by Jo Beverley
When they had tidied themselves, they would drive over to Green Brow Hall to make the announcement. They would leave as soon as possible and return home, the worst over.
All very well, but up to that point it was going to be awful, awful, awful. She couldn't even imagine what Celia might do.
The coach drew up in front of his handsome, stone house. Hers, too, now, she supposed. She remembered creeping in the night before last. She'd had to open and shut about ten doors before finding his room. Where had she found the courage, never mind the brass-faced effrontery? She wished she had more of it now.
The well-trained footman showed only a twitch at sight of his master entering with a woman, never mind an unattractive one. He summoned the staff as ordered, and the announcement was made.
Frances saw flat astonishment on the faces of many and wanted to run. She started when Greystoke took her hand and almost tried to pull free when he raised it to his lips. Gazing into her eyes, he kissed it and said, "Welcome to your new home, my love."
At the words "my love" all kinds of places trembled, and she dearly wished he meant it. It was almost enough that he cared enough to make it appear before his servants that theirs was a love match.
"Thank you, Will," she whispered in return.
He tucked her hand into his arm and led her upstairs, along a corridor, and into his bedroom.
"We can have the adjoining one ready for you shortly," he said, separating. "I'll give the orders but you must ask for anything you wish. This is your home now."
He left and she wondered exactly when a wife took over the running of a house.
The room was warm so she shed her cloak, then wandered restlessly, at loose ends, but wound tight at thought of the confrontation to come. Another reason not to be wearing one of the new gowns. Celia might try to rip it off her.
He returned. "It will take a little while to warm. I've ordered tea and refreshments in here."
He was followed almost immediately by a maid bearing the tray. Taking some control, Frances directed her to put it on a table and indicated that she'd take care of it.
The tea had been made in the pot. She supposed she'd soon need to take charge of the keys and supplies. So many things to do. So many challenges. She poured tea and Greystoke came to sit across from her, drink three cups and eat a great deal of cake.
Did he feel no anxiety?
But then he said, "It might be wiser if I go to Green Brow alone."
"Why?"
"It's bound to be unpleasant, my dear, but there's little they can do to me."
Shockingly, tears threatened. "Oh, thank you. I know I should, shouldn't, but Celia..."
"With any luck she'll still be prostrate in her room."
Not if she hears what's happened, she thought. Should she warn him?
"I'll instruct that your possessions be brought here, and I'll exert my husbandly authority to forbid you to visit your parents' house until peace is restored. They may visit you here, of course."
"You're very kind."
"Then use my name again."
She smiled. "Will."
"Good." He rose and went into the adjoining room then came back to say. "It's ready for you."
Dismissed, Frances went into her own quarters, and the door shut between them. He was going to be kind, courteous, and pleasant at all times, and once she would have thought that heaven. Now it might break her heart.
She didn't even know how to become mistress of her own home. She felt as excluded and unwanted as she had at Green Brow. They would all be whispering about her below stairs. She couldn't even bring herself to ring for a maid, but unpacked her cheap portmanteau herself, placing the clothing carefully in drawers.
What had possessed her to buy these gowns, even at a bargain price?
A piece of paper rustled and she pulled it out. It must be the one the girl had slipped in. An advertisement for the shop?
No. A drawing.
Frances stared at it. It was a mere sketch, but it was herself, clearly recognizable. And yet not. This smiling, bashful woman was not her. Not with that lush shape and almost pretty face. Yet it was. She vaguely recognized the drawing as the image of herself in the mirror when wearing the red dress. Then, however, she'd raised her hand to cover her chest, but here she did not. A hint of the cleft between her breasts showed. And it was… appealing, she supposed.
In a few clever black lines the girl had capture the image of an appealing young woman in a pretty red dress.
The picture formed a message.
Did she have the courage to respond?
She put the picture away in a desk and then rang the bell. When a maid arrived, Frances asked if there was a seamstress in the house.
