Читать книгу Betrayal in the Tudor Court - Darcey Bonnette - Страница 9

Thomas Cranmer, the newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, announced that the marriage between Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon was invalid in May of 1533. By now, the king’s intended’s belly swelled with what was hoped to be the Prince of Wales.

Anne Boleyn was Queen Consort of England. Her coronation was set for the first of June. The Earl of Sumerton and his family were invited to attend.

“We will go, won’t we, Lord Hal?” Cecily asked, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She found all gossip surrounding the new queen cruel and irrelevant. She wanted to attend the coronation, to see the beautiful woman who had brought a king and his kingdom to their knees.

Lord Hal sat before the fire in the solar, idly shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards. “I am uncertain. … London will be overflowing to stinking.”

“But you have a home on the Strand,” Cecily persisted. “And I’ve never even seen it, not in all the years I’ve lived here. Couldn’t you open it up?”

“Oh, Father, but it would be grand!” Brey cried. “To see the court!”

“And the gowns!” Cecily added. “And all the pretty jewels. Oh, Lord Hal, you must take us!”

“Please!” Brey smiled, falling to his knee. He was growing tall. Angles and lean muscle had replaced puppy fat from hours of training with the sword while wearing a heavy suit of armour. The promise of becoming an intuitive young man shone out of a boy’s eyes.

“We will go.”

All heads turned toward the low voice.

From the doorway stood Lady Grace, dressed in a rose velvet gown. Her limp blond hair was pinned back in a chignon beneath a fashionable French hood. She was thin, her neck had aged considerably for one so young, and her skin was tinged with a yellow hue.

But she was there.

Lord Hal arose slowly, his eyes wide as though he was beholding a ghost. She may as well be for all he had seen of her these past years. A momentary onset of guilt surged through him as he regarded her. How much of this was on his head? He held out his hand.

“Grace … my God …”Tears clutched his throat.

“Mother!” Brey cried, running toward her, throwing his arms about her tiny waist. She was caught off balance and the boy all but held her up in his strong embrace.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as her eyes met those of Cecily, who offered an encouraging smile. Father Alec, who had been playing chess with Cecily, rose and offered an elegant bow.

Mirabella stood by the fire, her face sombre.

Lady Grace held out a hand to her.

Mirabella remained where she was. “Do you expect me to congratulate you on doing something you should have done years ago?” Her tone was laced with bitterness.

“Mirabella!” Brey cried.

Lady Grace’s arm fell to her side. “No, it is all right. Mirabella is … correct.”

Mirabella bowed her head. “Still, it is good to see you about, my lady,” she told her in grudging tones.

“Thank you,” Lady Grace said.

Father Alec addressed the matter at hand. “Are you certain you would want to make such a long trip, Lady Grace? It might be quite taxing.”

“I want to go,” said Lady Grace. “And the children deserve to go. We have all been shut up here long enough. And,” she added in thoughtful tones, “if I do not leave here now I never will. Those who were in attendance that night will scoff. Let them scoff. They will whisper. Let them whisper. I will go.”

“Oh, Lady Grace!” Cecily cried as she joined Brey in embracing her again. “We will all take care of you!”

“I am happily outnumbered,” said Lord Hal as he cast fond eyes upon his wife. “I suppose we best get packing.”

With this the children and priest left the room to sort through their belongings and prepare for the most exciting event in the kingdom.

Grace was about to do likewise when Hal caught her hands.

“Grace … you have no idea how proud of you I am,” he told her, his voice wavering with tears. “I admit that I had given up on you. I am sorry.”

“You were right to give up,” said Grace. “I did.”

“Is this our new start?” he asked her, his eyes lit with hope.

Grace nodded. “Yes, Hal. This is our new start.”

Hal drew her toward him, then pulled back. She was so fragile; he could feel every bone.

“Come now, you won’t break me,” Grace teased in sad tones.

He drew her near once more, holding her for a long time.

