by Nina Clare
“Lady Arabella and her husband had no children. Lady Arabella, before her marriage, was known to be the mistress of a certain gentleman. She had secretly born him two children.”
“Why didn’t he marry her?” asked the youngest housemaid, frowning into her stew.
“Because he was already married, you dolt,” said the head-housemaid, “otherwise she couldn’t have been a mistress.”
The youngest housemaid blushed for her ignorance.
“So, the two children she had were given away to someone to raise as their own?” said Cook, piecing the story together.
The butler nodded slowly. “To one of her maids, who married one of her footmen. They were set up in a house in Little Foxebury and paid a sum for raising the children. First one child, then two years later, a second child.”
“Two daughters,” said Cook wonderingly, “called Katherine and Penelope. Well, I never. But why has the aunt suddenly taken it into her head to go looking for them after all these years?”
She had to wait for the butler to finish wiping his bowl with his bread.
“The sister of Lady Arabella knew nothing of the children. It was a great secret. When Lady Arabella was dying, she confessed all, and made her sister vow she would seek out her daughters and recompense them.” The butler placed great emphasis on the important words of his story, rolling them out in a slow and resonant tone.
“And so she found out who the maid and the footman were and where they had gone to live, and found out about Kat and Penny being sent to the Abbey and then coming here,” finished Cook, feeling great satisfaction now that the picture was nearing completion.
“It was not certain that the maid and footman were the people being searched for. For they had changed their names,” said the butler, pleased that he still had more knowledge to add. “But for some reason they did not change the names of the children their mother had given them at birth. And the final evidence was when Miss Kat, that is, Lady Katherine, described a gift that Lady Arabella had given to the maid, that of a box with Lady Arabella’s own emblem on, that was the final proof that they were indeed the long lost daughters.”
“And where is this box now?” wondered Cook aloud.
“It was sold. But the eldest nun at the abbey remembered seeing it among the items that came with the orphaned children.”
“But who was the father?” asked Cook.
“Well!” said the butler. He had saved the best till last. He leaned forward as though he was about to impart something of great significance. The servants around the table leaned towards him.
“It is said that Lady Arabella was the mistress of someone in a very high position at court. Very high indeed.”
“How high?” asked Cook.
“A duke?” said the head-footman.
The butler shook his head.
“The chancellor?” said the under footman.
The butler shook his head.
“Not a bishop?” said Cook.
The butler shook his head.
“Couldn’t have been the prince,” said the head-housemaid, “he’s too young.”
The butler shook his head with great gravity.
“Higher,” he said with full import of meaning.
Cook gasped. “Not...” she almost whispered, “...not...the king?”
The butler gave a gratified smile and a little nod. “So it is said...” he said teasingly, pushing away his seat and standing up. “So it is said.”
“But – not the new king, surely?” exclaimed Cook. “He’s far too young?”
“Not the new king,” said the butler. “Nor the last one. The one before.”
“Well! What a tale!” declared Cook, when she had recovered herself after the butler’s departure from the hall. “Who would have thought it? I always thought little Penny had an upper-class look about her. ‘Tis not usual for a working girl to have such fine features, such a delicate shape to her cheeks and about the mouth. And she was always a gentle girl. I can well see her as a high-born lady.”
“So are they princesses?” said the youngest housemaid. “Can they go to court and be in line for the throne?”
“Course they can’t, you simpleton,” said the head-housemaid. “They were born outside of marriage. They can only be known as the nieces of Lady de la Zouche, ain’t that so?” she said to Cook, as though Cook were the authority on dynastic law.
“They can only be known as her nieces,” agreed Cook. “And I don’t know if they’ll be taken to court. People will wonder at their birth. But they’ll never have to work again, that’s for certain.”
“Who would have thought it?” echoed the youngest housemaid.
“Happens all the time,” said the head-housemaid airily. “You’d be amazed at what goes on among the gentry. All sorts.”
The youngest housemaid looked wide-eyed at such hitherto unknown knowledge of the world.
“So we”ll be needing a pair of new maids as well as a housekeeper,” said the under footman, eyeing the stew pot in hopes of more. Portions had greatly improved now that Catchpole was gone and Lady Beck had spoken to Cook about feeding the servants a goodly portion, so that she would never have a body faint on her again.
“Do you think we shall ever see them again?” said the under-cook, who had liked Penny and Kat, for they never spoke spite or cursing of anyone.
“Not likely,” said the head-housemaid. “Would you want to come back if you’d been whisked away to be a lady?”
All at the table agreed that they would not.
Remembrance
Harvest Moon was a day of sad reminiscing. Lady Beck and her ama talked of the day that Felix had been born, that very day fifteen years ago. The passing of the years had added more streaks of silver to Madame Labelle’s black hair, but she did not thicken about the waist, as ladies were want to do in their later years. She was still brisk and upright; still disapproved of the standards of the Anglianese housemaids’ work, still dressed only in black wool with high necklines, no matter what the fashion, and wore a single, small cameo of her mother on special occasions as her only ornament.
