him. I knew that he would make a good match and in Cecily he did,” Grace said. “I have followed your lives; I know everything.” Her gaze was pointed. “Everything.”
Mirabella clicked her tongue, expelling an exasperated sigh. “I will not even explore that; I couldn’t care less about what you think you know. Clearly your vast expanse of knowledge excludes the most basic concepts—taking others into consideration, being selfless for sake of the greater good. … You are out for yourself, just as you have always been. You have not changed at all.”
“Perhaps not,” Grace agreed. “Which is another reason I choose a life of simple anonymity.”
Mirabella furrowed her brow. “I have neither the time nor the inclination to pursue this conversation. I only want to know if you are the ‘wisewoman’—Lord knows there is no use disputing that blatant misnomer—that Lady Camden associates with.”
Grace pursed her lips, nodding. “… Why? Need to rid yourself of an unwanted little burden?”
Mirabella’s smile was scathing. “This life suits you, indeed. Who more appropriate than you to dabble in the dark arts?” she spat. “No, it’s not my burden. It is Cecily—the true Lady Sumerton. She has laboured too long and we cannot fetch the midwife in this storm, so you are—and I say this with the utmost sincerity—our last resort.”
“I cannot very well go there,” Grace said. “Though I do not doubt that out of spite you will reveal my presence—”
“And ruin the lives of those I love most?” Mirabella returned. “Despite whatever ill will between us, I am not half so callous as that.”
Grace bowed her head, blinking several times. Mirabella did not care if she was struggling with her emotions. Whatever weighed on her conscience was the least she deserved.
“Has her water broken?”
“No,” Mirabella said.
“Check her; see if the cervix is dilated,” Grace said, her tone soft as she gathered several different jars and vials from a shelf. She took what appeared to be a knitting needle, thrusting it into the flames. “Then use this to break her water,” she said. “It will not yield easily; it takes some force. I do not doubt your capabilities in that,” she added in ironic tones. “Then rub some of this ointment on her belly and woman parts to ease things along. Shake the bed a bit, too; it may loosen things up. Or have her inhale pepper.” She shrugged. “I’ve never been a believer in such things, but at this point it couldn’t hurt.” She handed Mirabella the needle and the ointment. “And pray to Saint Margaret; she is the patron saint of women in childbirth, as well you know. Perhaps she will be merciful.”
Mirabella tucked the objects in the pockets of her gown. At the door she paused. “You know, it was far easier believing you dead,” she said, her tone wistful. “I could make sense of your weaknesses then; I could forgive them, almost excuse them. We idealise the dead, you know. How I wish you would have stayed in that realm of memory, in that ideal. You cannot know how far you have fallen.”
Grace said nothing.
With one last shake of the head, Mirabella turned on her heel and left.
There was no time to analyse or reflect upon the newest revelation. Mirabella returned to find that Cecily’s water had still not broken and set to work. The girl was unconscious now, her head lolling from side to side, her breathing jagged and short. Mirabella’s heart pounded as she set to following Grace’s instructions. Upon her crude examination, she found Cecily to be dilated enough to insert the needle, using the necessary force to break through the amniotic sac, allowing the warm liquid to flow forth in a rush. After which, Mirabella applied the ointment, cringing a bit as she applied it to Cecily’s intimate parts.
Cecily’s breathing seemed to regulate. At once it was as though her body began to push for her and she bore down, clenching the bedclothes in white-knuckled fists, her eyes flashing open, a small moan escaping her parched lips.
“That’s it, Cecily!” Mirabella cried, wiping beads of perspiration from her own brow. “I can see the head! Push! Push hard!”
Cecily clenched her eyes shut and grimaced, propping herself up on her elbows into almost a sitting position.
“Come on, Cec!” Mirabella urged.
Cecily tossed her head back and held her breath. Mirabella ushered the child forth, cupping the head, slick with birthing fluids, in her hands. Her face tingled in anticipation as a weak mew pealed forth. One shoulder came, then the other as the rest slid into her arms. Cecily collapsed back onto the bed, breathless.
Mirabella’s own breath caught in her throat.
“Oh, no …” she whispered as she beheld the baby girl. The child’s left leg was a great deal shorter than the other, twisted grossly beneath the knee, the foot clubbed almost beyond recognition.
“What is it? Is it healthy?” Cecily asked, her legs trembling as a servant cleaned her. “Mirabella! Tell me!”
Mirabella cleaned the child, holding her close. Despite the deformity, she did not think it possible to love another creature more than the broken little thing she held to her heart. She brought the child to her mother, her vision obscured by tears.
“It is a girl,” she told her. “But there is a problem. Her leg … is misshapen.”
Cecily took the girl in her arms, examining her. Her shoulders began to quake with sobs. “Oh, God, no … it is my fault! I have condemned her to this … oh, God. …” She thrust her back into Mirabella’s arms and averted her head.
“But she’s still beautiful,” Mirabella said as she wrapped her in a warm blanket. “She’s still a gift from God. If she is so challenged, it is only to serve as an example of grace under hardship, of long-suffering, that she might teach others.”
“No,” Cecily said. “This is my punishment, my retribution for sins you know nothing of. You can’t know. …” She choked on the words. “Now she will struggle the rest of her life because of me.”
“Stop it,” Mirabella admonished in sharp tones. “Now yo
u sound like Lady Grace … did. It isn’t about you. It is about this little one; it is her cross to bear, not yours. It is the will of God, not your sin, that brought this forth, whatever you have or have not done. I will hear not another word of such foolishness. You have a beautiful daughter; you must name her.”
Cecily gazed at the baby, her eyes misty with tears. “I will call her Emily,” she said. “Emily Mirabella Pierce,” she added. “For without you, she would not be here.”
Mirabella beamed with pride at both the honour of the namesake and the fact that it was true; Emily would not be here had she not delivered her. She clutched the child to her breast, nuzzling against the downy brown hair. “Emily,” she whispered. “My sweet Emmy.”
She could not be more proud if she had borne her herself.
18
Hal did not want to resent Cecily for Emmy’s deformity, yet somewhere in his soul he knew that he did. He was convinced that had she not ingested the pennyroyal, the child would have been born perfect. He did not want to be angry with his wife, the woman who had given him four children; the love and the years that they had shared meant too much to him. Yet he could not look at her the same.
On the sandglass he marked Emmy’s birth, knowing that to himself he was making note of his own unwanted bitterness. He did not show it. He was solicitous to Cecily and the baby, making pains to tell Cecily that it was not her fault, that, like Mirabella said, it was a part of God’s unfathomable plan. But it was forced. He knew it; she knew it. And something was lost between them.
They attended the mundane tasks of daily life. Harry was sent off to the Earl of Surrey’s household, where he would learn the ways of a knight and courtier, leaving Mirabella and Kristina to dote on their baby sister. It seemed as though Mirabella had developed a special bond with the child she had helped bring into this world and displayed as much devotion as any mother. Mirabella, despite her protests that she did not want a family of her own, had proved to be a nurturer; she had been close to Harry, and the birth of Emmy saw her skills as a caregiver put to use once more. Hal was proud of her.
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