The idea gave her courage enough to look into his eyes at last.
“John,” she said. “John, I bless the day you came into my life.”
His gentle smile was back. “Well, that is very kind of you to say, Cecily. I thank you for such a deep compliment.”
She shook her head. “No, don’t thank me. Don’t thank me, for you know not what I am about to say.”
His smile faded a bit. “Oh? Say it then, so that I will know.”
“I can’t marry you, John.”
He did not shout his surprise. Embarrassed anger did not redden his face. His forehead only crinkled a bit, as if he were mildly perplexed by what she’d said. Perhaps she had posed some sort of riddle to him.
“Why?”
Cecily licked her lips, swallowed again. “Because I’m pregnant.”
John Grey’s face went slack and he turned his face away from her toward the front of the hall. “Oh,” he breathed. He pulled his hand away from Cecily’s, and Cecily squeezed her eyes shut when he placed that hand over his mouth and chin, his elbow resting on the table. “What he said was true, then—you did make love. I thought perhaps Lord Bellecote was only—” He broke off and paused for a moment. “You let me believe it had not gone so far.”
“I did.” Her skin felt like ice now that his warmth was gone. He didn’t speak again, and so Cecily offered, “I’m sorry, John. I’m so ashamed. I’m not worthy of y—”
He turned his face back to her suddenly and his words cut her off. “I don’t care.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t care that you are pregnant,” he clarified, and although his expression still bore the heavy traces of a deep shock, his words were strong, his tone sincere. “I may not be as rich as some men—most men, actually—but I will give all I have to care for you and that babe. He or she will be like my own, and there need never be any mention of it. We’ll marry more quickly than we had intended, and ... well, babies are born early on in marriages quite often.”
Cecily was stunned. “I ... I can’t let you do that, John. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”
“How would it not be fair?” he asked. “I want you to be my wife. That you would be bringing an extra, small person—a person made from your own flesh—into our lives, is no reason for me to discard you.”
Cecily’s throat choked with emotion. “It would be forever between us. You would resent me in time, perhaps the child, as well.”
“You truly believe that of me?” he asked, the hurt clear on his face.
Cecily drew in a stuttering breath as she remembered John in the village, holding the newborn babe, and her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Of course not. That was simply a lie I was telling myself.”
“It’s because you love him, isn’t it?”
A tear escaped one eye and raced down her cheek. She nodded. “And it is also because I suspect that, deep in your heart, you were using our betrothal as an escape from your vows.”
John turned sideways on the bench suddenly and grasped both of her shoulders. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care for you! That I would not put my whole heart into being a good husband to you, a good father to our children! You are smarter than this, Cecily! Oliver Bellecote obviously cares nothing for you—he abandoned you and the babe when he left Fallstowe!”
Oh, God, Cecily whispered to herself, please give me the strength to see this whole thing through.
“John, Lord Bellecote is ... unaware of my condition at this time.”
He continued to hold on to her shoulders for a moment, staring into her eyes as if he was having difficulty understanding her words.
“You don’t want me, a man who is willing to marry you and would love your child, and yet the man you love, you deceive?” he asked carefully.
She opened her mouth to deny it, but she had no rebuttal for the way he’d worded the accusation.
“I don’t deserve you, John, and you most certainly deserve a woman more noble of character than I. I am saving us all greater heartbreak.”
“You don’t believe that.”
She nodded. “Yes, I do.”
John released her then and his face went colder than she could have ever imagined possible. His light, his gentle smile was gone.
“Then you are a hypocrite and a fool.”
She lifted her face to watch him as he stood abruptly. “Perhaps. I am very sorry, all the same.”
“At least now no one shall mistake you for a saint, for surely you are one no more.” It was as close to a sneer as Cecily could imagine John Grey capable.
“I never was a saint, John,” she whispered.
One of his slender eyebrows flickered upward. “Obviously. How thoughtless of me to forget that you never solicited such wearisome feelings of respect and admiration from those around you. How dare they revere you so?”
Cecily frowned. “Everyone expected me to be perfect, all the time! I was never allowed any mistakes!”
“You’ve made up for it though, haven’t you? You should keep your confessor quite busy in the future. I do hope he doesn’t end up falling in love with you, too—perhaps once you’ve grown weary of playing the infamous woman and need to be rescued from your life again.”
Cecily’s breath caught in her throat. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do mean it.” He looked down at her, his nostrils flaring, his lips set in a hard line. “Everyone is entitled to mistakes, Cecily. Everyone. It’s only unseemly when you deliberately misstep at another’s expense.”
“John, you don’t understand. I—”
“I understand perfectly,” he interrupted. “For as much as you claim to be unlike your sisters, you are a grand combination of both: the recklessness of the younger with the sense of entitlement of the elder. You don’t care who you crush as long as you get what you want.”
Cecily gasped. “That’s not true!”
“I will pray for you, Lady Cecily. As well as for your poor, bastard child.” He gave a short bow and began walking away.
Cecily felt as though he had struck her. She stood, a wave of nervous dizziness washing over her. “John, please, wait!”
