The Virgin's Daughter (27 page)

With Anabel was Dominic Courtenay, who rode with Kit and had personal command of a dozen men of his own to keep her safe. The only other court official was Walsingham, who always made Anabel wary. She thought sometimes that the old man didn’t like her very much, but perhaps that was only because his devotion to Elizabeth was so absolute there was no room left for anyone else. Did his wife and daughter feel the same? she wondered.

Kit kept her entertained along the way, but it was to Dominic she turned for advice as Portsmouth came into view and the hour of her parting from her father was imminent.

Settling her horse into a walk next to Dominic’s, Anabel asked, “Have you any words of wisdom for this parting?”

She often thought Dominic the most restful person she knew, but that was mostly when she wasn’t in his presence. He was quiet, true, and still—but whenever she was near him, she realized just how much intensity he radiated. Not like Kit, whose emotions and energy were thrown widely into the world like a gift. And not precisely like her own father, who seemed to hold his peace out of dozens of mixed motives.

She could feel that intensity turned toward her, though he kept his eyes on the road. “Why do you ask?” The unspoken word was clear—why do you ask
me
?

Anabel had known him long and well enough to know she could risk impertinence. “You have had experience with farewells you thought would last a lifetime.”

“But I didn’t expect to survive long enough to have to live with them.”

“If you were Philip, about to say goodbye to your only living child without expectation of meeting again, what would you like to hear from that child?”

“What would I want to hear, Your Highness? The truth of your own heart. What we think and feel, for good or bad, is all we can honestly offer another human being. Tell your father what you are feeling.”

Easier said than done. For one thing, that meant she would have to quickly sort through a wealth of emotions to decipher what she was feeling. It would be so much easier to simply play her royal part, to mimic her mother’s velvet-and-steel touch. But she had asked—the least she could do was take Dominic’s advice.

The party stopped at Portsmouth Castle, where Philip and his closest advisors would take refreshment and rest for an hour before following the servants and horses aboard ship. By sunset the Spanish fleet would be out of sight of the English coast.

Dominic made it easy for Anabel and Philip to leave the larger chamber gracefully and withdraw into a stone-floored chamber that was obviously rarely used. The walls were bare and there was no furniture
to speak of, certainly nothing on which to sit, so the two of them stood at the window, which gave a lofty view of the harbor.

“Have you ever been to sea,
cielita
?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Pity. There is nothing like the sea to teach man his proper place in the world.”

“What about woman’s proper place?”

He smiled, a little sadly but genuine. “So like your mother.”

“As I will be queen after her, I devoutly hope so.”

“My only regret in leaving England is you.”

“We are neither of us dying, Father. As most of our relationship has been conducted by letter, surely not that much will change?” This was not at all what Dominic had counseled, but brought to the point, she was horrified at the thought of crying. Queens did not cry.

“I hope you will remember, my child, that you have two parents in this world. If ever you need my aid or counsel, I shall swiftly supply it.”

“Even if my choices are not what you would approve?”

“Even then.” He touched her cheek, so lightly she almost could not feel it, and Anabel felt the tears hover at the edge of her eyes.

“I do love you,” she said, and impulsively grasped his hand with hers. “And I will miss you more than I can say.”

“Remember,
cielita
,” he whispered into her hair as he hugged her close, “the best way to honour me is to honour God. Think very carefully about the nature of truth, child, and don’t be blinded by Satan’s silken lies.”

And that, she realized, is at the very essence of our relationship. That my father will always care more about my soul than anything else about me.

That dried the tears trembling on her eyelashes, and she was perfectly composed—not to say hardhearted—when the two of them exited into the more populated chamber. There, the Spanish bid their formal farewells to the party, and Walsingham joined them for the short journey to the harbor.

As Anabel watched her father’s elegantly attired and always royal figure depart, Dominic moved noiselessly beside her. “Did you tell him how you felt?” he asked her.

“It seemed kinder to not,” she said. “Not all fathers care for emotions of a personal nature.”

She turned and gestured to Kit to join her. His sunny smile and genuine pleasure at being with her went a long way to easing the sting of an absent and emotionally distant father. Anabel caught Pippa’s eye as her twin moved forward, an unusual expression of concern on her friend’s face. But it quickly turned into a reassuring smile.

Best to look on the bright side. Philip had come and gone and she was no nearer a binding betrothal than before. And now she had only one parent to deal with. Anabel laughed at Kit’s impression of Cardinal Granvelle and linked her arm in his.

Time to enjoy herself.

—

The day after the disastrous fight between brothers, Charlotte’s Paris guests began to arrive. They came two or four or six at a time, a mix of old and threadbare aristocracy, newer merchant money, and scholars. Lucette noted with amusement that, as Renaud had prophesied, there were several unattached older women, lovely and warm, but none so engaging as Nicole LeClerc had been. Lucette didn’t think Charlotte would succeed in marrying her father off just yet.

Dr. Dee arrived in company with his Paris hosts, Edmund and Marguerite Pearce. Lucette declined to meet the group upon arrival in the courtyard, afraid that she would make a fool of herself before everyone present. She’d left Dr. Dee a message in his bedchamber instead, and shortly he was knocking on her door.

She flung open the door and nearly into his arms. He patted her back a little awkwardly, no doubt bemused by her behavior. She didn’t cry—just—but drew a steadying breath as she pulled away.

“Welcome to Blanclair,” she said wryly.

He laughed. “It would seem your time here has been rather more intense than your letters indicated.”

Closing the door, Lucette waited until they were both seated on chairs with matching cushions embroidered by Nicole LeClerc before she spoke again.

