by Lily Reynard
"That is what I fear, as well," Antonia said.
"If you were to give some thought to remarrying—"
"No."
Bellamy refused to be deterred. "My dear Lady Cranbourne, you are too young to remain in perpetual mourning. Let not one loutish suitor deter you from assaying—"
"No," Antonia said again, a little louder.
Bellamy winced a little, but forged ahead with the desperation of a man who knows he is making a mistake but who has no other choice.
"There are good men, honorable men in the world, my lady. Take, for instance, my wife's nephew, a respectable young man with good connections—very good connections—to the Duke of Buckingham."
Antonia felt a chilly sense of foreboding. Lady Bellamy was the parish's most active matchmaker, and if she had decided to take an interest in Antonia's affairs...
As Sir Ralph blundered on, Antonia sat, rigid, her hands locked in her lap. She wanted to shout at him to make him stop, but knew that she couldn't risk affronting her strongest ally out here in the country.
He apparently sensed her discomfort. His face had gone scarlet to his hairline, but he continued with grim determination.
"Well, my wife—I meant, we, hoped that you might consent to receive young Richard when he comes down from Oxford next month." His duty discharged, Bellamy leaned back and took a restorative gulp of tea, adding, "He's not titled, of course, but he's a good lad and he comes from a respectable family. Unlike some I might mention, he has no debts, nor does he squander his allowance in dissolute living."
"Sir Ralph," Antonia protested, knowing it would do no good if Lady Bellamy was behind this. "As I told you—"
"No, no, my lady, do not feel compelled to give me a reply now. Recent upsetting events, and all." Bellamy rose, and bowed to Antonia. "I must take my leave. I bid you good morning, and hope that you will think upon our conversation."
"I will think upon it," Antonia said, striving for a neutral tone.
After Bellamy had left, she sat in her parlor for a long time, watching the sunlight slant through the tender green leaves of the chestnut trees outside.
At this time last year, she had been utterly alone in the house, having sent away the servants so that they might be spared infection.
It had been a sunny spring day like this one, as she sat at her husband's bedside, desperately sponging his hideously afflicted body, trying to bring down his fever.
The earl had died that night, and having caught the smallpox herself, she had been too ill to attend his funeral. The regret of not having bid her beloved spouse a proper farewell
Antonia sighed, pulled back from her melancholy contemplation and forced herself to consider her current circumstances.
No wonder Bellamy was so willing to carry out justice on my behalf, if his wife's nephew is waiting to take the stage!
For all his clumsy maneuvering, he had spoken true when he warned her that the onslaught of unwelcome suitors was only just beginning.
* * *
"I'm right sorry I didn't break his head, the scoundrel," Mall declared a short while later, as she unlaced Antonia's heavy black formal gown. "Frightening poor helpless women half to death in the middle of the night!"
Antonia smiled at her maid. "You were hardly helpless, Mall. I swear I owe my virtue to your strong right arm."
Mall's pale, freckled face lit with an answering smile. The strings to her cap had become untied, revealing tousled red curls.
Sweetheart began screaming. "Come here! Come here! Come here!"
Mall left off the unlacing and hurried over to the large cage that stood beneath the bedroom windows.
The gray-and-white parrot inside the cage crouched low on his perch, his tail feathers peevishly fanned out. "Want porridge!"
"Poor Sweetheart, we forgot about his breakfast!" Antonia exclaimed.
"No wonder he's upset!" Mall left the room at a trot, heading for the kitchen.
Antonia drew up a padded footstool and seated herself in front of Sweetheart's cage, speaking soothingly to him.
At first, he refused to quiet down, but as Antonia continued to murmur, his rigid, defensive posture began to soften. He blinked, and stopped crouching. Then his short tail feathers relaxed and folded closed. As she continued to soothe him, keeping her tone and expression calm and reassuring, she felt her own anger begin to drain away.
Finally, Sweetheart straightened up, a swift fluffing of his feathers and quick shake of his tail announcing that all was right with the world once more.
