Mistaken for a Lady (17 page)

‘Good evening, my lady, I am glad to see you here at last.'

‘Good evening, Sir Roparz.' Francesca was pleased to hear her voice was steady. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Tristan has spoken of you often.'

Sir Roparz bowed his head, and then he in turn was leaning back to introduce the woman on his right—a pretty and very pregnant woman with brown hair and eyes.

‘Countess Francesca, this is my wife, Lady Esmerée,' Sir Roparz said quietly.

Francesca's smile felt stiff. ‘Lady Esmerée, good evening.'

‘Good evening, countess.'

Lady Esmerée's brown eyes studied her and she gave a slight nod. Francesca had no idea what it meant. It could be her imagination, but it seemed that Lady Esmerée's smile was as forced as hers. It wouldn't be surprising, she must feel awkward too. Next to Lady Esmerée stood a small girl. With a sense of relief Francesca turned her attention to her. About three years of age, the girl had the prettiest blue eyes Francesca had ever seen. Her eyelashes were extraordinary, thick and dark.

‘Mama, me next?' the child said, clutching at Lady Esmerée's skirts.

Francesca felt her smile soften. ‘And who is this?'

‘My daughter, my lady.' Lady Esmerée looked sideways at Tristan, who was watching the proceedings, his face oddly blank. ‘Her name is Kristina, she wanted most particularly to meet you.'

Francesca held out her hand. ‘Good evening, Kristina.'

The girl skipped forward, lightly touched Francesca's hand and danced out of sight behind her mother once more.

‘What a pretty child,' Francesca said. ‘You and Sir Roparz must be very proud.'

Lady Esmerée lifted an eyebrow at Tristan and her lips curved into the oddest of smiles. ‘Oh, I am, my lady, very much so. Everyone loves her.' She paused. ‘Especially her father.'

Sir Roparz cleared his throat.

‘Enough of this,' Tristan cut in testily. ‘Lady Esmerée, it's late. Shouldn't Kristina be abed?'

‘As you wish, my lord. She so wanted to meet your countess.'

Tristan gestured a maidservant over. Kristina obligingly held up her arms and was carried out of the hall, thumb in mouth.

The rest of the meal passed as though in a dream. They had arrived at the castle without warning or fanfare, yet Tristan's servants had conjured a feast. Platter after platter was laid before them, Francesca's head whirled with the scale of it.

Fish from the bay had been baked in a pie, she forced down a morsel. It was hard to eat, she was exhausted and very much on edge. Grief; the journey from Fontaine; meeting Lady Esmerée—all had taken their toll.

Game from the nearby forest had been simmered in wine, she managed a nibble. She tried some stuffed goose. She found herself gazing in disbelief at great platters of cheese, nodding as each one was identified for her. A tart goat's cheese made locally. A light creamy ewe's cheese. A smoked variety that had been carted in from Rennes and was new to her. She sipped at her wine.

The candles burned down, wax dripped into pools on the candle stands. Francesca sat on the high-backed chair that looked like a throne and looked over the company with her heart in her throat. Saints, it was hard to keep smiling, she felt like death. Should she be mentally preparing herself to take control of this huge household? Or to face a future alone?

At length, when the hall had become little more than a dazzle of candlelight and a buzz of sound, Tristan touched her hand.

‘Time to retire, I think.'

Shooting him a grateful look, Francesca allowed him to pull back her chair and they swept from the hall.

* * *

Francesca woke alone. She sensed immediately that the day was well advanced and was astonished at how soundly she had slept. Perhaps the incessant beat of the waves had lulled her. Pushing back the bedcovers, she padded over to the great lancet and drew back the curtain. White horses were dancing on the crests of the waves, ragged clouds raced across a blue sky. Judging by the length of the shadows, the morning was far gone.

How odd, it wasn't like Mari to let her oversleep. Of course, Mari herself might be lying in, she certainly deserved a rest. Mari was no longer young and they'd had a trying journey with a lot of grief at the end of it.

A door slammed and quick footsteps sounded on the stairs below. Somewhere nearby a woman was crying. Hurrying to the door, Francesca lifted the latch and caught the sound again. Dear Lord, something dreadful must have happened, a woman was sobbing as though her heart would break.

Snatching a gown at random, Francesca pulled it on and grabbed a shawl. She didn't stop to lace her gown, that crying was simply too distressing. She hurried to the stairs.

After two turns, she met Mari coming up, eyes troubled. Mari grabbed her by the hand and glanced over her shoulder, towards the solar door. ‘Oh, no, my lady, don't go down there. You must come away.'

