The potential of failure drove Ned into new cruelty. “What does the opinion of an unwanted husband matter when I've just told you the squire plots to force Catholicism back upon England's citizenry? A faithful woman,” he gave just enough edge to these words to indicate he thought her no such thing, “would do all she could to preserve her faith. That, madam, is your only purpose in this marriage.”
The words should have had her cowering before him. Instead, Lady Purfoy’s chin lifted. Her eyes snapped fire.
“You arrogant ass,” she said. “You don't care what becomes of me and mine so long as you achieve your own end. Release me!”
“Or you'll do what?” he mocked.
Pain exploded in his gut as she drove her elbow deep into his midsection. Ned gagged. He bent. Stars swam before his eyes as all the breath left his lungs. Arms crossed over his belly, he gasped like a dying fish and got about as much relief. He watched helplessly as she turned and raced from the garden.
In his panic he’d destroyed his only chance for rescue. She'd never pardon him, not unless he admitted why he needed to use her. And to do that was to commit political suicide.
Oh, dear Lord! What had she done? Belle stared in horror at the gasping man. Attacked the queen’s proxy, that’s what. He was too proud a man not to try and punish her for her bold behavior even though he had earned it through his attempts to use her.
Snatching up her skirts, she whirled and hurried as fast as her head would allow out of the garden, then into Richmond's outer courtyard where she stopped in confusion. The queen had commanded new lodging for her party moved and she didn't know where they were.
Belle turned a circle, scanning the square for anyone wearing a courtier's silk. The yard was even more crowded now than it’d been when she entered the garden. Serving men, their doublets off and their collars opened, were busy carting their betters' baggage from the palace to the battalion of wagons waiting in the nearby green. Where the queen went, so went her nobles along with all their chairs, chests, tables and carpets.
As Belle made another frustrated turn, she again caught a glimpse of the garden gate. Sir Edward strode in her direction, his legs stretched into a fast walk. With a yelp, she turned a wild pirouette in one last, hopeless attempt to find someone to aid her.
“Lady Purfoy!” Peg Hythereve's gravelly voice boomed down into the yard.
Belle’s maid from her earliest years leaned out of a second-story window in one of the residences crowding the courtyard walls. Framed by the fine mullioned glass panels at either side of the opening, the grinning Peg still wore her stained brown traveling garments. “You must come and see the house they've given us,” she called with a wave of her hefty arm.
“Open the door!” Belle shouted as she sprinted in the house's direction.
Astonishment splayed across Peg's fleshy features then she disappeared from the window. By the time Belle reached the door, it stood open but blocked by Peg's bulk.
“Back,” Belle cried, giving her maid a goodly shove so she could enter.
“My lady!” the woman cried as she staggered back into the room's dimness then collapsed to sit upon the floor with a gusting thump.
Belle slammed the door. It struck the frame and bounced open. Heart in her throat, she shoved at it again, then, fingers scrabbling, caught up the bar and tossed it into its brackets.
It settled with a satisfying
thunk
. Belle leaned her overheated brow against the door’s cool wood. She was safe.
Still fighting for breath, she rolled to the side to sag in the wall’s corner. Peg stared up from her seat upon the floor. Beneath her pique at being so rudely shoved, worry touched her broad face.
“Belle, love, what is it?” she asked, forgetting rank and tradition against the panic of the moment. All Belle could do was shake her head and stare at the quarters the queen thought fit for a lord's bride.
It was a narrow chamber with a tile floor. The walls were no different than most houses, being plastered and painted white. Already low, the ceiling seemed even closer to the floor what with the thick dark beams crossing it. A steep staircase climbed the leftward wall. It wasn’t a clever stairway, not when access to the upper floor was a simple square cut from the upper floorboards. There was a hearth in the room's far wall, barely big enough to warm the room much less allow for cooking. But then, what need was there for cooking when all courtiers and their servants were expected to take their meals in Richmond’s hall?
Richard Moorward, the young footman whose contract of service had shifted to Belle upon her husband’s death, squatted near the hearthstone, his saddle packs beside him. Small and sensible with narrow face and shoulders, Richard claimed to be a simple man, asking no more of life than three meals a day, a new set of clothing at Christmastide and the occasional gratuity to augment his yearly wage. Just now his tawny brows were lifted high onto his forehead in surprise as he looked between Peg and his mistress.
The metallic sound of the door latch jiggling against the bar exploded into the room’s quiet. Belle sprang away from the panel as if pricked. Of a sudden, Richard was at Belle's side, his every muscle tense. Despite his small size, he radiated strength and confidence.
