A Kiss in the Night (37 page)

"'Twas her eyes," Clair said. "Her beautiful silver eyes. There was such kindness there and hope of youth. She was so young, barely ten and five. Milady, you cannot blame her, for she had nothing before this, past her flawless tongue; not shoes against the winter or her next piece of bread. And Lord Morgan would surely have condemned her, too, if I said she was a pretender. I felt in that moment that I might as easily put the knife in her heart with my own hands...and I couldn't do it.”

Eleanor absorbed this, indeed she even understood this, except for the single most damning fault. "
Mon Dieu
, Clair! To keep me from knowing Belinda's death!"

"'Twas wrong, milady." Clair shook her head. " 'Twas the thing that always grieves Linness the most. We have no excuse; I have no excuse."

Subdued, Clair went on to describe their life at Gaillard. A good life. Linness brought happiness to everyone who knew her, save for certain unnamed members of the clergy. Eleanor knew this much was true, for her own life and that of her late husband had been so touched by this unusual woman.

Yet her mind kept returning to Belinda. Her daughter was dead, and yet when she greeted this idea, she felt...nothing. Shock certainly explained some of the absence of a mother's natural sentiments when confronting the death of an only child, but not all of it. No, not all of it.

For some small part of her had known, had always known. The cruel and unpleasant child she had raised had disappeared long ago, died long ago, alive no more. And though she had viewed this as a miraculous transformation, rather than death, the two seemed somehow interchangeable, a jumble in her mind.

Memories of Belinda played through Lady Beaumaris's mind as Clair went on describing Linness and their life. She told of her sight, her devoutness, her recent trouble with the new bishop. Eleanor remembered vividly Belinda's more famous tantrums, all rising from the expectation, the demand, that all the world turn on her whims, of which there were many. She had been only ten when she took a knife to a child's doll, chopping it to pieces, just to spite the poor servant because the little girl had loved that doll and had refused to give it to Belinda. Another time Belinda had ripped ribbons from a servant's head, taking a clump of hair in her fit, claiming the servant had stolen the ribbons from her box—this after the distraught servant produced the vendor who had sold the ribbon to her just the day before. So many ugly incidents. Perhaps the worst aspect of Belinda was her own unhappiness; her despondency went deep. She went through periods when she could hardly lift herself from the bed, succumbing to tears, endless tears, and for no reason she knew.

With a small shudder, she remembered her husband's words, uttered in a half-sleeping state, uttered in the darkness of night. She had just returned to bed after spending half the night trying to comfort her girl, worried, at a loss as to what to do. The last in a long series of expensive surgeons had just left the day before, and he left them with the suggestion of an exorcism. Demonic possession, he had concluded. Her husband had gathered her into his arms. "She would be better off dead, she suffers so..."

Her own thoughts had joined him secretly, wickedly. Aye, Belinda would be better off dead. There was no rest for them until the day Belinda had departed from them, and even then they had been so afraid, certain really, the marriage would soon be annulled and Belinda returned to Montegrel…

Linness woke with a small start.

She sat up slowly, bringing the covers with her. Lady Beaumaris sat on the bed. She looked about the room. At Clair. The lady. No one else was with them. She looked back at the lady.

In a rush of movement, she came out of the bed and dropped to her knees before her. "Milady, milady," she begged, tears springing from her gray eyes. "I am so sorry you had to find out this way about your daughter's death. No words can ever excuse what I have done to you. Ever. There is no excuse for denying you the knowledge of her death!"

The lady made no response at first to these anxious words. Then she nodded. "I do not know how you managed a...a deception of this…this consequence," she said, still confused by all of it. "All these years, all those letters, those beautiful letters. I should have known they could not have been penned by Belinda. Somehow I feel as if I did know, but they were such a sweet comfort and joy to us--"

Mother and child. Mother and child. Linness's face drained of blood as these words echoed in her mind. She reached for the lady's hands, imploring, "
Mon Dieu
, did Morgan renounce Jean Luc?'"

