Authors: Jane Feather
“You are miraculous,” he whispered against her mouth.
“Now, my lord, we need to tidy her ladyship up a little,” the midwife said, gesturing toward the door. “I’m sure everyone’s very anxious to hear of her ladyship’s safe delivery of two such healthy babes.”
“No.” Gabrielle put out an imperative hand. “Jake must be the first to know.”
“Of course,” Nathaniel said. “I’ll just sit over here and wait until you’re ready to receive him.”
Ignoring the sniffs of the midwife, he sat down on the window seat, stretching his legs in front of him, linking his hands behind his head, a dreamy smile on his lips as he contemplated his family. How had he ever thought he didn’t want any more children?
The bustle continued around him for a half-hour, and then Ellie pulled back the bedcurtains and announced, “Her ladyship is ready for visitors, my lord.”
Nathaniel went over to the bed. Gabrielle was propped up against piled pillows, and her translucent
pallor blended with the embroidered white linen. Black shadows smudged the thin skin beneath the charcoal eyes, but there was life and laughter in her eyes and her hair had been brushed into some semblance of its usual fierce vibrancy.
“Fetch Jake,” she said. “And I’m sure the doctor would appreciate a glass of something … to wet the babies’ heads.” An eyebrow lifted quizzically as she reminded him of his role.
Nathaniel shook his head ruefully. There’d been no joyous celebrations of birth around Helen’s deathbed; perhaps it wasn’t surprising he’d neglected the ritual.
It was easily rectified, however, and the doctor was soon appreciating a glass of the finest cognac from the decanter in Nathaniel’s adjoining apartments.
Jake jumped to his feet as his father entered the schoolroom.
“My lord?” Primmy put down her tambour frame, her faded eyes both apprehensive and excited.
“All’s well,” he said. “Come, Jake. Gabrieile’s waiting for you.” He held out his hand and the child ran to him.
“But, Lord Praed? What … what …” The question went unanswered as Nathaniel left the schoolroom hand in hand with his excited son.
Jake dropped his father’s hand as they neared the Queen’s Suite and ran ahead, bursting through the door. “Gabby …”
He stopped in the doorway, staring at the bed. “There’s two of ’em,” he said with more indignation than pleasure.
“Yes, it
was
rather a surprise,” Gabrielle said cheerfully. “Come and meet them.”
Jake approached the bed somewhat cautiously. He peered into the shawls Gabby held, one in each arm. “Which is which?”
“Well, this is your sister.” Gabrielle indicated the left shawl. “And this is your brother.”
Jake squinted at the two wrinkled beings, commenting, “One of each.”
“Just so.” His father leaned over. “But don’t ask me how you can tell when they’re all swaddled like this.”
“It’s easy,” Gabrielle said. “Jake’s sister has a curl on her forehead.”
“An’ the other one’s got no hair at all,” Jake pronounced, hitching himself onto the bed. “Can I hold him?”
Gabrielle handed over the right-hand bundle, smiling as Jake struggled to accommodate the living shawl in his arms.
“Now, who’s that?” Nathaniel strode to the window, opened onto the soft warmth of the July evening. Carriage wheels crunched on the gravel below.
“Georgie, I expect,” Gabrielle said calmly, playing with her daughter’s tiny fingers.
“But how could she have known?”
Gabrielle smiled, tickling the infant’s chin. “We’ve always known when important things are happening to the other. It’s very mysterious.”
“She has Lady DeVane with her,” Nathaniel observed in mild resignation, leaning out of the window. “I can only imagine Simon and Miles and Lord DeVane are not far behind.”
Gabrielle chuckled. “Probably not Lord DeVane. He’s not too enamoured of babies. But I’m sure you’re right about Miles and Simon.”
Nathaniel scooped his younger son from the arms of the elder and said, “Run downstairs, Jake, and welcome Lady Vanbrugh and Lady DeVane, and escort them up here.”
Jake blinked. This was a novel responsibility. He looked at the bundle that was his brother. Such a baby.
“Yes, Papa. Can I tell them it’s two?” He slid from the bed and ran from the room before Nathaniel could answer him.
“Let me hold her too,” he said, his eyes gleaming with pure pride.
Gabrielle handed over her own bundle and lay back, smiling. The extent of Nathaniel’s pride and joy took her by surprise, and she wondered why as she watched him holding his children, waiting to present them to their first outside admirers.
“Gabby …” Georgie exploded through the door first. “Was it all right? I was so worried about you.” Ignoring Nathaniel and his bundles, she flew to the bed and flung her arms around her cousin. “Look at you,” she said between laughter and tears. “You look no more tired than after a day’s hunting!”
Gabrielle hugged her tightly. “Believe me, love, I’d rather hunt.”
