Betrayal in the Tudor Court (42 page)

At once Alec’s face softened. He approached her, cupping her face between his warm hands. She trembled. He leaned in, placing a kiss upon her forehead. When he drew back, his eyes were lit with pity. “My poor naïve girl,” he said. “I think you believe that.”

Mirabella shook her head once more, clenching her hands into fists. “It’s the truth! Yes, I was angry at you and Cecily for betraying my father and felt you should suffer for it—I admit it! But this was about so much more than that when I thought about it—”

“When you convinced yourself of it, you mean,” Alec corrected, his gentle tone laced with disgust.

Mirabella bowed her head, closing her eyes. “You will understand. Someday you will understand and then you will thank me for it.”

“Until I reach this understanding, you must … understand, forgive the redundancy, that this is no marriage,” Alec told her in no uncertain terms. He made an expansive hand gesture as he cast his eyes about the room. “You are free to sleep where you like. I, however, will return to my former apartments until I make further arrangements.”

“You will not!” Mirabella cried. “We are married now, Alec!”

“In name only, my dear,” he told her as he made for the door. “Just until I can obtain an annulment … or does that seem ungrateful?”

“Wh-what?” The breath had been sucked from her. Her gut twisted in knots. How could she be such a fool as not to anticipate this? She pursued him, grabbing his upper arm and turning him to face her. “You can’t do this,” she told him in soft tones. “Please don’t do this. Give me a chance to be a good wife to you. Your days as a priest are over now. You cannot return to it after you have disgraced yourself in this fashion—”

Alec withdrew his arm with a jerk. “I disgraced myself? By trusting you, by sacrificing my honour and integrity and choosing a marriage to you rather than death at the stake?” Tears lit his eyes. “Yes … well. Perhaps I did,” he added, his voice just above a whisper.

Mirabella reached up to cup his cheek in her palm. “I know you don’t believe it, but my actions were motivated out of love.”

“You are right,” he said in flat tones. “I don’t believe it. Not for a minute. You were motivated out of anger, bigotry, and jealousy, none of which I have ever confused with love. I have grossly overestimated your intelligence by assuming you could discern the difference yourself. The ability to connive and deceive may fool people into believing one is intelligent for a time, but not for long.”

“You should know,” Mirabella said in low tones. “Are you not practised in the art of deception yourself?”

“A dabbler, never a master,” Alec said without pause. “In that area, I defer to you, my good wife.”

“Just you remember, Alec Cahill, who is in possession of your private papers!” Mirabella hissed then. “I only made statements before but did not turn them over … yet.”

Alec shook his head. “Holding me with more threats?” He shrugged. “Do what your conscience advises, Mirabella. If it is God’s will that I be subjected to the stake after all, then I will not fight it.” He expelled a sigh. “And now, it has been a trying day and I would like to bid you good night.”

With this he turned on his heel and fled down the hall.

Mirabella stood alone.

It did not escape Cecily that Alec had taken to his old apartments since his nuptials, leaving an ashamed and humiliated Mirabella to her bridal suite alone. Cecily could not deny a perverse sense of satisfaction at the thought. But it was a short-lived victory; the prize was far too bitter.

And for that prize the household was suffering. The children, especially young Kristina, absorbed the tension like sea sponges. The girl grew pensive, nervous, and agitated at the slightest provocation. Cecily could not condemn the poor thing, always too astute for her own good, and knew some action must be taken to spare the children from the heartbreak that was suffocating Sumerton.

There was no one Cecily could think of to consult but Grace, who had returned to her dwelling and was known only as Mrs Forest, and to very few at that. Cecily chanced riding to her the next day. A light snow blanketed the earth, insulating it as it awaited the birth of new life, new hope. There was no such anticipation for Cecily as she offered a feeble knock.

Grace answered, her blue eyes widening in the subtlest trace of surprise as she beckoned Cecily’s entrance with a thin hand. She could not mask her shock whenever she saw the former Lady Sumerton. Assessing Grace sans the anguish wrought when first her presence was revealed was easier now; Cecily could take her time. Never would she have passed her by and recognised her as the woman who, for all intents and purposes, had raised her. Even if she had not isolated herself, Grace’s humble appearance alone afforded her an inconspicuous existence. She was thin but somehow more robust than Cecily ever recalled seeing her, with her ruddy cheeks and calloused hands that set one at ease the way most hardworking folk could. Her now white hair she wore in a simple plait down her back; she could never be mistaken for the young woman she had been. And yet, as Cecily examined her, still could be found the same wry expression, the sardonic half smile as Lady Grace scrutinised through her lashes. Despite whatever deception and betrayal that went before, there was a strange sense of coming home, a rare comfort Cecily had not experienced since her friendship with Alice.