"I can do plain sewing, milady."
Milady. She was Lady Greystoke. That bolstered Frances's courage.
"Excellent, for I need two dresses hemmed."
<<<->>>
Greystoke rode to Green Brow, thinking he'd never taken such a reluctant journey in his life. Early winter night was falling, sending a clammy chill down to his bones, but his coming meeting with the Guysleys was his deeper concern.
Would they believe the story?
Would they politely pretend to?
Or would Peter Guysley call him out anyway?
He knocked and was given instant admission. A fire burned in the hall, giving a bit of relief.
Guysley, thin but pot-bellied and with unhealthily high color, came into the hall. "You've come with good news, I hope, Greystoke."
"I hope so, too, sir."
The man's frown eased and Greystoke was ushered into the manly study where the previous interview had taken place. Before he could speak, however, the rest of the family piled in -- Peter, Mrs. Guysley, and a bright-eyed, triumphant Celia.
He realized that she wasn't the slightest bit pretty because there was nothing pretty inside her.
"I would prefer to speak to you alone, Guysley," he said.
"Nonsense, my boy. It's all family business."
Greystoke moved toward the fire, largely because it distanced him from Celia. "Very well, sir. I bring you happy news. Frances and I are married."
He was surrounded by gaping silence.
"Frances?" queried Guysley.
"Frances!" exclaimed his wife.
"That's not possible," said Peter Guysley.
"Frances?" Celia Guysley's voice was quiet. "You're teasing, my lord."
"Not at all." Despite everything, he couldn't help enjoying her narrow-eyed expression. "We had formed an attachment. In view of the situation, we decided the simplest act would be to settle things. We regret a Gretna marriage, but...."
"Frances!" Celia's voice mounted in pitch and volume. "Fat Frances? You can't! She can't! Mamaaaaaaaaaa!"
Greystoke wouldn't have believed the human voice could achieve quite that ear-splitting note.
Mrs. Guysley pulled her into her arms. Perhaps tried to smother her against her bosom. "There, there, dear...."
Celia ripped free again. "Don't there-there me!" she shrieked at the same volume. "It isn't true. It can't be true. Papaaaaaa!"
Mr. Guysley shrank back in his chair.
Celia whirled to face Greystoke, truly ugly now with her vicious emotions. "It. Is. Not. True." She spat each word, approaching, her hands forming claws.
Imitating her tone, he replied, "I. Do. Not. Lie."
She leaped for him, claws out, but he was ready and caught her wrists. It was like having a wildcat on his hands, however. He dragged her over to her brother and hurled her at him. "You control her."
Peter cinched his arms around her, but said, "How?"
Sure enough, she tore free. She grabbed a vase and hurled it at Greystoke, then a book, then an inkpot, screaming in a high-pitched banshee wail all the time.
Greystoke dodged the ink and tried to make it to the door, but demented Celia and her grabbing brother and mother were in the way. Then Peter got her around the waist and towed her toward the
door, which their mother hurried to open for him.
He was a big man, but he was sweating and Celia was kicking and screaming all the way. She grabbed for a metal lumiere and clung so fiercely that it came down with a crash. Then she gripped the edge of a bookcase, but was dragged from the room, still howling at full volume.
Greystoke observed the disaster around him with amazement, and then looked at the man behind the desk.
Guysley sighed. "Frances, eh? Sensible man, sensible man."
Greystoke didn't wait for his wife's belongings, but merely ordered them brought to Greystoke as soon as possible. As he left he could still hear shrieking from the distant upstairs and the occasional crash.
He rode home as quickly and possible and went to knock on his wife's parlor door. She was there, by the fire, reading a book.
In red.
That must be one of the dresses she'd purchased in Carlisle, and it suited her.
By gad, it did.
Firelight played on the generous upper swell of her breasts and the gown suggested rather than hid the inviting curves of her body. She looked up and smiled, though her eyes asked an anxious question.