“Yes, it is awful, isn’t it?” Georgie straightened, feeling for her handkerchief. Misty-eyed, she turned to Nathaniel, who was reluctantly relinquishing his infants to the arms of Lady De Vane.
“Congratulations,” she said, standing on tiptoe and kissing his cheek with a warmth that startled him.
He put an arm around her and hugged her with a fierceness that startled both of them.
“Well, if this isn’t just like you, Gabby dear,” Lady DeVane observed placidly, rocking the babies in her arms. “Always full of surprises.”
“Quite so, ma’am,” Nathaniel agreed, sitting on the bed beside Gabrielle, drawing Jake between his knees, rubbing the child’s neck.
“Have you named them?” Lady DeVane asked, handing one infant to her eager daughter.
Gabrielle opened her mouth but Nathaniel spoke first. “Imogen.”
“Oh, yes. For Gabby’s mother. Very appropriate …. Would you like to hold your sister, dear?” Ladíy DeVane bent her vague smile on Jake.
Jake wanted to ask how this lady could know which one she was giving him. She didn’t know about
the curl. But it wouldn’t be polite to ask. He held out his arms.
“And what of the boy?”
“William,” Nathaniel said quietly.
Gabrielle was suddenly very still. That was not a name they’d discussed.
“Is that a family name, Lord Praed?” Lady DeVane looked mildly curious.
“No,” Nathaniel said. “It honors a lost life.” He looked at Gabrielle, and she smiled her crooked smile, her eyes filled with love.
Guillaume’s death had begun this. Her son would celebrate his life.
J
ANE
F
EATHER
is the
New York Times
bestselling, award-winning author of
The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, A Valentine Wedding
, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has over five million copies of her books in print.
Don’t miss Jane Feather’s latest
captivating romance
The Widow’s Kiss
on sale now.
Read on for a special sneak preview ….
DERBYSHIRE, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER 1536
T
HE WOMAN STOOD
by the open window, the soft breeze stirring the folds of her blue silk hood as it hung down her back. She stood very still and straight, her dark gown shadowy against the dense velvet of the opened window curtains.
She heard him in the corridor outside, his heavy, lumbering step. She could picture his large frame lurching from side to side as he approached. Now he was outside the great oak door. She could hear his labored breathing. She could picture his bloodshot eyes, his reddened countenance, his lips slack with exertion.
The door burst open. Her husband filled the doorway, his richly jeweled gown swirling about him.
“By God, madam! You would dare to speak to me in such wise at my own table! In the hearing of our guests, of the household, scullions even!” A shower of spittle accompanied the slurred words as he advanced into the chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. It shivered on its hinges.
The woman stood her ground beside the window, her hands clasped quietly against her skirts. “And I say to you, husband, that if you ever threaten one of my daughters again, you will rue the day.” Her voice was barely above a whisper but the words came at him with the power of thunder.
For a second he seemed to hesitate, then he lunged for her with clenched fists upraised. Still she stood her ground, a slight derisive smile on her lips, her eyes, purple as sloes, fixed upon his face with such contempt, he bellowed in drunken rage.
As he reached her, one fist aimed at her pale face beneath its jeweled headdress, his only thought to smash the smile from her lips, to close the hateful contempt in her eyes, she stepped aside. Her foot caught his ankle and the speed and weight of his charge carried him forward.
For a second he seemed to hover at the very brink of the dark space beyond the low-silled window, then he twisted and fell. A shriek of astounded terror accompanied his plunge to the flagstones beneath.
The woman twitched aside the curtain so that she could look down without being seen. At first in the dark depths below the window she could make out nothing, then came the sound of upraised voices, the tread of many feet; light flickered as torchmen came running from the four corners of the courtyard. And now, in the light, she could see the dark, crumpled shape of her husband.
How small he looked, she thought, clasping her elbows across her breast with a little tremor. So much malevolence, so much violence, reduced, deflated, to that inert heap.
And then she seemed to come to life. She moved back swiftly to the far side of the chamber, where a small door gave onto the garderobe. She slipped into the small privy and stood for a second, listening. Running feet sounded in the corridor beyond her chamber. There was a loud knocking, then she heard the latch lift. As the door was flung wide she stepped out of the garderobe, hastily smoothing down her skirts.
An elderly woman stood in the doorway in her nightrobe, her head tucked beneath a white linen cap. “Ay! Ay! Ay!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “What is it, my chuck? What has happened here?” Behind her, curious feces pressed over her shoulder.
The woman spoke to those laces, her voice measured, calming. “I don’t know, Tilly. Lord Stephen came in while I was in the garderobe. He called to me. I was occupied … I couldn’t come to him immediately. He grew impatient … but …” She gave a little helpless shrug. “In his agitation, he must have lost his balance … Men from me window. I didn’t see what happened.”
