On Gentle Wings (6 page)

In turn, Simon Taggart reminded him of a squat-bodied, cross-eyed
little toad. Mayhap it was the man’s unfortunate warty nose and chin; but as
they spoke. Kit found he could not drive the mental comparison from his head.

“Mister Taggart? I am Sir Christopher Tanner.” He felt no
obligation to invite a toad to familiarity. It called upon a vast summoning of
all his courtly manners merely to extend a civil greeting.

Taggart, he saw, felt no such similar compunctions. “Where’s
Isobel?” the other man demanded bluntly, ignoring the social graces entirely.
When he realized Kit was alone, his lips split apart in a lopsided sneer.

“D’you reckon to come and frighten me off, Tanner?”

Kit was both amazed and angered by the man’s effrontery.
“Certainly not,” he said coolly. “I merely came to talk to you about Isobel, of
course, and all this nonsense I hear about removing her to Cornwall.”

“Nonsense, is’t?” Taggart straightened, leaning his heavy
girth against a wooden stall for support. “When your own wife understood the
girl belongs with her rightful kin, and made it possible for a family to be
reunited?” His gaze narrowed on Kit. “I’ve been to see a solicitor myself
today. ’Tis all quite legal, so save your breath. My niece leaves with me
tomorrow.”

“You promised Isobel three days.” Kit knew he was grasping
at straws, but he was still stunned by the revelation that Elspeth — his late
wife — was somehow involved in this bizarre coil.

“Aye, the chit asked for a few days to get things in order
before she left and notify you at court; but since you’re here now to take over
matters at
Ambergate
, there’s no reason why we cannot leave first thing
in the morning.”

“There is one. I shall simply not permit it.”

Taggart purpled at this calm retort. “But you’ve no claim to
the girl, Tanner,” he sputtered. “I’m her only living blood kin; and as such,
I’ve the right to arrange for her future as I see fit.”

“Isobel has lived with us for over eight years. Where was
your filial concern in all that time?”

Taggart bit his plump lip, and said somewhat evasively, “God
saw fit to bless my wife Mary and me with ten children, all born nigh ten
months apart. Our early years were hard, indeed, and I had difficulty providing
for twelve mouths, let alone thirteen. We realized Isobel was far better off
here, at least for a time.

“But my lasses are all married now, and gone. There’s six
boys left, and Simon Junior turns sixteen this month. Old enough to work in the
mines, wed neighbor Plummer’s eldest wench, and start his own household. I can
better provide for my niece now.”

“Isobel has two years of age on your son, Taggart. She must
at least be accounted some say in this matter. And she told me she does not
wish to leave London.”

“Bah!” the other man retorted. “She’s a mere female and, therefore,
must be subject first to a father’s will, or her husband’s. Since Robert Weeks
is dead, it falls upon me to take up the responsibility. And ’tis most
grievously obvious to me. Isobel has been allowed to run wild in your care. She
is impertinent and immodest. Alas, I rightly feared such exposure to Tudor
morality — or the lack thereof — would ruin her prospects, and so it nearly
has.”

Kit realized the insult was directed not only at him, but
the queen as well.

“Then by all means, my good man, you should not permit Isobel’s
presence to contaminate your God-fearing household,” he responded in silky-soft
tones. Those who knew Kit far better than Taggart would have realized how
dangerously close he came to striking the man in that moment.

“Aye,” Taggart said on a sigh, obviously too dense to grasp Kit’s
sarcasm, “but your own wife called upon my Christian charity to see to the
chit’s welfare and you cannot expect I’d deny a dead woman’s request.”

Kit knew there would be no reasoning with this greedy toad,
save in one way. He’d expected as much and untied from his waist a kid purse
he’d brought for this very purpose.

“There’s enough here to support your family for several
years,” he said, as he extended the purse. “My only condition is that you leave
Isobel in peace. She’s chosen to remain at
Ambergate
. Indeed, she is
very much a part of our family, and I’m afraid my daughters cannot countenance
the notion of her leaving.”

Taggart meanly sized up the purse and shook his head. “I’m
no fool, Tanner. Elspeth was far more generous with the dowry she left for her
cousin; and besides, I’ve already contracted the little wench to be wed.”

Though this news came as an unwelcome shock to Kit, he
managed to maintain a neutral expression. “I see. Who is the fortunate young
man?”