Cecily had never been to London before. The manor on the Strand overlooked the sparkling Thames and Cecily could watch the river traffic, a procession of barges making their way to the Tower of London, ships, and little rowboats containing delightful characters. The elegant manor stood as an understatement compared to the palaces that lined the famous street. Nonetheless, it was beautiful with its collection of Italian art of which Lord Hal was so fond. Sumerton Place had its own courtyard bearing lush gardens and a large fountain with porpoises on it that had been a gift from the Duke of Norfolk, a reward to Lord Hal’s father for fighting beside him at Flodden Field, where was slain James IV, King of Scots. Cecily marvelled that they did not visit the manor more often; she could not imagine returning to the isolation of the countryside when they could be so close to the happenings of court.

There was not a more exciting place in the world, Cecily decided as they prepared to ride in the procession that would traverse Queen Anne from Cheapside to Westminster Hall. Merchants peddling souvenirs to commemorate the special event, ladies and gentleman of the nobility, urchins waiting to pick pockets, clerics and prelates, soldiers and shining knights, horses trimmed in the colours of their noble owners, cats and rats scampering about, eager to feast on any delicacy dropped in their midst.

The streets, indeed the whole place, teemed with activity, with life.

“Overflowing to stinking,” Lord Hal muttered as he surveyed the throng for the grand procession, but he was smiling.

They had brought an entourage of their own for the ride, bedecked in the Pierce colours of yellow and white. Cecily’s horse and attendants wore her colours as Baroness Burkhart of brown and orange. In her russet gown with its brown kirtle threaded with cloth of gold and matching hood, Cecily felt every inch the grand lady. Mirabella, though disapproving of the whole enterprise, was dressed in her yellow and white gown and earned many an appreciative glance. She turned her nose up at each and every one while Cecily waved, thrilled to be favoured with such open admiration.

At Cheapside Cecily took the opportunity to scrutinise her new queen. She had never seen the old one, who was rumoured to be quite beautiful in her time but after years of strife and suffering became overweight and dowdy. This queen was the antithesis of such descriptions. Bedecked in cloth of gold and wrapped in yards of soft ermine, the queen allowed her raven black hair to trail down her back in sleek waves brushed to a glossy sheen. On her dainty head was a bejeweled circlet and on her alabaster face a triumphant grin. Something about her features reminded Cecily of a mischievous and very satisfied cat. From the comfort of her litter, also swathed in cloth of gold, Queen Anne waved and blessed her new subjects, who seemed none too receptive.

Cecily’s heart sank. It seemed a shame to think that after years of waiting to become queen she should not be received with more enthusiasm. She was what the king wanted, after all, and it was the duty of his people to accept her. Though a few doffed their caps, most stood silent, their faces a mingling of bewilderment and disgust.

At one point Cecily heard the queen’s fool shout, “You all must have scurvy heads, since you so fear removing your caps!”

Cecily cried, “God save the queen!” with extra enthusiasm, encouraging Brey to do likewise.

Mirabella rode her horse, silent, head bowed.

Cecily ignored her show of disrespect, turning to take in all around her. Tapestries were hung everywhere and the queen’s badge bearing her falcon symbol was in every corner the eye could fall upon. Hans Holbein, the renowned court painter, had designed a beautiful arch where a tableau was being performed. Apollo and the four Muses played instruments and sang, each a remarkable display of talent. Cecily clapped her hands, enthralled by the sight.

All throughout the procession they were treated to similar displays of choirs and pageants. Cecily’s heart raced and her head tingled as she marvelled that they were included in such an event.

“Look!” cried Brey as he pointed to one of the conduits. “Wine!”

Cecily’s eyes widened in awe. “Is there nothing King Henry cannot do?” she cried in delight.

“Nothing,” Father Alec murmured, taking in the sights about him with the same interest. But his eyes were not wide with awe. There was something else in them, something Cecily could not quite decipher.

It was very akin to fear.

The next day they witnessed Queen Anne’s coronation at Westminster Abbey. Cecily was able to get a closer look at the woman King Henry so desired. She was small, save for the curving belly she displayed with pride, with tapering limbs and delicate hands.

“Where’s the sixth finger?” Brey whispered.

