On Gentle Wings (4 page)

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 had 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.

~*~

K
it 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.

“
W
here 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?