Constant Heart (32 page)

“And the great houses?”

“Stopped up tighter than Her Majesty’s purse. Won’t give no bread nor ale. There’s no one goes into those places and no one what comes out.”

“No big funerals?”

“No funerals at all. It’s them deep pits and quicklime for one and all. Ain’t no nobility in death. Not when it’s the plague that gets ye.”

“My thanks, then.”

“And the bread?”

“You’ll have it.”

The steward crossed into and then out of my vision as he hurried toward the kitchens.

There was the silence of birds and wind, and then the man summoned to the gate cleared his throat. I heard his spittle splat on the ground. “You would news of someone by name, my lady?”

I did not hesitate in responding. “Lord Lytham.”

“He’s in one of them great houses, then?”

“Aye. On Poultry. Near the Stocks Market.”

His reply was stayed by a hacking cough. “If he hasn’t come out and no one’s got in, then I suppose he’s safe enough.”

“Thank you.”

“Your ladyship. I don’t suppose you’d have some ale to wet a poor man’s throat.”

“I cannot let you in.”

“Nay, my lady.”

“But I can ask the steward to bring you a drink.”

“Thank you, your ladyship.”

I stepped out from behind the pillar to take my leave and to thank the fellow for his news, but I was astonished by the sight that lay before me. I had knowledge of but one man. But in between the steward’s calling him to the gate and my conversing with him, the one man had been joined by a dozen other persons. They were standing silent like a cordon behind him. Their gazes were hollow, their faces marked by their journey. Their clothes, such as they had, flapped insubstantial around them in the breeze. They had the presence of statues, but I had never seen stone dressed so rude.

“I cannot—I am not—I must not—” I turned on my heel and fled up toward the house.

After the encounter at the gate, I did not spend any more time looking to the road. I busied myself with the people of the village and the affairs of Holleystone. And I kept a close eye on the accounts.

One forenoon, a knock sounded at the door and the steward entered. “My Lady Lytham, I need consultation on the accounts.”

The accounts? I had been to the kitchens just that morning. Though our stores had decreased from lack of trade, we had laid up food in abundance. And there was nothing owed to the accounts that existed. “What is your meaning?”

“My lady, there is money owed the workers.”

“Which workers?”

“Those who labor on Brustleigh Hall, my lady.”

“How much?”

“All of it, my lady.” He lowered his eyes.

“All of what? And which workers?”

“All of the wages, my lady, for all of the workers.”

“All of the wages since when?”

“Since the year’s start, my lady.”

My eyes widened. “But that is—”

“Since Lady Day, my lady.”

Lady Day? But that was in March. “Surely . . . my lord must have . . . are the monies stayed in London? Because surely they will understand. Not one can get out.”

“Nay, my lady.”

“Nay what? Speak plain!”

“Nay, my lady. There are no monies in London and there are no monies here.”

“Then how do I pay them?”

“I rest upon your advice, madam.”

Why had Lytham not let Nicholas come with me? That gentleman would have known what to do. “He made no provisions?”

“None, my lady.”

Then how was I to pay them? “But if . . . on account of the plague . . . I ask them to—”

“They say they will stop, my lady.”

“Stop?”

The steward gave a quick nod. “If they are not to be paid, my lady, they say they will not work.”

“I cannot imagine . . . my lord must have the monies in London. Tell them they will have to wait.”

“Excuse me for saying, my lady, but ’tis what my lord said in June.”

He had no monies in June?

The steward, my maids, Joan, even Argos were looking to me for some decision and I could make none, for I could not believe the information I had been given. There had to be monies. Somewhere, there had to be a means of payment.

“Bring the ledgers to my chambers after supper, and I will tell you the solution.”

As the steward bowed and left, I cursed both Lytham and Nicholas for leaving me in such an embarrassing situation.

Oh, Lytham, come home.

My examination of the accounts cost me a night’s sleep and more than a few tapers, but at the end of my work, I could find no answer different than the one I had been given. There were no monies. And there had been none since shortly after my marriage, when most of my dowry had gone to buy Holleystone.

I did not understand how an estate—how three of them, in fact— could operate without funds. There had to be something of which I was unaware. Some account, some source that had not yet run dry.

I had nothing to tell the workers, because I had nothing with which to pay them. I decided the easiest course would be to wait until Lytham’s return and leave him to untangle the mess.

Please, Lytham, please come home.

Though no news reached us from London, Lady de Winter had been sent into the country as well. And when she came to visit me, she brought word of the world beyond Holleystone’s walls. And beyond England’s borders. It did my nerves good to stroll through the gardens with her.

But I could not keep my thoughts long focused on politics. They drifted too often to Lytham’s accounts and his inability to pay the

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M
y examination of the accounts cost me a night’s sleep and more than a few tapers, but at the end of my work, I could find no answer different than the one I had been given. There were no monies. And there had been none since shortly after my marriage, when most of my dowry had gone to buy Holleystone.

I did not understand how an estate—how three of them, in fact— could operate without funds. There had to be something of which I was unaware. Some account, some source that had not yet run dry.

