The Lady Series (44 page)

The sun had almost set before there was a tap at Belle's new chamber door. Seated in one of the three chairs that now filled the sitting room, she squeaked, her heart nearly shooting from her chest. She clutched Lucy's new petticoat to her rose-colored doublet. It was time to meet her new husband.

Because Peg was busy with her dinner, Brigit rose to answer the door. As the governess swept past a tall candelabrum, the flames danced. Her green skirts whispered across the chamber's wooden floor. The door cried quietly as it opened. Far brighter light than that offered by their three candles flowed in to gild Brigit's pretty face.

She smiled. “Good evening, Tom,” she said to Master James's servant.

“Mistress Atwater,” he replied. “Lord Nicholas is ready to meet with your lady.”

Belle’s galloping heart slowed at this strange reference to the squire. Lord Nicholas? Why did Tom call him by the title he didn’t yet own? It was enough to restore at least a little of her equilibrium. Folding away Lucy's petticoat, she came to her feet and straightened her gray and pink skirts atop her farthingale.

“Enjoy your meal, my lady, Brigit,” Peg said with a smile.

A touch of irritation shot through Belle, an echo of this morn's uncharitable emotions.
Enjoy your meal
when she was off to meet a monster then sit in a hall filled with dozens of hostile servants? Catching up her gloves from her chair’s back, she joined Brigit in the gallery.

With Tom's great branch of candles cutting a wide circle in the growing dimness, they strode toward the squire's chamber. A moment later, Master James and Sir Edward appeared atop the stairs at the other end of the wide corridor. Like his servant, Master James also carried a branch of candles.

Belle watched him, liking the way the warm light traced his nose's fine line and marked the sharp arc of his brows. Beneath his brown cap, his hair glowed a burnished red. He'd not changed his dress for this evening's formal meal, only closed his shirt collar and tied a pair of brown sleeves into his doublet. It didn’t matter that Sir Edward fair glowed beside him in his rich garments. To Belle's eyes, Master James was by far the better looking man.

Both men offered Belle a bow. “My lady,” Master James said as Belle gave him a quick bob.

Sir Edward straightened with a tense smile. “Good evening, Lady Purfoy.”

He received no response for his effort. It was an intentional slight. If Sir Edward retained any hope she'd ever forgive him his rudeness, he’d killed it the moment he’d walked away from the fallen Richard without a backward look.

With so many candles to light the gallery, Belle saw surprise play across the knight's face. She lifted her chin. If he were the sort of man who thought nothing of abusing those beneath him, he'd hardly understand another of his class despising him for it.

Although Brigit was no happier over the knight's behavior than Belle, her own social standing left her no choice but to be respectful. “Good evening, Sir Edward, Master Wyatt,” she said as she curtsied to them both.

“Mistress Atwater,” Master James said, “if you'll follow Tom, he'll lead you to the hall. I, your lady, and Sir Edward will shortly join you.”

Brigit nodded and followed the servant. Master James opened his chamber door and all Belle’s fear and nervousness came rushing back. The sitting room within was nearly full dark, with only a single candle upon the hearth's mantel. What sort of man sat comfortably in such darkness?

Squinting, she peered into the chamber, trying to sort shadow from shape. A subtle gleam shone out from behind the candle, teased from the two silver cups that stood behind it. Aye, and behind them was a jug, its outline dark and solid. Two small chairs, actually nothing more than the same sort of cushioned, backed stools that Belle now had in her own sitting room, hunkered in the chamber’s center. A single small table stood between them.

“Madam, pray enter,” Master James said gently, the movement of his arm inviting her to precede him into the chamber.

Belle’s heart leapt like a hare at the chase. She crept slowly into the room. Once inside she saw the third chair. Positioned in the corner, it was more massive than the others, with a tall back meant to protect the occupant from draughts. Belle tensed, more sensing than seeing the man who sat in its shadowy depths.

Master James and Sir Edward entered behind her. The door closed. Heralded by the glow from his candles, Graceton’s steward started across the room. As he came abreast of Belle, the light reached into the chair in the corner and the man seated within it came to vibrant life. His attire was red, his stockings white, his shoes black.

