by Robyn Carr
“That’s immaterial. The king is his friend...and if the king can finance him, he can bring him to the altar. Trust me, sweet, we will find a way.”
“He will refuse,” she cried, a note of panic in her voice.
“Perhaps at first. But he may see the merits in owning all the property these two families can combine. And upon my word, to disinherit Stephen from Dearborn, he may come around.”
“And if he doesn’t?” she asked.
“Then we’ll seek another alternative.”
“Please, Uncle Julian, don’t make him too angry.”
“I will use great care, dear. And hopefully great influence.”
FOURTEEN
Jocelyn had never witnessed firsthand how the lady of a great manor wiled away her time. She was neither the mistress of the house, nor could she have easily slipped into any role that would have made her responsible for the servants. Aside from those hours that she spent seeing to Trent’s needs, there was no demand on her time. When he was home—just a few days every several weeks—she was busy with his meals, clothing, and the more intimate aspects of being a mistress. But when he was away, her time was her own. It was her habit to seek out pastimes that ranged from the stable to the kitchen.
When spring was fully upon the land and the weather was warm, so was Jocelyn’s figure round and plentiful. She felt more cumbersome every day, but the sheer wonder of carrying a child livened her spirits and gave her great joy. The babe exercised a powerful kick that would often take her by surprise and bring a quick smile to her lips. She had not imagined the feelings of warmth and love this condition could inspire.
Glynnis had delivered a large, healthy son without problems. By Enid’s instructions, Jocelyn made it a point to seek plenty of fresh air. While she was told to avoid the stairs, she was directed to garden walks in the cool spring mornings. She estimated the child would arrive in early June, a bare two months away, and felt in the best of health.
In the last of March, Trent had returned to Braeswood declaring that he would not journey to London again before fall. The prospect of having him about daily seemed to please every member of the Wescott household, not the least of whom was Jocelyn. He had been home barely a week when a messenger brought him an invitation from King Charles to return once more for a conference requested by the Lord of Dearborn.
“I don’t know what influence he has used to attain this,” Trent said. “The king can barely abide speaking to the man, much less buckling under to a meeting with him— and me. It is the very thing Charles proclaimed he wished no part of.”
“When do you go?” Jocelyn asked.
“It appears I must be available for mid-April, and I will not make myself accessible to the baron a moment earlier than that. I will arrive in London a day prior to the ides of that month and contact Charles. Then we shall see what his current complaint is.”
“Will you be a long time away?” she asked.
“Only if they’ve found a way to jail me,” he replied. And to her shocked and frightened reaction he added, “Rest easy, madam. Charles Stuart is not a complete fool. He knows I have committed no crimes.”
“But Trent, what do you suppose Lord Kerr means to do to you?” she asked fearfully.
“I can only assume the worst from him, Jocelyn. He wouldn’t have my king call me to court for good tidings. He means to give me trouble.”
With that burden much on her mind, Jocelyn was distracted and worried. She found it difficult to fully enjoy the beauty of early spring or the rapid blossoming of her figure. Foremost in her mind was the frightful prospect that Lord Kerr had found a means by which to do Trent harm or have him punished. Although she had taught herself quite capably not to imagine problems that didn’t yet exist, in this case she worried that he might not return to her. And that was a worry she couldn’t voice to him.
During this time it was hard to stay inactive and await his fancy. Normally, when she was untroubled and secure, she would keep quite close to the house, often near her own room, in the event he wished to speak to her or have her accomplish some minor chore for him. But her only successful means of controlling her roving thoughts was to be involved with some project and busy the day through.
One particular day when the sun was warm and bright, she pestered the gardener from early morning through the noon dinner. She discussed the spring planting, had him pull up dead shrubs, requested a clearing for roses, and even attempted some meager hoeing on her own. The man was becoming irritable with her many errands and suggestions, but Jocelyn didn’t notice. She was absorbed in a mental picture of how this garden would look by the time the child was born.
She also didn’t notice that Cross Tyson had arrived and was looking for her. He braved the front of the manor and then, after being told where she was, came around to the gardens. He stood for a long time watching her chattering with the gardener and pointing to various areas around her. He stood a long while, his hat in his hand, and simply watched. Jocelyn had no idea how long he’d been there when she finally noticed him.
“Master Tyson,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t know you were here. Have you come to see me?”
He nodded and a slight frown creased his brow. “Maid Jocelyn, does he give you stout chores while you are heavy with his child?”
“What?” she asked, surprised. Then she laughed, remembering her appearance. She had found a dress that could take the abuse of the garden and so was not richly garbed. In fact, the garment was not cut for a woman late in pregnancy and she strained the seams dangerously. She wiped her hands on her apron and tried to tuck her errant hair back into her kerchief, suspecting she looked far worse than she ever had. “No, of course not. I do this for my own pleasure.”
“Did you...That is, were you...” Cross struggled with his words and showed considerable discomfort. He finally looked at his feet in embarrassment. “When will the child be born, Jocelyn?”
She smiled very tolerantly, thinking this was a far greater shock to him than it was to her and the people she lived with. She rather pitied him, for he would think as she had: a woman so beset would live in constant shame and unhappiness. She wouldn’t try to convince him that it was otherwise. “Quite soon, Cross,” she replied. “I suspected I was with child when you last visited Braeswood.”