Francesca dug in her heels, the sobbing was coming from inside the solar. ‘What's happened? Mari, please let go of me.'

Mari tightened her grip, even going so far as to give another tug as though to draw her back upstairs. Her face looked pinched and her mouth tight. ‘Come away, my lady, the solar is no place for you this morning.'

Francesca stood her ground. Mari had never been the most biddable of maids, but she wasn't usually quite so stubborn. ‘What's happening? Mari?'

The solar door burst open and Sir Roparz stalked out, his face dark with some heavy emotion. Francesca must have made a movement, for he glanced briefly in her direction, gave her a curt nod and clattered on down the stairs.

From inside the solar came a low wail and more unrestrained sobbing. The woman wasn't alone. Francesca heard a murmur, someone was offering her comfort.

‘Mari, stand aside, if you please.'

Mari choked out a protest, Francesca shook herself free and stepped over the threshold. Tristan stood by the fireplace, Lady Esmerée in his arms. Francesca halted, her feet felt as though they'd been nailed to the floor.

Tristan was too busy soothing Lady Esmerée to see her. ‘We'll find her,' he said, easing back to look into Lady Esmerée's face. ‘Esmerée, if we have to tear this duchy apart stone by stone, we'll find her.'

Lady Esmerée let out a low keening sound. ‘You swore she'd be safe.' She curled her fingers into Tristan's tunic.

Tristan's mouth was grim. ‘Esmerée, in all likelihood she's playing hide-and-seek somewhere in the castle. Have you checked the kitchens? The chapel? The garden?'

‘Aye. Aye. Everywhere. Tristan, we've looked in all those places. I tell you, she's been kidnapped!'

‘We don't know that.' Tristan tipped up Lady Esmerée's chin. ‘You told no one of her connection to me?'

As the words left Tristan's mouth, Francesca's stomach dropped. They were talking about Kristina. The child's dark-lashed blue eyes—beautiful and strangely familiar—flashed before her. The truth hit her. Kristina must be Tristan's daughter. His
daughter
. A wave of nausea rolled over her.

‘I told no one.' Lady Esmerée's fingers clenched and unclenched on Tristan's tunic and her wedding ring flashed in the light. ‘Tristan, you must find her, you must.' Her voice broke on another sob and she stumbled to a nearby chair and buried her face in her hands.

‘We will find her, Esmerée, never fear.'

Francesca took a deep breath and stepped fully into the solar. Her mind was a maelstrom of whirling thoughts.

Tristan had misled her, he had a daughter. Francesca should have made the connection last night, indeed she would surely have done if she had not been so exhausted. Though he hadn't admitted it, the child's kinship to Tristan was clear in her eyes, in those compelling blue eyes she had inherited from her sire. From Tristan.

Francesca had thought she was getting to know him, she had imagined they understood each other. Bile rose in her throat. How wrong she had been. Afraid she might actually be ill, she put her hand to her mouth.

Lady Esmerée—Tristan's former mistress and the mother of his child—was weeping loudly on the chair, wiping her tears with her veil. ‘Find her, Tristan. For the love of God, find her.'

Francesca felt as though the sky had fallen in, he'd lied to her. Tristan the honourable, Tristan the chivalrous. He had lied.

‘Tristan?' Francesca said, in a choked voice.

There was movement behind her, Sir Roparz was back. He went to his wife's side, helped her to her feet and slid his arm about her thickened waist. ‘Come, my love. You must rest.' With a last glance in Francesca's direction, he led her from the solar.

Tristan's eyes were bright as sapphires, his face was drawn. He looked utterly drained.

Francesca swallowed. ‘Kristina's your daughter.'

‘Yes.'

‘You lied to me.' A hand reached towards her, she batted it away. ‘Tristan, you lied.'

He shook his head. ‘No, I—'

‘If you didn't lie, you misled me. You allowed me to think Roparz was her father, that's just as bad.' Francesca's chest ached. She felt hurt. Used. As she stared at him, it came to her that she'd never seen him look so worried before. The shock of seeing him so vulnerable jolted her out of her anger and she made herself take a few steadying breaths. ‘Saints, Tristan, you look like death.'

He shoved his hand through his hair and grunted.

Francesca felt hurt and used, but suddenly she saw that her feelings must be put aside. Her anger could wait. A child had gone missing and that child must surely come first. She stiffened her spine. ‘What's happened to Kristina?'

Blue eyes looked steadily into hers. ‘She's vanished. Not in the castle, apparently.'

‘How can that be?'

‘Her bed was empty this morning.' Tristan's voice cracked and his throat worked. When he reached for her hand a second time, she allowed him to take it. He loved Kristina and it was obvious he was frantic with worry. ‘For Kristina's safety, we have told absolutely no one of her relationship to me.'