Belle's dread returned full force. There was nothing to see of his features or his hair. It was a black velvet mask, not unlike the sort executioners wore, that covered his head, reaching well below his chin. Two holes cut in the mask marked where his eyes should have been while a slit cut across it for his mouth.

Belle frowned a little as Master James set his branch of candles on the hearth near the cups, trying to peer past the squire’s velvet shield to discern something of the face it hid. There was a glint behind the mask’s eye slits and then their gazes met. The squire's mask shifted on his face, suggesting that his eyes narrowed.

Belle flinched. Her gaze leapt to a spot above his head. May the Lord save her, but she'd been staring at the squire while he watched her do it! Mortified by her behavior, which she would never have tolerated of Lucy, she dropped into a deep curtsy.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Squire Hollier,” she managed, her voice trembling.

“And I yours, Lady Purfoy.”

It took Belle a moment to decipher his words. Not only was his pronunciation slurred, his voice was without inflection. Was this because of his disability or had she insulted him?

Master James came to stand beside his employer's chair. “My lady, would you care to sit?” he offered.

“If the squire wills,” she whispered, not wishing to do her new husband any further slight.

“I do indeed,” the squire seconded.

Belle turned to the two chairs at the room’s center. Arranged to face the corner, they sat just inside the circle of light thrown by the candles. The rustle of her skirts seemed overly loud in the silent room as she claimed the one farthest from her husband.

As she settled onto its cushioned seat she glanced behind her for Sir Edward. The knight still stood at the door. It was a moment before she realized he expected Squire Hollier to rise and offer the bow due him both as a knight and the queen's proxy. Aye, and it wasn’t patience that bade him wait. With his chin lifted to an aggressive angle, affront nigh on wafted from him.

A childhood spent in a household of schemers and liars had accustomed Belle to being a mouse in the corner, to disappearing into insignificance when necessary. Now, she shrunk into herself, her gaze fixed on the room's empty hearth as she listened to the distant shouts and calls rising from the hall as the servants gathered for their meal.

Still no one spoke. She glanced at the squire. He watched the knight; or rather his masked face was aimed in that direction. If there was nothing to read in the subtle glint of the eyes behind his disguise, his gloved hands lay easily on the chair's arms. There was something in the way he held himself in the chair that spoke of innate confidence.

No matter the force of his will, he was painfully thin. Plain Belle was, but at least she wasn’t trapped in a weak body. Surely, Sir Edward didn’t expect an invalid to rise and offer him this customary courtesy.

Long after the quiet had stretched into uncomfortable territory the squire said, “Welcome to Graceton, Sir Edward. My pardon, but I fear I cannot rise and greet you as another might.”

As she puzzled out his words Master James sent his employer a sharp glance and shifted uneasily beside the chair. This teased curiosity out from beneath Belle’s nervousness; had Master James been expecting his employer to stand?

“Then you must not rise,” Sir Edward said, his tone far more gracious than Belle expected.

The knight started across the room, his gold-tipped ribbons jingling faintly with his movement. He halted near the empty chair to offer a brief bow. “I’ll bid you well met, Squire Hollier, and call us greeted. Now that the formalities have been addressed, shall we repair to the hall and discuss the upcoming ceremony over the meal?”

“Would that I could,” the squire said with a subtle shake of his masked head. “Unfortunately, my disability makes it impossible for me to leave my chambers. If there's aught to discuss we must do it here. Please, sit and take your ease whilst we speak.” A faint air of amusement seemed to shift the mask on the squire’s face.

Sir Edward frowned as he sank into the empty chair. “As you will.” His words were nearly a growl.

“Might I offer you drink?” the squire asked.

Even before the words were out of his mouth, Master James turned to the hearth. The steward filled the two waiting cups from the jug. Belle took hers and sipped. It was a good wine, not in the least thick or bitter.

Sir Edward shot her a sharp glance. “Do you drink without offering to Her Majesty's health?” he chided.

Choking, Belle nearly fumbled her cup in her haste to bring it from her mouth. Sir Edward raised his then paused.