"Don't you dare bleed on my Turkey carpets, Sir Nicholas," he announced, sounding uncannily like Antonia.
Antonia laughed, opened the cage, and reached in. "Come out, Sweetheart."
The bird stepped onto her hand, climbed up her forearm in his deliberate way, and sat contentedly on her shoulder, preening the ends of her hair.
"I brought something to break your fast, as well, milady," Mall said as she re-entered the bedroom.
She bore a tray loaded with a mug of ale, freshly-baked bread, a plate of cold sliced meats and cheeses, and a bowl of porridge for Sweetheart.
Sweetheart spied the bowl. "Porridge!"
He clambered down Antonia's arm, walked over to the bowl, and happily began to eat, tossing his head to occasionally fling bits of porridge around the room.
When she had finished with her own breakfast, Antonia rose, pulling up her half-laced gown. With Sweetheart back on her shoulder, she went to inspect the mullioned window that Sir Nicholas had pried open.
She opened it, releasing the heavy velvet curtain caught in the latch. Leaning out into the cool morning air, she peered down. "Hmmm, yes, I thought so."
"Thought what, milady?" asked Mall.
"Sir Nicholas did climb up the ivy, the fool! He might have broken his neck!"
"Pity he didn't, " Mall said, tartly, and Antonia laughed.
"At least he won't dare come back." She touched her fingertips to her cheek, where the layers of rouge and white lead had been removed as soon as Sir Ralph departed.
It was always a shock to encounter the roughness of her disfigurement, as if she expected that her face might somehow have become smooth again, and she beautiful once more.
But she was fated to be ugly for the rest of her days. Only her fortune would attract men now.
Mall saw the gesture, and her lips compressed to a thin line. She had served Antonia since her marriage, and she, more than anyone, knew what Antonia had lost.
To her credit, Mall had never evinced anything but conviction that Antonia might still pass for beautiful with the aid of cosmetics and a few patches.
Mall unpinned Antonia's hair from its hastily-made knot, and began to comb it out. Antonia sighed, allowing the steady rhythm to soothe her.
Widowhood had brought many changes to Antonia's life. The loss of her beauty was balanced by the freedom to act as she pleased for the first time in her life. But she was discovering that there were dangers now that had never manifested before, when she was under the protection of her father, and later, her husband.
"Oh, Mall." Antonia sighed. "Why can't these suitors understand that I don't wish to remarry, and least of all to a fortune-hunter?"
"That's the rub, milady," Mall said. "There are many men who like a challenge. Instead of being discouraged, they just try to find underhanded ways of winning the game. The problem with being rusticated here in Cranbourne is that you're a big fish in a little pond. And you're young yet, and—dare I say it?—still handsome enough, especially with your beautiful chestnut hair."
"Handsome?" Antonia's lip curled. "Only by the grace of my houses and lands."
"Not all men court just for money, milady," Mall protested. "Once you've had more time to grow accustomed to the idea, you'll see that there are also honorable men—"
"—who seek rich wives," Antonia interrupted. "Leave be, Mall. You are well-intentioned, I know, but I can see the truth."
She raised an eyebrow at her reflection,
and the pockmarked young woman in the mirror returned her ironic glance.
Mall's hands stilled, and her reflection looked stricken. Antonia reached up to pat her hand.
"But I think you are right in one thing," Antonia said, gently. "I might do better away from the country. Perhaps we should spend the summer in London."
Mall's distress vanished. "Milady! It would be lovely to see my family again. And you being a city girl, too..."
"I received a letter yesterday from the queen's secretary, bidding me to come serve Her Majesty as a lady-in-waiting."
Mall's eyes went wide. "We—the servants, I mean—were wondering mightily when the messenger arrived. He spoke to none, just took a cup of ale and mounted up again. Oh, my!"
"All those eligible noblewomen vying for a position of a lady-in-waiting, and I'm only a merchant's daughter, after all. And a Puritan."
Antonia could guess why the invitation had been issued. There were many penniless noblemen at Court, and some had the favor of Their Majesties.