Francesca stared at their linked hands. ‘Your work for the duchy made enemies, you feared she wouldn't be safe.'

He let out a great sigh. ‘You understand,
Dieu merci
. Francesca, you have to believe me, I had no mind to deceive you. I intended to tell you as soon as possible, yet I feared for her.'

‘Do you think someone has discovered she is your child?'

‘I can't see how, less than a handful of people know the truth.' The desperation in his eyes told another story—he was afraid she'd been kidnapped.

‘Has there been a ransom demand?'

‘No, nothing.' He pulled her towards him. ‘Francesca, I am truly sorry you had to learn about Kristina in this way. It was never my intention to hurt you.' Leaning in, he kissed her cheek. ‘We shall talk more later, for now, I must leave you.'

‘You're going to look for her.'

He released her and stood back. ‘Kristina can be a handful. She loves going into the village, one possibility is that she's found a way to get there on her own. She might have sneaked into the back of a supply cart when no one was looking.'

Francesca felt his anxiety, the harbour would be a dangerous place for a child her age. If Kristina was there, Tristan needed to find her quickly.

At the door, he looked back. ‘Until later, my heart.'

Chapter Twelve

M
ari was waiting for Francesca in the bedchamber. ‘This gown today, my lady?' she asked, gesturing at the bed, where she had laid out a blue linen gown. ‘The one you have on is rather shabby.'

‘Thank you, Mari, that will be fine.' Unwinding her shawl, Francesca draped it over a coffer. Pretending a calm she did not feel, she went to the ewer to wash. Her mind was a confused jumble. Fury—Tristan had misled her; hurt—he hadn't taken her into his confidence about Kristina; regret—she'd not won his trust after all.

Oddly, she wasn't surprised. Tristan's harsh upbringing had taught him not to rely on others, and whilst they had known each other for four years, they'd been apart for much of that time. It was only recently that they were truly beginning to get to know and understand each other. Trust must surely follow. Saints, if they were to have a future together, it must follow.

Yet how could it, when one moment he was introducing her to his retainers as his countess, and now this!

Questions swirled through her head. How old was Kristina? When had she been born?

Francesca found herself thinking back to a frosty December morning in Fontaine when a messenger had ridden in from des Iles. Her innards tightened. It had been during the first year of their marriage, and Tristan had told her he must return to his castle on a matter of some urgency. In those early days it hadn't been his habit to discuss matters of estate business with her, he'd simply informed her that Sir Roparz had sent for him. Back then, she had been too in awe of him to insist on details.

Tristan had been gone a week, and on his return he had simply said that Roparz had married and he'd wanted to attend the ceremony.

Well, that might well have been the truth, or part of it. Francesca splashed water on her face and reached for the drying cloth. Kristina must have been born that December. Had Tristan gone back to des Iles to secure his daughter's future? He'd told her that Roparz had wanted to marry Esmerée, and Francesca had seen with her own eyes that Roparz treated his wife with the utmost consideration. None the less, Tristan must have been worrying about Kristina ever since her birth.

Lady Esmerée has given him a child, whereas I have not.

Francesca's heart clenched.
Am I barren?

She'd yearned to give Tristan a child, and all these months she'd assumed that they had simply been unlucky. But what if it was more than that? Clearly, Tristan had had no difficulty fathering a child. What if the problem lay with her? Tristan wouldn't want a barren wife.

Saints, this wasn't promising—the more she thought about her future with Tristan, the more difficulties she found. Was their marriage doomed?

She had tried so hard to win his trust, yet he continued to keep her in the dark. She stared blindly into the washbowl. Here she was, happily thinking she had won him over because he had finally told her about his father, and here she was—his countess—when the plain truth was that Tristan didn't really trust her, not with matters close to his heart.

Would he ever trust her? Her mouth twisted. When their marriage had begun, she'd believed her greatest rival was the duchy. More recently, she had learned about Esmerée. And now there was Kristina. It was a lot to swallow, but she thought she could do it because these recent revelations all proved how wrong her initial judgement of his character had been.

She'd thought Tristan callous—a ruthless lord with little in his head save power and politics. But the latest evidence showed that he had dealt with Esmerée responsibly. He hadn't discarded her, he had stood aside so that Sir Roparz might win her. And she'd never forget the bleakness in his eyes in the solar just now. Tristan cared about his daughter. In short, Tristan had a heart, which meant there was hope.

Francesca became aware of Mari muttering quietly to herself as she hunched over a coffer. ‘Mari, did you say something?'

