On Gentle Wings

by Patricia McAllister

  “Just as soon as you find another to take my place. With the girls, I mean.” She faltered over the words for they were painful to hear, and even more so to contemplate. But Uncle Simon had been quite clear and correct on the fact he was her only living blood relative and as such had jurisdiction over her just as a father would. Kit was related only by marriage, besides which, she supposed he cared very little for her fate.

  Maggie had crawled out from under the rosebush and was clinging to her father’s leg. Kit bent to pick up his youngest daughter and nuzzled her sun-warmed titian curls.

  “Come now, Isobel, how could you even think of leaving this behind?” he asked, and winked at her over Maggie’s head.

  To his obvious surprise, she shook her head and whispered, “Oh, but I don’t wish to go. Truly, I don’t!”

  Unable to utter another word for fear the depths of her emotion might betray her, Isobel whirled about and rushed back to the house. She caught a glimpse of her own brown ankles when she burst through the servants’ entrance and paused a moment to angrily tug down her skirts. Cousin Kit must surely regard her as a silly, countrified chit, compared to the ivory-skinned, sophisticated ladies he dallied with at court! Ladies like his lisping Madame Mysterie. It was a most galling realization.

  Well, Isobel reasoned, she often frolicked like a colt with the girls on these warm summer days and it was ridiculous to don fine skirts that would only be soiled by grass stains and likewise be wasted on Ambergate’s staff. What value an elegant gown when it would only serve to foil her frightful plainness?

  She hurried upstairs to her room on the second floor, deliberately ignoring Susan’s passing question about supper and bolting the door behind her. She could not, would not, cry!

  Nothing was worse than a blotchy complexion on a woman, she knew, especially if one were already ill favored. At least, knowing Kit as she did, Isobel reckoned he would not pursue her but spend a few hours with his daughters, therefore giving her precious time to recover her dignity.

  A sudden, sharp rap at the door startled her.

  “Isobel.” The deep male voice was familiar, but unusually serious. “I must talk to you right now.”

  “I fear I am — unpresentable.” It was the only excuse she could think of on such short notice.

  “I’ve already seen your bare ankles, so you do not suppose I shall be shocked by a bit of décolletage?” Kit’s voice teased her through the closed door, and Isobel felt her cheeks grow warm. “Besides, m’dear, you were quite stern in your admonishment that I spend far too much time admiring the cleavage at court. Therefore, I surely must be accounted an expert, and I daresay one such view is much like another.”

  When she saw the handle begin to turn, she flew to lean against the door. “No, please! I-I shall come downstairs presently.”

  There was a deliberate pause, and then he said, “Very well Isobel. I will be in the parlor. Pray do not dally. We have much to talk about.”

  At last she heard his footsteps receding down the hall and shakily released her breath.

  Chapter Four

  “What’s going on, Annie?” Grace demanded of her eldest sister as all three Tanner girls lay upon their stomachs peering down between the balustrades. They’d hidden in Anne’s room until Isobel had passed by and gone downstairs. Each of them had been sobered and confused by what she saw through the crack in the door.

  Isobel was crying. There was no mistaking the signs for she’d stopped several times to blot her face with a linen before proceeding down the hall. But worse than that, she’d changed into her oldest, ugliest brown gown, the one Anne always pertly referred to as the “rag bin.”

  Viewed through the generous eyes of youth, their Isobel was the loveliest lady short of the queen (who must of course be accounted the first and foremost Tudor Rose, according to their Papa); but in that hideous brown gown, even their beloved Isobel had no chance of redeeming herself.

  For Papa was angry. He was rarely curt with them or, indeed, with anyone else; but he’d sent them all upstairs with the stern order to stay put until he’d spoken to Isobel. And they’d been so deliriously happy to see him! What a blow to be dismissed with hardly more than a fleeting hug and kiss when they were used to far more attention from their doting sire. Anne had been especially insulted.

  “Hush, goose!” she said sharply now when Grace repeated her question. “I can’t hear over your yammering.”

  “But why would Papa come home from court just to scold Isobel?” Grace wondered, ignoring her sister’s reprimand.