How wonderfully, blessedly calm she was.
He went to her, pleasantly aware of falling in love with his wife.
"What are you reading?"
"I raided your shelves. I hope you don't mind."
He turned the book so he could read the gilded letters on the front. "You've decided to learn chess?"
"I play chess quite well, as it happens, though I'm out of practice."
"No one to play with at Green Brow?"
"No, but I did puzzles from books. I hope you will tell me what question you're working on in your room. I think I guessed, but I'm not sure."
Smile widening, he knelt by her chair, took a plump hand in his and kissed it.
He looked into her startled eyes.
"Thank you, Frances. Thank you for saving me, for saving us all. For being an excellent chess player, on the board and in life." He turned her hand and pressed a hot kiss into her palm. "And thank you for buying that magnificent red dress."
Alert for alarm or fear, he sat beside his wife again and drew her into his arms for a gentle kiss, then a less gentle one. What curves, what breasts, what creamy skin.
What enthusiastic response.
Against those breasts, now more exposed to his eyes and lips, he murmured, "Is it possible that you're not completely averse to midnight nuptials, my bride?"
Frances, Lady Greystoke, swirling in delights she'd never imagined, tried to make sense of his words. Then she laughed.
"Not the act, Will. The book!" Blushing, she stroked his hair. "I don't think I'm averse to these sorts of nuptials at all. Need we truly wait until midnight?"
The End
Now Will and Frances are happy at Christmastide, read on for a very different December in Star of Wonder. It's not just Christmas that's coming, but the end of the world! In 999 AD.
STAR OF WONDER
A love story entangled with the turning of the first millennium.
(Previously published as DAY OF WRATH in the collection, Star of Wonder.
Wulfhera of Froxton is preparing to become a nun, but social tumult and Viking invasions send her home, where she finds chaos and the man she's always loved.
Chapter One
Kent, England, December, AD 999
Wulfhera of Froxton hurried along the narrow road between the hedges of empty fields, frosted earth crunching under her shoes, every sense alert for lurking thieves or raiding Danes. The land around lay so quiet, however, that she almost felt the world had already come to an end.
Not yet.
If Christ did come to judge in this the thousandth year, it would be on the winter solstice tomorrow, or on His birthday, still days away.
Piously, she chanted, "Veni, Domine Jesu," as she marched along, though she didn't really want Christ Jesus to come quite yet.
No, it was not the hand of God that silenced life. It was the whipping, icy wind and sleet-threatening sky, and the Danish raiders scourging the coastal lands. These had driven people and animals under cover, and swept the sky of birds.
It was no day to be traveling, and no day to be alone on the road. Part of Hera regretted parting company with the other sisters of Herndon nunnery, but she did not have far to go to reach her home. The others faced many more hours on the road before they reached the safety of Canterbury.
Hit by a clawing gust, she paused to lean her sturdy staff against a rough fence and pin her brown cloak more tightly around her, saying a prayer of thanks for its thickness. Thank heaven, too, for the three layers of woolen clothing she'd put on this morning for the journey, and for thick stockings and sturdy shoes. Even so, her feet were icy.
She looked ahead. Not far now. Froxton should be over the next rise. Pray God it was safe. She crossed herself, grasped her staff in her mittened hand, and set out again, fighting dread that her home, too, might have come under attack.
The Vikings were bolder now, only weakly opposed by the king. It seemed they came at will to terrorize and demand tribute as if England were a free market, and if not appeased, they destroyed. They set up winter camps here, and sometimes even took land for their own and settled, and none seemed able to stop them.
She scanned the skeleton-treed horizon again, seeking movement. Any woman in their clutches would be defiled into death. She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder, weighing the distance back to her party of nuns.
Enough of this! She was going home. If the end had come and apocalypse threatened, she'd face it at home with her family, not among strangers.
