The Sumerton Women Read online

  The girls would need gowns. Grace lay back in her bed, steepling her fingers beneath her chin in thought as she envisaged little Cecily and Brey in another matching ensemble. The two were a perfect pair! What a boon the little baroness was! Not only did she bring in a worthy dowry, but she was the presence of beauty and poise. And Brey loved her; they were together all the time, playing as children do. Grace could not refrain from emitting a naughty giggle as she imagined the games they would turn to when adolescence struck. No doubt theirs was fated to be a love match; Grace could see it.

  With this to lighten her heart, Grace summoned Mirabella and Cecily. She would invite them to participate in the planning process. Both girls needed to learn; after all, they would be running their own grand households someday and it would give them something to do during the interminable weeks of Lent.

  The girls entered her bedchamber, rosy cheeked and breathless from their revels outdoors. Grace offered a bright smile.

  “Is it a nice day?” she asked them.

  “Lovely!” Mirabella cried. “You should come out, my lady, and take in the air. ’Twould be good for you.”

  Grace reached for her cup of wine and took a long draught, then set it beside her, dabbing her lips with her handkerchief. “Yes, perhaps. . .” she said offhandedly as she patted the bed. The girls sat, Mirabella at her feet and Cecily at her side. “Now. I’ve summoned you both to help me plan a grand occasion.”

  “Another one?” Mirabella groaned.

  “Yes, Mirabella, another one,” Grace said, weary of the girl’s aversion to all things pleasant. “A sort of Beltane celebration to bring in the spring.”

  “Beltane! But that’s a pagan festival!” Mirabella cried, scandalized.

  “Oh, bother, Mirabella, I didn’t say we would be dancing naked round the bonfire, did I?” Grace returned, thoroughly irritated. “It’s just that I thought this would give us an opportunity to ... well, to be together,” she added with a wistful smile. “I thought to order some fabrics and we could design the wardrobe—”

  “During Lent?” Mirabella interposed, wrinkling her nose in disapproval.

  “Oh, my lady, we can plan our own dresses?” Cecily cried, her little face flushing with delight. “Can mine be blue?”

  “Blue would be splendid, Cecily—it will bring out your lovely eyes,” Grace conceded, endeared to the good-natured child. “Blue silk trimmed with lace, perhaps?” She reached out to stroke the child’s cheek.

  “I think it’s wonderful!” Cecily turned toward Mirabella. “We shall have a good time, Mirabella, with your lady mother. You’ll see! You would look stunning in red—red organza or velvet!” She returned her gaze to Grace. “Don’t you think so?”

  Grace nodded; truly Mirabella was an exquisite child, far more beautiful than she knew. A red dress would accentuate all of her assets and if she ever decided it pleased God to smile ...

  “I think this display is despicable!” Mirabella huffed, rising from the bed. “My lady, it is Lent, the time of repentance and restraint. To plan such an occasion now, especially one that rings of Beltane, is an affront to God.”

  “Oh, my self-righteous girl ...” Grace shook her head. “Who needs Father Alec with you around to keep us in check?”

  Mirabella turned on her heel and quit the room, leaving Cecily to sit stunned, lip quivering, beside Grace, who wrapped her arm about her shoulders and drew her to her breast.

  “There, now, no worries, Cecily,” she soothed. “If I told Mirabella the sky was blue she would say it was brown just to disagree. We shall never see eye to eye, I’m afraid.” She stroked the child’s silky hair, taking comfort in it. “You would still like to help?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Cecily said, offering a timid half smile.

  Grace relaxed against her pillows. She retrieved her cup from the bedside table. “Empty,” she murmured, scowling. “Cecily, be a lamb, won’t you, and fetch your mistress another cup of wine?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Cecily answered as she crawled out of bed to do Grace’s bidding.

  Grace watched the child’s competent little hands fill her cup with the soothing, crimson liquid. How good it was to have such an acquiescent child about!

  “I should like it very much if you spent more time with me,” Grace told her on impulse as Cecily handed her the cup. “It pleases me to be in your company.”