Lady Beaumaris looked confused for a moment before she understood. If she spoke, Morgan would have to renounce Jean Luc. That charming boy would not inherit. He would be a bastard. The boy, the beautiful boy.

How could she do that?

"Did he?"

"Nay, no one knows. Save for Clair, of course. She told me everything: Belinda's death, how you appeared at Gaillard, everything—"

"My son, Madame, I do not deserve your forgiveness and I would not ask, except for my innocent son—"

The door opened with a violent thrust. Linness and Eleanor rose with a start. The bishop and four priests appeared. Morgan and Paxton followed. The room shrank with their masculine presence.

Tension filled the room as the bishop absorbed the scene in a glance. He drew a deep breath, preparing to condemn Linness, but he stopped, seeing Eleanor's face change with a smile.

"My daughter has recovered from her shock.” The words sounded as she offered Linness the loving embrace of a mother. Linness accepted, and from it, she knew gratitude.

The bishop watched this tender scene with disbelief, his incredulousness boiling over to fury. A red-hot fury that knew no limits, it trembled through him. With his mouth pressed in a hard line, his long staff punched the stone floor and he spun on his heels, turning away. His startled priests followed, more than one questioning their superior. . . .

"By Jesu!" Morgan watched this in confusion. "He insisted on meeting with you, milady. He said you had a far bigger revelation for me than your mother's surprise visit." He shook his head. "A passel full of trouble, he is. Now, what could he mean by it?"

"I believe I will be staying here through the harvest," Eleanor said. "Or do you think he could have guessed the present I brought?"

Paxton drew his first easy breath and eased his grip on his sword. Since learning of the lady's arrival and taking in the bishop and his priest circling Linness like vultures, he had faced the certainty of upcoming battle. The question was Morgan; whose side would he join? The side to save Linness or the side to condemn her? He suspected the former, except that he had no doubt the bishop would have related tales of infidelity as well. Then he couldn't guess what Morgan would do. Nor the Gaillard guards. Many of them would no doubt go with Morgan, but there were more than a few who would go with him, if not out of loyalty to himself, then out of devotion to Linness.

He would have had to send her far away, to some place where the church could not find her. Somewhere in Scotland or the northern states of the Holy Roman Empire. She would lose not only himself and Jean Luc but her whole life, all that she knew and all the people she loved.

The dark scenario melted away. His intense relief made him want to drop to his knees and kiss the lady's shoes.

Morgan dismissed the bishop and turned to introduce Paxton to Lady Beaumaris. She knew at once who else among these new faces had joined the conspiracy. For the light of gratitude in Paxton's fine dark eyes said so much...

* * * *

"You see, milord, the positions of Mercury and the sun are coming into alignment. Within one week, Mars, too, will join the perimeters of the orbit, which means—"

"Enough," Paxton said., interrupting this long-winded speech made of nonsense. "We have heard this all before. You may leave the hall to wait for your lordship's decision outside."

Pol Saint Jude looked angrily back at Paxton, but he nodded and gathered up his precious charts and maps before he and his three young assistants left the hall. The famous astrologer arrived every year in August to offer Morgan the best date for harvesting the vineyard's grapes. Every year these predictions had been a disaster.

Selecting the harvest date was like walking a tightrope over a deep and treacherous valley. The longer one waited, the sweeter and more potent the wine, but one day too many and whole fields could be lost. If an unexpected storm arrived, the whole harvest could be wiped out.

Morgan always waited too long. Last year he had waited until almost half the yield had gone to rot. The year before he had waited for a late harvest, and though Linness herself had warned him of the approaching summer storm, he had delayed the date again and lost almost three quarters of the yield. So it went. Every year Morgan picked wrong.

"Do not listen to that old fool," Paxton said "Now is the time. Tomorrow.”

