Never, she had promised herself, would she allow him to know how she felt. Never would she give him the chance to laugh at her again. And never would he know how much she loved him and always would.
Romney Lee had been right. There was only one man Lily Christian would be dreaming of on St. Agnes's Eve, and that was Valentine Whitelaw.
"How are we going to get him inside without Dulcie seeing him, Lily?" Tristram asked, trying to avoid the drooling tongue, licking his face. "I don't want to leave him out in the stables," Tristram continued worriedly as he met the pup's trusting gaze. "Hollings isn't a very nice man. I don't think Dulcie's dog would like him at all." He patted the pup on top of his big, bony head.
"Be no secret. Probably bark all night long anyways," Farley said, whishing he'd had time for another ale. He huddled closer to Tillie. The wind was cutting through his bones like an icy knife. She must be frozen stiff, the skinny little goose, he thought. "How are ye doin', dear?" he asked, taking her cold hands in his and rubbing them together to warm them.
"Ye're goin' to start a fire rubbin' them sticks together if ye're not careful, Farley," Fairfax muttered. His brother had not been the same since he'd started sweet-talking Tillie. Although, Fairfax thought scratching his square chin ruminatively, he had to admit that he liked Tillie a whole lot better than that bold wench at the Oaks whom Farley had been eyeing about this time last year.
"Reckon the ladies won't even be recognizin' ye, Master Tristram, what with yer face all puffed up and turnin' black and blue, and ye've grown another couple of inches since last they were here," Farley said, hoping the ladies wouldn't faint dead when they caught sight of the boy. Of course, if the elder Whitelaw lady-a more acid-tongued, steely-eyed woman he'd yet to meet-had ever fainted, then he was fair game.
"Is it really?" Tristram asked in awe, less concerned than excited about his appearance, for it had been the first fight he'd ever been in-and he'd just about won it.
"Aye, there'll be no doubtin' what ye be made of fer the next fortnight at least, Master Tristram, " Fairfax grinned, proud of the lad. "Yer father, the cap'n, he would’ve been real proud of ye. I know that fer certain. I reckon t'others will be chewin' mighty carefully, if they got any teeth left in their fat heads that is," he said with a chuckle. "Ye should've seen him, Farley, swinging away at them louts. Smacked a number of them good, he did. Ain't many run out of there with the same-shaped noses they swaggered in with. No one's goin' to be sayin' anything against this young gentleman fer years to come," he declared, his large hand slapping Tristram heartily between the shoulders and nearly knocking the boy off the seat.
Suddenly Tristram didn't mind the ringing in his ears, or that he could barely see out of one eye and his bruised lip was throbbing while his skinned knuckles stung like the dickens.
Lily was less impressed by her brother's show of bravery that either one of the Odell brothers, who were known brawlers. Tristram was right, Lily thought as she remembered his angry words; they should never have left the island.
Shivering, she glanced ahead. she could see the great brick chimneys of Highcross rising about the trees.
Highcross Court. Life there had been anything but pleasurable. Lily could still remember entering the cold hall that once had been her home. It was like a stranger's house, she'd thought, her gaze traveling up the flight of stairs, hopeful of spying her mother standing there, arms outstretched to welcome her children home. those first few days, when Lily had explored the house and recognized so many familiar places and possessions, she had found herself pausing to listen for the sounds of laughter that used to ring throughout the house. Hearing a step behind her, she would turn, expecting to see her father come striding through the door.
Gradually, however, those memories had faded as the days numbered into months and were filled with new experiences as Tristram, Dulcie, and Lily began to live out their lives at Highcross Court. Another impression Lily had not soon forgotten had been her first sight of Hartwell Barclay. Upon receiving word of their rescue, he had wasted little time in traveling to London. He had arrived at Tamesis House with half a dozen grim-faced solicitors marching behind him, well-prepared to present their client's case as sole, rightful guardian of Geoffrey Christian's children. And, to strengthen his position should any questions have been raised as to the suitability of his guardianship, he had brought along the one person who might be able to convince the authorities that Highcross Court was the proper home for the children: Maire Lester, Lily Christian's former nursemaid. The ensuing, tearful reunion would have convinced even the most hardhearted judge that the children would be happiest with the kind-faced, matronly woman who would love the children as if they were of her own blood.
But he had worried needlessly, for as Geoffrey Christian's cousin, his case had been strong. The only other relative who might have challenged his claim had been Magdalena Christian's father, but that old gentleman had died long before the children were rescued. Soon Hartwell Barclay had been smiling broadly, the embodiment of affability--or so it had appeared.
He had also come to some manner of agreement with Valentine Whitelaw concerning Dulcie, for there had never been any question of her not accompanying them to Highcross Court. During that first year, Lily had been grateful to Hartwell Barclay,, innocently believing his oft-stated claim that it had been out of the goodness of his heart that he accepted without question Tristram's claim of being Geoffrey Christian's son and had allowed Basil Whitelaw's daughter to live at Highcross. But even the most accomplished actor would have found it difficult to carry on such a charade for long, and soon Hartwell Barclay's true nature had begun to surface. And when Lily had discovered the stack of letters and reference to what seemed a generous amount of money sent by Valentine Whitelaw for Dulcie's care, she had known the truth.