“My lady, what is it?” he whispered.
There was a quiet tap. “Lady Purfoy?” The call came softly through the door. “Please, it's Sir Edward Mallory.”
Hearing a gentleman’s name, Richard relaxed. Relief whooshed from Peg and she heaved herself to her feet with a groan to start for the door. Belle caught her maid’s hand before the woman could reach for the bar.
“Upstairs, and swiftly,” Belle whispered in command to both of them, already turning to lead the way, Peg's hand yet in hers. Richard only stared at her, his face alive in surprise at so strange a command. Servants of his rank rarely entered their betters’ private chambers.
“Come,” Belle urged him. Over their weeks of traveling she'd come to value him for his calm assessments and quick understanding of situations. It was this she needed from him now and in a place where there was no chance Sir Edward might overhear.
Still looking confused, Richard followed her up the stairs as Sir Edward tapped again, this time with more vigor.
“Please, my lady,” he said, sounding frantic indeed. “If I could only explain?”
Ignoring him, Belle stepped into the upper chamber. Brigit Atwater stood near the window. Pretty Brigit, Lucy’s reluctant governess, was not yet twenty. Wearing a bodice and skirt of green with a white coif atop her black hair, her face was pinched in worry.
Clutched tightly to her side was Lucy. Belle's precious daughter wore only her shirt and a wee white coif atop her golden curls in preparation for napping.
“Mama,” Lucy cried and tore out of her governess’s arms to launch herself at Belle.
Belle lifted her daughter onto one hip, grateful beyond telling that she remained free to do so. Burying her face into Lucy’s hair, she breathed in her daughter’s scent. Keeping Lucy safe and in her arms was all that mattered now.
Downstairs, Sir Edward nigh on pounded on the door. The sound filled the upper chamber through its open windows.
“What's happening?” Brigit cried out. “Why does no one answer the door?” Her words died into a gasp as Richard followed Peg into the upper chamber then she blushed prettily. Despite the difference in their ranks and backgrounds, she and Richard had become friendly during the journey to Richmond.
“Please, my lady.” Sir Edward’s voice rose in desperation. “A moment is all I ask. Please, open the door.”
Richard strode across the room and closed the window. The knocking stopped. A moment passed, then another. All remained quiet.
Lucy's grip around Belle’s neck loosened. She pressed her lips to her mother’s ear. “Why are we afraid?” she whispered loudly, sounding nothing of the sort.
“We aren’t afraid,” Belle replied, to hide her own cowardice from her bolder daughter.
“We aren’t?” Peg cried, now wringing her hands along with Brigit. “Then why are we all up here? What has the knight done that you must run from him?”
Another gentlewoman would have held back, waiting until she had one of her own class in whom to confide. A lifetime of scorn from those deemed of her class had left Belle far more trusting of her servants than any other.
“He asked that I should be his spy, prying into the affairs of the new husband Her Majesty has found for me.”
“A new husband?” her maid gasped, her eyes round as coins.
“Aye.” Belle's lips formed a weak smile. “However, the bridegroom no more wants the bride than she wishes to wed him.”
“But not even the queen can force others to wed against their wills,” Brigit offered stoutly. Then she glanced uncertainly at Richard. “Can she?”
“Only if our good Queen Bess has some way of twisting Lady Purfoy and this man into accepting the union,” he said, then looked at his lady. “Does she have a way?”
“She does,” Belle replied with a sigh. “If I resist, I may find myself sharing my lady mother’s Tower confinement.”
Peg blanched at the mention of that horrid prison. Brigit gasped and eased a half-step closer to Richard. The footman stood as he always did, solid and sober. Lucy leaned her cheek against her mother's. Belle's arms tightened possessively around her beautiful child.
“Why is your lady mother imprisoned?” Peg demanded, trading on nearly thirty years of familiarity to pose so blunt a question.
Belle set Lucy down to give her servants the explanation they deserved. “It seems my lady mother plotted the destruction of another woman at court, one of the queen's maids. Somehow, the promise of my hand in marriage was a part of this plan. Although my dam’s plot failed, I think the queen is avenging herself upon her lady-in-waiting by seeing this marriage accomplished. I cannot say what hold Her Majesty has over the man she'd have me wed, but someone mentioned he is disfigured and never leaves his home. Perhaps it’s that he's not powerful enough to resist her?”
Peg’s brows flattened in consideration. “Never leaves his home, you say? Well now, that's not so bad. If we find he’s not to our liking, we can take ourselves out of his reach.” She nodded to herself, “Aye, chances are our life with him will be much the same as it was with Sir William in his last years, him keeping to his own sphere, while we do as we please in ours.”