Cecily searched for the rumoured deformity, but to her dismay, the queen’s hands were hidden beneath her resplendent sleeves. She shrugged and placed a finger to her lips, urging Brey to hold his peace.

Under a cloth of gold canopy the queen walked with measured steps. Her train was carried by her cousin the delicate Mary Howard. It was said the queen’s aunt, the Duchess of Norfolk, so disapproved of the new queen that she refused to attend. Cecily’s heart churned in sympathy. It must be difficult being Anne Boleyn.

Queen Anne took her place in St. Edward’s Chair and allowed the Archbishop of Canterbury to crown her. The choir burst out in a Te Deum and Cecily’s heart thrilled with delight at the sound.

She turned toward Father Alec, whose wide hazel eyes were lit with tears as he regarded the scene.

But he was not regarding the queen.

His eyes had fallen upon another, one whose face bespoke eternal gentleness.

Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury.

After the coronation they attended a celebratory feast at Westminster Hall. It was a strange affair, uncomfortable for Lord Hal and Lady Grace, the latter of whom was avoided by all and who with trembling hands tried to sip sparingly from the cup of wine before her, though her eyes lit with undisguised desire for it.

Mirabella, claiming fatigue, had been allowed to be escorted to the manor by her guard. It was just as well.

“Now she can’t spoil it for us,” Brey told Cecily, who could not help but giggle, though she chastised herself for being uncharitable.

Course after course was served and Cecily ate her fill, taking in the splendour of the court that ushered in the new reign of Anna Regina. The Duke of Suffolk, the king’s brother-in-law and steward for the evening, still was handsome at forty-eight as he made sure everything was to the queen’s pleasure. The queen’s cousin Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, also attended. Three years Cecily’s senior, Surrey, though married, stole several admiring glances her way throughout the evening. He was a handsome lad with his aquiline nose and penetrating dark eyes. Cecily offered him a bright smile. She did not know how to flirt but, as she watched the lords and ladies about her, thought this just the place to learn.

The next day jousts were held at York Place. Cecily and Brey clapped and hooted in the stands as they watched the champions tilt each other. The gleam of the armour, the sweet smell of upturned grass, the clank of the lances against shields thrilled them, and their voices rose in a chorus of gleeful anticipation as they speculated on who would prove victorious.

Brey reached out to still her clapping hand at one point, leaning over to whisper, “And someday when I am here, besting all the champions with my lance, will I be carrying your token?”

Cecily scrunched up her shoulders and giggled. She squeezed his hand. “No one else, Brey,” she told him, and on impulse leaned in to kiss his cheek. Brey had turned his head, however, and their lips brushed against each other’s for the briefest of moments.

Cecily pulled back, flushing deep rose with embarrassment. She bowed her head.

Brey had averted his head and was making a show of cheering on the jousters.

Cecily pressed a hand to her tummy, which, for some reason, would not stop quivering deep within.

“Well, I cannot wait to get back,” Mirabella said, allowing the maid to undress her as she readied for bed that evening. “Such extravagance and waste. Can you imagine if the king invested what he spent on the coronation into charity for the poor? The coronation banquet alone could have fed hundreds for months!” She shook her head. “Sheer waste.”

Cecily was shamed. It was a waste. Guilt surged through her as she tried to stop reliving what, to her, had been the happiest, most exciting event of her life. Was she a creature of vanity? Did she not care for the world and her fellow man as much as Mirabella? Tears stung her eyes.

“Would that we all could be treated to such a testament of someone’s undying love,” was all she could think of to say.

Mirabella grunted in response. “The king’s love is famously fickle,” she said. “Oh, Cecily, but you aren’t thinking of the king, are you? You are thinking of Brey. I saw what happened at the joust.”

Cecily flushed. “I suppose you have been rehearsing my scolding.”

Mirabella’s eyes widened. “On the contrary, I was pleased. Do you know how rare it is for one’s love and one’s betrothed to be the same person?”

Cecily regarded Mirabella, awed that she showed some capacity for understanding. “You mean … you aren’t angry with us?”