It would have seemed an unfortunate predicament the children found themselves in, for quite naturally Hartwell Barclay would have resented their claim on the inheritance he had come to think of as his own. a less God-fearing man in a similar situation might have speculated on the intriguing possibility that should the children not have lived to inherit, he would have stood to gain everything. Accidents had been known to happen. And children seemed especially prone to such incidents. If a man were very careful in his planning...
Although Hartwell Barclay had managed to remain in control of Geoffrey Christian's estate through guardianship of his children, and perhaps might even have held aspirations of becoming master of Highcross again, he had not triumphed completely. It appeared the children had a guardian angel as well as a legal guardian, not to mention an avenging knight should the need have arisen.
Unbeknownst to either the children or Her Majesty, it was Queen Elizabeth who stood between them and what might have been an unfortunately premature death. The day Hartwell Barclay had arrived at Tames is House had been the day Lily and her brother and sister were to be presented to the queen. Accompanying the children he so despised, Hartwell Barclay had finally succeeded in appearing at court. His grand entrance, however, had hardly been in quite the manner he had so often and fondly dreamt-although it had certainly been memorable.
Dressed in all of his finery, Hartwell Barclay, much to his dismay, found himself having to share the honor and a seat on the barge with a curious monkey who couldn't keep his paws to himself, and a wise-cracking parrot whose beak was cursedly sharp. It had been a shock to him even to discover the creatures at Tamesis House, much less to discover that they belonged to his wards and that they too, had been invited to court. The short journey by barge to Whitehall Palace had not lessened his anxiety any as he'd listened with increasing unease to the parrot's indiscreet chatter. And in his opinion the children were little better than the wild creatures they had brought home to England as pets. Savages, all. Poor Hartwell Barclay. He had even had visions of himself, as guardian of the trio who were certain to insult the queen, traveling back down the Thames, not to Tamesis House but to the Tower, where he would await his t
ragic fate.
Entering the palace, they’d become the cynosure of all eyes. So impressed was he by the grandeur and importance of the people he saw. Hartwell Barclay stared openmouthed, looking more the fool than the dignified gentleman he thought himself to be. Enviously, he had watched Valentine Whitelaw return the many greetings that had come his way from well-known courtiers, lords and ladies, and those influential in the affairs of state. And it was Hartwell Barclay, not the children, who forgot his manners when introduced, and cleared his throat incessantly in order to mutter some inane remark when spoken to. to the delight of several women, young Tristram had bowed and kissed their hands with an expertise that would have several young courtiers practicing their art in front of looking glasses in the privacy of their chambers before the night was out. With her big dark eyes and angelic face, Dulcie was enchanting and had no need to worry about the impression she made. Her shy smile, and the esteem her father, Basil Whitelaw, had been held in, was enough to secure her a place at court.
Lily Christian, however, drew most of the interested stares. Her exotic appearance created quite a sensation when she entered the hall. Perched on her shoulder was a green-feathered parrot and clinging to her arm was a bright-eyed, fuzzy-faced monkey in a green velvet doublet and cap sewn with bells. Quinta Whitelaw had not only made the amusing outfit for the monkey, she had also cut down one of her own colorful ropas for Lily to wear. She had been determined to remedy the unfortunate choice in clothes the child had been forced to wear. She wanted Lily Christian to be able to walk proudly into court, unashamed of herself and lowering her eyes to none.
Although she would never have allowed the softening expression to enter her eyes, her heart had been touched by the young girl. She could well understand the child's awkwardness and unhappiness. Being tall and thin, a less than beautiful woman, who had always been unable to bridle her sharp-tongued retorts or hide her intelligence, she had suffered the ridicule of many. Realizing that she could not shorten her height, and would not dull her wit, she had decided to make herself all the more unusual. So unusual, in fact, that people would not expect the ordinary from Quinta Whitelaw. She was eccentric, not comical. She was interesting, not pitied. She walked proudly, without embarrassment.
Lily Christian was never going to be ordinary, Quinta had wisely decided, and it was about time the child accept that fact and give up trying to resemble Honoria Penmorley. Lily was certainly not going to be plain; that was not her problem despite how unattractive she might seem now. One day Lily Christian was going to be too beautiful for her own good, but until then, perhaps she could help the child get through a difficult time. Selecting one of her favorite gowns, a pale green silk ropa shot through with golden threads, she had shortened it and made a matching hat, trimming it with a turquoise plume. An underskirt and bodice worked in a richly patterned material lavishly embroidered in colorful silks completed the costume for a most extraordinary young girl.
Quinta White law could not have been prouder of Lily Christian had she been her own daughter, and with a keen glance around the room, she had not seen a pityin' look or smirk on one face. Lily Christian, daughter of an English adventurer and his Spanish wife, shipwrecked on a wild island in the West Indies for seven years, was exactly the exotic creature people expected to see. And to Quinta's satisfaction, the child had walked unhesitant into the Great Hall, her pale green eyes surveying the room and its people defiantly. She had received more than one admiring glance, as well as several disapproving ones, but then, that was to be expected. Quinta Whitelaw would have been disappointed otherwise.
