Philippa (19 page)

“Aye,” Lucy agreed. “Too many gossips and sharp eyes here, Mistress Philippa.”

“You will say nothing, Lucy,” she said, and her tiring woman nodded in agreement.

Philippa was glad that she was wearing several heavy warm petticoats beneath her gown. The day was cold, and dreary. There was the hint of snow or an icy rain in the air. The barge was rowed up the river with the tide, and it seemed no time until she could see Bolton House coming into view. She was frozen despite the fur lap robe upon her knees and the flannel-wrapped hot bricks at her feet. And her mind was racing madly.

What would he be like, this earl of Witton? At thirty he was just about twice her age. Would he still want to come to court? Would he permit her to come to court? Or would she be expected to remain in Oxford producing heir after heir for him? She had to wed sooner than later. She was facing her sixteenth birthday. Cecily had not returned to court. She was expecting a child, she had written Philippa. They would remain at Everleigh until after the child was born, as Cecily wanted to be near her mother now. Even the obnoxious Millicent Langholme was with child. Sir Walter had arrived at court on Twelfth Night to brag on his prowess. Bessie Blount was with child, although that was hardly something spoken about. Her baby would be born in June, she had told Philippa. She would be leaving court shortly, before Lent, in fact. I shall be alone but for my sister, who will certainly marry as soon as she may. But I must wed too. Philippa sighed, and then started as the barge bumped the quay of Lord Cambridge’s house.

Immediately a footman was there to help her from the vessel. “Your cousin is awaiting you in the hall, Mistress Philippa,” he said, ushering her up through the gardens, Lucy following. Inside he took her cloak, and she hurried off, knowing the way well.

“Uncle,” Philippa called, entering the lovely room. It was warm, and welcoming, and the dreary day did not seem quite so bad now. She held her hands out to him.

“Darling girl!” Lord Cambridge greeted her, coming forward to take her hands in his and kiss her on both cheeks. “Come now. There is someone whom I should like you to meet.” He led her down the chamber to where a tall gentleman awaited them by the fireplace. “Mistress Philippa Meredith, I present to you Crispin St. Claire, the earl of Witton. My lord, this is my young cousin Philippa, of whom we have spoken.” He released his grip on the girl as he spoke.

Philippa curtseyed politely. “My lord,” she said, eyes lowered, but dying to get a look at him. There simply had not been enough time to decide if he were handsome.

Aye, she was even prettier close up, the earl thought as he raised Philippa’s hand slowly to his lips, and saluted it with a light kiss. “Mistress Meredith,” he said.

His voice was deep, and had a slightly rough edge to it. Philippa felt a small shiver race up her spine. She snuck a quick peek at the man still holding her hand, and as she did she said, “May I have my fingers back, my lord?”

“I am not certain yet if I wish to return them,” the earl said boldly.

“Well, well, my dears, I see you will get on quite famously without me, and so I will leave you to become better acquainted,” Lord Cambridge murmured, and turning about, he left them. It was going to work out! He sensed it.

As Thomas Bolton had spoken Philippa’s startled gaze had met that of the earl.

“Ah,” Crispin St. Claire said, “you have hazel eyes. I wondered when I saw you at court from a distance what color eyes you would have. Your auburn hair was visible, but I wondered if you might have brown eyes like so many with reddish hair.”

“My mother’s eyes are brown,” Philippa replied. “I have my father’s eyes.”

“They are pretty eyes,” he told her.

“Thank you,” Philippa said, blushing.

It was then he realized that while Philippa might have thought to marry the FitzHugh lad, she had never been courted. He was still holding her hand, and now he led her to one of the window seats overlooking the Thames. “So, Mistress Meredith,” he began, “here we be, in an awkward situation. Why is it that those who seek to do us kindness never realize that by doing so they place us in a difficult position?”

“You want Melville,” she said frankly.

