“I agree,” Barrett conceded. “But there will be trouble, Rafael, if the penalty is too harsh. There is already grumbling in the ranks—some of the soldiers believe you’re throwing Covington and the others to the wolves in an effort to get the ordinary people on your side.”
“Even if that was my aim, it’s far too late to clear the St. James name. You know that.”
Barrett only nodded.
When Annie and Kathleen reached the great hall on their way to the chapel, they found the place jammed with villagers, soldiers and servants. Craftsmen and shepherds, farmers and fishermen stood in line to speak with Rafael and Mr. Barrett, who sat at a table, asking questions and making notes.
Although relations between Rafael and Annie were strained, her curiosity would not permit her to pass the scene without finding out what was happening. She went to the back of the line, tugged at a man’s sleeve and asked him why he was there.
“There’s going to be a trial,” the man sputtered. “Right here in the great hall. We’re here to apply to be members of the jury.”
Annie nodded and felt a nervous shiver in the pit of her stomach. She would have to testify, of course, and while she would not have shirked her responsibility, she was frightened. Jeremy Covington hated her, and she knew only too well what a cruel and violent man he could be.
There was much to do in the chapel, for although many of the patients had recovered from the malaise, others had fallen ill during the night. Annie and Kathleen brought broth from the kitchen and, with help from the village women and some of the other servants, began spooning the thin soup into waiting mouths.
Annie was bathing a feverish toddler late that morning when Phaedra came into the chapel. At first, Annie thought the princess had come to help, for even with a dozen women working, there was a lot to do. The terrified expression on her friend’s face soon disabused her of the notion; the princess might want to lend a hand, but she was plainly squeamish.
“Phew! It smells in here,” she said, not unkindly.
Annie controlled her irritation, reminding herself, once again, that Phaedra had never been called upon to serve in any sort of emergency. “Of course it smells,” she replied quietly. “These people are desperately ill.”
Phaedra’s gaze swept the room, disconsolate and genuinely confused. “Why can’t they be in the barracks, or even the stables?” she whispered. “I’m supposed to be married here in just two weeks. What if we can’t get the smell out?” She paused to glance at the little boy Annie was bathing. “Have you ever seen such a pitiful child? Just look at him—his ribs are showing.”
Annie closed her eyes for a moment. Patience, she thought. “Phaedra, think about what you’re saying. You sound like Marie Antoinette.”
The princess pulled a snow-white handkerchief from the sleeve of her pale rose gown and pressed it to her mouth, looking downright ill. “I’m so sorry,” she said, in a sorrowful wail. “You know I don’t mean to be unkind, but—”
Annie’s heart softened slightly. “Do leave, Phaedra, before you add to the mess. If you truly want to help, go to the kitchen and ask for more broth.”
The princess nodded in a brief and frantic way and fled.
Throughout the morning, wedding guests could be heard arriving in their carriages and carts, but Annie was not thinking about the coming ceremony. She and Kathleen had their hands full.
When, on occasion, Phaedra crossed her mind, she reminded herself that people have different strengths and talents. Not having the fortitude or temperament to be a nurse was not a failing of character. Her own grandmother, Lydia McQuire Quade, had taken care of Union soldiers during the War Between the States. Perhaps Annie had picked up the knack from her.
At one o’clock, Kathleen convinced Annie to take a meal.
In the kitchen, Annie scrubbed her hands carefully before touching her food, for her grandmother Lydia had often stressed the importance of cleanliness when dealing with the sick. The topic of conversation among the servants was not the revolution or even the royal wedding, but the trial of the men who had ransacked the marketplace in Morovia and murdered a young student.
Annie was uneasy with the topic, but it was interesting and, besides, it was always more prudent to listen than to bury one’s head in the sand.
“Does anyone know which of the soldiers shot the lad from the university?” Kathleen inquired, between bites of stew.
