House of Dreams (27 page)

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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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Her aunt was starkly white. Catherine reached for and loosened several buttons on her shirt, fanning herself with one hand. She coughed.
“Are you all right?” Cass managed, coughing again, reaching for her because she looked as if she might keel over at any moment.
Catherine continued to cough, so hard now that she could not speak.
Cass became alarmed. She patted her aunt's back, but Catherine was suddenly choking.
Cass screamed, catching her aunt in her arms as she went down to the floor, her face beginning to turn red, her eyes bulging, her hands on her throat—as if she were being asphyxiated. Cass realized her aunt was having some kind of terrible attack—a seizure, perhaps—and that she needed oxygen.
“Antonio!” she screamed. “Antonio! Antonio!” She did not know what to do. Her aunt could not breathe, her face was turning purple. Cass tore open her shirt. She had never administered CPR, but she knew what to do.
Antonio came running.
“We have to get her to a hospital!” Cass shouted at him. “I think she's having a seizure.”
Antonio knelt beside Catherine, who, Cass saw in horror, had stopped breathing. Her face was blue, eyes wide, unseeing. Immediately he began to administer CPR.
Cass watched in abject terror as Antonio pumped her chest and breathed into her lungs, to no avail.
No
, she thought hysterically,
this can't be happening, no, it's impossible!
And through the haze of her panic and fear, she was vaguely aware of the odor of violets. It was diminishing.
Cass continued to watch Antonio as he tried to force air into her aunt's lungs, praying mindlessly now, over and over,
God, God, God.
Antonio sat up.
Cass realized then, and she looked from him to her aunt, who lay unmoving on the floor, her face blue and waxen. “Don't stop!” she screamed at him.
He slowly turned to face her, but not before closing her aunt's eyelids. “I am sorry, Cassandra,” he said.
He had finally come.
Her uncle, the earl, who had exiled her to this place seven years ago, was waiting for her.
Isabel crouched behind a tree, knowing she must go in, but unwilling to move. Her heart beat with excruciating speed. A dozen soldiers wearing the earl of Sussex's colors were swarming about the yard—her yard—all boisterous male camaraderie. Her servants were nowhere to be seen, not that Isabel blamed them. The soldiers looked tired and mean. She had little doubt that they had come from the North. Just weeks ago thousands of rebels had gathered at Sittingbourne to protest high wages and scarce food, and vast forces had been dispatched to overcome them.
“Isabel!” Lady Helen was calling her.
Isabel sighed. She was not very fond of her companion—her uncle had chosen his wife's cousin to attend her years ago, just after the loss of her family. Helen was a shrew, even after all the years they had spent together. Isabel also suspected her to be a spy. She surely reported on Isabel's behavior to her benefactor. Not that there was much to report, for in seven years, living amongst the east Sussex forests and dens, she had become not much more than a retiring country mouse.
“Isabel!”
She could not delay this meeting. She stepped out from behind the tree.
Helen stood in the middle of the yard; she saw her and cried out. “Of all days, today you've been picking berries?”
Isabel squared her shoulders, raised her chin. She was bare of foot, and she gripped her apron so the blackberries would not tumble to the ground. “He did not advise us of his visit.”
Helen's dark brows arched. “You will be haughty, as well? Let me remind you, my lady, he is your guardian, but he has forgotten your very existence, until now. Because you be old enough for a husband.”
“I have hardly forgotten the facts of my life,” Isabel said. She kept her head high as she walked through the milling men and horses, ignoring a few lecherous winks and equally rude suggestions. In spite of her bravado, she was afraid. She had to make a favorable impression upon her uncle. Her entire future depended on it.
Helen swatted one mail-clad arm. “She be Sussex's niece. Mind your manners, lout!”
Isabel hardly heard Helen as she shoved open the heavy front door.
The earl was in the hall, pacing with some irritation, and he was not alone. Two knights accompanied him. Isabel hesitated, for he had yet to see her, engrossed as he was in deep conversation. If only she had a chance to run to her rooms and don appropriate clothing.
The earl of Sussex suddenly halted in midstride. He stared at her and Helen coldly. “We asked for wine. Where is it?”