“Of course not,” Mirabella said. “I am relieved and happy. I wish nothing but happiness for you and my brother.”

Cecily threw her arms about Mirabella, who returned the embrace.

It seemed London brought about all sorts of unexpected joys.

The next day was to be devoted to hunting with the court, but Brey woke up nauseated, plagued with a terrible stomachache and remained abed.

“All this rich food,” Lord Hal told him in jovial tones. “We eat good but never this good!” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like us to stay?”

Brey shook his head. His brow glistened with sweat. “For what? To watch me sleep? Go ahead. Cecily should be among her own; this has been such a treat for her. And it’s good for us, too, for our name.” He grimaced in pain and gestured for his father to leave.

“Where’s Father Alec? Perhaps he can sit beside you,” Lord Hal suggested.

“He’s been at Westminster Abbey, probably bribing someone to allow him audience with Archbishop Cranmer.” Brey laughed. “He’s mad with admiration for the man.”

Lord Hal chuckled. “I suppose he needed a little time to himself, too. Ah, well, then, if there isn’t anything you need—”

“Go on, Father. Really. I’ll be fine with Mirabella,” Brey assured him, waving him away with a hand.

Lord Hal leaned in and kissed his golden hair. “We’ll tell you all about it tonight.”

Brey smiled to his father’s retreating back and, once certain he was gone, drew his knees to his chest in agony. Deep in his gut, on the right side almost near his leg, something clenched and twisted him into knots of pain. It was excruciating. He could not imagine what he could have eaten to cause such severe indigestion.

Mirabella attended him with soothing words and cool compresses, but nothing helped. Soon he was retching into the chamber pot.

“I should fetch a physician,” Mirabella said.

“So they can tell me I ate too many artichokes?” Brey countered, with a weak chuckle. He clutched his right side, which rebelled against any attempt at laughter.

“It’s more than that, Brey.” Mirabella’s brows furrowed in concern. “Something is wrong.”

“Nothing some small ale won’t cure,” he said. “Be a lamb and get me a cup, won’t you?”

Mirabella backed away, her face lit with fear as she regarded her brother’s writhing form.

Nonetheless, she went to do his bidding.

When she returned, she sat at his bedside. “Here, Brey. Small ale.”

No movement. The tension in Mirabella’s shoulders eased. Perhaps he had found some relief in sleep. She reached out to stroke his face.

Something did not feel right.

“Brey?”

She shook his shoulder. Stillness.

“Brey!”

In a terror, she leaned in. No breath. She placed her fingers against his neck. The throb of life had ceased.

Brey was dead.

Lord Hal, Lady Grace, and Cecily returned from a happy day of hunting in the company of a young, merry court. Though they were not joined by the king and queen today, the day was just as dazzling and Cecily found herself taken in by the glamorous ladies and handsome lords in attendance. How she wished Brey could have been there! What fun they would have had together sharing their observations!

They returned to Sumerton Place to find Father Alec waiting. His handsome face was drawn, his hazel eyes lit with unshed tears.

“Father!” Cecily cried, immediately concerned.

“What is it, Father?” Lady Grace asked, taking his hand. “Are you well?”

Father Alec shook his head. He took her hands in his. “My lady … dearest Lady Grace … Lord Hal …” His eyes scanned the anxious faces. He squeezed the thin hands in his. “You must be very strong for what I am about to tell you. Rely on the Lord to give you the strength.”

“Out with it, Father!” Lord Hal demanded.

Father Alec squeezed his eyes shut. “It is Brey … he has been called to the Lord.”

Silence. Then, from Cecily, “No! No! You are wrong! Why would you say such a wicked thing? You are wrong!”

“Lady Cecily—”

He could not give her his attention, for at that moment Lady Grace slumped to the floor, unconscious. Lord Hal took to her side, gathering her in his arms, sobbing. “Oh, God, no! Not Brey! Not Brey!”

“What happened? He just had a stomachache!” cried Cecily, approaching Father Alec to seize his wrist. Her teal eyes shone bright with tearful accusations.

Father Alec shook his head. “I do not know, my lady.”