  “I think ’tis something to do with that nasty old man who came the other day,” Anne said. “Now, do hush!”

  Maggie seized the opportunity to pull her thumb from her mouth and said simply, “Want Iz-bel.”

  “Well, you can’t have her now. Maybe none of us will, ever again.”

  Grace was horrified by her sister’s cryptic statement. “Oh Annie, what d’you mean?”

  “I mean I overheard that nasty old toad telling Isobel she has to leave with him.” Anne’s bright-green eyes narrowed, fierce with anger, and her mouth had a ferocious set. Because she was a strawberry-blonde in the summertime, even lighter in coloring than the other two girls, her fair skin took on a particularly alarming, mottled shade of red.

  Grace was suddenly scared. Not of Anne, who was always rude and usually bossy to boot, but because she dreaded the notion of losing Isobel even more than the thought of her father’s leaving again.

  “Ohhh, Annie. We have to do something!”

  “There’s nothing to do except hope that horrid old toad goes away, or dies,” Anne said flatly. It sounded as if she were hoping for that outcome right now.

  “But Father says it’s wrong to wish evil upon anyone,” Grace said. “Even bad people, or toads.” Her six-year-old mind worked furiously, and a minute later she had an idea.

  “I’m going to pray,” she whispered loudly.

  “Shush!” Anne scolded her, glancing about the hall to make sure they hadn’t been overheard. “You don’t know anything about it,” she added mockingly. “You and Maggie only know baby prayers.”

  “Do not!” Grace shot back, her voice rising again. “I’m going to pray to a real live saint, and then you’ll see.”

  “See what? What d’you even know about saints?” Anne scoffed. “We’re not papists.”

  “Susan told me to pray to a nice old man named Saint Anthony when I lost Judith, my favorite doll. She promised he’d find it for me,” Grace said, savoring the rare opportunity for defiance.

  Anne feigned shock, though. of course she knew the maid was Catholic.”’Tis a good thing Mama isn’t here,” she said primly. “She’d strap you and Susan both for that.”

  This ominous warning served to subdue Grace long enough for them to hear their father’s muffled shout behind the closed study door. The two older girls looked at each other, frightened.

  “Maybe you’d better pray to that old saint, after all,” Anne whispered to her little sister. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

  Grace only nodded, wide-eyed.

  ~*~

  “What d’you mean, you’re leaving?” Kit demanded, as if this were the first he’d ever heard of it.

  Isobel faced him in the parlor and wearily began again. “I told you, my Uncle Simon came to Ambergate the other day and said I must return to Cornwall with him.” She was still nearly as dazed as he by the unwelcome news, and just as unwilling to accept it.

  Although she was glad on the one hand that Kit seemed truly reluctant to let her go, she supposed it was only because he would be forced to find another full-time caretaker for his girls, and thus be inconvenienced.

  But how dare he act so ignorant of matters, Isobel fumed, when he must have approved Elspeth’s final provision in her will, or at the very least known of it!

  “Aye, I know you told me earlier, but I thought ’twas an idle threat, hurled in the heat of anger.” Kit looked tired as he raked a hand through hi
s already disheveled auburn hair. “I can see now you’re quite serious.”

  Isobel had earlier declined his offer to perch upon the lovely murrey-velvet divan or partake of a watered glass of wine, but she was so unnerved now she crossed right over to the fine teak table and poured herself a goblet. Feeling rebellious, she chose brandy, not the wine. She made it generous for good measure. She needed it to steady her nerves. She turned, raised the goblet to her lips, and stopped when she saw Kit staring at her in frank amazement.

  She expected him to demand to know if she’d been subjecting his daughters to such a poor example, but he did no such thing. Instead, he cleared his throat.

  “Isobel, how long have you lived at Ambergate?”

  She hesitated, considering the curious question. “Nigh eight years.”

  “Right. Then you must be fourt — nay, fifteen?” He sounded hopeful for some reason.

  She shook her head. “I turned eighteen last May.”

  “Damme.” Kit swore softly but explosively and gazed at her in an appraising fashion that made Isobel terribly nervous. She risked taking a tiny sip of the brandy then, but he said nothing. The spirits burned a fortifying trail of fire and temporarily drowned the wild butterflies in her stomach. Dear heavens, he hadn’t recognized her from the masque, had he?