“I see,” he said solemnly. Then he looked up at her, pain showing in his eyes. “Has he given you his name?”
She shook her head, still smiling quite tolerantly. She turned to look up to the second level of the house and saw Trent watching her through his window, a sight she fully expected. If Cross had ventured to the house, Enid would most certainly have alerted her master of the arrived guest and his purpose. She raised a hand to wave to him and then turned back to Cross. “There will be none of that, Cross. But you needn’t worry. We will be well cared for.”
“Then you are content with this?” he asked, the tone of his question implying that he didn’t think that possible.
“I am,” she said instantly. “There is nothing I need that I haven’t been given.”
“But Jocelyn,” he said in a pleading voice, “you will bear him a bastard.”
She nodded very quickly. “Aye. And I am quite certain it is the first time such has ever happened.” To his amazed expression she laughed lightly. “Unless you would consider those famous bastards from William the Norman king on to many esteemed dukes and lords. Cross,” she said sincerely, “I have no fear for my child’s future. My Lord Wescott cherishes this, his firstborn. Please, do not pity me.”
“Jocelyn, you have changed so,” he said piteously.
“Indeed, I have changed a great deal. I’ve become sinfully indulgent and horrible. I’m certain I will be punished for feeling so good.” He looked away, very distressed with her lazy acceptance. “Oh, pray tell me you did not come here to court me away from my decadence?”
He turned back to her, still wearing the pained expression. “No, I took you at your word that you would not
leave this place. I have come with other news. Your father, Maid Jocelyn. He is dead.”
Her eyes first flared in a quick denial and her hand flew to her mouth. Cross seemed to sense her inability to respond and continued.
“He was seriously ill just a brace of days, but his condition has not been good since...well, since he was punished by Master Kerr. Through the cold winter he suffered on and off with consumption, and finally, he died in his sleep.”
“Was he in a great deal of pain?” she asked, tears beginning to come to her eyes.
“I don’t think so. Sarah, your sister, nursed him faithfully, but he coughed blood and couldn’t eat—we knew he would not survive.”
“The children?” she asked.
“They are well enough. The worst of this winter has made Peter much a man doing his father’s work, and the young ones manage the stock and house quite well. Jocelyn, I asked your father to let me send for you, but he would not allow it. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she said, her throat aching and the tears beginning to spill forth. “I didn’t expect him to forgive me in his lifetime,” she added, her grief coming as much from that as from news of his sudden death. “Cross,” she began, her hand going to her round abdomen, “you are good to bring me this news. At least you do not hate me.”
“I could never hate you, Jocelyn,” he said softly. “I think I shall love you through all eternity.” She looked at him with surprise through her brimming eyes. “I don’t mean for you to blame yourself for that—it was my doing. But I’ll have you know that even now, if you need a protector, you may come to me. I failed you once. I will not again.”
“Thank you, Cross,” she murmured, wiping at her tears with the hem of her apron. “Please, if you will, see about the children. I...I cannot.”
He nodded and looked past her to see the lord of the manor walking toward them. He didn’t become anxious under the pressure of Trent’s approach. “He watches you closely,” he said to Jocelyn. “It’s possible that he loves you.”
Jocelyn followed Cross’s eyes to see Trent coming to her aid and looked back at Cross, a half-sob in her voice. “I’ve learned one thing, certainly. Anything is possible. When will he be buried?”
“Tomorrow. In Bowens Ash, beside your mother. I think there is no trouble for Peter in claiming the house and farm plot. I will inquire and if trouble with Kerr exists, I can aid Peter.”
“Oh, thank you,” she wept. “I will rest easier knowing you do so.”
Trent had arrived and took Jocelyn’s elbow in his hand, turning her slightly to look at her state of weeping before saying anything to either of them. He frowned blackly at the sight and looked with angry eyes at Cross.
“Have you made milady cry by some misconduct?” he asked sternly.
Cross nodded with assurance. “I have brought her sad news of her family, milord. I trust you are the best one to console her now.” He bowed to Jocelyn. “I will leave you, Maid Jocelyn. And if there is other news of the children, I will see you have word.”
“Thank you, Cross,” she sniffed. “Thank you for coming. I know...I know how difficult it is for you.”
He simply nodded and turned to go, leaving Jocelyn to lean against Trent and yield to her grieving. “Oh, Trent, my father. He’s gone. We are never to make our peace...”
Thinking her quite distraught, he lifted her into his arms and took her quickly to the house. Passing Enid, he instructed her to find some soothing potion or drink for Jocelyn. It was not odd for the housekeeper to quickly do his bidding, but had Jocelyn seen the worry and speed with which Enid worked, she would have never again questioned the old woman’s devotion. Enid, not knowing what had beset the maid, fled to the task of finding a strong brew that would impede early labor and alerted much of the household that the maid was in some distress. All stood quietly ready to act upon her merest need.
But Jocelyn’s distress was entirely emotional and there were no signs of early labor or physical distress. She wept for more than an hour; the very idea of losing her father so suddenly and with no possible way of altering the news was something she had never prepared for. When she was finally collected enough to speak, she spoke quietly of the news Cross brought her.
