The Sumerton Women

by D. L. Bogdan

  She was escorted by Hal’s friend Sir Edward Camden, a grizzled knight who had fought with Hal’s father at Flodden and resided at a nearby estate with his brood of sixteen children by three different wives, two of whom had died in childbirth. His latest was a young bride as well, three years Cecily’s senior, who had already given him two children. Father Alec gazed at the girl, at the dark circles smudged beneath her eyes, the pallid skin and drawn countenance; she exuded exhaustion. He wondered if he was staring into Cecily’s future and shuddered.

  He shifted his gaze to Hal, who, he must say, looked splendid in his yellow brocade doublet and hose, which hugged his legs in fine form. He was a handsome man, a youthful man, and when happy radiated a contagious passion for life. Father Alec swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat. This man deserved happiness after his great tragedies. There was no doubt Cecily would provide it.

  The couple knelt before the altar. Father Alec raised a hand in blessing, commencing with the ceremony.

  When Cecily saw her groom at the altar her heart lurched. Had God’s plan been different, a few years from now that very man would have been escorting her down the aisle rather than this crusty old knight, leading her to his son, Brey.

  But this was not to be. Hal stood at the altar, not Brey, and now she was beside him. They knelt before Father Alec and Cecily was grateful; her knees were trembling so violently she was certain they would buckle at any moment.

  Cecily drew in a breath and slipped her trembling hand into Hal’s steady one. He offered her reassuring glances throughout the ceremony, accompanied with cheery smiles. Her own smile was timid. She had never been timid around Hal before; she had always been comfortable to be who she was. Now everything was different. Would he expect her to be someone else now? To be grand and composed and regal?

  She had never fretted about such things with Brey. There had existed no pretenses between them, no discomfort, no awkwardness. With him she never questioned herself, never second-guessed.

  Brey ...

  She saw him in Hal, in his gentle smile, his twinkling blue eyes, his endearing sweetness. No doubt Brey would have grown into the image of his father.

  Brey ...

  Never had she dreamed she would be spending her wedding day with anyone other than him. But here she was, hand in hand with her bridegroom, the father of her former betrothed. He squeezed her hand, spreading an unexpected tingle of warmth throughout her entire body. She fixed her eyes upon him, tilting her head in thought. Hal’s tender gaze was filled with nothing but gentle respect. At once she was overwhelmed with reassurance.

  He would never expect her to be anyone other than herself, she realized with sudden certainty. She would not have to pretend around him any more than she would have around his son. Now more than ever she saw that Brey had been but an extension of Hal, a boy who was the essence of everything that made his father such a wonderful man.

  She squeezed his hand in turn. There was hope.

  The rings were exchanged. She slid the gold band up Hal’s slim finger. Father Alec’s voice swirled around them, husky and low, familiar, another source of reassurance as he blessed their union.

  They arose, hands joined. Hal leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a chaste, gentle kiss.

  Cecily faced the guests in attendance for the first time as the Countess of Sumerton, Baroness Burkhart, and Mrs. Harold Pierce.

  The wedding banquet was course after course of delicacies—stuffed capons, brawn, puddings, tarts, sugared comfits, breads, and cheeses, all of which Cecily could not enjoy under the scrutiny of the guests. She was no longer a child free to devour everything in sight but a young woman who must exert self-control at every turn. So she picked and nibbled, vowing to make up for it later.

  When the trestles were taken down, the floor was open for dancing. Musicians had been hired and the wine flowed freely. Ruddy-cheeked guests clapped their hands and stamped their feet, alternating between hearty country dances and the elegant steps of the court. Hal and Cecily twirled about the floor until the soles of her feet ached. All eyes were upon her, boring into her until the back of her neck prickled with self-consciousness. She heard the whispers.

  “Not even a full year of mourning ...” some said, while another piped in with, “But look at her ... with her under his roof what choice did he have?” “But she was betrothed to his very own son!” still another cried, scandalized. “Just because the son is no more doesn’t mean the father shouldn’t still benefit!” a man laughed. “And how he will benefit!” Soft chuckles followed. They were as subtle as possible, gathered in their corners, but wine never improved anyone’s ability for discretion and the whispers were stagy and harsh, grating on Cecily’s ears.

