The Sumerton Women (28 page)
Cecily squeezed her eyes shut a long moment, shaking her head. “I am barely gone with child; it is hardly there, hardly there at all! It hasn’t quickened!” She raised her head, her eyes lit with indignation.
Father Alec seized her hands from the lavender, clenching them tight in his. “My lady, I beg you, consider this with care ... it may be ‘hardly there’ as you say, but when does God place the soul within the body? At conception? When it kicks? At birth? No one can know these mysteries; ergo, no one can be qualified to speculate, to take that risk. Can you honestly say you would want that on your head?”
Cecily’s knees buckled as she dissolved into tears. Father Alec caught her in his arms, pulling her near, stroking the back of her hair. It was like silk against his skin. He trembled as he withdrew, gripping her at the shoulders.
“It is
my
body, is it not?” she cried.
my
body, is it not?” she cried.
Alec shook his head, his heart laden with profound sadness. “That may be, my lady, but the body within you belongs to God, just as you do. Is it not for God to decide its fate, not you?”
Cecily lowered her eyes. “God will deal with me as He sees fit. I will answer to Him for my sins and Him alone.” With this she pulled away, running from the room as though her conscience had taken form and was hunting her down.
Father Alec stood alone, staring at the abandoned basket of lavender, dread pooling in his gut, immobilizing him. Now he knew why he loved his time in London; there he was immersed in doctrine, something intangible, without heart, without life. Though the tragedies of the Crown affected him, they were on the periphery. At Sumerton everything was intertwined; the complexities of happiness and pain seemed to be inexorably tied to one person.
Cecily.
Alice delivered the pennyroyal to Cecily in her apartments with her usual nonchalance, infusing it in some mulled wine. Cecily lay abed in her nightclothes, claiming illness. She was unsure as to the effects of the herb and would be grateful for the time alone to recover.
Cecily held the cup in a trembling hand, staring at its contents a long while. Father Alec’s words swirled in her head, persistent as a migraine. She closed her eyes, sighing. She could not say she was unlike Mirabella, that she did take care to fear for her immortal soul. Guilt coursed through her veins. The thought that she was perhaps snuffing out the spark of life before it had a chance to truly ignite frightened her. What kind of person had she become? What would Hal make of her now? Would he see her as a betrayer, a murderess? The thought of her being the cause of any pain lighting his loving blue eyes would break her heart.
“Cecily, you don’t have to do it,” Alice told her in soothing tones as she sat beside her, rubbing her upper arm.
Cecily raised her eyes to her longtime friend. “I know I am selfish, Alice.” Tears strangled her. She choked them back. “But I truly do not know how I can bear another child now.” She chewed her lip. “Perhaps someday ... but not now. I feel so tired. Losing little Charles has taken so much from me; it has been difficult to recover my spirit. The thought of going through all of it again—”
“You do not have to explain to me, Cecily,” Alice assured. “We are not afforded many choices in this life. We do what we have to do. There may be no justifying it to the world, but if it preserves our sanity one more day, that is all the conviction I need to carry these things through.”
Cecily cast her eyes upon the vessel once more. It looked so benign. Just a cup of death ...
She drew in a breath, expelling it slowly. “Forgive me, Lord, I beg you.”
With this she put the cup to her lips, drinking deep, feeling as though she were taking part in some unholy communion. Upon taking in the last of it, she handed the cup back to Alice. Other than the slight mint aftertaste, she felt nothing. What she was expecting to feel she knew not.
“It isn’t instantaneous, Cecily,” Alice said with a smile. “You must drink of it for five days before anything happens. The pain is no worse than the cramping of your regular courses.”
Cecily sighed. She did not want to elongate her sin. She wanted it over.
There was nothing else to be done. Nothing but to wait.
17
C
ecily was in the garden with Kristina when seized by the pains. She doubled over on the bench, clutching her belly. She had felt fine for a week; indeed, she felt fortunate to not have experienced any symptoms. But now was her time to make reparation. Now she would pay for her sin.
ecily was in the garden with Kristina when seized by the pains. She doubled over on the bench, clutching her belly. She had felt fine for a week; indeed, she felt fortunate to not have experienced any symptoms. But now was her time to make reparation. Now she would pay for her sin.
“My lady!” Kristina cried, rushing toward her. She sat beside her, stroking her hair. “What is it? What’s wrong? What can I do?”
Cecily met her child’s distressed brown eyes and tried to reassure her with a smile that translated into a grimace as she tried to right herself.
“I am all right, darling,” she told her. “No worries. You must not tell anyone of this; I do not want to raise any alarm.”
Kristina narrowed her eyes. She was too astute for her age. “Why lie about it?”
“It’s not lying, child,” Cecily said in sharper tones than intended. “It’s ... it’s just leaving things out—omission.”
Kristina shrugged. “Seems the same to me, my lady,” she observed. She took her hand. “But I won’t say anything, I promise.” She offered a wink. The gesture so belonged to her father that Cecily laughed through her pain.
She had made the right decision. She did not need another child to divert her attention from those already here.
She would tell herself that until she believed it.