At that point, everyone at the long trestle table turned to look questioningly at Annie. Obviously, it was no secret that she’d witnessed the dreadful event. But while she had seen the student fall, bleeding, into the fountain pool—indeed, it was an image she would never forget—she had not seen who had fired the fatal shot.
She bit her lower lip and shook her head. She was almost glad she hadn’t seen the killer; the look of unbridled hatred in Jeremy Covington’s eyes had been terrifying, and the memory of it would be burden enough as she went through her life. Cook, a sturdy woman with square corners like a box, took another helping of bread from the platter in the center of the table. “He’s had more than his share of grief, our Prince Rafael,” she said, using the bread to sop up the last of her stew. Her mouth was full when she went on. “His Highness deserves to be happy, like he was before the Princess Georgiana died.”
Annie found it comforting to know that Cook, at least, knew Rafael was a good man. There must be others, too, who saw him as he was and did not blame him for the things his forbearers had done.
She blushed at the belated realization that, at Cook’s reference to the prince, everyone had turned to look at her again. An awkward silence descended.
Blessedly, Kathleen put an end to it. “Well, I guess Miss Trevarren and I should be getting back to our sick ones, or they’ll be wondering where we took ourselves off to.” She turned to the two old tyrants—one had reigned over the palace kitchen in Morovia and one had been making meals at St. James Keep since Rafael’s father was a little boy—with a bright and guileless smile. “We need still more soup, and as much weak tea as you can make.” Before either woman had time to refuse, she finished with, “The Lord will bless you for your kindness.”
Annie carried her empty stew bowl to the sink without speaking, watching with amusement as the two women scrambled to put themselves in the way of the Lord’s blessing. The soup and tea Kathleen had requested were certainly forthcoming.
Annie and Kathleen went back to the village, this time taking an outdoor route through a series of gardens instead of passing through the great hall. They worked in the chapel and the cottages for the rest of the day and, by the time twilight fell, Annie was twice as tired as she had been the night before.
She didn’t have the luxury of bathing and tumbling into bed, however, for more of Phaedra’s wedding guests, distant cousins who had traveled for days, through axle-deep mud and the obvious dangers of the road, had indeed arrived that afternoon. Good manners prompted Annie to attend the formal dinner, so she washed, put on an emerald green gown, had Kathleen dress her hair, and went down to the dining hall.
Rafael occupied his usual place at the head of the table, and although he looked harried, he was an attentive and engaging host. Annie might have been invisible, for all the notice he paid her, but she was too tired to be insulted. In fact, she nodded off twice before the main course had been served, and was saved from disgrace only by the subtle application of Phaedra’s royal elbow to her rib cage.
At that point, Annie excused herself, for the first time garnering Rafael’s attention, and left the dining hall. She was back in her chamber, sitting at the vanity table while Kathleen brushed her hair, when a knock sounded at the door.
Annie’s heart did a little flip under her throat. She knew, even before Kathleen went to answer the summons, that her visitor was the prince.
If Kathleen had any views on the propriety of the matter, she kept them to herself. “Good evening, Your Highness,” she said, with a deep curtsey. Instead of immediately dashing out, h
owever, she threw Annie a questioning glance.
Rafael, always perceptive, read the look accurately. “Please stay,” he said to the maid.
Annie did not turn around, but watched Rafael’s approach in the vanity table mirror. She could feel the pulse at the base of her throat throbbing like a drumbeat.
Finally, Rafael stood beside her. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I appreciate the way you’ve been helping out in the village,” he said gently, “but I fear you’ve taken on too much. Annie, you were so exhausted at dinner tonight that you could barely sit upright.”
Annie’s primary instinct was to lay her hand over Rafael’s, but she resisted. Too much physical contact with this man was dangerous, and he was already touching her, searing her skin, heating the muscles beneath, igniting that mysterious, familiar ache deep inside her.
“I don’t know how you could have made that determination, since you didn’t look at me once during the entire evening.”
