On Gentle Wings

by Patricia McAllister

  “My father? Susan, you must be mistaken.” Isobel stared in bewilderment at the maid. “Both my parents died when I was only two, of the botch. How can — ”

  “Ah, there you are, child.” A familiar voice cut crisply across her speech, and Isobel gasped with surprise at the sight of an elderly man hobbling from the house.

  He leaned on a beech cane and wore the simple garb favored by men of the lower classes. His outfit consisted of a severe, unadorned black gown with full sleeves, slashed in the front so they hung fie below the hem. Thick, iron-colored hair sprouted from beneath a soft, black worsted cap with a turned-up brim.

  “Uncle Simon. Is it truly you?”

  “In the very flesh.” Simon Taggart greeted Isobel far too heartily, and though he had aged a great deal in eight years, she was instantly taken back to that miserable cottage, crowded with ten other children ranging from newborn to seventeen, her every day and night hemmed with backbreaking labor, pious prayer, and endless hunger.

  Suppressing a shudder, she forced herself to step forward and buss his cheek in welcome. “Faith, what a surprise,” she exclaimed as evenly as she could. “I never dreamed I’d see you again after all these years.”

  “Nor I, dear niece,” he said, eyeing her with a peculiar expression. Isobel stepped back, immediately assuming be had found some fault with her attire. She was dressed modestly by Tudor standards, but perhaps her bright-yellow gown was too colorful for his taste or he found her lace-edged sleeves frivolous.

  In the Taggart home, she recalled ruefully, modest dress meant kirtles of coarse russet for the girls, a plain leather jerkin and black serge trousers for the boys, and many long, miserable hours between meals.

  She wondered why Uncle Simon had traveled all the way from Cornwall. Surely not to inquire after his long-lost niece or offer his condolences on her cousin’s death? His acquaintance with Elspeth Tanner had been fleeting at best, since the Taggarts hailed from the other side of the family, besides which the woman had been dead six months now. A short note of sympathy was far more practical than a visit in person.

  She was suddenly afraid. Her uncle’s rheumy eyes were searching hers, and she sensed he knew something she didn’t.

  Why had he told Susan he was her father? Or, mayhap the maid had merely assumed the relationship. Oh, Isobel knew she was plain as a pike staff, but to be likened to this dreadful old man with his warty chin and perpetual squint ...

  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she invited him as graciously as she could, “Won’t you come inside and take some refreshment? I assume you are passing through London on business.”

  “Of a sort, of a sort,” her uncle murmured, waving aside her suggestion. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I’ve already supped at a nearby inn. Nay, Isobel, I would far rather visit with you.”

  Uncle Simon’s gaze flicked briefly away from her in order to appraise the elegant house and beautiful grounds. “The garden here is most pleasant. Shall we sit in the sun?”

  Reluctantly, Isobel turned to dismiss Susan, handing the maid the picnic basket and whispering for her to take over the hunt for the girls. Susan nodded and disappeared.

  Moments later, Isobel uneasily occupied a stone bench beside her uncle amidst the riotous blooms of Ambergate’s glorious garden.

  “Ah, rosa gallica,” Uncle Simon mused, cupping a nearby red bloom to inhale its scent. “The Apothecary Rose. How fondly I recall its delightful fragrance from my youth.”

  Now Isobel was terrified. The cold man she recalled from her childhood never waxed poetic over anything, unless it was hell-fire scripture.

  “Please, Uncle Simon, why have you come?” she asked him anxiously.

  He frowned at what she took to be her impertinence, then seemed to soften when he glimpsed genuine trepidation in her eyes. “Have I frightened you, m’dear? I didn’t mean to. I bear joyous news, child, so take heart.”

  “Joyous news? Of what sort?”

  He continued to regard her in an insincere, fatherly fashion, one that prompted shivers rather than smiles. “Why, I’ve come about the letter, of course.”

  “What letter?” she echoed warily.

  “The one your Cousin Elspeth wrote me before she died. ’Twas delivered after her death, though I admit it took a somewhat circuitous route to Porthleven and hence I did not receive it for several months.”

  Isobel’s fists clenched in her lap. She dreaded what was coming, even more than she dreaded the smug satisfaction in her uncle’s eyes and what it must mean. She watched as his lips split in a lopsided smile.