Still Morgan hesitated. Paxton thought the grapes were ready. Just today they had found one field with four rotten bunches another with five. This was the first sign they must act quickly before it was too late.

Yet Morgan so loved a sweet, potent wine. The sweeter and more potent, the better—and the higher price the barrels fetched. The astrologers guaranteed a week of good weather and a bountiful harvest on the date. "Three more days," Morgan said, but in a voice weighted with uncertainty

"Nay, brother." Paxton shook his head. "I am warning you—the rot has started; we can wait no more. One more day and we could lose twenty percent of the yield. Besides, the cottars are waiting, and the wine press is ready."

Morgan appeared to consider all this. "Aye, but the astrologer—"

"That man has been wrong five years now," Paxton pointed out. "I have no more faith in astrology than I do in chance, less even when considering that man's record. Morgan," he tried to reason with his brother, "if he has not been right so far, what would you listen to him now?"

Morgan nodded slowly. His brother's words rang true, and they lay against Pol Saint Jude's excuses for why he had been wrong. Of which there were many. The man had promised that this year was different. This year he guaranteed his prediction, and had offered half his fee back if he was wrong.

Paxton placed his hand on his forehead and looked away. 'Twas his life's thorn, always having to defer to Morgan's decision when he knew better. The dark shadow in his life.

The light in his eyes changed as he found Linness. She clutched the folds of his favorite dress, watching Morgan with the same anxiousness as all the other people gathered in the hall. The skirts were made of a pale violet cotton, the tight bodice made of a purple velvet, trimmed in gold. Short, puffy sleeves left her thin arms bare. Aye, the dress was his favorite because it was the easiest to remove.

He remembered the musical echo of her laughter when he had told her this. The memory of what had followed played in his mind. He drew a deep breath as heat rushed to his loins at the thought.

He had spent the last three days separated from her as he had left to secure enough laborers for the harvest, a thing John and the wine steward normally managed. It had been a week since Lady Eleanor had arrived and took up residence in Linness's apartment. Despite numerous attempts, they had not been able to find a moment alone. Over a week had passed since he last felt her sweet, pliant lips beneath his, the incredible softness of her breasts in his palm, watched her eyes shine with passion or heard her love cries, over a week since he parted her thighs and slipped in the damp mercy of her sheath. He was losing his mind with desire.

'Twas an echo of their dark future, of what life would be without her. An emptiness filled only with longing. And while he tried to fill the emptiness with the wealth in his life, enough wealth for dozens of men, the responsibilities and labor put into his land and estates and the hundreds of dependent people it could neither touch the emptiness nor alter the longing.

He sometimes imagined what life would be like with Linness at his side. He imagined being free to love her: the joy of waking up in the morning with her breath against his skin, her warm softness pressed against his, free to talk and laugh and tease all the time, to share all the small and large joys and triumphs, disappointments and frustrations. . .

The future that should have been.

Paxton forced his thoughts back to the task at hand. Morgan appeared deep in thought; he was indecisive still. "Morgan," he continued, "this year's wine already promises to be the sweetest and most potent Gaillard has ever produced. It could be the best wine Gaillard has ever produced!" He patted his brother's back and said meaningfully, "You will be rich."

"Oh, do say aye, Morgan!" Linness said, as she stepped over and squeezed his hand affectionately. "’Twill take four days to harvest the fields, and on the last day of the feast, there will be a harvest moon for the celebration! The harvest feast will be on the night of a harvest moon. Surely that is a fortuitous sign, more potent than anything the astrologers can find?"

Morgan absorbed the anxious hope appearing in his wife's gray eyes. A full moon, aye, 'twas a good sign. And wasn't she always right about things? "You think we should harvest now, too?"

"Aye," she said, "I do."

He smiled at her. "Ah, well," he agreed at last, "if you really think one more day might cost us some yield, then let us harvest the crop. The grapes are sweet enough already, are they not?"