  Cecily smiled, offering another engaging flush of the cheeks. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Grace drank her wine. As it surged through her, warming her trembling limbs and calming her racing heart, she smiled. She would get through another Lent.

  She had a ball to prepare for.

  Hal Pierce spent Lent playing dice with a few other less observant members of the local gentry. He didn’t mind the deprivation, the penance. He considered his life one endless Lent as it were, so the season had little effect on him. And a little dice was harmless enough. He never lost too much; he was careful with his assets. He would not deprive Brey of his rightful inheritance. It was fun, that was all, just a bit of fun. And he needed fun.

  Hal was not a drinking man, he was not a whoring man, and that was more than could be said for most men. Thus he took some measure of pride in himself for being able to go through life with such uncanny restraint. A bit of dice and a hand of cards were his rewards.

  He had married Grace at the age of eighteen. His heart contracted at the thought. She was the beautiful daughter of a wool baron from York and had brought with her a generous dowry. They got on as well as could be expected, though like most marriages, it did not begin as a love match. Since their wedding day they had been tested with rigorous consistency. His parents were ailing, both passing within the first two years of his marriage, leaving the running of the household and management of the vast lands that surrounded it to the young couple. Yet they endured and with endurance came love. They embraced their mutual passion for fun and good company. They shared a love of hunting, hawking, and dancing. Grace became the perfect social ornament. If he focused on those elements he could forget the rest, the lonely nights when their home was not teeming with guests, nights spent in separate bedchambers, nights of solitude and reflection on events that could never be changed.

  That was when Grace slept with a decanter at her bedside. And that was when Hal played dice.

  Because Hal was the only child of the previous Earl of Sumerton it was his hope to fill the house with children of his own. That there were only two and a succession of miscarriages could not be helped. It was the will of God, he supposed, and he cherished his blessings. Brey was a wonderful child, sweet and bonny. And Mirabella ... well, he was certain Mirabella would come into her own when softened by marriage and children. It was his hope that she would abandon her fantasy of becoming a nun. Though he would never deter her, it was not the life he had dreamed of for her.

  Dreams ... Nothing had gone as expected. In that his life was a constant illustration.

  He sat now, thinking of this life as he shook the dice in clammy hands, surrounded by other men who wondered after their own lives, all of them convening to stave off their own terrible loneliness for one night. They would listen to the rattle of the dice, the melody of their chuckling, the bawdy jokes.

  And they would pretend to be happy.

  Thus Hal would get through.

  Father Alec was witnessing a change in the Pierce household. Though it had been lively with a superficial sort of energy, he could not say his patrons were happy people. Yet when Lady Cecily came ... He was under no illusions. The little baroness worked no miracles. The Pierces were still imbued with their own respective vices. Yet she infused in them a tranquility that he had not seen before. Her innocence, her trusting nature, her resilient cheer endeared her to all she encountered. Brey had a playmate, a companion, an outlet for his restlessness. Mirabella had an affable girl-child to treat as a sister and pupil, someone with whom she could tout her knowledge, someone she could nurture and lead toward her perception o
f Right. Lady Grace adored the girl and spent entire afternoons absorbing her serenity; she was a buffer to the antagonism experienced with her own daughter. And Lord Hal was fond of her as well; she was his hope for the future. It was from her womb that would descend all future Pierces.

  She was of no exceptional talent; she was the type who mastered all she attempted with competence. If she possessed any gift worthy of note it was in her ability to manage people. Though she was playful, she displayed no signs of being a coquette; she would not manipulate her way through life as would a woman of the court. No, it was her sweetness that won hearts. Her sweetness, her sincerity, her acquiescence, her comforting presence.

  Cecily was that rarest of things. A soul of complete integrity.

  Father Alec drank her in as well. She was as a daughter to him. Perhaps it was because the other children had living parents that inclined Father Alec to believe they needed him less. Perhaps it was that Cecily shared his acute awareness of loss. Or perhaps it was that she was so uncomplicated. So genuine. Whatever it was, Father Alec found that with her he could be as close to a true father as he would ever get.

