The Widow's Kiss (37 page)

Hugh rode back through the incessant drizzle. What could he do if she wouldn’t hear him? He had to go back. He had to keep knocking until she admitted him. He could make it right, if he could only hold her, tell her how he felt. He knew he could. She was fair-minded. She was just so damned stubborn! If she would only listen, she would understand.

He left the horse in the stables and entered his house through the back as was his custom. He was aware of inquisitive looks as he walked through the kitchen. He ignored them. In the hall, the fire was blazing, lamps had been lit, but he could take no comfort from the warmth. He stood absently running a hand over his chin, feeling the stubble rough against his fingers.

With an oath he strode vigorously upstairs to his bedchamber. Its bleak emptiness hit him as he entered and the surge of energy drained away as he heard his voice in his head, accusing, condemning, pushing her from him. How could he possibly hope to get her back?

He rang the large handbell loudly and insistently, grimacing at his own smell, at the dried blood on his sleeve. He stripped to his skin, demanding hot water of the servant who answered his summons. He could think of only one thing to do. He was going to woo his wife. He had never courted a woman before. His marriage to Sarah had been arranged by her parents. His marriage to Guinevere had certainly come about without the gentle art of courtship.

Now, if he was to have his wife back, he must court her, woo her, convince her of his love.

He shaved awkwardly with his uninjured left hand and cursed as he nicked the skin beneath his chin. He scrubbed himself with soap and hot water, and in different circumstances he would have laughed at himself for making such a fuss over his appearance. Ordinarily it never concerned him, ordinarily he paid no attention to the kind of impression he was making on people. But not this morning. He would go to her looking his best. His appearance was not going to sway her one way or the other, but surely it would demonstrate how hard he was trying to convince her to hear him.

He dressed with elaborate care and examined his reflection in the mirror of beaten copper. His image was distorted, wavery, but he could still see how tired and drawn
he looked. Maybe food would help. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten.

He returned to the hall where Milton was waiting for him. “Fetch me bread and meat and ale, if you please,” Hugh asked as he came down the last stair.

“At once, my lord.” The steward bowed again and hurried off. Hugh poked the fire, holding his hands to the blaze. She’d said she loved him. Even at the end when he was saying such dreadful things to her, she had said she loved him.

He clung to that as he ate, standing up, tearing bread from the warm loaf, using his dagger to slice into the round of beef, drinking straight from the ale jug. Every muscle strained to rush to her but he forced himself to eat and drink. When she saw him, he must be reasonable, measured in his appeal for forgiveness. He’d shown her a violent side of himself that he hadn’t known he possessed except in the bloody hurly-burly of battle. He must do everything he could to erase that memory. A thought occurred to him.

“Milton?”

“My lord?” The steward was standing to one side as his master ate.

“Did Lady Guinevere take her books?”

“I don’t believe so, my lord. They remain in the magis-ter's chamber.”

“Crate them at once. Have them loaded onto a cart. Cover them against the rain.”

Milton looked astounded but there was something in his master's manner that told him it would be unwise to question the order. He went hastily on his errand.

Hugh finished his breakfast and paced the hall waiting to be told the books were crated and ready to go. It was a gift. The only gift he could give her that would say that he understood she had the right to leave him. That acceptance would tell her more eloquently than anything he
could say how much he realized what a dreadful thing he had done. If she accepted his remorse, then she would listen to him. He had to believe that she would.

Guinevere was asleep, in an exhausted, dreamless coma, when the door knocker sounded again. She didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear Tilly creep softly into the room. Was unaware of the woman standing by the bed, watching her.

Tilly pursed her lips and left the chamber as softly as she’d entered it. The steward waited on the landing outside.

“She's fast asleep, Master Crowder. I’ll not wake her. It would be criminal.”

Crowder nodded. “I’ll tell Lord Hugh then.”

“Aye, but don’t tell ’im she's asleep. Tell ’im she’ll not see ’im,” Tilly said flatly. “She’ll ’ave to say fer ’erself whether she’ll see ’im or not. I’ll not ’ave ’im thinkin’ ’e's got the better of ’er when she's not said it ’erself.”

Crowder nodded again and went back downstairs to deliver his message. Two servant lads were bringing the books in from the cart, piling them in the small parlor where Magister Howard was counting them in, fussing over each spine, castigating the boys for careless handling.

Crowder opened the door. Lord Hugh stood in the street, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other in a fist against his hip. Everything about his stance proclaimed impatience and anxiety.

“Your pardon, my lord, but my lady cannot see you,” Crowder said. He took a hasty step back as Lord Hugh stepped forward, his face now black as thunder.

“Cannot?” Hugh demanded. “Why not?”

“She said to tell you, my lord, that she cannot see you,” Crowder said steadfastly.

Hugh turned away without another word. He didn’t
look back but went straight to his horse. For two pins, he would have thrust the steward out of the way and marched into the house, but it would do his cause no good. He was about to mount when a high voice called him.

“Lord Hugh? Lord Hugh?” Pippa came racing around the side of the cottage, her hood flying off, her hair damp with rain. She hurled herself on him with her usual uninhibited welcome and he picked her up, held her and kissed her.

She patted his face with her hand as she often did while the words tumbled forth. “Have you come to stay? Why aren’t we staying with you anymore? How's Robin? Is he home yet? When can we see him? Mama's asleep. She's very very tired. She said she has to rest all morning and Tilly won’t let us disturb her until dinnertime. Will you stay for dinner? Pen … Pen …” She called over her shoulder. “Lord Hugh's come to see us.”