  “Your cousin must have valued you after all. Indeed, high time the Weeks side of the family took some small responsibility for your welfare. I always said our Sophie, God rest her poor soul, deserved far more from her marriage to Robert Weeks than an early grave.

  “Alas, your mother never listened to me.” Uncle Simon clucked his tongue reprovingly. “Sophie married above her station, and in doing so surely offended the Lord. He shortly called her and Robert to task for it by sending the botch plague, therefore burdening poor Aunt Mary and me with your keep.” He heaved a self-righteous sigh and droned on.

  “I fear we already had too many mouths to feed when you came, Isobel. God exhorted us to the fruitfulness advised in His Good Book and we obeyed, but ’twas a frightful task, indeed, we faced when yet another hungry mouth appeared on our humble step. I confess we were most relieved when your Weeks cousin offered to care for you here.”

  Isobel bit her lip at his pious speech. She wanted so badly to remark that he and Aunt Mary had certainly never spared an extra ounce of charity on her behalf; hadn’t she shared a bed with four other girls, worn their cast off shoes and kirtles, and never complained?

  As for meals, she doubted the portions of thin porridge and rancid gruel had ever been shorted on her account. All the Taggart children were hungry and hollow-cheeked long before she came.

  “At least one of your Weeks relations accepted some responsibility in the end, child. You must say a special prayer in Elspeth’s memory. The good woman wanted to see you safely settled after she was gone. ’Tis why she made a last provision in her will concerning a dowry.”

  “No.” Her cry was so faint and shocked, Isobel wasn’t even sure she heard it herself. Uncle Simon frowned censoriously at her and she realized he thought it was a great boon she as yet failed to appreciate.

  “Aye, lass, Elspeth Tanner left you a most generous dowry, providing you do as I advise and wed within your class.” Pausing to clear his throat, he added, “You may recall my neighbor, Will Plummer, has several sons about your age. I think, perhaps, young Tom would suit best — ”

  Isobel exhaled with horror, her head spinning. “No!” was all she could say, over and over, like a spineless dolt. Aye, she remembered Old Man Plummer, all right, and his seven filthy sons. Most worked in the tin mines at Land’s End, and spent their every pence on drink and loose women.

  She also remembered that Uncle Simon had coveted Plummer’s copper-rich property for years, and this probably seemed a fair means wherein he could strike a deal. She knew she had been of no concern to her uncle, until she had received this unexpected windfall of a dowry.

  Sensing her defiance, Uncle Simon hardened his gaze on her and his voice became quite stern. “Your late cousin’s wishes are clear on the matter, girl. Elspeth knew of the selfless Christian hospitality the Taggart family extended in your youth, and naturally, she felt some sort of recompense was warranted.”

  As my dear cousin also knew full well the trials I suffered back in Cornwall! Isobel thought, outraged. As a little girl she had arrived at Ambergate half-starved, a mere rack of bones in a threadbare russet gown. Sweet Jesu! Could Cousin Elspeth be so cruel, even from the grave?

  Apparently so.

  “I understand you must be overwhelmed, niece. ’Tis a most magnanimous gesture, is’t not?”

  Indeed, Isobel thought bitterly. She wondered if Kit knew of it, also. Surely he ha
d approved every last provision of his late wife’s will. Mayhap he had even suggested it!

  Hurt and furious, she wondered now why she had ever considered sparing Kit’s feelings concerning his girls. Aye, she vowed she would write her own brutal letter this very day, just as soon as she rid herself of her odious Uncle Simon.

  ~*~

  Kit Tanner stared bemused at the parchment in his hands. He digested the crisply worded message yet again, shaking his head in disbelief. Isobel wrote this? His meek, sweet-natured, biddable little Isobel?

  … and so, Sir Christopher, if it is not too much trouble, and if you can possibly tear yourself away from the doubtless fascinating décolletage at Nonsuch, then pray, do come and visit your children, especially as I shall shortly no longer be here to attend to their welfare.

  What the devil did she mean by that? What was all this nonsense about décolletage? And where the hell did Isobel think she was going? With an exasperated noise, Kit tossed the letter aside.