The queen had been all that the children had expected from the stories Basil had told them. Dressed in black velvet and white satin studded with pearls and rubies and red satin bows, with a lacy ruff starched high about her face and a crown of gold set with precious gems glittering atop her red curls, Elizabeth was awe-inspiring.
The parrot had squawked excitedly and, frightened of the people crowded in the Great Hall, had flown from Lily's shoulder and across the room with a flapping of wings. Not content to scatter the milling crowd, he had disgraced himself over several important heads as he swooped toward the queen. Landing on the arm of her throne, he had started to giggle and declared in a loud, censorious voice, "Praaack! Pirates! Lift a leg, mate! A scary bunch! Praaack! My, aren't we a beauty, my pretty one."
An uncomfortable stillness had fallen over the room as Elizabeth had sat staring in disbelief at the parrot perched beside her. Eyeing her glittering gown curiously, he had tried to steal one of the gleaming pearls before ruffling his feathers in annoyance as he strutted on his royal perch.
The silence in the Great Hall had become unbearable by the time Elizabeth had started to laugh. Her courtiers, apparently as well-trained as the parrot, started to laugh with her, but more likely out of relief than amusement. The laughter grew louder when the monkey, dressed in his green velvet doublet and cap, scampered with a jingling of bells onto her lap, his long tail curling around her arm as he stared around him at the startled faces and began to scold them.
Elizabeth's sharp-eyed gaze had found the familiar face she'd been searching for and with a sly smile curving her lips she had beckoned Valentine Whitelaw and the three children standing so uncertainly by his side to approach her.
Overly anxious not to lose his golden opportunity of gaining Elizabeth's attention, Hartwell Barclay quickly stepped forward and bowed deeply. He felt the heat rising in his face as he heard the ripping noise and felt the cool draft caressing the flesh of his inner thigh along the ragged edge where the seam of his hose had torn. Swallowing, he slowly straightened, hoping no one else had heard the sound and praying that he would remain beneath Elizabeth's notice, for if he had to bow again . . .
To Hartwell Barclay it had seemed an eternity that Elizabeth had conversed with Valentine Whitelaw and the children, who seemed to be getting along splendidly with their queen, for her laughter rang out continually, especially when the parrot began to mimic it. for the first time in almost an hour, Hartwell Barclay breathed easier when Elizabeth rose to retire to her privy chamber. she had requested Valentine Whitelaw accompany her for a private conversation, and had been about to leave when she spied the chagrined-looking Hartwell Barclay starting to back away. His knees pinned together to maintain his modesty, he was talking mincing steps and for the first time in his life trying not to be the center of attention.
"Master Barclay, is it not?" she inquired softly, her dark eyes gleaming with what was either malice or humor.
"Your Majesty," he replied with a sickly looking grin and bowing only slightly this time.
"I trust you will take good care of my young subjects. Guard them with your life, good sir, for I wish to see them at court again. Naturally, as their guardian, you will escort them, and I will hold you responsible for their welfare."
"Your wish is my command, madam," he replied grandly.
Hartwell Barclay had sighed with relief when she had started to walk away, but then she had paused. Crooking her finger, she had called him to her side and whispered in his ear, "You would do well to get that tear repaired before you catch your death of cold, Master Barclay. And I would have a serious word with my tailor, were I you, lest he cut your hose to small next time as well. And with far worse consequences."
For at least a quarter of an hour Hartwell Barclay had remained standing where Elizabeth had left him, unable to take a step and feeling as if every person in the hall was eyeing the exposed flesh on the inside of his thigh. and as Hartwell Barclay stood there feeling little different from the monkey dressed up in that ridiculous green velvet cap and bells, he began to savor his resentment of that Spanish Papist's brats.
The insolent little beggars might have befooled everyone else including the queen, but not him, not Hartwell Barclay. And he was, after all, their guardian. He was the one they would have to answer to in future, not these perfumed fools. And Valentine Whitelaw's warnings hadn't frightened him, he thought with s
o odious an expression that George Hargraves, who was standing next to his friend, wondered what the big gent had smelled.
With a smugly complacent look, much like a fat cat's with cream on his whiskers, Hartwell Barclay anticipated their return to Highcross Court, where he would see that the children lived to regret they had ever returned to England. At least for now, he had decided, the children were more useful to him alive.
Three years, Lily sighed, pulling her cloak closer against the cold as Merry entered the stable yard of Highcross Court. Poor little Dulcie. She could never seem to get warm enough. they had nearly lost her at Christmastide. She had caught a chill, which had developed into a chest fever. Lily still could not understand how the window in Dulcie's bed chamber had been left open, nor indeed how Dulcie had been allowed to wander the grounds on so stormy a day. Hartwell Barclay's explanation had been that he'd had no idea the foolish child would take him seriously when he'd told Dulcie that Tristram had been playing hide and seek out of doors, especially when he knew Tristram had gone into the village with her.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 30