  “I hadn’t realized,” he said at last, somewhat awkwardly, and she relaxed. “I imagine time passes more swiftly for the young.”

  Isobel gathered by that remark that he considered himself old by comparison. She knew, however, that Kit was only nine-and-twenty and would not see three full decades until December twenty-sixth. Funny, Susan had once remarked, that the master had been born on Saint Stephen’s Day, he who was the patron saint of horses. For everyone knew Kit Tanner was horse-mad as well.

  Now, however, Isobel found nothing amusing about Cousin Kit’s past or, indeed, her own predicament.

  “Where’s the man now?” Kit demanded, speaking of Simon Taggart as if her uncle constituted an especially irritating personage who must be dispensed with in all possible haste. Which he was, of course, but Isobel assumed Kit’s show of concern was precipitated on his daughters’ behalf, not hers.

  “He’s staying in town at The Oak and Thistle,” she said. “I could only get him to leave by promising I’d join him for the journey home in three days’ time.”

  “Home?” Kit frowned, seeming preoccupied. “Ambergate is your home now, Isobel.”

  “Yes, of course.” Because of the girls, she thought. And the fact she’d lived here for almost half her life.

  “You realize I intend to speak with your … Uncle Simon, is it? Tonight, if possible.” Kit paused as if waiting for her reaction, but Isobel remained miserably silent. “I’m certain I can convince him it’s in your best interests to stay in London. That is, if you wish to.”

  She was jolted from her silence by the challenge in his voice. “I want to stay. For the girls’ sakes, of course.”

  “Of course,” Kit echoed, his green-gold gaze searching hers as if for something more. She fell silent again, wishing she had the courage to tell him how she truly felt, not only about his daughters, but about him as well.

  “Well, I suppose a maid who’s seen eighteen long years of life is mature enough to know her own mind, aye, Isobel?” he asked in thoughtful conclusion, clearly not expecting a reply and sounding far more optimistic than either of them felt.

  ~*~

  Exactly as he’d expected, Kit disliked Simon Taggart on sight. The man’s severe expression and plain mode of dress made it clear he tolerated no nonsense in his household, nor any undue mirth. Isobel had told Kit nothing of her uncle’s cheeseparing ways, but it was obvious enough from the fact the man chose not to reside in a regular room at the inn. Instead, he found Taggart in the stables, planning to bed down with his sway-backed mount.

  This decision had not been made, Kit suspected, solely because Taggart was a humble fellow intent on saving himself a handful of quid. Rather, Isobel’s uncle was as greedy as he was calculating, as evidenced by the way Taggart’s shrewd gaze quickly summed up his appearance. Kit had not taken the time to change from his courtly attire and knew he must appear quite the dashing — and rich — bit of gentry.

  In turn, Simon Taggart reminded him of a squat-bodied, cross-eyed little toad. Mayhap it was the man’s unfortunate warty nose and chin; but as they spoke. Kit found he could not drive the mental comparison from his head.

  “Mister Taggart? I am Sir Christopher Tanner.” He felt no obligation to invite a toad to familiarity. It called upon a vast summoning of all his courtly manners merely to extend a civil greeting.

  Taggart, he saw, felt no such similar compunctions. “Where’s Isobel?” the other man demanded bluntly, ignoring the social graces entirely. When he realized Kit was alone, his lips split apart in a lopsided sneer.

  “D’you reckon to come and frighten me off, Tanner?”

  Kit was both amazed and angered by the man’s effrontery. “Certainly not,” he said coolly. “I merely came to talk to you about Isobel, of course, and all this nonsense I hear about removing her to Cornwall.”

  “Nonsense, is’t?” Taggart straightened, leaning his heavy girth against a wooden stall for support. “When your own wife understood the girl belongs with her rightful kin, and made it possible for a family to be reunited?” His gaze narrowed on Kit. “I’ve been to see a solicitor myself today. ’Tis all quite legal, so save your breath. My niece leaves with me tomorrow.”