Cecily waited for some sign of miscarriage. None came. No spotting, no bleeding. The cramps ceased. Her heart raced. Had it not worked then? Now what?
She sat in the small chapel at Castle Sumerton alone, defeated, and hardly aware of the soft footfalls echoing against the stone floor.
“You got your wish, Father,” she said in tones laced with irony.
“Not Father.” Hal’s voice was soft as he slid into the pew beside her. In his hands he clutched the sandglass he had presented to her years before, the keeper of their hours, of each blessing and each tragedy. He sighed. “I brought this for you to reflect upon,” he told her. “See here?” He ran his fingers along the carvings. “Our wedding date. Harry and Kristina’s birthdays. Mirabella’s return. Charles’s birth and death dates. Father Alec’s return ...” He drew in a quavering breath.
“And this?” Cecily asked, noting a date with no known sentimental attachment.
Hal met her eyes with blue orbs softened by tears. “This was the day I felt you slipping away from me.”
A lump swelled in Cecily’s throat. She swallowed. She took Hal’s hand in hers, lacing her fingers through his, squeezing, trying to find the reassurance and security she once derived from his touch. She would not insult his intelligence and insight by denying it.
“It was my hope that Father Alec could lend you some guidance, some comfort,” Hal told her. He shook his head. “But I see now that things are never as we ... expect.”
She did not know his implication. This she would not speculate upon. She would not let herself.
Hal reached out, tilting her face toward his, his fingertips soft and subtle as a warm breeze on her skin. In his eyes shone a plea.
“Cecily, you do not confide in me anymore,” he said. “I do not think you confide in anyone, not truly.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Alice.” He sighed again, his shoulders slumping. “I do not know how to reach you.”
Cecily’s lips quivered. “Oh, Hal, I’m so afraid.” Cool tears slid down her cheeks unchecked. She leaned her cheek into the palm of his hand, feeling vulnerable as a child. “Since losing Charles I know I have distanced myself, as though numbing myself from any pain. In my fear, in trying to prevent us from future pain, I have fallen into sin.”
Hal furrowed his brows, as though trying to wrap his mind around a weighty issue that was just beyond his comprehension. His voice was soft, non-accusatory. “What sin, my love?”
Cecily bowed her head, her shoulders quaking in silent sobs. “I am with child.” She shook her head violently, then leaned her forehead into her hand. “I am with child and by God, Hal, I don’t want it ... not because it’s yours, not because I do not love our children, but because ... because ... I ... can’t ... bear ... to ... lose ... it!” Her sobs became audible, gulping gasps of despair. “And because of that I took in pennyroyal to induce a miscarriage. . . but it didn’t work and now—now ...” She trailed off, burying her head in her hands, weeping with abandon.
Hal was silent a long while. At last he wrapped his arm about Cecily’s shoulders, drawing her to his side. She nuzzled in the crook of his shoulder, taking in his familiar, musky scent of leather and horses and strength.
“Then it is God’s will that we have another child,” Hal said. “Because He knows you are strong enough to bear it. He allowed it to remain because He knows your conscience would not be able to bear the weight of that sin. He spared you. He spared me,” he added in quiet tones.
Cecily pulled away. “You aren’t angry with me, Hal?”
Hal lowered his eyes. “I am hurt that you would grow so desperate as to think you would not have help and support, that you would take such a heady decision upon yourself. I am hurt that you give yourself so little credit after all we have endured in this life.” He bowed his head, gazing once more at the sandglass. “You are strong enough to bear God’s will, for good or for bad. You have proved it before; you will prove it again. And all the while, I will be at your side.” He raised his head, facing her once more, determination replacing the momentary pain lighting his eyes. “Only come back to me. Come out of yourself. Join me as my wife once more.”
Cecily cupped his face between her hands. “I haven’t left you, Hal,” she whispered. “I’ll never leave you.” She leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a gentle kiss. “Mark this day on the sandglass. Mark it as the day I decided to rejoin the living.”
“Done, my lady,” Hal assured, a smile in his tone. “Done.”
Cecily’s pregnancy advanced as normal as her others had been. She experienced very little discomfort. The baby quickened, filling Cecily’s heart with relief at each kick. When she announced her condition to the rest of the family, Father Alec’s face emanated a mingling of relief and a flash of something else. Pain? Cecily cared not to analyze. She focused on the children’s reactions. Harry seemed indifferent. He was looking forward to joining the Earl of Surrey’s household, where he would receive his formal education alongside the Howard children, and his mind was occupied with the prospect of a new adventure. Kristina’s eyes lit with excitement at the news. Cecily knew this would give her a chance to play the little mother. She had doted on baby Charles during the brief span of his life and this baby would serve to fill the void he had left in Kristina’s heart.
As happy as Kristina was, her joy seemed muted in comparison to that of Mirabella, who was more demonstrative than she had ever been in her life, fussing over Cecily to no end. Cecily could not help but wonder at the girl’s motivation. She had seemed to distance herself as much from Cecily as Cecily had from everyone else these past months.
“After your loss, I am just glad to see you pressing on,” Mirabella told her as they sat in the gardens, taking in the crisp air. Summer was ending. Autumn advanced in a subtle flirtation with nature, dusting the foliage with a rich golden hue. “And very glad to see you and Father doing well.”