“Indeed I do. I have pastured some of my herds on that land for several years. I need it. But not enough to wed where I would not be happy. Nor the lady either,” he told her as candidly. “Now for pity’s sake, Mistress Meredith, look at me, for you have wanted to ever since you entered the room. I am not the king who cannot bear to be perused by a direct glance. Do you know my age? I am thirty. I am sound of both limb and mind, I believe.” He released her hand, and stood up. “Look upon the earl of Witton, mistress.”

Philippa looked up. The man before her was tall and slender. He could not be called a handsome man, but neither could he be said to be ugly. His nose was too long, and narrow. His chin was pointed, and his mouth too big. But he had fine gray eyes edged in deep brown lashes. His hair was an ash brown. He was elegantly but simply dressed in a medium blue velvet knee-length pleated coat with flared and fur-lined sleeves. She could see a fine gold chain beneath lying upon his blue brocaded doublet. They were the clothes of a gentleman, but not necessarily a courtier. Still, his manner was if anything too assured. For some reason it irritated her.

She stood up. “You tower over me, my lord.”

A slight smile touched his lips, but was quickly gone. “You are a petite girl,” he told her. “Is your mam as delicately made, Mistress Meredith?”

“She is, and has birthed seven children, six of whom are living, and is expecting to give birth any day now to her eighth,” Philippa replied. “I, too, am capable of bearing my husband an heir, my lord.”

“Some women who prefer court life do not enjoy children,” he remarked.

“I am the eldest of my siblings, my lord, and I can assure you that I like children,” she told him. “If it should be decided that a match between us would be suitable, my lord, then I am prepared to do my duty.”

“And who would raise your children, mistress?” he probed.

“I serve the queen, my lord. I must be at court some of the time else I lose my place,” she told him.

“But if you wed,” he said, “you will no longer be a maid of honor. Have you considered that? Would there be another place for you among the queen’s women?”

She had not thought of that. It had not occurred to her until he had said it that her place among the queen’s maids would be gone. None of the girls with whom she had grown up at court had returned once wed. “I had not thought...” she began, and suddenly found herself close to tears.

He quickly took her hand again to comfort her. “I would not keep you from the court if you were my wife, Philippa Meredith, but I would expect you to be at Brierewode enough to oversee any children we would have. Many among my class are content to have their children raised by servants, but I am not. We might come to court to hunt in the autumn, and then return for the Christmas revels. We would remain in Oxford for the winter, and then join the king in the spring before going home for the summer. While you were at court you might offer your services to her highness, but for the first time in your life you might enjoy just playing.”

“You make it sound most pleasant, my lord,” she told him.

“It could be,” he replied, and then they sat together again.

“To be your wife would be a great coup for my family,” Philippa said, “but while some might think me foolish, I must know the man I wed before I wed him.”

“I agree,” he said, “for I must know the woman I would wed before we take vows. Still, I believe we have made a good start today, Mistress Meredith.”

“And I believe that under the circumstances in which we find ourselves, my lord, you may call me Philippa,” she told him.

“Who are you named after?” he asked, “For I am certain it is a family name.”

“My mother’s mother, Philippa Neville, though I never knew her,” the girl replied. “She died with my grandfather Bolton and their son when mama was three.”

“Neville is a well-known name in the north,” he noted.

“They were a less distinguished branch of that family,” Philippa quickly said. She would not have him thinking she sought to make herself better than she was.

“You are scrupulous in your history, Philippa. It is a quality I like in both men and women,” he told her.

“Women can be honorable, my lord,” she responded stiffly. This was a difficult conversation, Philippa thought. They were both being so formal and polite. Did he know how to be any other way? He was, after all, thirty. Yet there were men at court his age and older who possessed a sense of fun. The king was older, and he did.

“What are you thinking, Philippa?” he asked her.

“That this meeting between us is strained,” she admitted.

He chuckled. “Do you always answer a question so truthfully?” Her small hand was cool in his. “It is difficult,” he admitted. “We are strangers, and it is proposed that we marry.” He rubbed the little hand between his two big hands to warm it. “It has been a long time since I paid court to a woman, Philippa. I suppose I am clumsy at it, for the truth is I was never very skilled at courting.”