“Ay … ay … ay” the other woman repeated, almost to herself. “And ‘tis the fourth! Lord-a-mercy.” She fell silent as the younger woman fixed her with a hard, commanding stare.
“Lord Stephen was drunk,” the younger woman said evenly. “Everyone knew it … in the hall, at table. He could barely see straight. I must go down.” She hurried past the woman, past the crowd of gaping servants, gathering her skirts to facilitate her step.
Her steward came running across the great hall as she came down the stairs. “My lady … my lady … such a terrible thing.”
“What happened, Master Crowder? Does anyone know?”
The black-clad steward shook his head and the unloosened lappets of his bonnet flapped at his ears like crows’ wings. “Did you not see it, my lady? We thought you must have known what happened. ’Twas from your chamber window that he fell.”
“I was in the garderobe,” she said shortly. “Lord Stephen was drunk, Master Crowder. He must have lost his footing … his balance. It was ever thus.”
“Aye, ’tis true enough, madam. ’Twas ever thus with his lordship.” The steward followed her out into the courtyard, where a crowd stood around the feilen man.
They gave way before the lady of the house, who knelt on the cobbles beside her husband. His neck was at an odd angle and blood pooled beneath his head. She placed a finger for form’s sake against the pulse in his neck. Then with a sigh sat back on her heels, the dark folds of her gown spreading around her.
“Where is Master Grice?”
“Here, my lady” The priest came running from his little lodging behind the chapel, adjusting his gown as he came. “I heard the commotion, but I …” He stopped as he reached the body. His rosary beads clicked between his fingers as he gazed down and said with a heavy sigh, “May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Lord Stephen’s wife. She rose to her feet in a graceful movement. “Take my lord’s body to the chapel to be washed and prepared. We will say a mass at dawn. He will He in state for the respects of the household and the peasants before his burial tomorrow evening.”
She turned and made her way back through the crowd, back into the house, ducking her head as she stepped through the small door that was set into the larger one to keep the cold and the draughts from invading the hall.
Lady Guinevere was a widow once more.
LONDON, APRIL 1537
“H
OW MANY HUSBANDS
did you say?” The king turned his heavy head towards Thomas Cromwell, his Lord Privy Seal. His eyes rested with almost languid indifference on his minister’s grave countenance, but no one in the king’s presence chamber at Hampton Court believed in that indifference.
“Four, Highness.”
“And the lady is of what years?”
“Eight and twenty, Highness.”
“She has been busy, it would seem,” Henry mused.
“It would seem a husband has little luck in the lady’s bed,” a voice remarked dryly from a dark, paneled corner of the chamber.
The king’s gaze swung towards a man of tall and powerful build, dressed in black and gold. A man whose soldierly bearing seemed ill suited to his rich dress, the tapestry-hung comforts of the chamber, the whispers, the spies, the gossip-mongering of King Henry’s court. He had an air of impatience, of a man who preferred to be doing rather than talking, but there was a gleam of humor in his eyes, a natural curve to his mouth, and his voice was as dry as sere leaves.
“It would seem you have the right of it, Hugh,” the king responded. “And how is it exactly that these unlucky husbands have met their deaths?”
“Lord Hugh has more precise knowledge than I.” Privy Seal waved a beringed hand towards the man in the corner.
“I have a certain interest, Highness.” Hugh of Beaucaire stepped forward into the light that poured through the diamond-paned windows behind the king’s head. “Lady Mallory, as she now is … the
widowed
Lady Mallory … was married to a distant cousin of my father’s when she was sixteen. He was her first husband. There is some family land in dispute. I claim it for my own son. Lady Mallory will entertain no such claim. She has kept every penny, every hectare of land from each of her husbands.”
“No mean feat,” Privy Seal commented. “For a woman.”
“How could she do such a thing?” The king’s eyes gleamed in the deep rolls of flesh in which they were embedded like two bright currants in dough.
“She has some considerable knowledge of the law of property, Highness,” Lord Hugh said. “A knowledge the bereaved widow puts into practice before embarking on a new union.”
“She draws up her own marriage contracts?” The king was incredulous. He pulled on his beard, the great carbuncle on his index finger glowing with crimson fire.
“Exactly so, Highness.”
“Body of God!”
“In each of her marriages the lady has ensured that on the death of her husband she inherits lock, stock, and barrel.”
“And the husbands have all died …” mused the king.
“Each and every one of them.”
“Are there heirs?”
“Two young daughters. The progeny of her second husband, Lord Hadlow.”
The king shook his head slowly. “Body of God,” he muttered again. “These contracts cannot be overset?”
Privy Seal lifted a sheaf of papers from the desk. “I have had lawyers examining each one with a fine-tooth comb, Highness. They are drawn up as right and tight as if witnessed by the Star Chamber itself.”