Cecily smiled. “And you, Mirabella? What of James? We have not seen much of him of late. I had hoped you would reconcile.”
Mirabella was silent. The moment was thick with awkwardness.
“I told you. It was not meant to be,” she said at length.
Cecily bit her lip, unsure as to how to proceed. “You seemed so close and so alike.”
“Not alike enough,” Mirabella said, but she averted her eyes. Cecily wondered whom Mirabella was lying to more, Cecily or herself. “I do not wish to speak of it again, Cecily. Now is a time to focus on your happiness, not my disappointments. Please.”
Cecily sighed. “I just do not want you to have any regrets,” she said.
“My regrets are my own.” Mirabella’s tone was hard, inaccessible once more. Perhaps always.
As unattainable as Cecily could be at times, Mirabella was that much more so.
Cecily wondered if anyone would ever be allowed a glimpse into her soul.
Mirabella could not say that Cecily’s condition did not fill her with immense relief. This meant that relations were good between Cecily and her husband. This meant that Mirabella had misinterpreted the strained glances exchanged between Cecily and Father Alec. All was well. All would stay well. The Pierce family was strong, loyal. Impenetrable from the forces of lust and sin.
Leaving Mirabella safe to nurture her own dreams.
She still spent much of her time in Father Alec’s company. She sat in on many of his tutoring sessions with the children, trying to instill in Harry, the more malleable of the two, a strong foundation in the True Faith. She attended calls with Father Alec to sick tenants, offering whatever assistance she could, feeling that, in a way, she was still fulfilling part of her holy calling.
And she relished his friendship. Their spirited debates, their companionable silences, the work they did together, filled her with purpose, with meaning. She tried to reconcile herself to her decision regarding James. She tried to put him out of her head. Nonetheless, he crept in unbidden, his innocent face laced with disappointment and betrayal and knowing, always knowing, that her intentions with Father Alec were less than holy.
She cursed him for it.
More than that, she cursed herself.
Cecily went into labor during a blizzard one February morning in 1546. The pains seemed close together and intense, despite the fact that her water had not yet broken. She retched violently, clutching her belly and whimpering feebly.
Mirabella attended her, her cheeks flushed with anxiety. This was her first birthing; she hoped it would be her last. She had no stomach for it. She swabbed Cecily’s forehead with a cool cloth and tried to soothe her with nonsensical banter, then fell into a restless silence, not knowing how to comfort the girl.
What was worst was that the midwife could not be fetched. The weather prevented it; the snow was thigh deep and mounting. Fortunately, some of the older female servants had some knowledge of childbearing, so Mirabella did not feel completely inadequate and alone.
The hours stretched on. Twilight, then night, at last yielding to an indigo dawn. Mirabella’s heart pounded. At last Hal entered the sanctuary.
“This birth echoes too much of Harry’s for me to keep away,” he told Mirabella in soft tones. “Something is wrong. It is taking too long; she is struggling too much... .” He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Something must be done to ease her pain, to help this along.”
“The woman ...” Cecily murmured in a raspy whisper.
“What?” Mirabella asked, making for the bedside once more. She took Cecily’s hand in her own. “What, dearest?”
Cecily tried to open her eyes, revealing slivers of teal against her ivory skin. “The woman of Sumerton Forest ... the wisewoman. . . Alice’s druid ...”
Mirabella’s heart lurched with peculiar dread. “Druid? A witch? Cecily, you can’t mean—”
“Find her, Mirabella,” Hal ordered. “If Lady Alice trusts her, she’s good enough for me. She may be our only hope.”
“But Father—”
“Find her!”
Mirabella started at the harshness, so rare in Hal’s tone. She nodded her acquiescence and quit Cecily’s chamber to seek out a woman she knew nothing of, praying all the while she would not be the harbinger of evil at Sumerton.
Mirabella wrapped herself in furs and found the only conveyance she could think of to make traversing the snow easier, a pair of snowshoes Harry had fashioned for play. With them she trudged through the forest, not knowing where she was going or what she was really looking for. As she walked, bitter wind biting her cheeks, she was reminded of the day she took Cecily through the forest to the convent for the first time, so many years ago. How naïve they were then, how delightfully ignorant to what fate had in store.
Now everything had changed, every plan, every person. Her dearest brother Brey was gone along with her convent, her true mother, her innocence... . How she longed for that day in the forest, to reclaim the feeling of hope and a heart filled with dreams. Instead she was engulfed in a shroud of uncertainty.
Through a veil of snow a dark form came into view. Mirabella squinted, sniffling, shielding her eyes against the bright whiteness of the storm. A rough-hewn dwelling with a thatch roof stood before her. Mirabella had no idea who resided there; there was no guarantee this was the wisewoman Alice Camden consulted. Mirabella twisted her lips in frustration as she trudged forward, knocking on the door. It fell open. She bit her lip, peeking in.
A woman stood before a cook pot that hung over a fire, her back turned to her.
Mirabella cleared her throat. “I am looking for a friend of the Lady Alice Camden.”
The woman turned.
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