Her summary was in the manner Dr. Dee himself had taught her: succinct, information laid out without undue emphasis on any one point, leaving room for interpretation and new connections to be made. She drew no conclusions and thought she spoke with absolute neutrality.

And then she asked her single, accusatory question. “Did you know that Julien LeClerc was in Walsingham’s employ when he sent me here?”

“I did not know. I wondered—that is, I always accept as axiom that Francis Walsingham’s success in protecting Her Majesty is that he never tells all of what he knows. I am not surprised by this omission. He would not want you prejudiced beforehand.”

“You might have warned me!”

“That you were going to a place where all was not what it seemed? I thought you’d had sufficient warning for that. You know how to read a puzzle truly.”

Not when that puzzle is a man like Julien, she thought.

“And so?” prompted Dr. Dee.

“And so nothing. I have provided the information. Nightingale most definitely has some connection to Blanclair. As to the who…that is for a wiser head than mine to sort. Have you identified the murdered man I wrote you of?”

She asked the last question to deflect him from pressing her. She had said nothing, still, of Julien meeting the dead man in the tavern. And she had not turned over the fragment of the Spanish letter or Anise’s explanation for it. There were any number of arguments she could have used to defend her omissions, but in the end she knew it for simple arrogance.

This is my puzzle to solve, and my heart that is at risk in the solving of it
.

He answered her readily enough. “The dead man appears to have been a certain English Catholic, exiled these ten years to France. No one of consequence, made his living doing the nastier sorts of work for various cardinals and conspirators.”

She stood up, suddenly as anxious to get away from Dr. Dee as she had before been eager to see him. He rose more slowly, watching her keenly. His eyes, which always looked into a distance Lucette could not fathom, were troubled—by her lies?—and she suddenly couldn’t bear the familiarity of his sober black attire and precisely pointed beard.

“I shall let you be, Lucette,” he said. “I am afraid this has been more difficult on you than you anticipated.”

“Did
you
anticipate it?”
Did you see how my heart would be conflicted?
she meant.
How I cannot trust my mind when my feelings are so wrapped up in my conclusions?

But, like Pippa, John Dee never told her what she wanted to hear. “Don’t mistrust yourself,” was all he said. “Your instincts are as sound as your logic.”

When he left her, Lucette fled her chamber. She would have gone to the gardens, but they were filled with visitors in loud ecstasies of praise at their beauty. Instead she took the river path down to the point where that mysterious body had lain.

She was not the only one who’d fled the house and gardens. Sitting on a flat-topped rock overlooking the river was Nicolas.

Hesitating, unsure whether to disturb him or if she felt up to conversation, Lucette had the decision made for her when he half turned and smiled.

“Looking for a hiding place?” he asked drily.

“Clearly I’m not the only one.”

“I confess, I find the crowds…wearying,” he said. “Strange to think how I once thrived in large circles. Now I prefer my own company and that of one or two special people.”

“Like Felix?”

“Felix is growing up into a very interesting character. I look forward
to seeing him develop. Of course, it would be so much better for him to have a woman in the household.”

“You’re starting to sound like your sister,” Lucette warned, but with a hint of unease beneath her teasing.

Nicolas had a very engaging way of half smiling, his eyes never flickering from her face. “It never seemed quite so important when my mother was alive, for who could be more loving and gentle than she? But having you here these weeks…yes, it has made me consider how much I would like to give Felix a mother.”

“You are interested only for Felix’s sake?” Beneath her dry tone, Lucette’s mind sharpened. If Nicolas was prepared to offer for her, it was not for his son’s sake. And surely not for her own. Beneath all his charm and careful words, she would have bet everything she owned that Nicolas was no more in love with her than she was with him.

His smile vanished, and he looked at her with an appeal that was strangely vulnerable. “Lucette, I think you will not be entirely surprised if I say that I have grown quite fond of you.” He made an impatient gesture with his hands, as though angry with himself, and said, “No, that is too weak. You know that I did not love my wife, beyond a surface affection. I thought it was simply because we did not have the time to develop that sort of love. But since I have met you, I have discovered that it is not time alone that determines love.”

“Nicolas…”

She was glad when he spoke over her, for she did not know what to follow that with. If it were Julien offering up his love…

She still wouldn’t know what to say.

“Before I speak of my feelings too closely, Lucette, there is something I must tell you. Something that no woman living knows. It’s about my injuries in Paris eight years ago.”

“I’m listening.”

“The mobs—I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a mob. I pray not. They are vicious and mindless. They strike without thought and move on, leaving destruction in their wake. On the eve of St. Bartholomew’s
Day, when the assassinations began, they quickly spilled into explosive rage against anyone and anything in their way. I got caught in the middle between Huguenot and Catholic and I suppose I am lucky not to have been killed. Not that I didn’t wish it for years afterward.”

“What did they do to you?” She catalogued what she knew of him: his face was untouched, and his limbs—although he did have a slight hesitation to his gait. He must have been beaten, but so badly that he’d wanted to die?

“My father would be very angry at my telling you this.” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “And I don’t suppose your father or brothers would be any too pleased, either. It’s not a fit subject for a lady. But there is more I would say to you that I cannot say if you do not know the whole of what I could offer.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” It seemed that one of them would have to get to the point sooner or later.

“I would very much like to ask you that, but I cannot until you know how I was crippled.”

“Crippled?”

He grimaced, then looked at her straight on and said, “Unmanned, more like. When the Catholics got hold of me trying to save a Huguenot girl, they thought I had dishonoured myself with a heretic whore. So they killed the girl—and castrated me.”

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