He did not slow, and in fact, Cecily thought she heard his footfalls pounding up the steps in a run as he disappeared into the corridor leading away from the hall.
She stood alone in that grand stone room, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Tears slipped from her eyes like withered petals in a cold wind. He was right, of course. Everything he’d said was true. But there was no other recourse to her at this point than to carry on.
In a moment, she had composed herself and quit the hall, her head held high.
She needed to pack.
Sybilla knew it was him when the pounding shook her chamber door. He did not pause in his insistence to be admitted long enough for her to bid him enter, and so she crossed the floor and opened the door herself. He swept past her in a rush of air, and she caught the scent of him—incense and hay, beeswax and sunshine.
She closed the door quietly and then turned to face him, her back pressed against the wood, her hands stacked behind her.
“I’m sorry, John,” she said quietly.
He stabbed a finger toward her, and she saw that his eyes glistened behind his rage. “This is your fault!”
She dropped her head in an incomplete nod. “I know. I’ve never before been so completely right and so completely wrong in the same instance.”
“It was in being completely right that you were wrong!” he shouted inanely, and then scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Dammit! When you told me of her, I thought you must certainly be exaggerating—surely there could be no woman who would suit me so. No woman so beautiful in spirit and in appearance. No woman so charitable and yet struggling with the same questions I held up to myself! But you were right!”
“I’m sorry,” Sybilla repeated quietly. “I knew that you would be perfect for each other. I knew it”—she broug
ht a fist to her chest—“in my own heart. That’s why I encouraged you to come to Fallstowe when the bishop introduced us and told me he was sending you to Hallowshire for your discernment. I wanted Cecily to be with someone who would truly understand her, appreciate her.”
“I find that I don’t understand her, though! How perfect for her could I be if she will not accept me even when I promise to honor both her and her child?”
“I can only assume that my sister no longer desires perfect. I wanted her to be safe. I had no idea that she and Oliver—”
“I knew!” John Grey shouted, his fury not abating in the least. Indeed, it seemed to grow with every word from his mouth.
Sybilla frowned. “What do you mean, you knew?”
“I knew something inappropriate had happened between Cecily and that scoundrel upon the second instance of our meeting. She confessed to me, although she did not reveal the very extent of their affair! I knew she was in danger of falling in love with him when I urged her back to Hallowshire with me!”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sybilla demanded.
“Because it was none of your bloody business!”
Sybilla pressed her lips together. “I see.”
“You see too much,” John Grey accused. “You see too much that you have no business looking for. You are not God, Sybilla Foxe. You are a mortal woman. In taking on the role of supreme ruler, you have ruined my life, and quite possibly your sister’s.”
“I hope that’s not true.”
“It is true!” He stomped toward her suddenly and seized her upper arms. “Why would you do such a thing to me? Show me the very thing I had been seeking, my way out, only to then have it ripped away from me in a blink?” He shook her briefly. “Why?”
Sybilla let her eyes search his face, and she could feel the pain weeping out of him like spring water from stones. She understood his despair more than she could ever explain to him with words, so she brought her hands up, her palms cradling his face.
“I’m sorry, John.”
He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to hers. “Why?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. “You’ll never know how sorry.”
He turned his mouth to hers again and kissed her, almost hesitantly. His breathing was labored. His scent was hypnotizing, and Sybilla felt their mutual mourning for what might have been tangle together like an omen.
When he pulled away, Sybilla stroked the side of his face, searched his eyes with hers. “Forgive me, John. Please.” She leaned up and kissed his mouth again briefly, firmly. “Forgive me.”
He stared at her as she dropped her hands to his shoulders, pulling him closer.
“Close your eyes,” he demanded. “They are too blue.”
Sybilla understood. Cecily’s eyes were brown.
And then she closed her eyes. Because in that moment she needed John Grey as much as he needed her. Perhaps she needed him more.
Sybilla was breathless when John Grey rolled away from her, and although she expected him to immediately depart from the taint of her bed, after only a moment he sighed and drew her to his side. She curled over him hesitantly, laid her head upon his chest, let her hand come to rest cautiously on his stomach.
It had been a long time since August, both figuratively and literally, and both Sybilla’s body and heart ached. Even with August, she had not allowed this closeness after lovemaking. But there was no risk with John Grey. He did not love her. In fact, he probably was as close as a man of his character could come to hating her. They had a mutual interest in Cecily, and had given each other a tiny bit of comfort.
“What are you going to do now, Sybilla?”
She shook her head against his chest, hearing her hair rustle loud in her ear. “I was very wrong about a lot of things. Joan Barleg obviously knows nothing. It’s quite possible that August burned all of our correspondence, and that is why Argo could not locate the letters. It seems something August would do. He was always very careful to destroy anything of import if he could not keep it directly under his hand.”
John sighed. “So Joan Barleg was naught but another innocent casualty.”
“I would not go so far as to call her innocent, yet. But I shall give her some money when she leaves.”
John was quiet for a long time. “Oliver Bellecote needs to know that Cecily is not going to marry me. That she is going to Hallowshire.”