“But what of you, Squire? Will you not also drink to Her Grace?” Again, that dangerous intensity filled his expression as he tested his host’s loyalty. It was quite the battle they fought between them, their weapons words and silences instead of swords.

Squire Hollier's shoulders rose in a helpless shrug. “Would that I could, but this,” he lifted his gloved hand to point to his mask, “makes it impossible. Nonetheless, if you will drink for me, I'll supply the words. To our Gloriana, may she reign forever.”

Belle glanced at Sir Edward, seeking some hint as to what she should next do. His face like unto a thundercloud, the knight raised his cup to his lips. In relief Belle did the same, drinking deeply. As the wine hit her empty stomach, she discovered its smoothness hid a surprising potency.

“Now, as to this wedding,” the squire said in blunt introduction of the subject she least wanted to discuss. “Has Her Majesty sent me any instructions?” he asked of Elizabeth's proxy.

Belle gulped another mouthful of wine. Heaven keep her. What if he demanded a Catholic service? Would she be strong enough to play out the lie she’d told Sir Edward and bow her head in obedience to her husband and his religion?

Sir Edward looked at Belle. The resentment that burned in his gaze said he was no happier discussing this issue in her presence than she was to hear about it in his. He set his cup on the table between them.

“Her Grace understands you are an invalid and a man desirous of his privacy,” the knight began, only to have his host interrupt.

“That is kind of her. Then she’d have no objection to my steward once more serving as my proxy for the wedding ceremony?”

Sir Edward’s jaw tightened. Belle now knew him well enough to read his reactions and expressions. The resentment that filled his face said the queen had told her official witness the squire could use a proxy for the ceremony.

“It will serve,” the knight said harshly. “However, Her Grace does insist on the union's immediate consummation. In this and as head of all families in our fair country she takes up the role of your long-departed father, who would have commanded the same from you.”

This won a nod from the squire. “I am content to do as duty requires.”

“As to the ceremony and celebration,” the knight continued, “Her Grace doesn’t ask that you invite outsiders, only that all is done in a manner that befits your station.”

“Rightly so,” the squire replied with yet another nod, his strange voice untouched with anger when there'd been no mistaking the couched insult in Sir Edward's words. “Has she any expectations as to when the rite should take place?”

“Within two months,” his opponent replied, sharpness creeping into his gaze as he watched the masked man.

Again, Squire Hollier nodded, but now his gloved fingers tightened on the chair’s arms. “Acceptable. However, we now sit upon the brink of summer becoming autumn. I daresay my brother has told you that the coming of colder, wetter weather wreaks havoc with my health. Against the possibility of forthcoming illness it would be best if we hurried the ceremony. As I see it the only thing that holds us back is the calling of our banns.”

He paused, his head moving as he seemed to glance from the knight to Belle. “If they are called first on Sunday next, a week from the morrow, then again a week hence as custom requires, we can celebrate our nuptials in a month. Since Lady Purfoy is an acknowledged widow and all the country knows why I’ve never wed, I doubt we need fret over anyone raising a protest.”

Worry deepened until it gnawed at Belle's bones. In one month she was going to have to kneel before a Catholic priest and make a mockery of everything she believed. Lifting her cup to her lips, she swallowed another hasty mouthful of wine.

Beside her, Sir Edward blinked and straightened suddenly, something hopeful in his new posture. “In but a month?”

The squire’s shoulders slumped. “Ah, I see Her Grace expects us to wait the full two months. Do you think it would be wrong of me to send her a message explaining my reasons for desiring a speedier ceremony?” Despite his disappointed posture, there was something about his words that suggested a smile.

Sir Edward held up a hand as if to stop a messenger from leaving the room. “Nay, that won’t be necessary. A month is acceptable.”

“As for the ceremony itself,” his host went on, “I had in mind to use the one in Her Majesty’s prayer book.”

The silence that followed these words was so deep Belle could hear the hiss and snap of the candle flames as they ate up their wicks. Behind him, Master James's eyes were wide, his mouth ajar. His surprise made her believe the offer genuine. She stared at her new husband in disbelief. She wouldn’t have to blaspheme. In her elation, Belle raised her cup and finished the contents all the way to the dregs.