Isabel curtsied, sinking to the floor. Since the manor where she lived was nothing like Romney Castle—it had originally been built as a hunting lodge—the stones were rough and hurtful beneath her feet and even her nose, which she touched to the ground. She could not quite blame the earl for thinking her a servant. “My lord, I beg your pardon, but I will see to it that wine is brought directly.”
“Isabel?” he asked.
Isabel stood, still holding her apron so she would not lose the berries. “Yes, my lord,” she whispered, suddenly tongue-tied.
He was wearing her father's garnet pendant on a heavy chain suspended upon his chest. She could not move. Memories she refused to entertain tried to rush at her, and with the worst possible timing, Isabel felt dizzy and faint, and a deep, penetrating pang of sorrow lanced through her being.
“My dear niece,” he finally said. His blue eyes were piercing. “'Tis been far too long. Let me look at you, my brother's lovely daughter.”
Isabel did not speak. His words seemed honeyed and false. Or was it her imagination?
But she already knew he did not care a whit about her. The allowance he gave her was generous—she could not possibly spend it, living as she did in the country—but rumor held that he was one of the most powerful men in the realm. Like her own father, her uncle was an adviser to the king. Had he cared for her, he would have allowed her to remain at Romney Castle or he would have corresponded with her, even if just once or twice a year. Not only did he not care about her or her circumstances, she thought, with some anger, she would always believe that her father's death had pleased him. For otherwise, he would not be so powerful or so wealthy.
He was speaking. Isabel realized she hadn't heard a single word; she flushed. “I beg your pardon, my lord, what did you say?”
“I said you are the image of your mother, God keep her in peace.”
Isabel could not decide if he meant his words. He undoubtedly lied. From what she remembered, her mother had been the kindest, gentlest, and most beautiful of women. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered. “But you do overly praise me, I think.”
Helen jabbed her with her elbow.
“And modest, as she was, I see.” John de Warenne waved at her. He was a man of some forty years, with iron gray hair and a darker beard. He stared her up and then down again. “I can hardly believe it. How remiss I have been. More time has passed than I realized; when I last saw you, you were but a scrawny child, all eyes and legs and hair.”
Isabel wisely held her tongue. The last time she had seen him had been a year after the funeral, when he had come to take over Romney Castle for himself and plot with Lord Seymour, Prince Edward's uncle, about the succession to the throne, as the king was about to lead an army himself to war in France, against all advice. Isabel had eavesdropped and heard their every word.
Henry had returned after a successful venture, and had lived another three years.
Prince Edward had become England's king after he died.
“My dear niece, I shall spend a day or two here, and we must become reacquainted. But for now, I have urgent affairs to conduct. If you will excuse me?” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes, and he was already turning to his men.
Isabel was stunned by the abrupt dismissal. Would he not even hint that he might make a marriage for her? Surely he could see that she was almost a woman full grown.
Helen gripped her arm. “Thank you, my lord, and you shall have wine in all haste.”
Isabel could not believe her misfortune. They had but exchanged a few mere words. She had to know her future. “My lord,” she began quickly.
Suddenly Lady Helen was turning her around. “Not now,” she hissed in her ear.
Had they been alone, Isabel would have yanked her arm free. But they were not alone, and as she was half dragged away, her gaze inadvertently caught that of one of the knights. He smiled at her.
She looked away and followed Lady Helen from the hall.
Isabel sank down on the stairs the moment she was out of sight. Above her, Helen faltered, then turned. “What do you do now?” she demanded in a whisper. “Come with me this moment!”
“No,” Isabel whispered back, as adamantly.
The men were beginning to speak. Isabel strained to hear. Someone was saying, “And so the escape has failed. She is not in Antwerp as the emperor might have us believe. She remains in Maldon, my lord.”
A moment of silence followed, and then an exclamation, from another of the knights. “God's blood!” It was angry.
“Hold, Robbie, hold. We must think carefully now on our course.” Sussex.
“What good can come of this?” the knight, Robbie, asked. “A royal princess afraid for her life, forced to such extremes, it is unbearable.”
Isabel stifled her gasp with her hand. Dear God in Heaven! They were discussing the princess Mary—who undoubtedly had tried to flee England, but had failed. Isabel crouched lower, tempted to crawl back downstairs so she might eavesdrop with more ease.