“Thomas Plummer. He’s a fine lad.” Taggart glared at Kit, as
if daring him to dispute it.”’Tis my right as Isobel’s guardian to insist she
marry as I see fit. And mark my words, there’ll be no wedding above her station
as her mother did before her. I’ll not bring the wrath of God down upon my
household,” he concluded piously.

Kit had already anticipated the other man’s next move.
Though Taggart had dismissed the purse, his shrewd gaze visibly weighed its
contents and Kit suspected that for all the man’s pious posturing, he was not
entirely immune to temptation.

“You realize I require some time to secure Isobel’s
replacement,” he told Taggart. “My daughters are too young yet to be left
alone, and as you know, my presence is frequently required at court. Mere
retainers cannot be responsible for three spirited youngsters.”

“That’s your problem, Tanner, not mine.”

“Then you clearly do not know your niece as well as you
claim. You see, Isobel will not willingly leave until she is convinced my girls
will be well-cared-for in her absence. And, I can assure you, you’ll have your
hands full on the journey if she is unhappy. Oh, you can force her, of course;
but a wise uncle would want his niece to go to the altar meek as a Cornish hen
so as not to embarrass him or the bridegroom’s family.”

Simon Taggart looked thoughtful, and Kit again dangled the
purse as bait.

“I should think two weeks would be long enough to find
another suitable caretaker for my daughters and smooth the transition. If you
agree, Taggart, the purse is yours now and I’ll also pay for a complete
trousseau and a fine coach to return Isobel in time for her wedding. Just think
how impressed the Plummers will be.”

Taggart’s eyes gleamed at that, and Kit realized he’d
finally discovered the man’s price after all.

“Well now, that’s a bit more reasonable,” the toad said as
he accepted the purse and tucked it quickly out of sight beneath his threadbare
cloak. “I do admire a clever man. Very well, then, sirrah, you have a
fortnight. But lest you plan to deceive me, I want a signed and witnessed
document that the wench will be standing at the altar on or before the end of
the month.”

“You’ll have it tonight,” Kit promised.

“See that I do, sirrah, or the constable will be at your
doorstep come dawn.”

~*~

W
ithin the
hour,
Kit summoned Isobel to
Ambergate
’s
parlor. She arrived looking even paler and more worried than she had earlier,
and he regretted he couldn’t set her mind to ease.

“I’ve managed a bit of a delay,” he said. When her grey-blue
eyes lit with hope, Kit shook his head. “A very little bit, I’m afraid. A
fortnight, that’s all. And your uncle’s also demanded a writ. I’ve given my
word to send it to him tonight, and then he’s agreed to go home and wait for
your arrival.”

Two weeks! It was such a miserably short reprieve. Isobel’s
hopes were dashed as Kit unrolled a parchment on the mahogany desk in the
corner and offered her the ink and blotter.

“Just “X” it here, below my signature,” he instructed her,
lightly guiding her hand to the right area. The warmth of his flesh on hers
distracted Isobel, and her own hand trembled as she took the pen from its
ornate stand.

“I can cipher my name,” she murmured, laboriously shaping
the letters while Kit looked on. She sat in on many of the girls’ lessons and
consequently had learned to cipher, and even read a bit. Fortunately, he did
not appear upset that she had taken advantage of such learning. On the contrary,
he seemed pleased.

“You write with a lovely hand, Isobel,” Kit complimented her
absently. “You’ll make Tom Plummer a fine helpmeet.”

Through sheer will she managed not to cringe at the sound of
that name. It was not Kit’s fault she was being forced to wed that dreadful
Plummer boy, though she could not help wondering if he had tried as hard as he
claimed to keep her here.

Kit picked up the parchment, sprinkled it with sand to set
the ink, and rolled it up again. Then, picking up a candle on the desk, he
dribbled a bit of red wax on the flap and pressed the signet ring he wore on
his right hand to create a seal.

“There! This should satisfy Taggart the Toad, for the
present. I was planning to return to court tomorrow, but I think I’ll seek
permission to stay on a day or two.”

When his nickname for her uncle slipped out, so did a
sheepish grin. For all her upset, Isobel could not help but smile back.