“Didn’t Mirabella call for a physician?” Lord Hal cried.

“She did, but it was too late,” Father Alec told him. “It—it was God’s will,” he added helplessly, knowing this was the least comforting of any answer he could supply and cursing himself for supplying it anyway.

“Oh, Grace.” Lord Hal turned his eyes to his wife, who lay limp in his arms, her breathing shallow, her eyes moving restlessly beneath closed lids. “What are we going to do?”

Cecily rested her fingers on her lips, her eyes searching the space above Lord Hal’s head for answers.

“Take Lady Grace to her apartments, my lord,” Father Alec said in gentle tones. “Once she is settled, see to Brey. We shall return home directly that he might receive a proper interment. I shall send a messenger with all the instructions.”

Obedient as a child, Lord Hal rose to do as he was bid, Lady Grace in his arms.

Cecily continued to stare at the vacant spot at the foot of the stairwell.

“Lady Cecily,” Father Alec began. “Oh, my lady, I am so sorry.”

Tears spilled onto Cecily’s cheeks, rolling and tumbling over one another, racing toward sorrow. “Brey … how could it be? He was here this morning.” Her voice was soft, puzzled. She furrowed her brows in confusion. “I do not understand. We were laughing together yesterday. The joust—” She clenched her eyes shut. “Oh, God, the joust …”

“My child!” Father Alec cried, unable to bear her pain any longer. He rushed forward, taking her in his arms and holding her tight. She sobbed against his chest. He stroked her silky rose-gold hair. “God will grant us the courage to persevere. He always does. We are made strong through Him—you must believe it.”

“I know you speak true,” Cecily murmured against his robes. “But these words bring me no comfort. Just now, there is naught to do but mourn.”

Father Alec could think of no response. She was right, of course. There was naught to do but let mourning run its natural, healing course. But would they ever heal from this? He squeezed his eyes shut against an onset of tears. He did not want to think of the future without happy, golden Brey.

He held little Cecily close, drawing what comfort he could from her and hoping she could do the same.

Mirabella had kept vigil by her brother’s bedside. After the physician came and left she had bathed Brey herself, preparing him for his long rest until the Lord came to claim his sweet soul on Judgement Day. When Father Alec returned from the abbey he had tearfully anointed him and together they had sat, hand in hand, praying for gentle Brey.

Now that Father Alec was with the rest of the family and she was alone, she felt a peculiar comfort wash over her. Brey was gone and yet more than ever she felt his presence, gentle and encouraging. His death was a sign to her, the sign she had needed but did not want, not in this form, that it was far past time for her to pursue her destiny.

After Brey’s interment she would enter the convent and no one would stop her.

Until then she would try to be what comfort she could to her family and poor little Cecily, who would no doubt be lost without her bosom companion.

But now, just now, she wanted to be alone. She wanted to be with her brother.

She took his hand, holding it in hers, casting her eyes at the face, so serene in his eternal sleep. Such potential, now gone, all gone. She could not think of it.

It was God’s will. She must tell herself that.

She believed it, truly.

The family broke fast the next day in silence. None were attired in black as they had not brought mourning clothes with them. It seemed a mockery to go on donning the colours of life when one of the liveliest things in their world was no more.

Father Alec, struggling to remain collected, shifted his eyes from one member of the family to another in growing concern. Lady Grace drank cup after cup of wine undeterred. Lord Hal stared at his plate, picking at his bread with fumbling fingers. Mirabella did not eat but sat, staring at the table before her without seeing it. Cecily, her eyes swollen and red from sobbing the night through, her lips puffy and nose chapped, held her piece of cheese without eating it.

“There is nothing left now,” Lady Grace said, breaking the suffocating silence with her low voice as she stared into her empty cup.

“More wine?” a servant asked.

Lady Grace scowled, waving the servant away. She shook her head, pushing her cup away from her. It fell on its side with a clatter, causing Cecily to start and Mirabella to avert her head.

“Nothing!” Lady Grace screamed.

“My lady—” Father Alec began.

“No!” Cecily clenched her fists, rising. “You still have your daughter. You cannot forget her!”