  He had no patience for games. If he were to earn his way in Bess’s court and continue to secure the favors and funds necessary to maintain his family’s lifestyle, then be must dance attendance upon the aging Tudor queen until his kneecaps turned black and blue.

  Damme, Isobel knew that. She was a bright little wench, wasn’t she? Aye, she was. Then why this letter, practically dripping with poisonous barbs and subtle insults? He’d never thought Isobel resembled his late wife in the slightest manner, but now he was starting to wonder,

  Elspeth, Kit believed, had suffered from a sickly mind. Thus, he had forced himself to be kind to her over the years, no matter how much it tried him. His brothers, he knew, had never understood why he had not handled his wife as firmly as he did his horses, for Kit never tolerated disobedience from a beast, much less a hostile kick or bite.

  From his wife, he had taken all three and even more over the years. But she was gone now, mercifully returned to the soil from whence she had come, at least if one believed the Good Book. And he was free at last.

  But the realization brought no joy or even relief for Kit was numb. Even his brothers had noticed a change in him, and two of them remarked upon the fact at Christmas. He wished now be hadn’t bothered to visit George and Phillip. They’d informed him he was too thin and too and that he needed to get away from court for a while. Jesu! What did they know?

  George, the family baron, had a plump, pretty little wife named Dilys who kept him warm on winter nights, and probably tickled his fancy in summertime, too. Phillip Tanner had wed a beautiful Yorkshire heiress the previous year and was contentedly awaiting the birth of his first child. No doubt it would be a son.

  His third brother, Slade, had recently moved to Ireland with his wife, Bryony, and thus Kit had mercifully been spared another lecture. Slade was closest to him and they had always looked after one another’s interests, but Kit knew his baby brother would not have let the opportunity pass to urge him to wed again and secure an heir for Ambergate.

  Marriage was the last thing on Kit’s mind. God’s teeth, he’d enough trouble just trying to pacify Bess. The aging queen seemed in a rare temper nowadays; but then, when hadn’t she been? Nothing pleased Bess anymore except her music, but of late even her virginals had begun to bore her and she constantly complained they were out of tune.

  It seemed an ironic commentary on life that he and England’s Domina shared a similar fate. The world pressured them both to marry, heedless of their wishes and dreams. But he had already sampled hell, thank you. If Bess Tudor still longed for marriage as she claimed, then she was not only a fool, but a bloody idiot as well.

  Chapter Three

  “Where is she?”

  Kit brushed past the gaping maid in the hall and pivoted, waiting for a reply while he stripped a pair of cream kid riding gloves from his hands.

  “Well, Susan, speak up. I received a most urgent missive from Isobel, and I’ve come as she so bluntly demanded, though doubtless not quick enough to suit her.”

  “Sir C-Christopher,” the maid stammered, pale as oat porridge and still gawking at Kit as if he were a ghost. “Saints preserve us, yer really here.”

  “Of course I am. Whom else did you expect? By the rood, girl, speak up! I must be back to court tomorrow. Where is she?”

  Susan blinked and pointed to the door. “Out behind the house, sir, playing fox-and-hare with the girls.” She continued to gawk after Kit as he spun on his boot heel and stalked outside, slapping his gloves impatiently on his thigh as he went.

  Sweet Saint Anne! Susan mused. Sir Christopher was still a braw mon, but he was far too thin to suit. His bottle-green velvet doublet and fine hose suited his fair coloring, especially his auburn hair and green eyes, but his short-sleeved jerkin hung loosely on his frame now. She hadn’t even recognized his gaunt face at first. Lor’ forgie her, Susan thought, but it’d given her such a fright when he strode in the door!

  She hurried off to the kitchens to tell Cook there would be an extra for supper and to urge Tofly the carver to choose an especially nice, plump piece of goose for the master tonight. Och, she hoped Sir Christopher would stay for more than a day this time. Even the staff had cringed at Christmas when he’d ridden off, leaving his poor, wee bairns crying in the yard.

  Meanwhile Kit cut through Ambergate’s glorious summer garden, not even pausing to admire the sweetly scented stock. Nor did he spare a glance for the nodding bluebells, fairy’s glove, or the charming clusters of pinks lining the mellow brick path. Instead, he traced the shrieks of childish laughter echoing behind the louse.