The road turned, and at last in the distance she glimpsed her home on the next rise. Froxton Manor, enclosed by a ditch and an earthwork topped by a spiked-pole palisade. Most of the buildings were hidden behind the walls, shown only by wind-whipped smoke rising from the central vents. The thatched roof of the two-story manor house was visible, however, blessedly intact, and the wooden watchtower rose even higher. She could see a figure in there. Soon the watchcorn would see her, but he wouldn't blow his horn for a solitary traveler. His silence and good order meant there were no enemies hereabouts.
She relaxed a little, and her frozen feet became happier to make speed. To the right the church tower of Becksham rose where it should. To the left, gusts of smoke, almost invisible against gray sky, hinted of Tildwold being at peace.
Home, and all was well.
Deo gratias.
The gates opened for her and she hurried inside, already sensing something wrong. She made haste to her father's hall, but the first thing she saw when she staggered in was Raefnoth Eldrunson standing wide-legged on her family's central table, gilded by the nearby extravagant fire, ale-horn in hand, leading a chorus of a bawdy song.
She stopped dead.
Dear Mary, even drunk he was the embodiment of her most wicked dreams. He towered like a god, teeth flashing as he sang, light dancing on gold arm bands and buckle. His blond hair straggled his broad shoulders and his features glowed in the fire's light.
A god or a beautiful devil.
She tore her eyes away to look around the smoky, raucous room packed with red-faced drunks. What was going on here? The place looked, stank, and sounded like a scene from hell. Searching macabre faces for her family, she did not find any.
Despite icy, painful feet, she marched over to the table and looked up. "What are you doing here?"
She had a hundred questions, but that one had spilled out. Immediately she thought back over it, praying it hadn't revealed the spear-sharp shock of seeing him.
The longing.
Pity her, but nothing had changed. His body was as strong and perfect, and her reaction was as fierce. His face was still as handsome, but....
His blond hair was tangled for lack of a comb and his bright blue eyes, which had always shone with zest for life, were strangely flat.
For a moment, he looked down dazedly as if
he didn't recognize her, but then he leaped from the table in one bound. "Little Wolf! Come from the convent to save us all!"
Before she could react, he swept her into his arms and kissed her soundly.
He'd never kissed her before.
It wasn't a loving kiss. Despite the nickname that only he had ever used, it wasn't a kiss any woman would want.
She pushed at his chest with all her might. "Let me go!"
He obligingly stepped back. "Ah, another sin on my damned soul. I've kissed a Bride of Christ." He turned to his grinning audience. "What's one more sin, eh, to those already on the greasy slope to hell?"
They cheered, and Hera stared at them again. She spotted some of Froxton's servants—their eyes slid guiltily from hers—and a few of her father's men-at-arms. There were too many strangers, however, and a lot of soldiers she didn't know. Were they Raef's housecarls—his private force?
Here?
Why?
His home was Acklingham, down the river.
"What are you doing here?" she asked him again. Then she added the important question, "Where are my family?"
The tarnished glow of jollity faded, leaving him shockingly haggard. She saw now that his fine clothing was soiled, uncared for over too many days. Only his gold ornaments shone clear.
He sat suddenly on a bench, his back to the table, and those around turned away. Quiet settled, an uneasy quiet they'd perhaps been keeping at bay with noise.
"It's not good," he said as soberly as possible for a drunk man. "Two weeks ago, the shire reeve called out the local forces to oppose the Viking raiders. Your father, my father, me. I was to take my ships to sea and block the mouth of the river. But the Danes came ashore farther down. They took horses-"
"Horses!" Her tired legs suddenly weakening, Hera sat on the bench nearby. The Danes had always raided on foot. "No wonder they're coming farther in land."
"Aye, the devils."
"And our men took a stand against them?"
"They did. And unlike many, unlike King Ethelred, they stood firm."
"They're dead."
She said it as fact. No one stood against the Danish Vikings and lived. That had broken the spirit of everyone, leading to armies fleeing, and kings paying the pagan devils to leave England in peace.