“My dear.” Grace’s tone was warm as she led her to the bedstead. She poured her something steaming. Cecily took the cup from her with ultimate trust, not realising till after she sipped that it was hot honeyed milk. The drink, hers and Brey’s favourite as children, brought an onset of tears she tried to stifle.

“I did not expect to see you so soon,” Grace said. “I hope you understand why I did not say good-bye. I could not bear to see Hal interred.” Her voice broke as she shrugged, offering an apologetic smile. “I suppose I would rather pretend all is as it was, that he is at Sumerton well and loving you and the children … but it will never be as it was, will it?”

Cecily shook her head. “No, never … and I—I do not know where to turn. My dear friend Alice is dead, my husband is dead. I have no one now. … Fa—Alec and Mirabella are lost to me.”

“Alec has taken a blow. And I daresay Mirabella is lost to herself as well,” Grace commented. “But worst of all, lost to that God of hers.” Her lip curved into the half smile Cecily had just now realised she missed. “I wonder what He makes of it?”

Grace rose from the bed to pour them more honeyed milk. “And now I suppose you come to tell me she betrayed our Father Alec as a heretic, only to ‘save’ his life with a wedding ring and renunciation of his vows?”

Cecily’s mouth fell agape.

“I have my ways; I’ve had them all along,” Grace added with a joyless laugh.

Tears swelled in Cecily’s throat. She swallowed. “It isn’t good for the children, living like this, seeing all the resentment and anger, and them mourning their father.”

“You cannot think that Father Alec desires to be married to Mirabella any more than she desires to be married to him, God help her realise it,” Grace explained. “And, no, it is not a happy home for those children right now, I agree. God knows I’ve contributed enough to unhappy homes. …” Her eyes grew distant a moment. She shook her head, as though with that gesture she could shake the regret, replacing the wistfulness with her devil-may-care smile.

“Mirabella and … Alec are miserable. They sleep in separate chambers and he, from all reports, can’t abide the sight of her. I suppose I avoid them both and the children are left trying to maintain a relationship with all of us while trying to hurt none of us; it is a weighty lot we’ve put on their small shoulders.”

“The children must be protected for a time,” Grace conceded. “But only for a time. You must send them away, all but the weak one, little Emmy. The other two are ripe for fostering and with their blue blood as backing you can have your pick of good families. In these times I recommend you find a family that is religiously ambiguous and has never had any dealings, good or bad, with the Crown that might draw any attention to them. Times are changing and reigns will, too. It is best to find a family that can change with the times.”

Cecily absorbed these thoughts with a solemn nod. “But where? And who? Everyone I know seems to be firmly entrenched in either the old faith or the new. No one is above suspicion in Henry VIII’s England. I cannot imagine—”

“You do not have to,” Grace told her. “Fortunately, I have enough imagination for both of us.” Grace leaned her chin on her steepled fingers. “Now. Are you aware of the Hapgood family?”

“Hapgood …” Cecily tested the name; it rolled unfamiliar on her tongue.

“They are middle gentry, high and low enough to assure your children a place in society and assure you that they will not arouse any sort of controversy from His Majesty’s court or otherwise,” Grace told her, her voice ringing with the authority of a well-informed chatelaine. “A little reformist in bent but not dangerously so. And they have children old enough to contract alliances with Harry and Kristina, matches that may be a bit beneath you but guaranteed to satisfy any family with a bit of ambition. They wouldn’t refuse your children, in other words. They are far from here, Cecily, very far, which will be hard for you. Hard but necessary.”

“But Harry has been brought up in the Earl of Surrey’s household till now,” Cecily pointed out, the thought of sending her children to an even more distant destination chilling her to the core. “Hal had hoped to marry him into the Howards.”