  God’s bones, he thought irritably, the least Isobel can do is stay put after sending such a blistering message! His first impulse had been to ignore the letter altogether, chalking it up to the dramatic female nature; but after half-a-dozen attempts to read between the lines, he’d finally decided to put an end to the mystery and shock the minx by confronting her in person.

  “Tally ha, tally ho, you’re it!”

  Kit heard his daughter Anne’s triumphant cry as someone else was tagged in the rose garden.

  “I shall only count to twenty this time!” He heard another shout in warning, but he knew it to be Isobel by the sweetness belied beneath the steel. “And we shall likewise use this opportunity to practice your French, girls. Un, deux, trois …”

  Kit saw three little imps scatter for cover as he rounded the side of the house. None of his daughters noticed him, being far too intent upon eluding the “fox.” Anne darted for invisibility behind a stately white oak; Grace disappeared into the boxwood maze, and four-year-old Maggie crept beneath a hedge rose.

  “Vingt! Little hares three, little hares three, come to me!” Isobel sang out the old rhyme in English this time as she stepped out from behind a tree.

  Kit was startled by her gypsy appearance. Her wavy ash-brown hair was unbound, as befitted a maid, but a ragged circlet of wilting Michaelmas daisies crowned her head. She had tucked up her bright-yellow overskirt in order to frolic with his daughters, and he caught a shocking glimpse of petticoats.

  She wore no hose at all. He noted Isobel’s bare ankles were willowy slender, but rather than boasting ladylike pale flesh, her skin was nut-brown like a stable lad’s.

  Cautiously she sneaked across the lawn, headed right for the rose hedge where Maggie crouched, unable to control her giggles. A hint of old mischief inspired Kit then, and he moved to tiptoe behind Isobel, raising a cautioning finger to his lips when the toddler’s delighted gaze focused on him over the young woman’s shoulder.

  Fortunately for him, Isobel believed the little girl’s helpless laughter resulted from being found and thus she had no warning;

  “Fiddle-dee-dee! A fine fox has me!” Kit seized Isobel round the waist, and her shriek was more than satisfactory. She whirled around, still in his grasp, and uttered a very unladylike oath when she recognized him.

  “Cousin Kit!” Her grey-blue eyes rounded, and she quickly clapped a hand to her mouth. “Ohhh!”

/>   “Never fear, I shan’t beat you this time,” he said, amused. “Maggie’s still too green a maid to appreciate the satisfaction of hurling a blunt, well-timed oath. But I am tempted, Isobel, to thrash you quite soundly for that impertinent note I received the other day.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Aye, that.” He sought Isobel’s eyes for a hint of remorse, but saw none. She felt light as a dent de lion puff in his arms, and his hands settled in the natural indentation of her waist. With a breeze drifted the sweet scent of hyacinth, and Kit realized with some surprise that Isobel was the source of it.

  When had she taken to wearing perfume? Indeed, when had the gangly colt from last summer grown up?

  Standing breathlessly in Kit’s embrace, Isobel met his unwavering gaze and noticed again that his deep-green eyes were flecked with sparkling gold motes. Her hands rested on his forearms where he held her waist, and the velvet sleeves of his doublet felt sinfully soft.

  Her heart hammered in her breast. She feared he could hear it, dreaded even more that he would recognize her as his “Madame Mysterie” by some tiny nuance or expression. Even knowing Kit was angry with her, Isobel could not quite quell the frisson of excitement coursing through her veins.

  She had once overheard Madame Rouissard rapturously describing the sensation of being in love to her young charges — mostly in French, of course, but she had been able to grasp the gist of the message and Anne had wandered about for days, whispering frisson under her breath and using it in every other sentence as if it might be a magical charm.

  Perhaps it was.

  Gathering her courage, Isobel looked directly into Kit’s gold-flecked eyes and stated very softly, so Maggie couldn’t overhear, “I’m leaving soon.”

  “I see.” He obviously didn’t take her seriously, for he released her to sweep an ostrich-plumed green hat from his head. He stuffed it casually beneath his left arm. “And when do we bid you adieu, fair Isobel?”