Lady Grace fixed Mirabella with a hard glare. Then, to everyone’s horror, she began to laugh. She rose. “I have no daughter.” She smiled. “As I said. I have nothing.”

“Grace!” Lord Hal seized her wrist. Lady Grace withdrew it.

Mirabella stared at Lady Grace, her mouth agape, her eyes filled with tears. “You cannot mean it, my lady. For all that has been, I am always your daughter. Please … take comfort in me.”

Lady Grace shook her head, her disconcerting laughter low in her throat. “You are not mine. You have never been mine. You belong to your father, that much is so. But I am not your mother.”

“Stop!” Lord Hal commanded.

But it was too late. The words were out.

Lady Grace tipped back her head and laughed. The grating, joyless sound pierced Father Alec’s ears. “Ask your father about her. Who was she, Hal? Ah, yes. Julia was her name. The daughter of his father’s treasurer. The jewel of his family, his gift to the Church. Sister Julia. So holy. So pure. So irresistible to the lusts of a hot-blooded nobleman.”

“For God’s sake, Grace!” Lord Hal screamed.

Mirabella quit the table, Lord Hal chasing after her.

Cecily sat, stunned and trembling.

Lady Grace’s face went slack. She held out her cup. Wordlessly, a servant filled it.

Father Alec shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the scene. At last he sighed. “Perhaps, since you found it appropriate to favour the young ones with this knowledge now, you would like to explain further to Lady Cecily,” he said at last.

Lady Grace regarded the startled girl before her, her heart clenching in agony. What had she done? All that she was capable of doing, it seemed. Wreaking havoc, destroying lives. But she did nothing that had not been done to her! Was she not destroyed, irreversibly destroyed, years ago? Since then she had slowly degenerated into despair.

And now she was required to explain.

“You were never to know,” Hal told Mirabella, who lay face-down on her bed, sobbing, her shoulders quaking as he sat beside her to rub her back. “It had been agreed to long ago, to save us all. To save you. And your mother.”

“Which one?” Mirabella seethed as she sat up, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, the gaze she fixed upon her father accusatory.

Hal bowed his head, his heart sinking. “Both, I suppose.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “Julia was the daughter of my father’s treasurer, it is true. She was set to enter the convent; it was her calling, like you. I was newly married to Grace then, a woman I had not set eyes on till my wedding day. Julia Grayson had been a childhood companion and it so happened that she grew into a beautiful woman—”

“This talk is vile,” Mirabella spat, her voice thick with horror.

“Yes, Mirabella, it is vile. It is shameful and all that is bad. But you must know,” said Hal. “I cannot undo what has been done. Now that you know the truth some sense of it must be made.”

Mirabella was silent.

Hal continued. “I was drunk when it happened. Had been out with the lads. My memory of the actual night is so hazy … suddenly all I knew is that I was with her. It was one time only.”

“You … violated her?” Mirabella’s voice was low as the realisation settled upon her. She shook her head. “Only one time? As if it would make a difference if it were one time or a hundred for what you stole from her! One time. That is all it took? One time?” She clicked her tongue in incredulous disgust.

Hal nodded, his face wrought with shame. “My father told me from my earliest childhood days till manhood to rise above my peers, to hold myself to a higher standard: God’s standard. He said that women were creatures of God to be protected and cherished, never misused as many men are wont to do, and that few sins were as selfish and wicked as adultery. I failed my father; I fell short of everything he taught me. I failed God. And in that failing my guilt has plagued me; no self-imposed torture is enough to expiate it. I have repented for that ‘one time’ ever since. I have begged God for a forgiveness I am not worthy of, but, Mirabella, you must know how sorry I am for taking that woman’s innocence. I have worn a hair shirt since that day. I—”

“It does not matter,” Mirabella said, shaking her head. “You took what was not yours, a gift that was saved for God alone, and you broke your marriage vows to do it.”

Hal bowed his head, tears trailing slow, even paths down his cheeks. “Yes. I deserve all of your hatred.”

“You have it,” Mirabella said, her tears dry, her voice hard. “Tell me what happened to my mother.”