Rafael laughed, and his fingers tightened, just briefly, on her shoulder. “You are quite wrong, my Yankee Princess. I hardly took my eyes off you.”
Annie turned to gaze up at him, searching his face. She saw so many things in those pewter eyes—humor, worry, compassion, frustration and, yes, if not love, a significant degree of affection.
“I understand now,” she said awkwardly, “why you insist on staying in Bavia, no matter what. And it’s the same for me, Rafael—I can’t abandon those people, not as long as there is something I can do to help.”
Rafael released Annie’s shoulder to brush her cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers. She could see that he was moved by some deep emotion, and several moments passed before he spoke again. “I’m glad you understand—I’m not sure anyone else does. But our two situations are not the same—I owe the people my loyalty, but you are only a guest here. It is not your responsibility to tend the sick.”
“No, it isn’t my responsibility,” Annie agreed, and it took an effort to speak firmly because she was melting under Rafael’s touch. “I know I can’t save the world and, yes, my conscience would bother me if I didn’t do something, but I’m helping because that’s what I choose to do.”
“But, Annie, the risks—”
She sighed. “What would you have me do?” she asked patiently. “Sit in the solarium and play the harp all day? Rafael, I have to be doing things—it’s not in my nature to be idle.”
A muscle twitched in Rafael’s jaw; Annie knew she had made her point, and that he did not like conceding it. “At least be careful,” he said, lowering his voice, “I have enough on my conscience where you’re concerned, and if anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself.”
Annie clasped his hand. “I want to help you, Rafael, not add to your worries. I promise I won’t take any unnecessary chances.”
Rafael squeezed her fingers and made an attempt at a smile. “I guess I will have to be satisfied with that,” he said. He bent and placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “I’d better go back to my guests. Good night, Annie.”
She nodded, and he went out.
Kathleen asked no questions, but kept busy turning back the covers on Annie’s bed, fluffing the pillows, banking the fire. Annie was grateful for her silence. Her encounter with Rafael was a momentous one for her, and she needed a few minutes to quiet herself.
Over the next several days, more wedding guests arrived, their mud-splattered carriages clattering merrily over the drawbridge, while the process of choosing jurors continued in the great hall. Annie stayed busy in the village and the chapel, and tried not to think too much about the immediate future, when she would be called upon to testify against Lieutenant Covington and the other soldiers. No sooner would that ordeal be over when it would be time for Phaedra’s wedding, and once the princess was married, Annie would be sent home to her family.
Most likely, she would never see Rafael again.
In the meantime, Annie was determined not to add to the prince’s worries. She took regular meals, although she never tasted the food and could not have said what she’d eaten five minutes after leaving the table, and made a point of sitting quietly in her room for an hour every afternoon. Each night, after eating supper by the fire, she tumbled into bed at precisely eight o’clock and was immersed in slumber within moments.
After four days, the trial began, and Annie was forced to leave her tasks to Kathleen and the few other women who weren’t crowded into the great hall to view the spectacle. Lieutenant Covington and fourteen other men were brought up from the dungeons in shackles and seated on a row of benches that had been set end to end. The jurors sat opposite them, while spectators occupied the space in between. The villagers had selected a magistrate from among themselves, and he sat at a small table on an improvised dais, overlooking everyone else. Rafael and Mr. Barrett stood watching from a distance, their arms folded, faces impassive.
Annie forced herself to look directly at Lieutenant Covington, since she knew she would have to face him sooner or later. He looked pale, and his clothes were rumpled, but it was plain that neither he nor any of the others had been starved or abused. As if he’d felt Annie’s gaze, he turned to meet it, and she saw such coldness in his eyes, and such fury, that she shivered.
She was the first witness called to testify, and it was with both relief and trepidation that she made her way forward to stand next to the magistrate’s desk. Because she’d been working, she was wearing a simple brown dress Kathleen had found in a storage closet. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid. She wasn’t an aristocrat, and felt a sincere kinship with the villagers.