They talked of Lopo and Lady Beck’s elder brother, Rufino, but mostly they talked of Felix and where he was, and what he could be doing at that time. Did he remember that it was the day of his birth? Lopo would surely remember, as his godfather. Was Lopo watching over him? Felix could be such an impulsive and strong willed boy; he needed watching over for his own safety. And when would he return? What did an ‘extended journey’ mean? A month? A year?
It was fortunate that neither Lady Beck nor Madame Labelle could know that on that day Felix had not remembered that it was the day of his birth, for he had lost track of the passing of the days. For at that moment in time he was being driven, without compassion, across the trade route of the great Sarana Desert with slavers’ irons on his chafed and bleeding ankles.
And Lopo did not remember that it was the day of Felix’s birth, for he was consumed with remorse and fear at having failed to keep his godson safe from harm. He had spent that day seeking a reputable merchant who would allow him and Bellchior to secure a passage with their armed caravan to journey the trade route in search of Felix. It had been a a bitter blow to him that no caravans would be making such a journey for at least twelve weeks, for the hottest season was to begin, and few could survive the scorch of the desert air at that time. Lopo rekindled his childhood faith in those weeks as he pleaded with the heavenly powers to do what he could not – save his godson.
Cicely remembered that fifteen years ago she had arrived at Beck House and joined the marchioness’s household. Who could have known then that they would both find themselves as widowed women, comforting one another and waiting for the decisions of men to direct their futures.
Lady Beck concluded that Harvest Moon was always to be a propitious day for her in receiving children into her home, for that day a courier arrived with news at last of Lord Percy.
Percy had not travelled so very
far when he had left his home on the morning of his brother’s wedding day. He had intended to go south and cross the sea to Franca and offer himself as a mercenary. He would prove that he was just as capable of fighting as a knight as Arthur was. Perhaps he would win glory and a name, and then Arthur and Cicely would hear of it and realise they had underestimated him.
But the inns and taverns on the way south had proved a distraction. He had sold his horse when the small amount of money he carried was spent. He had sold his well-made riding cloak, and bought a cheap one to replace it. He had sold his expensive riding boots and bought a second-hand pair of lesser quality. And he had sold his sword, jewel encrusted scabbard and all. How could he offer himself as a fearless soldier without a sword? And so he had been forced to settle down in a little village, not a hundred miles from Stoneyshire, though it might have been ten thousand miles, for in the sleepy village outside of the sleepy town of Smallbury-by-Sea he heard nothing of the goings on in Stoneyshire, or the kingdom beyond.
When his last coin had gone he secured work mending fishing nets at the harbour. Just enough money to pay for a dilapidated fisherman’s cot to sleep in and two meals of salted fish and barley bread and a jug of beer a day.
His days of dice and wine were gone. He often thought of making his way back to Foxeby Manor, but the thought of the humiliation of turning up like the prodigal son checked him, for he knew there would be no loving father on the watch for his return. Let them all be dead to him, and he to them.
But one afternoon, as he was sat among the seaweed and the crying gulls, with his nets about him, he looked up to see the red-haired houseboy from Foxeby appearing atop a familiar horse. And travelling alongside him was one of the stable-hands from the manor.
After the shock at had subsided – after the news of Arthur’s death had sunk in, and the news that he, Young Butter-Beard, as the local fishwives had dubbed him, on account of his yellow whiskers, he – Lord Percival of Foxeby – was persuaded to go home to claim his inheritance.
”That’s never Lord Percy!” the head-housemaid said in astonishment. The under-housemaid dropped the cushion she was arranging on the bed they were preparing for their master’s arrival. She hurried to the window and peered down at the courtyard.
“It must be,” she said. “Who else would it be – but – oh my stars – I would never have recognised him if he weren’t with Red Harry and Ned!”
“Where did he get that cloak made of sacking?” said the head-housemaid.
“And what a beard!” They both giggled.
“We’d better finish his chamber double-quick,” said the head-housemaid, “he’ll be wanting to use his bath and wardrobe for certain!” And they giggled again.
“Percy – welcome home!” said Lady Beck, meeting Percy as he stepped into the entrance hall. She blinked twice at his appearance, but managed to retain her composure despite the sorry picture her stepson presented.
Cicely Rose found it harder to maintain her countenance; she stared in dismay at Percy’s grubby, workman’s clothes, his unkempt beard and hair, and the appalling smell of fish! She stammered out a short greeting.
Percy found it hard to meet the eyes of anyone. He felt his disgrace. He covered his feelings of inferiority by barking out orders at the servants.
“Hot water! Bath! Lay out clothes! Bring me food, wine, be quick about it!” He was lord of the manor now, despite his appearance. Or, he soon would be, as soon as Orlan sorted out all the legalities and contracts.
The truth of the situation had not yet dawned on Percy. His mind was still disentangling itself from the narrow life he had lived among the fishing nets the past months.
Lord Orlan had spent some time at Stoneyshire Castle. He was happy with the overseer, but he was going to have to let out the castle to a suitable retainer. He was not happy with the steward at the manor. He would speak to Digby about coming back. He rode back to the manor. Hopefully Percy would have arrived home by now. He wondered how Cicely Rose would feel about his return? It would be some time before Cicely’s marriage was annulled. These things always took time. But it would be good for the young people to wait awhile. Percy should get to grips with running the estate before he took up the duties of a husband also.