Some fleeting, foolish notion leapt into her head then that
Kit might be staying another day on her account; but the wish was destroyed
when he added offhandedly, “I’ll want to be here to personally supervise the
hiring of a suitable nursemaid for the girls.”

“Naturally.” Isobel attempted another smile then, but failed.
There was nothing left to say.

“’Tis growing late. I fear I’ve kept you up overlong, little
Isobel. Although you are not quite so little after all, are you?” Kit offered
her an easy grin. Naturally he expected her gratitude for buying her a few extra
hours with the girls. Why could she not manage a simple thank you?

“Good night,” she said instead as she gathered up her brown
skirts to leave.

“Good night,” he responded, somewhat distractedly. Then,
“Ahh, Isobel?”

His deep voice halted her on the threshold. She glanced back
and found Kit regarding her ankles with open amusement. She dropped her hem and
primly smoothed her skirts in place again.

“I also promised Taggart you’d bring along a fine trousseau.
We’ll go for your first fitting tomorrow.”

“‘We?’” She bit her lip.

“Of course. You don’t suppose I’d send an innocent alone
into town? Madame Louise could come here, of course, but then we’d miss out on
an amusing outing. I fear your London education has been sadly neglected. Besides,
I am accounted quite the expert on fashion, and that alone will assure us of
Madame’s undivided attention.”

“As you wish.” Isobel refused to be drawn into jovial
banter, not when her whole life was crumbling about her. What use would she
have for such finery at Land’s End? A miner’s drudge was all she would become,
that and doubtless the mother of a dozen children in due time.

“
G
racie’s
telling stories again.” Anne accused her sister the moment Isobel stepped into
the nursery the next evening. “Make her stop!”

“Am not!” Grace’s eyes flashed as she clutched her mop-headed,
much-loved doll to her heart. “Judith was just where the man told me, under a
bush in the garden.”

“What man?” Anne scoffed. “You said Saint Anthony was going
to come down from heaven to help you find her.”

“I guess he couldn’t come,” Grace shot back. “An’ anyway,
Judith’s found. ’Twas the other man who showed me — an angel-man,” she added in
a mysterious whisper, her green eyes sparkling from what Isobel suspected was
far more deviltry than angelic revelation.

“Girls, how many times have I told you not to tease one
another so?” Isobel’s voice was as weary as she herself felt. She’d spent all
day at Madame Louise’s looking at bolts of beautiful material and useless,
exotic accessories merely to please Kit. Why couldn’t he see it was pure
torture for her merely to touch such rarefied cloth? Silk and satin, velvet and
damask, the colors and textures had dazzled her senses, and struck her nearly
dumb.

Every gown was a masterpiece; like precious jewels they
would soon line her wardrobe — ruby, sapphire, emerald, pearl; amethyst-colored
velvet, topaz damask. Then there was Isobel’s secret favorite, the
lavender-blue silk night rail, christened “hyacinth” after the vain Greek youth
of the ancient myth. She understood why when she ran her fingers over the
watered silk; it rippled against her skin like a moth’s delicate wings and even
caused her to give a faint, envious gasp. It was far more like something
“Madame Mysterie” would wear than a plain, brown wren like Isobel Weeks.

“That’s the one,” Kit had said, and grinned when he saw
Isobel’s mixed reluctance and delight. “Oh, and make it the most beautiful of
the lot, Madame. No expense must be spared on
this
bride-to-be.”

“Of course,
monsieur
,” the French modiste murmured
deferentially, though not without a curious glance at Isobel, as if wondering
why a gentleman like Sir Christopher wasted perfectly good coin on such a drab.

It had taken all the courage and dignity Isobel could muster
to stay still during the interminable fitting. Surely the Continentals did
things differently, she thought, for none of the fluttering French butterflies
at the shop seemed to find anything amiss in Kit’s presence, not even when she
was relegated to her old yellowed petticoats before him and stood shivering
with patent embarrassment.

“A complete trousseau,
oui
?” the modiste tactfully
suggested.

“Aye, Madame. Toes to top. Red, I think, rather than white.
The better to favor her golden skin.”

So Isobel found herself the recipient of red petticoats,
which seemed more shocking somehow than all the low-cut gowns combined. And
along with such fine attire came other necessities, like farthingales, which
supported the enormous, widespread skirts. The French version was more popular
at court now, Madame informed them, due to its sleeker style.