‘I warned you not to go into the solar, my lady. I knew no good would come of it.'

Goosebumps rose on Francesca's skin. Tristan had made it clear that he didn't want anyone to know that Kristina was his daughter.

‘Mari, how long were you listening outside the door? What did you hear?'

Mari sat back on her heels. ‘Enough to know that your husband deceived you. My lady, I can't believe Lord Tristan had the nerve to marry his mistress to his steward. And that poor child. What kind of a life will Kristina have? My lady, you've married a monster.'

Briefly, Francesca closed her eyes. ‘It is not your place to judge him. Mari, when you were walking past the solar, was anyone else in earshot?'

Mari gave a firm headshake. ‘No.'

Not entirely convinced, Francesca reached for Mari's hand and tugged her to her feet. ‘I beg you not to rush to judgement. You don't know everything.'

Mari gave her a sour look. ‘I do know when a man is spinning yarns, and that man is a deceiver.'

Francesca hung the drying cloth on a hook. ‘For the sake of little Kristina, I would ask you to set your antipathy aside.'

Mari's eyes widened. ‘You feel sympathy for his bastard?'

‘Kristina is an innocent. Mari, listen. Everyone in the castle believes Sir Roparz is her father, and with good reason. My lord has enemies who wouldn't hesitate to use that child to bend him to their will.'

‘And if people think she's Sir Roparz's daughter, she'd be safe?'

‘Exactly. So I need to ask you again, do you think anyone else overheard what was said in the solar?'

‘No, my lady, it's not possible. Until you came on to the landing, I was the only one about.'

Francesca let out a breath. ‘Thank heaven. Mari, I want you to swear—on your mother's soul—that you will tell no one else what you heard. As far as you are concerned, Sir Roparz is Kristina's father.'

Mari gave a brusque nod. ‘Very well, my lips are sealed. I wasn't anywhere near the solar. I heard nothing.'

‘And one thing further...'

‘My lady?'

‘There is to be no more listening at doors.'

Mari's cheeks went crimson and she hung her head. ‘I am sorry, my lady, it won't happen again.'

Francesca smiled and held out her comb. ‘Thank you. Please help me with my hair, and then we had better go downstairs. A little girl is lost and our help will be needed.'

Mari took the comb and gave a slight nod. ‘Of course, my lady.'

* * *

Francesca asked for directions to the steward's office, and when they got there, they found it empty. She stood in the corridor, biting her lip, wondering where Sir Roparz might be when a passing maidservant saw them.

The maidservant bobbed her a curtsy. ‘May I help you, my lady?'

‘Thank you, yes.' Tristan had mentioned going to the village in search of his daughter and in his absence Francesca thought to offer Sir Roparz her help. He knew the castle, he would know where she might look. ‘I was hoping to speak to Sir Roparz.'

‘He's in the guardhouse, my lady, directing the search for Kristina. Shall I show you the way?'

‘Thank you, we should like to help. What is your name?'

‘Adèle, my lady.'

Francesca and Mari followed Adèle through the hall. Servants were rushing this way and that, calling the child's name.

‘Kristina? Kristina!'

Clearly, every able-bodied person in the castle was looking for Kristina. Page boys were flinging back coffer lids, doubtless fearing that the little girl had climbed inside and become trapped. Cupboards were being turned out, pots and linens were strewn every which way.

‘Kristina?
Kristina!
' The castle walls echoed. ‘Kristina?
Kristina!
'

Outside, the bailey was a whirl of activity. Horses were being led out of the stables and grooms were combing through the empty stalls, calling the child's name. On the castle walls, pairs of men-at-arms paraded up and down the wall walk—one with his eyes trained on the bailey whilst his fellow studied the cliffs and paths outside the castle.

The wind was brisk. Tristan's standard streamed from the topmost tower and Francesca could taste salt on her tongue. Beneath the cacophony of men shouting orders and of stable boys calling for Kristina came a subtler sound—the eternal beat of the waves on the rocks beneath the castle.

When they reached the gatehouse, Adèle pointed to a door at the top of a short run of steps. ‘You'll find Sir Roparz up there, my lady.'

The door was ajar. Smiling her thanks, Francesca started up the steps. At the top, she looked back. ‘Mari, please wait in the courtyard.'

‘Yes, my lady.'

In the guardhouse, a harassed-looking Sir Roparz was scowling at a mail-clad soldier.

‘Kristina wasn't in the chapel, captain?' Sir Roparz asked.

‘No, sir.'

‘You asked Father Paol if he'd seen her?'