“Is that why you have never married?” she inquired.

He nodded. “And there was no time, for my service to the king was primary in my life, Philippa. I know you understand that kind of duty, for you too give faithful service to the monarch as did your late father, I am told.” Her hand was now warm in his.

“Tell me about your family,” she said.

“My parents are dead. I have two older sisters, both married, and both sure that they know what is best for me,” he told her.

Now it was Philippa who laughed. “Families are strange things, my lord. You love them always, but there are times when you wish they would be silent, and evaporate away so you might be alone to live your life in peace.”

He chuckled again. “You have old thoughts for a girl so young.”

“I am not young!” she declared. “I shall be sixteen at the end of April.”

“Will you? Then we must consider the possibility of a match between us quickly before you grow much too old for me,” he teased her.

“Oh, you do have a sense of humor!” Philippa cried. “I was so afraid you would be an old sobersides, my lord. I am certainly relieved that you are not.”

The earl of Witton laughed aloud. “Lord Cambridge promised me that you would never bore me, Philippa, and from this brief encounter today I can certainly see that he did not prevaricate. So now we have met, and we have spoken together. Shall we continue on, or would you prefer not?”

“I must wed, and you must wed,” she told him. “If you be willing, my lord, then I am content that you court me. But might we wait just a little while before any formal betrothal is settled between you and my family?”

“Of course,” he agreed. “But I shall ask the queen’s permission to take you to visit my home in Oxfordshire, Philippa. I will want Lord Cambridge and your sister to come as well. And you will want to see Melville, the property that is now yours, I am sure.” He raised the hand he had been holding all this while to his lips, and kissed it again. “Now,” he told her, “you may have the return of your pretty fingers.”

And she blushed again, not looking at the hand. “Will you remain in London long, sir?”

“Just long enough to speak with the queen, Philippa, and then I will want to return to Brierewode to see that it is prepared to show at its best when you come to visit me,” he told her. “The winter is coming to an end now, but it would be best to travel before the roads become waterlogged. Brierewode is beautiful even in the late winter.”

“If we agree upon a match, my lord, I should not want to be married until after the court visits France in early summer. I have never been to France, and while I am certain that our king and queen are the brightest stars in the firmament, I should like to be able to tell our children that I have also seen the king and queen of France.”

“If we agree, then of course you may serve your mistress a final time in France, but I will come with you, Philippa. You are young, and despite your veneer of sophistication you are an innocent. I do not want you eaten up by a handsome French courtier. They are sly, the French. I will come with you, and protect you from harm.”

“I do not need to be protected, my lord. I am quite capable of fending for myself,” Philippa declared indignantly.

“Have you ever met a Frenchman?” he asked her.

“Well, no,” she admitted. “I have not, but they cannot be any more crafty than an English courtier, I am certain.”

“They are far craftier, and will have your gown off you before you are even aware of what is in their mind. French courtiers, both male and female, are the masters of seduction. I cannot have the future countess of Witton’s reputation compromised in any way, Philippa. You must trust to my experience in these things.”

“You will make me look the fool,” she cried unhappily.

“What then, do you seek to be seduced? For if you do, I will be most happy to oblige you,” the earl of Witton said, his gray eyes narrowing dangerously.

Philippa shrank back from him. “Oh no, my lord! I simply do not wish to appear the baby. I promise you I will be most careful.”

“Aye, you will, for I shall be by your side, my lass, and all will know that you are to be my wife, that none attempt to tamper with your virtue,” Crispin St. Claire told her.

“As if I should allow such a thing!” Philippa said sharply. “Do you assume that, having been a part of the court for three years, I have allowed myself to be compromised, my lord? Fie, and shame!”

“Can you tell me that you have never kissed any of the young men at court?” he demanded of her.

“Of course n ...” Philippa stopped in midsentence. Sir Roger Mildmay. But how could she explain that to the earl of Witton? “I was not kissed until last spring,” she finally said. “I had saved myself for Giles, and then he rejected me. Cecily said I should at least have been kissed at my age, and so I allowed a friend that privilege.”