  She pretended to ignore them, taking hold of Hal’s hand and tipping back her head, emitting titters of girlish laughter so as to appear the carefree, happy bride.

  “They’re mad with jealousy,” Hal told her. “And I’ve created scandal once more.”

  “A happy kind of scandal,” Cecily assured him with a smile. “We can be proud to enliven their boring lives!”

  Hal laughed, holding her close. He was happy, his voice alternating between soft and low and a crescendo of zeal that tickled her. Like Cecily, Hal’s natural inclination toward gaiety abated the deepest melancholy. Tonight he radiated with it and Cecily was thrilled to be the source.

  As they returned to the high table, Father Alec joined them. The smile fixed upon his face was incongruent with his somber expression.

  “I wanted to offer my congratulations before my departure,” he said in soft tones.

  “What, you can’t be leaving,” Cecily breathed in horror. “Not now! What are you thinking?”

  Hal’s plea was communicated through his expressive blue eyes.

  “I am expected sooner than I thought,” Father Alec told them, not quite meeting their eyes. His smile was distracted, apologetic.

  Cecily’s heart sank. “But you cannot leave tonight! It could be dangerous! There could be highwaymen and bandits and all sorts of—”

  “Lady Cecily is right, Father, you cannot—”

  “Please.” Father Alec locked eyes with Hal. His soft tone resounded with underlying intensity. “I must.”

  Hal bowed his head. He drew in a wavering breath. “Then if you must ...”

  Father Alec turned to Cecily. “My lady, what a pleasure it has been serving you all these years.” He bowed over her hand, offering upon it a soft kiss.

  On impulse Cecily flung her arms about the priest. “Oh, Father, would that you could remain with us a little longer!” she sobbed, wetting his neck with her tears. “We shall miss you so!”

  He rubbed her back a moment before withdrawing. “I am sorry to have to make such a hasty retreat, but my duties lie elsewhere now.” His face softened. “Know I shall always remember you and keep you in my prayers.”

  “You will write to us, won’t you?” she asked, her voice small.

  Father Alec nodded. Why was he so cool, so offhanded? This had been his home for years and he was behaving as if it and those who resided there had never meant a thing to him!

  “Come, Father, let me walk you out,” said Hal. Both men bowed toward Cecily, leaving her to stand bewildered, uncertain, and angered by what just came to pass.

  “Father, I am saddened that you chose this moment to leave us,” Hal said when they were in the crisp coolness of the courtyard. “Lady Cecily did not deserve such disappointment on her wedding day.”

  “I apologize,” Father Alec said in wooden tones.

  The men had made it to the stables, where waited Father Alec’s horse and cart.

  “Are you so very angry with me, Father?” Hal asked. “Even knowing I do not plan to consummate it?”

  Father Alec heaved a sigh. “No. I am not angry. I commend your integrity, in fact. And any man of property with the same circumstances and opportunity would do the same,” he told him. “I do understand that. Truly.”

>   Hal searched for insincerity, for anger. He found none. He reached out, gripping the priest’s forearms in a sign of affection. “If you understand then why not stay? Be our chaplain?”

  Father Alec’s expression contorted with pain. “Your offer is generous. But I cannot. I find my soul is in a state of ... unrest, my lord. I need this change.”

  “But to leave us tonight?” Hal persisted. “Why not at least wait till the morning?”

  “I must go now,” he said. “I cannot jeopardize my new position by being late.”

  Hal shook his head, puzzled. Father Alec had always been such an understated man, a font of calm. He was steady, nonchalant, and whenever Hal thought of him brought to mind were his easy smile, his offhanded tone, his self-deprecating humor. For years he had been so much more to his family than mere tutor. He was confessor, compassionate counselor, wise adviser, and treasured friend.

  The man standing before him now was a stranger—uneasy, skittish. He was a man in agony.