I had nothing to tell the workers, because I had nothing with which to pay them. I decided the easiest course would be to wait until Lytham’s return and leave him to untangle the mess.

Please, Lytham, please come home.

Though no news reached us from London, Lady de Winter had been sent into the country as well. And when she came to visit me, she brought word of the world beyond Holleystone’s walls. And beyond England’s borders. It did my nerves good to stroll through the gardens with her.

But I could not keep my thoughts long focused on politics. They drifted too often to Lytham’s accounts and his inability to pay the workers. My strategy of postponement worked through August and into September, until one day the steward returned to my chambers.

“My lady, the overseer requests to see you.”

“The overseer?”

“Of the work on Brustleigh, my lady.”

“He is come here?”

“Aye, my lady. Do I show him in?”

“Nay!”

The steward froze mid-bow.

My maids paused in their singing at the sharpness in my tone.

“Nay. Nay, I will go down to the Great Hall to see him.”

The steward accompanied me down the stairs and into the hall. The overseer was a large, dark man, who was twisting his cap within his hands. He dropped it when he saw me, bent to pick it up, but then paused mid-reach, realizing perhaps that he should instead have bowed, which, finally, he did. “My lady.”

“Overseer.” I did not encourage any remarks, for I knew I could not propose any solution. If he wanted anything from me, he would have to ask for it.

“My lady, I have come about the work on Brustleigh Hall.”

“Aye.”

He wrung his cap so hard he pulled a feather from it. It floated to the ground before his feet. “ ’Tis work, my lady, for which we have not been paid.”

“Aye.”

“I was hoping, your ladyship, I was coming to ask . . . to see if perhaps we might now be given what we’re owed.”

Oh, how I wished I could say aye. “You must know that my lord the Earl of Lytham is kept in London.”

“I had just heard, my lady.”

“And his monies are stayed there with him.” If it sounded like that was the final pronouncement, it is because I hoped it would be. I did not think I could bring myself to deny a request for payment for work that had already, long before, been completed. Work which should have, according to the accounts, never been contracted. Work for which I could see no hope of ever paying.

“Your ladyship?”

“When my lord returns, then you may approach him with your request.” I could not credit the words to my own mouth. That I should speak such a lie! That I should give such hope when I knew it could not be offered! I could not bring myself to look upon his face, and so I turned to leave.

“Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but what if . . . I mean, the plague takes the rich as well as the poor.”

I did not try to offer a response. But if the plague looked for Lytham among the rich, it would never find him.

Perhaps he would live after all.

One forenoon at the end of October, Lytham and Nicholas rode right out of my prayers and into the courtyard at Holleystone. I tried to stand, wanted to make my way down the stairs to greet them, but my legs would not support me.

Lytham found me, seated still in my chair, with my face crumpled in relief and my cheeks marked with tears.

He came and knelt before me.

I pushed Argos from my lap, drew Lytham’s head toward my bosom, and buried my face in his hairs.

“You cry, my sweet.”

“I had no news.”

“You did not think the plague would take me?”

“I knew not what to think.”

“I think a weary traveler deserves some sweet refreshment for having found his way home.”

I thought so too. I grasped his head between my shaking hands and brought it toward mine with a kiss.

It was only when my hands touched her belly that I left off my pursuits. My hairs stood on end. My stomach roiled in protest at what my fingers had felt. I rolled away from her. Sat up. “What . . . ?”

She smiled up at me, as if she were proud to share her news. “There is to be a babe.”

There is to be a babe
. I could hear Elinor’s voice in my mind. Could see her lying in my bed in exactly the same manner. Smiling in exactly the same way. I threw the covers from Marget and stared at the mound of her belly. Blinked. Tried to remind myself that she was not Elinor.

It cannot be mine
. Did the words only echo within my own head or had I spoken aloud? For I’d said those words before.

God, please tell me I have no need to say them once more. I beg you! Not to my sweet Marget. Had she too succumbed to the depravity of court?

I closed my eyes once more. Opened them.

Marget’s face had crumpled . . . crumpled into Elinor’s. Was it her voice or Elinor’s that cried out through the tears.

“It
is
yours.”

Was I going mad? I slid to the floor. Stepped away from the bed. “I have been in London these three months. And at court before that.”

Marget pulled the sheet up over herself, seemed to shrink beneath it. When she spoke, her voice was dull. “The babe is to be born in February.”

“February? But then that is . . .”

“ ’Tis no one’s but yours.”

How could Marget’s voice have become Elinor’s? How could the yearning, the desperation be the same?

And please, God, tell me how I could know the truth!

“How do I know there has not been another in my bed?”

Where Elinor had recoiled in shame, Marget’s eyes sparked fire. Her voice grew fierce. “Because I have never had another. How could you even think that I would betray my marriage vows? I pledged myself to you in front of God!”

“But . . .”

“ ’Tis one thing to cheat you, but another thing entirely to stand faithless before the Almighty. Please! You must trust me.”

Would God that I could. What was I to do? What was I to think? I plucked my clothes from a chair and pulled them on before leaving the room.

After he left my bed that night, Joan came to comfort me. “Hush now. Do not cry. It can do the babe no good.”