A great stone dropped from Belle's shoulders. Peg was right. A man who had no interest in her would hardly demand anything from her.
“What's his station?” her maid asked.
“He's a squire,” Belle said, “but the queen’s wedding gift to him is the restoration of his family's title. He will be Lord Graceton after we are wed.”
“A lord!” Color blazed on Peg’s cheeks. Her smile was so wide it nearly split her face. Clapping her hands, she did a little jig, heavy breasts bouncing in her bodice as she danced. “You’re marrying into the peerage? God be praised, my lady! At last you’ll have the husband you deserve.” The move to an aging knight's country manor had been quite the comedown for Peg, who had relished all the pomp and style of Lord Montmercy’s household.
Belle was just irritated enough by her maid’s reaction to deliver the rest of her news with nothing to cushion the blow. “I hadn’t realized you were so fond of Papists.”
“He’s a Catholic?” Peg squeaked.
“He and all his household,” Belle replied, her own fear over being forced into a heretic's household returning.
Brigit moaned. “What if they take our Bibles and prayer books? My lady, I cannot enter the Devil’s house. I pray you release me from your service so I might return to my father.”
Behind Brigit, Richard shook his head. “Nay Mistress Atwater, you mistake our situation,” he said, a new intensity in his voice. “This is an opportunity to show poor misguided sinners the path to righteousness.”
Belle watched the look Brigit sent Richard in disappointment. Not only did the girl have too much spirit for Belle’s quiet household, but no gentlewoman should look so at a footman. And no mistress should allow her gentle servants to form such affection for the commoners beneath them. She would have to talk to Brigit, but not yet. Not until they were once more settled. As long as they traveled together separating Brigit and Richard wasn’t possible.
The governess drew a tremulous breath and clasped her hands before her. “Aye, you’re right. After all,” she continued in a small voice, “we're none of us going to this place alone are we? I mean, there's all of us.”
Brigit’s words rang in the room. Richard again nodded while Peg’s clasped hands opened. Belle breathed in relief, some confidence returning. Brigit was right. Wherever they went, this little family of hers, they went together.
As her world steadied Belle’s stomach grumbled. “Peg, have we anything to eat?” she asked her maid.
“Nay, naught,” the serving woman replied, “but I'll just hie me down to the queen’s kitchen to find us something to nibble on. If any dares complain, I'll tell them it’ll be no good my lady marrying into the peerage with naught but skin atop her bones.” She turned and clattered down the stairs.
Brigit held out a hand to her charge. “Come, Mistress Lucy. You need that hour's sleep if you're ever to regain your health.”
“Nay,” Lucy squealed, edging behind the fullness of Belle’s skirts.
Drawing Lucy out of hiding, Belle lifted her daughter’s chin to look into her child’s face. It was in Lucy that Lady Montmercy’s famed beauty found expression. Although only five, Lucy was beautiful, her face owning a doll-like perfection, every feature finely chiseled and perfectly formed. Like Lady Elisabetta Montmercy’s, Lucy’s eyes were a blue so deep they seemed the color of sapphires. Just now, the downward pull of the child’s mouth and her tears spoiled her fine looks.
“You must nap, poppet,” Belle said, smoothing a stray curl back under her child’s cap. “Sleep will make you feel better.”
Lucy's lower lip began to tremble. “But I don’t want to sleep on the pallet from our wagon, Mama,” she complained. “It's lumpy and it stinks. Can’t we go back to that inn where we stayed?”
Belle smiled. It wasn’t the inn's bed Lucy wanted, but the innkeeper's daughter. The same age as Lucy, the child had kept her company during her illness.
“Nay, love. We cannot go back, but if you sleep now you'll be well enough to attend my betrothal ceremony on the morrow.”
“What’s a betrothal ceremony?” Lucy asked, testing to see if the sop was worthy of her compliance.
“On the morrow I will give my promise before God to marry my new husband at some later date,” Belle replied.
Deep in Lucy's eyes, interest sparked. “My father was your husband.”
“So he was,” Belle said, “and my new husband will be your stepfather.”
Lucy bounced free of her mother's hold. “My stepfather! Is he kind? Will he play with me? Can I ride his horse?”
Only then did Belle see the trap her canny daughter had laid for her. In his last months, William Purfoy had filled his youngest child's head with impossible expectations, promising Lucy a new stepfather who would do all the things he had never once considering doing with his child, including tree climbing. An indolent man by nature, Belle doubted that Sir William had ever considered scaling a tree.