Constant Heart (11 page)

And . . . how was I to wait for him? Was I to . . . to sit? I placed myself into a chair. Sat upon my hands. Banged my ankles together.

Bolted to my feet when I thought I heard a sound.

Nay, I would not sit. Perhaps . . . was I to be found abed? It would be warmer.

I crept toward the bed and plucked at the curtains. I decided there would be time aplenty to spend there. No need for haste.

Instead, I started across the room toward the fire. But then what would I do once I got there? Indecision rooted me to the center of the room. I closed my eyes, calmed myself, and repeated words I knew by heart.

To you alone I give Love’s astrolabe
That in your sailing you might find the same
Gale winds that blew my soul to you to save
Might in return give you to me to claim

I had nothing to fear from the man who had written those words. I had nothing to fear. But then, I heard the door scrape open and the time for deciding was done.

She stood in the center of the room, shimmering as the firelight played off the folds of her chemise. She was standing there, shoulders squared, doing nothing at all but waiting. For me.

All the arguments I had wrestled with. All the warnings I had given myself. All the lessons I had learned about women . . . everything but longing fell away. I could almost believe that this girl was nothing like Elinor. Are not all things possible to those who believe?

O God, please, help my unbelief! Help this marriage to be different.

He smiled at me.

I smiled at him.

He took my hand in his.

I placed my other on top of it.

But as our actions unraveled to an unmistakable ending, I did not know if I could read the part I had set before myself.

“You are willing?” He put a warm hand to my shoulder.

“I . . .” Even as I laid my head on his hand, I knew I could not do it.

She fluttered away from me before I knew to stop her. And before I could intercept her, she had gone and hid herself among the shadows.

Curse the girl!

She had sat that morning among the crowds watching me, apprehension turning her turkey stone eyes into sapphires. Concern had colored her cheeks at my losing. Her hands had quivered like little birds. She had half risen from her seat before she realized that she should not move. Not in advance of Her Majesty.

Well-spoken in conversation, her voice had been pleasingly low. She had even blushed charmingly at my profession of interest. And continued to blush for the whole of the forenoon.

And then, she had propositioned me. Plainly. Clearly. Shamelessly.

How else should I have interpreted her words?

And now, she had made a fool of me!

I should . . . nay. I would not take the girl unwilling. I would not. Could not. Some men might, but not me.

Without sparing her another glance, I stalked from the room, throwing the door shut behind me.

“Do not tell me you refused him!”

“Go away. Leave me be.” I tried to tunnel beneath the coverlet, but Joan would not let me. She pursued me.

“You refused him?”

“I did not.”

“Then why did he return to his chambers?”

“I did not refuse him.”

Joan pulled the coverlet from me, exposing me to the fire’s glow. She sat on her knees beside me, peering at me through the flickering light. “If you did not refuse him . . . did he refuse you?”

“He did not.” I pulled the corner of the coverlet from her, wanting nothing so much as to be hidden when the truth was revealed. “If you did not refuse him and he did not refuse you, then . . .”

I knew the moment she had discerned the answer. I heard it in her voice. “You simply ran away?!”

I had simply run away.

“You cannot invite a man into your bed and then refuse him once he has come! You have made a fool of him . . . and he will not soon forget it. God help you, Marget; ’tis plain enough you will not help yourself!”

I could not weep. My tears had frozen from fear. I had made the choice for my marriage. In spite of all my best intentions, in spite of all my desires, all my dreams, I did not do what I should have done.

And now, all was lost.

All had been lost because I had been afraid.

11

L
ytham.”

I turned and just barely kept myself from frowning. Bowing instead, I brought the woman’s hand to my lips. “Lady de Winter.” I had not seen the countess for several months, but she still had the same look of a predator about her. Her cheeks were still sunken, her teeth still rotting, and her hooded, unblinking eyes still made my skin crawl in revulsion. I might have ignored her, but she wore the unmistakable scent of influence. She knew everyone and she knew everything. Secrets were her currency of trade. Thankfully, she did not know mine.

She was staring at something beyond my shoulder.

I turned and looked in that direction. It was easy to guess the object of her fascination. She was staring at the girl.

“She has the look of Elinor about her. But . . . she is not Elinor, is she?” Lady de Winter paused. “There is something I have always wondered. Why did you marry Elinor when you could have married me instead?”

I could not keep my lips from curling. Why indeed. There cannot be much difference between two serpents.

“Everyone knew she was a faithless whore. The only surprise was that you allowed yourself to fall in love with her.”

I had
not
fallen in love with Elinor. If Lady de Winter had been a man, I would have called her out.

She must have known it. “Or was that the
only
surprise?”

How had she learned of my secret? “What do you want?”

“She is young enough to be my daughter.”

“Pray, say what you will and be gone.”

“I could teach her. I could make her . . . useful. Show her how to meet the Queen’s expectations.”

“Why?”

“I made a promise to Elinor before you had her put away. Did you not know it?”

“Nay.”

“I promised the poor girl I would commit myself to your success.”

“I thank you for your troubles, but Destiny is a ship better sailed alone.”

“As you wish. Some might tell you differently, but I did make a promise and I do intend to fulfill it. There are, however, two ways in which I might do it. I could commit myself to her success in your success or . . . I could just simply commit myself to . . . you.”

It took all my skills as a courtier to keep my distaste from showing. Propositioned by two women in two days. Oh, the irony. “I would be pleased by anything you might be able to do with the girl.”

“So it
is
to be the girl? Well. You cannot blame a woman for trying. I will see what can be done.”

I escaped from court one day after dinner to sit on a bench in a corner of the pleasure garden, though not, of course, the one meant for Her Majesty. My Book of Hours dangled from my waist; I placed it unopened on my lap, letting my eyes take a tour of the grounds.

This late in the season, the medlars had lost their leaves. Their branches, bent at weird angles, reached toward the sky. They had such a lovely, desolate beauty. In the center of the garden, the monthly roses had recovered from their pruning and had pushed new arms up toward the bleak sun. At the tip of one of them, a rose of deepest crimson had blossomed.

A flurry of wind dove beneath my skirts, reminding me that reading out of doors in December was a short-lived pleasure. I opened my book and turned the well-read pages, looking for comfort in those eternal words.

“I am Lady de Winter and
you
are quite fetching.”

I looked up to find a woman rolling the stem of the crimson rose between her hands, staring intently at me over the tops of its petals. Although she had the same ceruse-painted face, vermillioned lips, and orange hair as all the women at court, I was certain I had never seen her. And just as certain, from the dazzle of jewels ringing her skirts, that she was also a noblewoman. “I beg your pardon?”

“But you are. The whole court is talking about Marget the knight’s daughter, the raven-haired witch from Norfolk.”

Marget. I had not thought that anyone knew my name. At least no one save Joan. “How is it that they talk about me but never to me?”

“Ah, but you are new at court, are you not? When no one is talking to you it signifies that everyone is talking about you. And everyone is talking about the Earl of Lytham’s new bride.”

“Pray, what are they saying?”

“They wonder when you will realize Her Majesty is jealous of you.”

At that, I snorted and cast my eyes significantly at my book.

Unladylike, perhaps, but I could not help myself. Soon though, curiosity got the better of me and I lifted my eyes toward the woman’s.

“The Queen, jealous of me?”

“The Queen would be jealous of any woman who attracts her courtiers’ interest.”

“Surely you jest.”

“Surely I do not. I know about the Earl of Essex.”

I felt flames flicker at my cheeks. During my time at court, I had occasion to watch the Earl of Essex and I had come to know, as my husband had said, that he was free with his affections. “The Earl of Essex would try to lift any woman’s skirts.”