  Of course it was not productive to think like that.

  Father Alec did not regret the choice he had made. What other alternative was there at the time? The priesthood made sense. He was the second son of a Welsh country squire. As such, his fate lay with the Church. He did not resent this. He needed an education and the only ones of his class with access to an education of any true merit were priests. Chastity seemed a small enough sacrifice for the enrichment of his mind and soul.

  He found other ways to relate to his fellow man and being a tutor was one of them. It gave him the opportunity to experience a little of what he had chosen to forgo. He lived with the Pierces; through them he witnessed the pitfalls and triumphs of a family. He could not deny that he was still on the outside, a bystander living vicariously through others. The emptiness of it all enshrouded him and more often than not he felt like a fraud, a man dressed as a priest for a masque.

  Then Cecily came and with her a new sense of fulfillment, a new sense of connection.

  He cursed himself. He should not feel that need. He should be resigned to his lot, the lot that he chose. Yet what harm was there in pretending? Was he not called Father for a reason? He chose to be as loving as a father to God’s people, to guide them, to nurture them. Surely God could not fault him for that.

  So he pretended. Cecily called him Father and he reveled in the temporary fantasy that he was a family man, that he had a daughter.

  That she called him Father not because he was a priest.

  3

  Winter shed its abundant white cloak in favor of the dewy green gown of spring. Easter had come and gone, relieving everyone at Sumerton of their Lenten deprivations. Now was a time to celebrate the Resurrection, to savor the hope life brought as it renewed itself in all its forms, the flowers pushing their bonny heads through the moist, fertile earth, the trees budding and blooming, the lambs and fawns struggling on their wobbly legs, the pups opening their eyes to the warmth of the sun for the first time.

  The world was waking up.

  Cecily was, too. She had grown to love the Pierces in the year she had spent with them, and though she longed for her parents, she realized she longed for them, less because of who they were than what they were. They were her parents. It was her duty to love them. She did not know them as people at all. They had never interacted with her the way the Pierces did. To be fair, Cecily had been too young to interact with and was left to the nurse for the most part. Most of her memories were of Mistress Fitzgerald rather than her mother, who was trailing after Cecily’s father, who was trailing after the court. Cecily could not blame them for that; that was their noble responsibility.

  She prayed for her parents’ souls. The pain and guilt began to subside. She cherished their miniatures, keeping them on her bedside table that she might always be close enough to consult their likenesses should nostalgia call. As time passed, it called less and less.

  Meantime the Pierces served as her distractions. They were a strange group; she loved them. She feared them. Their pain was tangible to one as sensitive as Cecily. She knew it, she felt it, even as she could not identify it. It shone out of Lord Hal’s wistful blue eyes, it rang like a mourning bell in Lady Grace’s soft voice, and was illustrated in Brey’s bewildered expression. In Mirabella it was disguised by an iron will and uncompromising conviction that Cecily did not bother to resist. It was far easier to acquiesce where she was concerned, and Cecily found Mirabella’s rare smiles worth yielding to. Besides, Mirabella was at odds with Lady Grace enough as it was; she did not need Cecily to add to the melee. If Cecily disagreed with her on matters of principle and anything in between she kept it to herself.

  Finally there was Father Alec, who wore a mantle of melancholy of his own. He masked it with a kind smile, but it was there, deafening in its tortured silence. Cecily could not hope to reach it, to nurse it as was her inclination with anyone suffering.

  She longed to heal them all. They had come together, all broken things, it seemed. She did not know why; perhaps she did not need to know. What mattered was that she was there and, in whatever way she could, she would try to bring joy to these people who were to be her life.

  She did not yet possess the ability to comfort with words. So she comforted with actions, leaving bouquets of fresh spring flowers for Lady Grace and Mirabella, treasures from the outdoors to Brey, anything she could catch—frogs, mice, moles. For the men, Lord Hal and Father Alec, she left messages of hope in the small things—feathers, vibrant blue-green grass, shiny rocks, birds’ eggs. Anything that caught her eye.