  “Father, in all the years I have known you, you have been nothing but a friend to me,” Hal told him in gentle tones. “If there is something I can ever do to help you, I would hope you would trust me enough to let me.”

  “I appreciate that,” Father Alec said, bowing his head. “All I ask of you is to let me go. I—I must go.”

  Hal released his forearms. Tears clenched his throat. “You will visit us, I hope?” he asked.

  Father Alec offered his best imitation of a smile. “Of course.” Tears trapped in moonlight glistened off his cheeks, shimmering like opals. He laid a hand on Hal’s shoulder. “Thank you for your hospitality these years past and for your kind recommendation; I shall never forget it. You are a good man, Lord Hal. I know that.”

  “Godspeed, Father,” Hal said softly.

  Father Alec climbed up on the cart, flicked the reins, and was consumed by the blackness of night.

  He did not look back.

  Father Alec wondered what Hal would have made of his lying to him, for there was no reason he could not have stayed the night through. He was not late. Indeed, he was not expected in London for another two weeks. The inn he had chosen to stay at was a mere ten miles from Castle Sumerton.

  Father Alec left on impulse. He simply had to get away. He could not be there tonight; he could not bear the thought of Hal taking the love of that sweet innocent.

  And, for love of God, he could not understand why.

  And so he rode through the night, listening to the hooves pounding against the road, matching the beating of his racing heart. As each mile was put between him and Sumerton, leaving the suffocating complexities of its world behind him, the painful knot in his gut eased. He had no desire to analyze his feelings.

  He was getting out.

  9

  The hour that Cecily had been anticipating with the most fear had arrived. Exhausted revelers had departed or taken to their beds and she was led to her apartments, where she would await her bridegroom. She was dressed in a white silk nightdress trimmed with yellow ribbons. Nurse Matilda, who was elevated to the station of lady’s maid, brushed her hair to a golden sheen.

  “You mustn’t fret, my lady,” she murmured sweetly as she smoothed her hair with her hands. “The pain passes very quickly.”

  Cecily trembled. “Pain?” she squeaked. Her voice was caught in her throat, mingling with a sob as she was tucked into bed. Matilda sat beside her, stroking her cheek.

  “It is a pain we all bear, and not nearly so bad as childbirth,” she told her in tender tones, offering a chuckle. “You will not even remember it come morning.”

  Cecily doubted this but accepted the well-meaning words with a smile.

  When Lord Hal arrived dressed in naught but his shift Cecily drew the covers over her shoulders with an involuntary shiver.

  Matilda bowed, offering Cecily a conspiratorial wink as she made her exit.

  Hal sighed, stretching. “And now what I’ve been waiting for!” he cried as he fairly jumped into the bed.

  Cecily’s heart lurched. This was not a side of Lord Hal she had been expecting.

  He leaned over, brushing his lips against her cheek. “I am exhausted! Good night, my dear,” he told her as he settled against the pillows, drawing the covers to his neck.

  “You mean ... you mean you’re not ... ?” Cecily hoped the relief in her voice would not offend him.

  Hal chuckled. “What manner of scoundrel do you take me for?” he asked her. “I am only sleeping in here to satisfy the guests. I even brought in a wineskin filled with pig’s blood for the sheets!” He laughed at his cleverness, then reached over to stroke her cheek. His teeth shone bright white in the moonlight and Cecily found herself smiling in turn.

  “Lord Hal ...” Cecily said, touched. She slid closer to him, snuggling against his warm chest, finding solace in his steady heartbeat. “Thank you.”

  “Not a minute before you’re ready, sweeting,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. “Not a minute before ...”

  Cecily nuzzled her head in the crook of his shoulder.

  How easy he is to love, she thought.

  Mirabella analyzed the latest news from home while tending the gardens one afternoon with Sister Julia. Her hands trembled with rage as they worked the earth. Her father ... her father and Cecily. A thirty-nine-year-old man and a fourteen-year-old girl! This made him no better than King Henry when he had taken after Anne Boleyn’s sister, Mary! She had never thought to liken her father to the king. Had he no shame, no decency? Let alone he was supposed to be in mourning for his wife and son—Cecily’s former betrothed! The affair filled her with disgust.