“She was with child,” Hal said. “She kept it to herself a long while. She still planned to enter the convent after the child was born. It was kept quiet. A dowry was arranged that no abbess could refuse and I would raise the child—you—acknowledged. It was only right and fair. I would not let my child be raised by anyone else. I had brought you into this world and would be responsible.”

“And Mother?” Mirabella inquired. “Or should I say ‘Lady Grace’?”

“I went along with the plan,” Lady Grace told Cecily, who sat silent, riveted by the haunting tale. “What else could I do? I was not about to be disgraced by a bastard, legitimised or not. Better the child be seen as mine. I had heard of other women humiliated by their husbands who allowed their bastards by servant wenches run of the house. I would not be one of them. So the servants were dismissed and our house was run with a skeleton staff. I had taken on peculiar fancies during my ‘condition’ and could not abide any number of people about. I padded my gowns and received guests. But I never allowed servants to attend me—it was odd, of course, and earned its share of gossip. But it was a small sacrifice compared to what life would be if the truth came out.

“As for Mistress Julia, she was housed in a cottage with a well-paid midwife, who delivered ‘my’ daughter, bringing her to me under the cover of night. Thank God she hadn’t been born a boy or Hal would have gone so far as to make her his heir, no doubt,” she added as tears gathered like storm clouds in her eyes. “But I had Brey. I had the heir. And now he is gone. Gone.” She raised her eyes to Cecily. “Now you see why I have nothing.”

Cecily shook her head. “But you do not. You chose to live as Mirabella’s mother; it did not have to be. She could have been raised by a nurse and still be acknowledged as Lord Hal’s. The gossip would have faded; your dignity could have been spared in your character, in how you handled the crisis. Instead you lived a lie, allowing the hatred to cripple you until you caused more agony for yourself than need be. Because of that you have become a source of gossip anyway. Mirabella is not to blame for that. She is not to blame for any of it; you cannot punish her for her father’s sins.”

“You do not understand!” Lady Grace cried, slamming her fist on the table. “I wanted to love her! I tried to love her! But from the moment she was born all I could see was that woman. She served as a constant reminder of my husband’s indiscretion, taking after her mother in every way, from her looks to her fervent devotion to God. She has mocked my good intentions at every turn! She has been nothing but an affront to me!”

Cecily bowed her head. Too much pain. She was drowning in it. She covered her ears with her hands and allowed her head to sink onto the table.

She could not bear to hear more.

Father Alec drew in a breath. His voice was soft. “If your mission today was to make everyone feel as aggrieved as you, my lady, you have been successful,” he said at last.

Grace pushed back her chair, letting it fall to the floor behind her with an angry thud as she fled the table.

“Do you believe I am sorry, Mirabella?” Hal asked his daughter in urgent tones as he seized her by the shoulders. She withdrew with a jerk. Hal’s hands fell limp and useless to his lap. God, she was afraid of him. He did not want her to be afraid of him. “Ever since that terrible night I have tried to make it up to you by giving you the best life I could think of, with the best of everything—gowns, tutors, anything. I have tried to make it up to Lady Grace, to the convent, to everyone I sinned against. I’d make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem if I thought it would expiate my sins. I would do anything. Oh, Mirabella, please forgive me.”

“I am bound by God to forgive you,” Mirabella said in hollow tones. “But you cannot think that anything will ever be the same between us.”

Hal buried his head in his hand. “No … I could never expect that.” He reached up to stroke her face. Mirabella pulled away. “Can you understand the depth of my remorse?”

“It is not important for me to believe how sorry you are,” said Mirabella. “But for God. He alone can read the sincerity of your heart. I pray for your sake you are as repentant as you appear.”

Hal nodded. He sniffled. “I do love you, Mirabella. It matters not how you came to be but that you are mine. I have never viewed you as anything but a gift from God.”

Mirabella nodded to acknowledge the statement. When Hal could see she would say no more he rose. With one last look at her, he made his retreat.

Mirabella flopped back on her bed, staring at the canopy until it became obscured by a veil of tears.