Constant Heart (23 page)

I had been right to bring Marget to Holleystone. As she looked at the place, a smile lit her face and stayed there for the length of the day.

“ ’Tis perfect, Lytham. I can see why you love it here.”

And then I could understand more why I loved her. She fit at Holleystone. Having been there just under a day, she had become part of it in a way that Elinor never had. We had visited, she and I, when my brother still had possession of the estate. She had disparaged it as unfashionable. Had spoken to my brother of a greater number of windows, a more elaborate construction of chimneys.

“Is something wrong?”

I had frowned without being aware of it. I inverted my lips to a smile. “Do you not think there should be more windows cut into the walls?”

“Why? It would ruin the place.”

“What of the chimneys?”

“I adore them.”

“You do not think such a place in such a county unfashionable?”

“ ’Tis charming. And I would not change one thing.”

Not one thing, when Elinor would have changed everything.

“Your face . . . ’tis grown so dark,” Marget said.

“Bad memories, my sweet.”

“Of here? I do not think they could long survive in such a place.”

She was right. And so I banished them for the length of our stay.

We stayed less than a week at Holleystone and then we had to pack up and return to Lytham House, for we knew the Queen would install herself at Whitehall in time for Accession Day.

Unlike my time spent at Brustleigh, I wished the time at Holleystone would never end. And it was with no little regret that I installed myself once more at Lytham House. But I could not long be downcast. Lady de Winter called upon me the day after our arrival.

“The country did you some good, girl. You look positively ruddy.”

Ruddy? I lifted a hand to my face and realized with horror that

I had forgotten to paint. Had it taken so little time to fall out of the habit? “I was just— Joan!”

“Aye?” She came into the chamber at a run and only stopped to drop a curtsey when she saw Lady de Winter. “My lady.”

“ ’Tis time for the paints, Joan.”

She frowned.

“Now.”

As Joan painted, Lady de Winter continued to talk. “I hope you have thought on my words.”

Words? Which ones? There was only one answer I could think to say. “Aye.”

“Good. It takes time, certainly, to turn the heart from its course.

No one can fault you for that. But while you are waiting for your head’s command to be obeyed, you must pretend that it already has been.”

“I must confess that—”

She sighed. “I see I must regain the ground your time in the country has lost me. I speak to you of love, girl!”

“Love? But . . .” I remembered the words Lytham and I had exchanged. Remembered our secret. “I cannot love him.” I was cheered that my voice had not faltered at those words.

Joan’s hand fumbled the brush, causing it to fall to my lap and streak my gown with paint.

“Mind your task, girl!” Lady de Winter turned her attention back to me. “Good, good! If you say it enough times, then perhaps your face will stop convincing me that you lie.”

“I do not . . . lie.”

“Come now, I know the truth. But be of good cheer. Though you may not be able to hide the truth from me, there
is
a way that you can hide it from the court.”

“There is?”

“Declaim everything that is good about him. No one could believe that you love a person you do not respect.”

“Declaim?
Every
thing good? But . . . that is . . . lying.” And I preferred to keep a secret by saying nothing rather than denouncing the truth.

“ ’Tis not lying. Not truly. You must just tell yourself that it is not for everyone to know the truth. Besides, if you say such things enough times, your lie will soon
become
true.”

“But—”

“You can be sure the earl does the same regarding you.”

“He does?”

“You can be sure of it.”

“Truly?”

“Why? Has he told you that he loves you?”

“I . . . he . . .”

She began to laugh. It was a terrible, horrifying laugh. A laugh so cruel that I wanted to slap her across the face to stop up the sound. “Oh, my dear, you are so very young! Let me guess. Did he say words such as, ‘I know I should not love you, but I do. I cannot help myself!’ ”

He had. But when Lady de Winter said them, they sounded so . . . crass. And they made me feel so . . . cheap.

“I am certain that when he said them, it sounded as if he loved only you in all of the world.”

It had.

“But remember, girl, he is a courtier. He must love only his

Queen. He has words aplenty and they mean nothing.”

Nothing?

“He will say whatever he needs to in order to accomplish his purpose. You might call it lying. We simply call it expedient.”

Expedient.

“So hear me well, girl. If you wish to hide your heart while it is healing, you must say nothing that will give you away.”

She took herself away soon after, but in her going she had left a bruise upon my heart and I could scarcely breathe for the pain.

Joan brought me a cup of wine, but I could not drink it. “Do not listen to her, Marget.”

“But . . . ’tis what he said. They were his words precisely.”

“And who is to say he did not mean them?”

“But how could she know them unless she had heard them herself? On some other occasion?”