  She never told them; she was never one to tout herself. She knew she had given, after all, and sought no glory. She just left them. And hoped it cheered them as much as finding them cheered her.

  Father Alec caught her one day. She had sneaked into his chambers and was leaving an interesting birds’ nest on his pillow. It was woven with such perfection, such delicate intricacy, that it rivaled the richest tapestry.

  He cleared his throat upon entrance. “Lady Cecily, you know these are my private apartments.”

  Cecily started, stiffening as she turned to face him. “I’m sorry, Father. It’s just that ... well ... I—”

  “Did you look through my things?” he asked her.

  Cecily shook her head. “No, sir. Of course not.”

  His shoulders eased and he offered a smile. “I did not mean to frighten you. It’s just that I do not own much. What I do have, I treasure.”

  “I understand,” Cecily said, and she did. She did not have much either. In truth she had more land and money and possessions than she could fathom, but they were inaccessible. What she had that she actually valued was very little and she would not want anyone tampering with it either.

  “What were you doing in here then?” he asked her, his smile widening.

  Cecily retrieved the birds’ nest, flushing as she handed it to him. “I saw it ... I thought ...” She could not speak. She did not want him to know.

  “So it was you,” he breathed in his husky voice that Cecily had come to grow fond of. He sat upon his bed as he examined the nest. “I’ve been wondering for weeks now ... all these little gifts. I have enjoyed each and every one,” he told her. “But why?”

  Cecily bowed her head, embarrassed to be caught in the Act. She shifted from foot to foot, then slowly raised her eyes to the priest. “Because, Father, there is so much in this world to love.”

  Father Alec slid from the bed to his knees, taking Cecily in his arms. “Darling girl,” he murmured against her hair. “Darling, darling girl, if there is any living proof of that it is in you... .”

  Cecily wrapped her arms about his neck. No one hugged like he did. He engulfed her in his strong arms as would a great bear, holding her to his chest. She listened to his heartbeat. Strong, steady, and sure. A heartbeat she could count on.

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sp; There was no one in her world like Father Alec. With him she shared an inexplicable understanding that went beyond words. He always treated her with respect; he took her seriously. He answered all of her questions, even when Mirabella teased that they were childish and stupid. He was patient. He seemed to enjoy her company. He spent many an hour regaling her with tales of woodland creatures that talked, knights who rescued pretty ladies, or stories of the mischief he got into when he was a child.

  He was the only person who seemed to completely belong to her. She did not know why. Yet somehow she knew it was reciprocated. That somehow, perhaps more than any little gifts she could offer him, it was her self that brought him the most peace.

  What an uncanny privilege, she reflected as she looked into the kind hazel eyes, to know that she could be a comfort just by existing.

  She did not leave him gifts after that day.

  He did not need them.

  “I cannot believe Mother and her May Day revels!” Mirabella fumed as the girls were dressed for the celebration Lady Grace had been planning since Lent. “I heard she is having bonfires after all! And she’s going to let the peasants dance around the poles just like pagans! There are going to be all kinds of wicked masques where the ladies will be half-naked!”

  “Really?” Cecily asked, her breathless tone betraying her eagerness to participate in the pagan frolic. “Oh, Mirabella, but you must try to have a good time! You look so beautiful!”

  Mirabella turned, gazing at herself in the shining silver glass. The red organza gown that her mother had made was indeed splendid, if one put great store in material things (which Mirabella did not). Its red velvet stomacher was embroidered with cloth of gold and seed pearls; the resplendent sleeves were in the French fashion that the witch Anne Boleyn was making popular, with cloth of gold undersleeves and kirtle to match. Mirabella’s black hair was brushed to a glossy sheen and flowed down her back in rippling waves under a red velvet French hood, embroidered with the same cloth of gold and seed pearls to match the stomacher. In all, a stunning ensemble.