Cicely felt awkward around Percy. She did not know what had been said between him and Arthur on the morning of their wedding, she could only glean that words had been spoken before Percy had left, and some of those words were about her and Myles. Her father talked of reinstating Master Digby as steward. Would Myles return to work alongside his father? Did he know of Arthur’s death? But even if he did, it would not change anything. She was no longer Arthur’s wife – apparently she now never had been Arthur’s wife – but she was still not free. She would marry Percy. Yet they could barely exchange words at present. The childhood friendship between them had been broken by Percy’s new attitude towards her. He used to think well of her, she knew that. But he had changed, and she felt he now despised her.
Percy revelled in his restored fortune and comfort. If only Orlan wasn’t always on at him about the estates and management and accounts and harvests and repairs and on and on. He was to be the marquess, why should he be troubled with such lowly matters? That was the work of the steward and the bailiff and all the men under them – let them sort out the affairs and leave him free to live as a marquess ought.
He intended to cut a fine figure at court. He would need new clothes, his father had always been lacking in the area of good fashion, but having the newest cut and the most expensive cloth and jewels was essential to being taken seriously at court. No one would know of his recent trouble, no one would know of his life as a net-mender, who would believe it if they were told? He would laugh it off as a prank. He needed to establish himself at court, for that was where the real wealth was to be made, not in sheep breeding and growing oats. But he would only agree to Orlan sending back Digby as long as that son of his never showed his face on Percy’s lands. Never.
The memory of that morning still haunted him – the sight of Cicely, his pure, perfect, adored Cicely in the arms of that presumptuous dog! He still could not look Cicely in the eye since his return. But it was gratifying to know that, after all, she would eventually be his. Not Arthur’s. Not that dog Myles. His. He had won in the end. For once in his life he had got what Arthur wanted. For once things had gone in his favour. He was now the eldest son and heir.
Just one thing troubled him. One thing that threatened this triumph.
But he would not think of that now.
One Year Later
A year passed. On Harvest Moon day Madame Labelle lit candles for Felix and prayed to her Francan saints, and the Anglianese saints, and the Portguan saints, and would have prayed to the saints of Ifrika, had she known of any. She prayed fervently for his return. For news of him at least. They had heard nothing since Lopo’s letter more than a year ago. Her lady was growing more sorrowful with every passing month. But today was the worst day for her sorrow. She did not leave her chamber that day.
It was merciful that Lady Beck and Madame Labelle could not see across the oceans and the sands that lay between them and Felix. For if they could, they would have barely recognised their beloved boy, lying in the dark and acrid stench of a chicken house. His arms chained to a post. His body only kept alive by the visits between sunset and moonrise of a beautiful, brown-skinned girl who brought him water and food. But if they could have seen Lopo and Bellchior also, they would see that they were not very far from finding success in their agonising quest. They were but a few miles away from where Felix lay, and his rescue would soon come.
The wedding day was set for the winter solstice. The servants in the manor and on the estate whispered that it was an ominous day for a wedding – the darkest day of the year.
The wedding was to be quiet, with the inhospitable weather and road conditions being cited as the cause for the notable lack of invitations sent out. The truth was that Lord Orlan was grieved at t
he gossip among the nobility at the unusual matrimonial affairs relating to his daughter. He wanted the ceremony to be carried out quietly and discreetly. When enough time had passed, people would forget the inauspicious beginnings of the union.
Cicely had resigned herself to a life of repressed emotions and will. Percy had never resumed their childhood ease of manner since he had returned. He was still distant and cool with her. Never meeting her eyes. Never seeking her out. She felt they were as strangers. She knew her father was disappointed with him and his lack of interest in the running of the estates. Percy would disappear for days at a time and return in a dishevelled state, reeking of wine. He seemed to be ashamed of such behaviour, for he always returned with a sheepish manner, but then it was as though he felt the need to reassert himself as the lord of the manor, superior to all, and he would bellow at the servants and make irrational demands. He reminded her of Arthur, and of the first marquess, when he behaved in such a manner.
It was a torment to her to see Master Digby about the manor and grounds. He lived alone in his former cottage. He had not remarried; though his position was a good one, and he was a good prospect for many a maid looking for a comfortable home.
She did not know where Myles was, and if ever she should happen upon Master Digby she would flee as quickly as manners would allow, always fearful that he would mention Myles, knowing that they had been childhood friends. She feared hearing that Myles was now happily wed to some eligible maiden. He had told her he could not marry where he did not love. But time altered people. There was no hope for Myles and herself. No hope. In time he would forget her and it was only natural he should marry. But she did not want to hear of it. She had never forgotten him. She never would.
Percy had returned the day before his wedding after another bout of drinking. He had been gone for almost a week this time, the longest time he had spent away. He arrived at the manor in the usual dishevelled state, ill in body and temper. In the weeks approaching the wedding he had seemed by turns restless and depressed, lashing out and shouting at servants one hour, and then shutting himself in the south gallery and letting no one approach him. Lady Beck tried to talk to him, but he would brush her concerns aside.