“Do we join Hugh of Beaucaire in his interest in these holdings?” Henry inquired.
“When one woman owns most of a county as extensive and as rich in resources as Derbyshire, the king and his Exchequer have a certain interest” Privy Seal said. “At the very least, one might be interested in adequate tithing.”
The king was silent for a minute. When he spoke it was again in a musing tone. “And if, of course, foul play were suspected with any of these … uh … untimely deaths, then one could not leave the perpetrator in possession of her ill-gotten gains.”
“Or indeed her head,” Privy Seal murmured.
“Mmm.” The king looked up once more at Lord Hugh. “Do you suspect foul play, my lord?”
“Let us just say that I find the coincidences a little difficult to believe. One husband dies falling off his horse in a stag hunt. Now, that, I grant Your Highness, is a not uncommon occurrence. But then the second is slain by a huntsman’s arrow … an arrow that no huntsman present would acknowledge. The third dies of a sudden
and mysterious wasting disease … a man in his prime, vigorous, never known a day’s illness in his life. And the fourth fells from a window … the lady’s own chamber window … and breaks his neck.”
Lord Hugh tapped off each death on his fingers, a faintly incredulous note in his quiet voice as he enumerated the catalogue.
“Aye, ’tis passing strange,” the king agreed. “We should investigate these deaths, I believe, Lord Cromwell.”
Privy Seal nodded. “Hugh of Beaucaire, if it pleases Your Highness, has agreed to undertake the task.”
“I have no objection. He has an interest himself, after all … but …” Here the king paused, frowning. “One thing I find most intriguing. How is it that the lady has managed to persuade four knights, gentlemen of family and property, to agree to her terms of marriage?”
“Witchcraft, Highness.” The Bishop of Winchester in his scarlet robes spoke up for the first time. “There can be no other explanation. Her victims were known to be learned, in full possession of their faculties at the time they made the acquaintance of Lady Guinevere. Only a man bewitched would agree to the terms upon which she insisted. I request that the woman be brought here for examination, whatever findings Lord Hugh makes.”
“Of what countenance is the woman? Do we know?”
“Í have here a likeness, made some two years after her marriage to my father’s cousin. She may have changed, of course.” Hugh handed his sovereign a painted miniature set in a diamond-studded frame.
The king examined the miniature. “Here is beauty indeed,” he murmured. “She would have to have changed considerably to be less than pleasing now.” He looked up, closing his large paw over the miniature. “I find myself most interested in making the acquaintance of this beautiful sorceress, who seems also to be an accomplished lawyer. Whether she be murderer or not, I will see her.”
“It will be a journey of some two months, Highness. I will leave at once.” Hugh of Beaucaire bowed, waited for a second to see if the sovereign’s giant hand would disgorge the miniature, and when it became clear that it was lost forever, bowed again and left the chamber.
It was hot and quiet in the forest. A deep somnolence had settled over the broad green rides beneath the canopy of giant oaks and beeches. Even the birds were still, their song silenced by the heat. The hunting party gathered in the grove, listening for the horn of a beater that would tell them their quarry had been started.
“Will there be a boar, Mama?” A little girl on a dappled pony spoke in a whisper, hushed and awed by the expectant silence around her. She held a small bow, an arrow already set to the string.
Guinevere looked down at her elder daughter and smiled. “There should be, Pen. I have spent enough money on stocking the forest to ensure a boar when we want one.”
“My lady, ’tis a hot day. Boar go to ground in the heat,” the chief huntsman apologized, his distress at the possibility of failing the child clear on his countenance.
“But it’s my birthday, Greene. You promised me I should shoot a boar on my birthday,” the child protested, still in a whisper.
“Not even Greene can produce miracles,” her mother said. There was a hint of reproof in her voice, and the child immediately nodded and smiled at the huntsman.
“Of course I understand, Greene. Only …” she added, rather spoiling the gracious effect, “only I had told my sister I would shoot a boar on my birthday and maybe I won’t, and then she will be bound to shoot one on hers.”
Knowing the Lady Philippa as he did, the chief huntsman had little doubt that she would indeed succeed where her sister might not and shoot her first boar on her tenth birthday. Fortunately he was spared a response by the sound of a horn, high and commanding, then a great crashing through the underbrush. The hounds leaped forward on their leashes with shrill barks. The horses shifted on the grass, sniffed the wind, tense in expectation.
“’Tis not one of our horns,” the huntsman said, puzzled.
“But it’s our boar,” Lady Guinevere stated. “Come, Pen.” She nudged her milk-white mare into action and galloped across the glade towards the trees, where the crashing of the undergrowth continued. The child followed on her pony and Greene blew on his horn. The leashed dogs raced forward at the summons, the huntsmen chasing after them.