“She is a mean-spirited shrew who only seeks to destroy what she cannot have herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“She is jealous!”

“Of whom?”

“You, Marget!”

“She cannot be jealous of me. What is there to be jealous of?”

“Your youth. Your beauty. The earl.”

“The earl . . . ?”

“He loves you.”

“He is a courtier.”

“Aye. In his words perhaps, but not in his actions. You have only to watch the man to know that he has placed his own heart at your feet. And the lady knows it. She tries to make you stomp upon it.

Do not do it. He would not soon forgive you.”

“But he must not love me, Joan. And that is the truth. He cannot. The Queen will begrudge him his affections.”

“Then let him manage the politics of it. He has given his heart to you, so you must guard it for him. Do not let that lady tell you otherwise.”

I went to court that day and spent my time in misery, knowing not whom to believe. But whenever I looked for Lytham across the Presence Chamber, I found him always looking at me. Soon I could do nothing for all the thoughts swirling in my head. I took myself outside to the pleasure garden to find peace.

But Lytham found me there instead.

He plucked a medlar for me, and after I had eaten of it, he used his handkerchief to wipe my chin. I could tell by the warmth in his eyes that he wished to kiss me, but it was not safe. And so the words he spoke next did not surprise me. “We should not be seen out here together, but I could not leave you alone while you were looking so morose. Come, we will go back inside.”

I placed my hand in his and he helped me to my feet. But when he would turn to walk the path, I pulled his hand toward me.

He turned to look at me with concern.

“Are you quite certain that you wish to love me?”

He smiled, but it contained no cheer. “Nay. I am not certain at all. But I have naught to do with it. You have captured my heart and you have not yet told me how to ransom it.”

“But what if—”

“What if God struck me dead on the morrow? How could I not thank Him for sending you to me?”

And then I remembered what I should never have forgotten. It was
this
man who had written my sonnet:

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

And there was light now where there had been darkness. He could not be lying. He had ever proclaimed his intentions. But still, one problem remained. “What if someone at court knew, guessed at . . .”

“My love for you?”

“Aye.”

“Then it could be very dangerous indeed. Depending upon the person. Whether they would use that knowledge to help us or to destroy us.”

I felt my burden lighten further. Lady de Winter was already pledged to our success. If she did anything with her knowledge, it would only be to help us. I could trust her, just as I could trust Lytham.

25

A
fter setting things straight with Marget, it seemed I could hardly go about court without a smile upon my face. Could I not do something soon to get rid of it, I would begin to be thought quite simple.

“My Lord Lytham!”

I glanced over my shoulder to see Katherine Mintingdon, newly become Viscountess of Extley. She was one of my childhood friend’s youngest daughters. “Brickbat Kat!” She had ever been one to tell a person exactly what she thought. Of them and everything else.

“Do you not call me that!” She had colored delightfully. “They will think me unfit for court.”

“Never that, darling girl. Court is unfit for you.”

She tried to swipe at me with her ostrich feather fan, but the tendrils got stuck in a brooch she had fixed to her bosom. Her eyes widened as she looked at me. And then, she dissolved into giggles. “You must help me or I shall go about court for the rest of the day thusly. And what shall they think of me then?”

I tried to look at her sternly. “Only that you try to hide yourself from prying eyes. And rightly so!”

“Help me. Before the viscount sees me. He will think me utterly hopeless.”

I sighed and proceeded to help.

I was bored with the ladies’ conversations around me. They spoke of that which they always spoke: of which courtier had made himself look good by making which other courtier look bad. I passed my fan in front of my face to hide a yawn. I looked around the Presence Chamber for something of interest, only to see Lytham at the other end of the room, helping to free a lady’s fan from a brooch. It had been fastened to the bosom of her gown at a point where very much lower would have been . . . too low indeed.

As I watched, by pushing his fingers down her bodice, he freed it for her.

She laughed. And then struck him on the nose with her feathers.

He only smiled and reached for her hand to kiss it. And then kept looking at her, adoration in his eyes, as she walked away.

And right then, all of my dreams died. I could look on him no longer. Turning, I left the ladies and made to exit the room. But in my haste, I reeled into a group of young dissolutes and began to stumble. One of them righted me with a hand to the elbow, only he did not take it away once my footing was secured.

“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting you, Lady Lytham. I am Mr. Chilton, and these gentlemen are Mr. Greville and Mr. Stoughton.”

I smiled, then tried to detach myself from his grip.

“Countess.” The tallest of them bowed, then straightened. “I may not have had this pleasure before, but I have often wished for it.”

“You are too kind.” Truly, I wished they would stop speaking and leave me to go.