But one did not refuse the queen, even if it meant having to give up the retired life of a virtuous widow, and live cheek-by-jowl with the debauched lords and ladies of the Court.
"You're the Dowager Countess of Cranbourne, milady, not just a merchant's daughter," Mall reminded her.
"Which will make them despise me all the more. Many of them suffered at the hands of Cromwell and his men, and—" Antonia broke off when she saw Mall's dismayed expression. She continued in a different tone, trying to convince herself. "In any case, I'm sure no one will pay me the slightest heed at Court, where I will be a mere gray goose among richer and prettier swans."
Chapter Two
"If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome."
—Anne Bradstreet, Meditations Divine and Moral (1664)
The coach took eleven hours to cover the distance from the port at Dover to Canterbury, for the rain turned the highway into a quagmire.
Exhausted and battered from the jolting, swaying coach, Christopher Fitzgeorge and his young daughter Margaret finally arrived at their destination just after midnight, and found a room in an inn.
Half a pound gone in coach fare, and it would have been faster to walk from Dover, Kit thought bitterly, as he tucked Margaret into bed.
Though his daughter was in no shape to walk, especially in the pouring rain. Her face was still hot with the fever that had begun on their crossing over the Channel.
At least he was nearly home. Haverbrook was only five miles from Thornsby-on-Stowre
The next day was Market Day, and while shopping for provisions in Haverbrook's town square, Kit had the good fortune to encounter William Plower, a farmer who remembered Kit from boyhood.
Plower had gone gray-haired and grizzled in the years that Kit had been away on the Continent, but his brown eyes were still as sharp and as kind as ever.
After they had exchanged greetings, Plower said, "Can I offer you a ride with me, Kit? It's on my way home from market, and I'll be pleased with some company,"
It was just past noon, and Plower was packing up what remained of his produce in large wicker baskets. "I imagine you've got some fine stories of foreign lands. France and Italy, was it?"
"And Germany and Hungary, too," Kit replied, hitching his shoulder. It had been months since his injury, and it still ached. "My mercenary company was hired to help fight the invading Turks."
Plower sucked his breath through his teeth and looked impressed. "Never been further than Canterbury, myself."
He looked down at Margaret with curiosity.
The six-year-old clutched her carved toy parrot Prospero, and stared back solemnly at the old farmer.
"Well now, she's a handsome little maid," Plower said to Kit, his face creasing into a smile. "Your daughter?"
Kit nodded. "This is Margaret. She'll turn seven years at Christmas."
"And what of her mother?" asked Plower, bending to gather his unsold baskets of fresh strawberries, heads of winter cabbage, and leathery brown dried apples.
"Dead these two years past, God rest her soul," Kit replied, moving to help the old farmer with his task.
Plower sighed. "My own good wife as well," she said. "And I still expect to hear her scolding me when I come in from the fields because I've gotten my shirt smeared with muck again, as she hands me a slice of her apple tart."
"Yes," said Kit, grateful that Plower understood. "That's the way of it."
He swallowed past the sudden thickness in his throat and busied himself with helping Power load the wagon.
The old farmer put the last of his baskets in the wagon-bed, folded up the blanket they'd been laid out on, and said, "There now, a place for your little Mag to take a nap."
Kit thanked him profusely and helped Margaret up into the bed of the wagon, cushioned by layers of sacking and wilted cabbage leaves.
Excited at first by the novelty of the coach, she had gradually become quiet and flushed with fever as the endless lurching hours passed.
Now, despite a night's sound sleep at the inn, she laid herself down in the wagon and fell almost instantly asleep.
Guilt rose like bile in his throat as Kit climbed up on the hard bench seat next to the farmer. Soon. We are nearly home.
Kit, spying one familiar landmark after another as they neared Thornsby-on-Stowre, entertained Plower as best he could with tales about his years on the Continent, fighting for whoever had the gold to hire him, but it was difficult. His losses—wife, friends, and profession—were wounds barely healed.