“A sinking ship to be sure, until such fortunes reverse,” Grace said, once again shaming Cecily with the fact that she remained more aware of the world’s happenings in her forest sanctuary than the lady of a bustling castle. “The Duke of Norfolk and his unfortunate son are in the Tower as we speak, arrested for treason—Surrey plotted to kidnap the little Prince Edward, I believe, and quartered his arms with Edward the Confessor. Norfolk has been implicated as a participant. Only a fool would ward a child to that lot as it stands now, let alone sanction a marriage.”

“My God,” Cecily breathed in awe, sending a quick prayer up for the tragedy-ridden Howard clan, who had already lost two queens and countless children. It would be heartless to exclude them, however conniving and plotting they may be, from compassion. As much sympathy as Cecily felt for their plight, however, she would never be such a fool as to express it. She nodded in agreement. “No, of course I can never send him to the Howards now,” she said. “But the Hapgoods? How do I go about introducing myself and presenting the idea of wardship and possible alliance?”

“Leave that to me,” Grace said, her smile triumphant.

Cecily’s heart surged with fresh hope as she regarded the woman who had stood as, ironically, her truest friend. She thanked God that Mirabella’s hatred had turned on her to reveal such a blessing and knew without doubt that in coming to Grace she had come to the right place.

The Hapgoods were impressed with the letter of introduction and proposal of wardship and possible future alliance, “should the children prove compatible.” Grace had composed the missive in Cecily’s name and negotiated the terms. For their wardship the Hapgoods would receive a handsome annuity to cover the expenses of the children’s upbringing. They would be received after Twelfth Night, an affair Cecily could not imagine infusing any joy in without Hal, the great lover of all holidays and master reveller.

There was but to tell the children, a task Cecily took on with a generous measure of dread. But she recalled Harry’s stoic strength in the light of his father’s death and Alec’s arrest, along with Kristina’s understanding. They were strong children, brave, and had endured much. They would survive a separation. Indeed, most children of noble birth did; it was not an unusual practice, to say the least. Had not Cecily herself begun her life at Sumerton as Lord Hal and Lady Grace’s ward?

She took supper with the children in the nursery, laying out their favourites. Prawns Kristina could pop in her mouth like sweetmeats, with a plate of mutton so tender it melted in the mouth for Harry. And for little Emmy, whom Cecily held on her lap to comfort herself as much as the child, hot spiced apples.

The nursery, where her own life began with Brey—such an innocent, happy spirit!—and Mirabella, with her misplaced intensity and fruitless crusades. The nursery witnessed their joys and their fears and, always, their good-byes. Now it would be good-bye again with none but little Emmy as its sole occupant.

“What is it, my lady?” Always intuitive, Kristina could not waste a moment on idle chatter.

Cecily smiled, reaching out to take the children’s hands. “My darlings, you know there comes a time in the lives of many noble children to receive a higher education and experience a life their home cannot offer—”

Kristina rose, folding her arms across her chest. “You’re sending us away.” It was a statement. Her little bow mouth puckered. “Why now? Why can’t we wait? Father’s only just gone; we haven’t had a proper mourning! Besides, you need us to help you! And we … we need you. …”

Cecily could not maintain any composure in the light of Kristina’s argument. Tears stung her eyes. “It isn’t that I want to send you away … but there are things happening here you need not be affected by just now.” Cecily swallowed. “So I crave your patience and forgiveness for what I must do.” She expelled a quavering sigh. “You must know, no matter what, that all that has come to pass will not ever diminish my love for you both. That is a constant.”

“Oh, my lady, there is nothing you could do that could stop us loving you,” Harry assured her. “But are you certain this is the right thing?”

Cecily shook her head, touched. “It is for me and our current circumstances as much as to honour your father’s wishes. He would not have wanted any of us to stop living and, especially, to stop learning.” She looked to her daughter, hoping to abate the confusion lighting the liquid brown eyes. “Kristina, you must learn to become a great lady. With the Hapgoods you can study the social graces. There are other children your age there—why, I believe there are ten! You will have friends of your own station to grow up with.” She turned to Harry, her solemn boy, who stayed his quivering lip, his blue eyes alight with an understanding beyond his years. “Harry, you will have a proper gentleman’s education—you must learn to be my brave knight and with the Hapgood boys you can learn. What’s more, you will be together. I could never bear to separate you.”