‘I did, and I'm sorry, sir, Father Paol hasn't seen your daughter since supper last eve. No one has.' The captain hesitated, a pleat in his brow. ‘Sir Roparz, we have searched her usual hiding places. The kitchens, the stables, everywhere. I'd swear on my mother's life Kristina isn't in the castle. Perhaps Lord Tristan will find her in the village.'

Sir Roparz rubbed his brow. ‘We'll search again, captain, everywhere.'

The captain blinked. ‘Even where we have just looked?'

‘Every nook and every cranny. Everywhere.'

‘Very good, sir.' The captain saluted.

Francesca stood aside as the captain tramped out.

Sir Roparz lifted a helmet from a hook on the wall and tucked it under his arm. His smile was strained. ‘My lady, if you are looking for Count Tristan, he's down in the village. I am about to join him. If you like, I can relay him a message.'

The tension in Sir Roparz's face told Francesca more than words ever could. Tristan's steward loved Kristina as though she were his. She shook her head. ‘I'm not looking for Tristan, Sir Roparz. I'd like to help. I know I am new to des Iles, but there must be something I can do.'

Sir Roparz scrubbed his face. ‘That is kind of you, my lady. However, you're unfamiliar with the lie of the land, you won't know where to begin.'

Francesca touched his sleeve. ‘There must be something.'

He drummed his fingers on the top of his helmet and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Aye, there is, but it might be awkward. I am not sure I can ask it of you.'

‘Please go on, sir. I am anxious to help.'

‘It's my wife. She's in the chapel making her confession to Father Paol.'

Francesca struggled to keep her face clear of emotion. ‘Aye?'

‘I shall be taking a small troop of horse soldiers into the village to aid Tristan in the search, and I may be some while. I don't want Esmerée to be on her own when she's finished her confession. She's close to her time and—'

‘You would like me to keep Lady Esmerée company whilst you are in the village?' It was the last thing Francesca wanted to do. Hearing that Lady Esmerée had borne Tristan a child had knocked her back, she wasn't really ready to face the woman. However, Sir Roparz stood before her, fingers drumming on his helmet and a tight pleat in his brow. Francesca's chest ached. She hardly knew the man, but it was obvious he was deeply concerned about his wife, it would be churlish to refuse him.

‘If you could, my lady.'

Francesca thrust her misgivings to one side and managed a smile. ‘Of course.'

Face clearing, Sir Roparz jammed on his helmet. ‘Thank you. Esmerée will be out of her mind with worry and I don't want anything to happen to the new baby.'

‘You may rely on me,' Francesca said. It wouldn't be easy, she would have to keep a tight rein on her hurt if she wasn't to add to Lady Esmerée's distress. She would do it though, Lady Esmerée surely had enough to worry about without her adding to her woes.

Sir Roparz held her gaze for a long moment. ‘Thank you again, my lady, you are grace itself.' With a bow, he gestured for Francesca to precede him back into the bailey.

Mari was standing in a patch of sunlight, watching as the last cask of wine was offloaded from a merchant's waggon.

‘That cart's from Champagne,' Mari said, as the carter, a brawny, unkempt man with messy hair and beard, shouldered the cask and bore it into the hall.

‘Oh?' Francesca hardly heard her, she glanced abstractedly at the cart before her gaze settled on the chapel, a neat stone building with Romanesque arches. A gold-painted cross glinted in the sun.

Saints, what was she to say to Lady Esmerée? She wrapped her arms about her waist. She wanted answers to a thousand questions and not one could be posed to a woman whose daughter had gone missing.

Lady Esmerée, when did you tell Sir Roparz you were carrying Tristan's child?

Do you love Sir Roparz?

How long have you known my husband? Did you love him? Do you love him still?

Did you know you were carrying Tristan's child when he and I were married?

With an effort, Francesca shoved the questions to the back of her mind. Lady Esmerée needed comfort, not an interrogation, which meant that Francesca ought to ensure that others were present when she spoke to her. That way, she would be less likely to blurt out something untoward.

‘Mari, would you recognise Lady Esmerée's maid?'

‘I think so.'

‘Lady Esmerée has need of her. Please be so good as to fetch her. Bring her to the chapel porch.'

‘We shall be joining Lady Esmerée in the chapel, my lady?'

Francesca nodded. ‘She is near her time and Kristina's disappearance has her desperately worried. Sir Roparz doesn't want her left alone.'

‘Very good, my lady.'

Mari headed back to the castle entrance. Francesca leaned against a wall, closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. Had Kristina been found? If she had gone to the village, surely the villagers would look out for a little girl—especially if they believed her to be the daughter of the castle steward? Lord, she hoped so.