“I must feel grateful that I did not know he suffered when he refused to let me help him. Had I feared his death, knowing only his stubborn pride kept him from taking my aid, I would have died myself a thousand times. Trent, he never considered me worthy. And I met all his expectations of me when I came here.”
“The loss was his, love,” Trent replied. “He will never know the value of the jewel he cast aside when he would not give you a place in his heart.”
“I would see to his burial, if you allow,” she softly requested.
His eyes took on a look of concern. “In Bowens Ash? My love, the common born of this world are much harder on women of your status than the rich. It would be more pleasant for you to visit the royal court, heavy with child.”
“I don’t care about them. I would see my father at his final resting and know for myself that the children are safe.”
“Jocelyn,” he said, his voice holding deep concern, “your grief is a danger to you now. I don’t care to see you further burdened with the cruelty of your simple neighbors. When they see your rounded form weeping at graveside, I dare not think what horrors they might willingly throw at you. I think it unwise. And your presence there cannot help him now.”
“I think you worry needlessly, milord. Those people were never so unkind to me as my own father was. And even in so shameful a state as I am, they must understand that to bury a parent deserves some small kindness.”
“I don’t know...” he faltered.
“Cross will be present. He wouldn’t allow my abuse.”
Trent thought for a moment and then patted her hand.
“If it is important to you, I will take you. Master Tyson need feel no further responsibility for you.”
A dress of black was found among the castle servants. In the purchase of Jocelyn’s clothing, no plans had been made for this grievous state so of course she had no mourning clothes. Her darkest gown was a rich shade of royal blue that would seem wanton at such a sad event.
Trent showed his displeasure over her basic attire only in his eyes. Were there the time, a gown of richer fabric in a more fashionable style would have been made for her. But he donned his own dark breeches and doublet and presented his arm.
She was the last to arrive, as John Cutler’s coffin was being carried to the burial plots within the small hamlet. When the prestigious coach pulled into the town, many heads turned to look. As Jocelyn emerged and was recognized, gasps could be heard throughout the gathering. But Warren was the first to speak her name. “Jocelyn,” he cried, running to her instantly and hugging her fiercely. She returned the small boy’s warm embrace and they wept together as family did. Sarah and Peter quickly separated themselves from the grieving group and the four held each other closely. However, no other within the small village spoke to her. They watched her suspiciously and tittered amongst themselves, pointing rudely and frowning with disapproval.
Cross Tyson was one of the men bearing the humble casket, and when his chore was done, he approached the couple and bowed formally. Then, without reservation on his part, he grasped Jocelyn’s upper arms gently and gave her a kiss of friendship and condolence on her cheek. When he released her, he turned almost defiantly to face the other mourners, piqued by their poor manners. Jocelyn’s pregnancy seemed the larger source of grief to all of them, and the shock of her presence, her lover’s accompaniment, and her family’s acceptance made them literally wriggle in shame.
Upon Cross’s display, Trent felt a slight smile upon his lips and he extended his hand to the farmer. Cross grasped it, and though no words were spoken, there was a rare truce being sealed at John Cutler’s burial.
Through the words of the Anglican priest, Jocelyn stood between Sarah and Warren, holding their hands. Trent was c
lose by but kept his distance and stayed nearest to Peter, who seemed troubled at the new role of bearing grief like a man. He watched the boy struggle with emotions he feared to let rise.
In watching Jocelyn, he saw yet another portion of her character to admire. She stood erect and proud, and while she sympathetically comforted her younger brother and sister, she bore the pain of grief and the discomfort of her neighbors’ stares with enviable dignity. A slow, quiet tear would now and then mark her cheek, but she was not weakened by the display. She fell to her knees to pray as a sainted virgin might, and begged God to receive her father’s soul. She wept as the children tossed handfuls of dirt upon his wooden bed and gave them the security of her arms as the last shovelful was dumped onto the grave. The four of them, John Cutler’s children, knelt upon the ravaged earth, clasping hands and quietly murmuring their words of love and loss for their departed father.
Trent felt a pride he had never before experienced. Her strength and stateliness were above all that he had ever witnessed in a noble dame. Not since his mother’s death had he felt such admiration for a woman. It almost seemed as if she did him honor by carrying his child, and not the other way around. He was suddenly filled with great expectations for the son he believed she carried.
With their good qualities combined, this was a fortunate child.
When the burial was over, he whispered in her ear. “Tell them they may come to Braeswood if they are not content in this village. I will see to their sustenance.”
She looked up at him with grateful eyes. “I thank you, my lord. And they will be honored with the prospect. I think they will choose my father’s house, but I will ask them to consider this.”
“If not today,” he said with a shrug, “whenever in the future there is need.”
She smiled her thanks and mouthed the words I love you. Trent felt his heart break into a thousand pieces as he looked down onto her beautiful face and felt her devotion penetrate an otherwise hardened heart. Then he withdrew to his coach to allow her a few moments with her family. Even the presence of Cross Tyson didn’t threaten his confidence. He was completely dependent on her faithfulness.