Far easier to point out Mr. Johnson's carp pond, where he and his half-brother Julian had gone fishing one afternoon with chunks of stale bread to lure the greedy fish. They had both been soundly whipped for that adventure, but Julian received twice as many blows, for old Lord Thornsby had been a harsh man to all, but particularly his sons.
It had not pleased Kit to be let off lightly for his misdeed, not when it meant he was just another lad to Thornsby, rather than his acknowledged son. Back then, Kit would have given anything to experience a real father's passionate anger at his misdeeds!
They arrived at last in the rambling cluster of half-timbered houses that comprised Thornsby-on-Stowre, and Plower halted his wagon at the edge of town. "I'll be taking my leave of ye here, Kit."
"Thank you again," Kit said, as he clambered down from the wagon.
Plower made a dismissive gesture. "'Twas a pleasure to have a bit of company. And I bid you a good welcome home, young Kit."
Kit lifted his knapsacks and Margaret out of the wagon. She was awake again, though she still felt fevered to his touch. Kit felt the ice-cold touch of dread prickle the skin along his spine. Children died of illnesses all the time.
Not Margaret. Please, almighty God. Don't take Margaret, too.
Plower clucked at his horse, and the wagon lurched slowly away.
Kit watched him leave, encouraged by the kindness that had been lacking among the local people—understandably enough—wherever his mercenary company camped on the Continent.
And it was good to speak English again instead of German or French.
He swung his daughter up into his arms, ignoring the sharp stab of pain from his shoulders, and strode along the street until he found a familiar cottage.
Kit smelled baking bread, and his mouth watered. He had grown up in this house, and his memories were laced with the smell of warm bread and the earthy scents of brewer's yeast and malted barley fermenting in the mash-tubs.
They walked up the short path to the cottage door. Kit saw that his mother had planted a large kitchen garden this year, sprouts poking tender green stems through the moist earth.
For years Kit had imagined striding up this path, his beautiful German wife Anna at his side, to present his mother with ropes of pearls and gold chains and other prizes from his campaigns.
Now he was home at last, not a rich and worldly man, but
a broken and defeated widower with only a few coins in his pocket.
Yet, he knew that her joy at seeing him would not be one whit diminished.
Before knocking on the cottage door, he bent quickly to tuck a straggling lock of Margaret's blonde hair under her cap, and retied the strings under her chin, regretting the travel-dirt that darkened Anna's hand-tatted lace border.
To his surprise, a stranger answered at the door.
She was young, and pretty, with dark hair and rosy cheeks. Clad in the plain gown and linen cap of a countrywoman, she was far advanced in her pregnancy. Kit gaped at her.
Did Mother finally get enough money to hire a maid?
"Good day to you," the woman said, polite but puzzled.
"Good day," Kit replied. "Is Mrs. Simmons at home?"
The woman looked startled, then peered at Kit closely. "Bless me, if it isn't Kit Fitzgeorge!"
She stepped back, and opened her door wide, inviting him in.
Her expression turned pitying. "I'm so sorry, but your mother—"
Kit's heart gave a sick lurch. "No. Oh, no. When?"
"Last summer. The plague took her," the woman said, soberly. "I am sorry to be the bearer of such ill news, Kit. Did you not get the letter, then? The vicar wrote it and posted it to you in Germany."
"I was in Hungary by then," Kit choked, fighting to keep his emotions under control.
He had not seen his mother since he had left home at seventeen. Over the years, he had sent letters when he could, but paper and ink were cold comfort against the memory of her soft embrace.
He was helpless against the pain that smote him now like the blow from a broadsword. He hunched over like a man with a belly-wound, trying to control himself.
"Papa! Papa! Please don't cry!" Margaret clung to his breeches, her face screwing up as she prepared to begin bawling herself.
I have to be strong for her.
Still bent double and sick with grief, Kit gulped great drafts of air, scrubbing at his stinging eyes with the scratchy wool of his jacket sleeve.
"I’m sorry for your loss, truly I am," said the young woman who now lived in his mother's cottage.