“I know. He also needs to know about his child. Cecily says she will send word to him, but I know that she is very frightened of everything happening to her now.” John Grey’s warm skin felt so good under her palm, she could not help but smooth her hand over his stomach. It was as if she could feel the vibration of his aliveness into her bones. “Oliver is beyond furious with me. He would likely fire on a messenger from Fallstowe.”
“Perhaps you should go yourself, then.”
Sybilla chuckled. “Vicar, I am surprised you would knowingly send a child of God to her own certain death.”
“You now claim to be a child of God?” John Grey snorted easily. “I’m not really a vicar, any matter. It’s only a courtesy title.”
“Allow me my little fantasy, hmm?” She smiled against his skin, and then went still. “He wouldn’t fire on you, John.”
He was quiet for several heartbeats. “Sybilla, you ask too much of me.”
“I know.” She said no more, only continued to marvel at the warmth of him beneath her hand.
“Why? Why me?” he asked at last.
“Because no matter how badly she has hurt you, you care what happens to her and her child.” She turned her face up to look at him in the growing gloom of her bed. “Don’t you?”
He was staring at the canopy. “Yes. God help me.” He was quiet again, as if considering the idea, and Sybilla let him be. “But why would he come to Hallowshire to see Cecily? What if Cecily is correct in her summation of him as little more than a scoundrel and a liar? I happen to think that it’s true, myself.”
Sybilla thought for a moment. “If he refuses to come, well, we have lost naught for the attempt.”
“Perhaps ... perhaps she will change her mind about me then, given some time.”
Sybilla thought there was little chance of that happening, but she kept her thoughts on the subject to herself.
“I’ll go,” he said at last. “But I will not tell him of the child. I can’t. It’s too much to ask of me.”
Sybilla nodded against his chest again. “I accept that.”
Then he was sliding away from her, off the edge of the bed. Sybilla pulled the covers over her bare breasts and watched him as he dressed quickly in his plain vicar’s clothing and religious medallion. She felt her desire to be loved again rising along with her feelings of impending loneliness and responsibility, and she hoped he left straightaway.
He turned to her, glanced down the length of her body stretched beneath the thin covering and then back at her face.
“Did you make love to me to persuade me to do your bidding?”
No, Sybilla said to herself. I made love to you because you are handsome and strong and good. Because you were sad, and I was sad, and I wanted to taste a little of your peace. Because I was sorry for hurting you. Because I knew you would be a good lover.
“Yes.”
John Grey nodded as he dropped his gaze to the floor. Then he turned and strode toward the door. Once there he unbolted the latch and paused, speaking over his shoulder.
“I’ll do my best with Lord Bellecote, and send word if there is anything you need to be informed of. Afterward, I shall return briefly to Hallowshire before going on to the bishop to resign my mission. I don’t know what I shall do with myself then. Perhaps we shall see each other again, Lady Sybilla.”
“Perhaps we shall. Godspeed, Vicar.”
He opened the door without returning the blessing, but Sybilla did hear his muffled “Pardon me” as he departed, leavi
ng the door standing open.
Alys swept into Sybilla’s chamber, Graves at her back. Sybilla closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of dismay.
The youngest Foxe sister came to a sweeping halt in the center of the floor, one hand on her hip, the other pointing toward the door Graves was closing decorously. Her eyes were wide and she stuttered in her words for a moment.
“Was that ... did you ... ” She paused, drew a breath. “Sybilla, did you sleep with a priest?”
Sybilla sat up in bed with another great sigh and took the robe Graves handed her before he turned his back. Sybilla stood and covered herself, cinching the belt tightly while she walked to her table.
“Oh, shut up, Alys—it’s only a courtesy title.”
Chapter 22
Cecily leaned against a stable wall as she waited for Father Perry the next morning, her heart in her slippers. A single lantern cast a flickering circle of golden light at her feet as if in effort to keep the creeping darkness of predawn away, while her horse stood in the aisle patiently, quietly, Cecily’s leather satchel strapped to its saddle.
Alys and Piers had left the previous afternoon, and Cecily had bid Sybilla a brief and stilted farewell last night. There was no one else to say good-bye to, and so when someone had knocked timidly on her chamber door this morning shortly after she’d awakened, Cecily had ignored it. She wanted no tea, no apple tart this morn. She only wanted to be gone. She was so tired, and yet anxious to the point of trembling.
She heard shuffling footsteps in the stable yard beyond the circle of light and so she stood aright, drawing a deep breath. A shadowy figure stepped into the main aisle.
“Good morrow, Lady Cecily.”
“Joan?” Cecily said, not bothering to conceal the surprise in her tone. Her eyes went to the satchel over the blond woman’s shoulder. “Good morrow. Are you only now taking your leave of Fallstowe? Forgive me—I thought you had already left.”
Joan Barleg came to stand perhaps five paces from Cecily, an uneasy smile on her face. “I’ve kept myself hidden away, licking my wounds, you could say. But I think I’m ready to leave today. There’s no reason at all for me to stay now, is there?”
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