“You are too hot, as ever,” the earl said. “We must ponder these events.” He swore. “Dudley rules the council, the king is a sickly boy, factions conspire every conceivable plot … Rob, we shall send Mary a message. A very carefully worded message indicating our concern for her well-being, our displeasure with the tyranny of the council; but we shall not be so bold as to proclaim our loyalty to any particular cause—yet.”
A silence fell. Isabel's heart thundered so hard that she wondered if the men in the hall below could hear it. She was also perspiring. What did her uncle plan? Even she believed Mary was Edward's rightful heir—even if she was a Catholic. Why did Sussex not support her
completely? What if Sussex allied himself with another cause? Isabel's temples throbbed. She knew she should always ally herself with her protector, but some instinct warned her not to trust the earl—to only trust herself. Not that it really mattered, as she was stuck at Stonehill. Matters of state—politics and conspiracies—hardly affected her.
“My lord, I will gladly bring her the message myself.” Robbie was speaking forcefully. “Indeed, I beg you to let me perform this service.”
“The roads are guarded. As are the rivers and canals. It will be no easy task, Rob. The council has spies even in her household.”
“I must go, my lord.”
“Very well. But you must travel in disguise. And only by day—it will be too dangerous for you to travel by night. Leave at dawn.”
There was only a silence, but Isabel could imagine the men smiling now. The brief, fascinating interlude of conspiracy was over. Now Isabel could worry about her own future once more. And she thought,
Somehow I must gain Sussex's attention before he leaves.
And she never imagined that she would—and not in any way that she might have foreseen.
 
 
Isabel lingered by the open front door in the hall. The evening was sweet. The air was seasonably cool and exceedingly pleasant, and as it had been a clear and sunny day, the night was filled with winking stars. She had no desire to sleep. Indeed, how could she even think of it? Sussex was in the hall even now, playing cards with that young knight, Robbie, while her own jester played the lute for their entertainment. Outside, the forty or fifty men her uncle had brought with him were lounging about her yard in the makeshift camp they had erected since their arrival, dining around open fires, playing dice, and even flirting with several dairymaids who had appeared from the village and neighboring farms within hours of the men's arrival. Stonehill Manor had never been like this.
Helen had retired, but once her cousin was in her own bedchamber, Isabel had quickly returned downstairs. She had never been more awake. Her mind was in a perpetual race. She knew her future was at hand—if only she could gain her uncle's attention.
“And what huge burdens do you carry, my lady?”
Isabel started at the sound of a familiar male voice. She turned and saw the blond, gray-eyed knight who she had learned was Robbie, the
one who would take a message to the princess Mary on the morrow.
His gaze was narrowed with speculation. “You appear so sad,” he said.
Isabel was nearly undone, and it was a singular moment in her life. As their glances held, she fought for her composure and she won. Still, she could not smile. “Merely the burden of wondering if you dared to win against my uncle,” she said rather coolly.
He stared searchingly, causing Isabel to flinch and look away, and finally he laughed. It was a free and wonderful sound. Isabel started.
His laughter died, his smile vanished. After a long pause, he said, “Your eyes can undo a man, my lady.”
Isabel refused to blush. “I do not think so,” she said. “Are you always so bold?”
“Only when confronted with a lady such as you. How is it,” he wondered, “that Sussex is right and you are so modest? Do you not possess a looking glass?”
Isabel's heart was pumping erratically, in spite of her intention to remain aloof. She was very aware that he was merely being gallant and a flirt; still, there were very few men at Stonehill of her station, and she was not adept at such intercourse. She hoped she was not flushing; her cheeks felt warm. “Of course I do.” She knew she must change the subject. “Did you best my uncle in gaming this night, sirrah?”
His regard had become very thoughtful. “I've yet to best Sussex, mademoiselle, but not through lack of trying.” And he smiled slightly at her.
It was a very genuine if not tentative smile, and Isabel now wished for him to remain overly bold. “Would it be wise to best your benefactor?” she asked cautiously.
“Perhaps not, but then, I do not profess to be the wisest of men.” He smiled again at her. His gaze was serious, searching. “And how do you know he is my benefactor?”
“'Tis but a guess, Sir Robert.” Isabel wasn't about to admit to the conversation she'd overheard earlier, in which Robbie had been determined to carry the earl's banner for him.
“Then 'tis a good guess, my lady, because like yourself, I have no family to speak of other than Sussex, and he is my patron as well as my benefactor.”

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