  “What did you expect him to do?” Sister Julia asked in gentle tones. Mirabella had chosen to confide in her; she found she could not shut her out. What’s more, she did not want to; the relationship they were developing was akin to the friendship they had known before and Sister Julia proved Mirabella’s only confidante besides the confessor. “Did you think someone of your father’s standing would let his legacy die with him? Mirabella, you are nothing if not perceptive.”

  “But Cecily!” she whispered, ever observant of their muted world.

  “She was his ward, under his protection,” Sister Julia said. “Would any man in his right mind send her away with what she had to offer? Mirabella, you must think in reality.”

  “It is disrespectful on both parts,” Mirabella pouted. “She was to marry Brey! And now look, a stepmother five years my junior—”

  “You are no longer of her world,” Sister Julia interposed. “Thus her world should not concern you, save to keep her in your prayers. Keep in mind how limited her choices were. Would you rather she had been warded to strangers? You know as well as I what could have befallen her. Yes, she was to marry Brey, but he was called to God. You can thank that same God that she has your father—and that your father has her. They have a common bond in their familiarity. And Cecily is good and sweet, you know that. She is young and strong and will give him heirs.”

  Mirabella grimaced. “It is a disgrace. My father grows foolhardy in his dotage,” she muttered.

  “Oh, my dear girl, your father is hardly in his ‘dotage’! Why do you insist on turning your back on peace?” Sister Julia asked as she rose, balancing her basket of vegetables on her hip. She shook her head at the stubborn postulant.

  Mirabella raised her face to the nun who was her mother. “I turn my back on peace?” she asked in low tones. “I, who reach out for it, only to grasp at nothing?” She shook her head. “No. Peace betrayed me. It has evaded me since the day you brought me into this world.”

  With that she rose, quitting the garden. It was time for Vespers. She had best go through the motions of being at peace with God.

  Hal and Cecily fell into the same routine they had known before their nuptials, with one exception. Father Alec was gone. Every corner seemed to reflect his vacancy and Cecily’s heart clenched with grief whenever she thought of
her tutor. She found herself missing the oddest things, things she hadn’t even realized she cherished—the distinct huskiness of his voice, his offhanded manner, his gentle eyes, his lazy smile, the faintest trace of an accent betraying his Welsh heritage. Strange little things, the way the veins stood out in his hand when he wrote, the way his brows knitted together when he lectured, the low timbre of his voice when he discussed something he was passionate about. She missed him. She missed him, but he was gone. He wanted to go; indeed, he had seemed desperate, a fact that she would never understand. Yet there was nothing she could do but savor the memories of a childhood he had enriched, knowing beyond any doubt her transition into the Pierce household would not have been made with as much ease had he not been there to guide her.

  And so she kept the priest in her prayers, along with Mirabella and all those who went before, while she tried to concentrate on her present estate.

  Hal was the center of her world now. Cecily was married but not quite a wife. She still found herself regarding Hal as a kind of father. The affection he bore her was only altered by the fact that they were completely alone. The love once spent on Brey and Mirabella was now lavished upon her. In his loneliness he reached out to her; she curled in his lap before the fire at night for long hours as he spoke of his day, of the antics of his tenants, of a particularly good hunt, or an amusing anecdote he had heard about the court. They still played games together, still went hunting and riding. The golden bands about their fingers uniting them as man and wife seemed not to affect their relationship in the slightest.

  Though they did take on a treasurer to manage the finances, Hal was still allotted a modest amount for gambling and paid calls to his friends to indulge in the sport, leaving Cecily alone with no one but the servants. It was at these times that the suffocating loneliness closed in around her. She was assaulted by thoughts of the past. What would she and Brey be doing now? What would Lady Grace be doing? Was there any chance she could have stayed well? They were useless thoughts, these, and only served to knot her gut with anxiety. Nonetheless, she was stalked by relentless reflections, for with her only distraction away, there was naught to do but think and pace and think some more until Hal at last came home.