Pen came more slowly towards them. “Good morning, Lord Hugh.” She regarded him gravely.

“Good morning, Pen.” He let Pippa slide through his hold to the ground and calmly bent to kiss his elder stepdaughter. “Your mother's asleep, I understand.”

“Yes, sir. She's very tired. We didn’t get here until late,” Pen said solemnly. “Did you wish to see her?”

“No, I won’t disturb her when she's sleeping,” Hugh said. “When she wakes, tell her I came and that I’ll come back this afternoon. I brought her books.”

“Oh, she’ll be so pleased.” Pen's earnest expression lightened and a smile glowed in her hazel eyes. “She didn’t say anything last night, but I know she was upset to leave them behind.”

“Why did she?” He waited curiously to see how the child would answer.

Pen frowned. “I don’t know,” she said, meeting his gaze directly. “We were in a hurry. I don’t know why we were in such a hurry. Do you know why, Lord Hugh?”

“Only your mother can tell you that,” he replied gently. “When she wakes, give her my love and tell her I’ll come later this afternoon.”

Pen nodded. “I’ll tell her.”

“Good girl.” He kissed her again quickly, did the same to her sister, and went for his horse.

“Lord Hugh looks tired like Mama,” Pippa observed to her sister, blinking raindrops from her eyelashes as they stood watching their stepfather's departure. “Why are they tired, Pen?”

Pen didn’t reply at once. She frowned down into the puddle forming at her feet.

“Why, Pen?” Pippa tugged at her cloak.

Pen raised her head and looked at her sister with something like pity in her eyes. “You’re such a baby, Pippa.”

“I am not!” Pippa cried. “I just asked a question.”

“They’re tired because something bad has happened,” Pen explained distantly.

“Bad? What bad thing?” Pippa looked dismayed.

“I don’t know,” Pen said. “But whatever it is it's making them both unhappy and I don’t know what we can do about it. I wish Robin was here,” she added fiercely, more to herself than to Pippa.

Abruptly she declared, “I’m going inside, it's too wet out here.” She turned and ran back to the house.

Pippa hesitated for a second, then gathered up her sodden skirts and ran after her. “Wait for me, Pen!”

Hugh barely noticed the rain as he rode back to Holborn. Guinevere was asleep. He had to believe she was asleep and her servants had lied to him. Pippa and Pen would not make up such a tale. Unless, of course, she was taking some much needed privacy by pretending to her daughters that she was sleeping.

But he wouldn’t think like that. He would be optimistic.

Guinevere woke just before midday. She lay feeling drugged with sleep gazing up at the embroidered tester above her. The shutters were now closed again and the chamber was dim and gray, only the flickering fire in the grate giving any light. Rain beat on the roof and against the shutters.

She thought of the child she was carrying. Hugh's child. Her hand rested on her belly. She had awoken thinking of the child as if somewhere in her dreamless sleep her mind had been focused on the life growing within her.

Hugh's child. As much his as hers. A child who had the right to its father. A father who had a right to his child. A father who would cherish and nurture his child. Who would love his child with the same unconditional love he bestowed upon Robin. Upon his stepdaughters.

The door opened softly. Her daughters crept into the chamber and approached the bed on tiptoe. Guinevere turned her head on the pillows and smiled at them in the dim light.

“Are you awake, Mama?” Pen leaned closer.

“Just about. Light the candles, love.”

“I’ll do it!” Pippa snatched up the tinderbox before her sister could take it. “I’ll light the candles.”

Pen sighed and hitched herself up on the bed beside her mother. “Lord Hugh brought your books.”

“I was going to tell Mama that,” Pippa cried. “I was going to tell her Lord Hugh was here.”

“It doesn’t matter who tells me,” her mother said dampeningly.

“Oh.” Pippa came and sat on the other side of the bed. “He said he was going to come back this afternoon. He sent his love to you. Pen and me, we want to know what bad thing has happened.”

Guinevere sat up against the pillows. Hugh had brought
her books. She understood immediately what he was saying. He was prepared to give her up because he accepted that he had no right to expect her to return.

“We want to know, Mama.” Pippa tugged at the loose sleeve of her mother's night robe. “Is something bad happening again? You won’t go to a jail, will you?”

“No,” Guinevere said firmly. “Indeed I won’t.” She was carrying his child. Father and child had a right to each other. He knew what he had done to her. Understood the enormity of it. Was that enough for forgiveness? Was it enough for her to let down her guard? Accept his love again?
Depend upon his love again?
There lay the crux.

“Is it because Robin's sick?” Pen asked tentatively.

“It has something to do with it, sweeting. But I don’t wish to talk about it until Lord Hugh and I have had a chance to think about things … to talk about things.”

“He's coming back later,” Pen said.

“Yes,” her mother agreed gravely. “And we shall talk then. Now, let me get me up. It must be close to dinnertime.”

“There's jugged hare that Greene shot this morning and a fish pudding, Mistress Woolley said,” Pippa informed her, sliding off the bed. “And apple tart.” She seemed to think the matter of Lord Hugh and her mother already resolved.

“Which gown will you wear, Mama?” Pen was burrowing in the armoire.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, Pen. The gray silk will do very well.”

“I don’t think you should wear that,” Pen stated. “I think you should wear this one.” She drew out a gown of turquoise flowered silk that opened over a black taffeta underskirt. It had a deep lace collar low on the shoulders and full, lace-edged sleeves.