Lieutenant Covington’s stare held a silent threat, and Annie felt it like a slap, but she was also aware of Rafael’s nearness, and his support. She drew a deep breath, clasped her hands together and waited.
Mr. Barrett came forward, holding a Bible, and asked Annie to swear an oath of truth. She did so, in a tremulous but clear voice, then sank into the chair provided, hoping no one had noticed that her knees had failed her.
Mr. Barrett’s voice was even and deep, and Annie clung to it, like a ribbon strung through a dark wood. All she had to do, she told herself, was hang on tightly and tell the truth.
He asked her to give an account of the events in the marketplace and she did so, unflinchingly, though she felt sick at her stomach all the while. The jury, the spectators and the prisoners all became part of a pulsing blur. She wished she could see Rafael.
After she’d given her testimony Mr. Barrett asked her a few brief questions for the sake of clarification and then dismissed her. Annie rose, holding her head high, and shook her head when Lucian stepped out of the void to offer his arm. The experience had been a difficult one, but Annie was determined to see it through without leaning on anyone else.
She walked slowly and steadily out of the great hall, having no wish to stay and hear Phaedra’s testimony. In the courtyard, she sat on the bench next to the fountain and raised her face to the dazzling sunlight.
Only a few minutes had passed when Kathleen arrived, carrying a cup of cold water. Annie accepted it with gratitude and drank deeply. The drink restored her, settling her stomach and easing her trembling.
“You’d best go in and lie down for a while, miss,” Kathleen said gently. “It’s taken a lot out of you, speaking up like that, and having to recollect those horrible things.” When she saw that Annie was about to refuse, she hurried to make her case. “Remember, now, you promised His Highness that you wouldn’t add to his troubles by pushing yourself too hard.”
A breeze blew a tendril of hair across Annie’s forehead, and she pushed it aside. “All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “But it isn’t as if I’m sick or anything.”
Kathleen smiled, somewhat mysteriously. “I know, miss,” she said. “An hour’s rest and you’ll be back at your post, all the stronger for taking time to collect yourself.”
They entered the castle by a roundabout way, avoiding the great hall. Since going t
o her room in the middle of the day and lying down would have made her feel like an invalid, Annie went to the solarium instead. There was an old rocking chair near one of the windows, and she curled up in that.
“Would you like some tea, miss, or something to eat?” Kathleen asked, in the kind of quiet, indulgent voice one might use with a child.
Annie shook her head. The chair was large and its velvet cushions, though worn smooth with age, were comfortable. “No, thank you, Kathleen,” she said, with a yawn. “And don’t you dare go back to the village or the chapel without me. You work twice as hard as I do and you need to rest, too.”
Kathleen smiled. “I’ll be fine, miss,” she said, and then she turned and walked away, and Annie was alone in the vast, ancient solarium with all its sweettempered ghosts.
She closed her eyes and settled deeper into the chair, dozing but not really sleeping. She thought she heard faint, poignant notes, played on a harp or a lyre, and the soft murmur of feminine voices exchanging confidences.
After both Annie and Phaedra had given their versions of the story, the defendants were offered an opportunity to address the court, one at a time. Rafael stayed to listen, but what he really wanted to do was find Annie, hold her in his arms, tell her how proud he was of her, and how much he loved her.
The testimony seemed to go on forever. One after another, the accused men stood and spoke up for themselves. Most seemed genuinely remorseful, but a few were sullen, casting defiant glances at the crowd in general and Rafael in particular. The worst of these was Jeremy Covington, who evidently believed that coming from a good family gave him the right to run roughshod over anyone who got in his way. He made it clear that he saw the proceedings as a travesty of justice and considered himself the true victim of the case.
It was hot in the great hall, and the smell of too many sweaty bodies confined to too small an area was almost overpowering. Underlying it all was Rafael’s primal urge to shoulder his way through the crowd and throttle Covington with his bare hands.
Princess Annie Page 23