  “You promised Isobel three days.” Kit knew he was grasping at straws, but he was still stunned by the revelation that Elspeth — his late wife — was somehow involved in this bizarre coil.

  “Aye, the chit asked for a few days to get things in order before she left and notify you at court; but since you’re here now to take over matters at Ambergate, there’s no reason why we cannot leave first thing in the morning.”

  “There is one. I shall simply not permit it.”

  Taggart purpled at this calm retort. “But you’ve no claim to the girl, Tanner,” he sputtered. “I’m her only living blood kin; and as such, I’ve the right to arrange for her future as I see fit.”

  “Isobel has lived with us for over eight years. Where was your filial concern in all that time?”

  Taggart bit his plump lip, and said somewhat evasively, “God saw fit to bless my wife Mary and me with ten children, all born nigh ten months apart. Our early years were hard, indeed, and I had difficulty providing for twelve mouths, let alone thirteen. We realized Isobel was far better off here, at least for a time.

  “But my lasses are all married now, and gone. There’s six boys left, and Simon Junior turns sixteen this month. Old enough to work in the mines, wed neighbor Plummer’s eldest wench, and start his own household. I can better provide for my niece now.”

  “Isobel has two years of age on your son, Taggart. She must at least be accounted some say in this matter. And she told me she does not wish to leave London.”

  “Bah!” the other man retorted. “She’s a mere female and, therefore, must be subject first to a father’s will, or her husband’s. Since Robert Weeks is dead, it falls upon me to take up the responsibility. And ’tis most grievously obvious to me. Isobel has been allowed to run wild in your care. She is impertinent and immodest. Alas, I rightly feared such exposure to Tudor morality — or the lack thereof — would ruin her prospects, and so it nearly has.”

  Kit realized the insult was directed not only at him, but the queen as well.

  “Then by all means, my good man, you should not permit Isobel’s presence to contaminate your God-fearing household,” he responded in silky-soft tones. Those who knew Kit far better than Taggart would have realized how dangerously close he came to striking the man in that moment.

  “Aye,” Taggart said on a sigh, obviously too dense to grasp Kit’s sarcasm, “but your own wife called upon my Christian charity to see to the chit’s welfare and you cannot expect I’d deny a dead woman�
�s request.”

  Kit knew there would be no reasoning with this greedy toad, save in one way. He’d expected as much and untied from his waist a kid purse he’d brought for this very purpose.

  “There’s enough here to support your family for several years,” he said, as he extended the purse. “My only condition is that you leave Isobel in peace. She’s chosen to remain at Ambergate. Indeed, she is very much a part of our family, and I’m afraid my daughters cannot countenance the notion of her leaving.”

  Taggart meanly sized up the purse and shook his head. “I’m no fool, Tanner. Elspeth was far more generous with the dowry she left for her cousin; and besides, I’ve already contracted the little wench to be wed.”

  Though this news came as an unwelcome shock to Kit, he managed to maintain a neutral expression. “I see. Who is the fortunate young man?”

  “Thomas Plummer. He’s a fine lad.” Taggart glared at Kit, as if daring him to dispute it.”’Tis my right as Isobel’s guardian to insist she marry as I see fit. And mark my words, there’ll be no wedding above her station as her mother did before her. I’ll not bring the wrath of God down upon my household,” he concluded piously.

  Kit had already anticipated the other man’s next move. Though Taggart had dismissed the purse, his shrewd gaze visibly weighed its contents and Kit suspected that for all the man’s pious posturing, he was not entirely immune to temptation.

  “You realize I require some time to secure Isobel’s replacement,” he told Taggart. “My daughters are too young yet to be left alone, and as you know, my presence is frequently required at court. Mere retainers cannot be responsible for three spirited youngsters.”

  “That’s your problem, Tanner, not mine.”

  “Then you clearly do not know your niece as well as you claim. You see, Isobel will not willingly leave until she is convinced my girls will be well-cared-for in her absence. And, I can assure you, you’ll have your hands full on the journey if she is unhappy. Oh, you can force her, of course; but a wise uncle would want his niece to go to the altar meek as a Cornish hen so as not to embarrass him or the bridegroom’s family.”