Read Online A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) by Fiona Buckley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Fiona Buckley
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rejoined them in the parlor, that they were second cousins and had had to get a dispensation to marry.
They chatted merrily about themselves and seemed to enjoy their resemblance to each other, for it even extended to their clothes. His doublet and her gown were made of the same deep green velvet with yellow flowers embroidered on it.
Their home was a delight, its stern outer walls a complete contradiction to the comfort within. I had been shown at once to a bedchamber, as though it were taken for granted that I would stay the night, and it was a delightful room, the walls elegantly paneled and hung with pleasing tapestries, and gracious mullioned windows overlooking the cloisters and the knot garden. All the hearths that I saw looked as though they had been enlarged to accommodate welcoming fires instead of the meager affairs that were in keeping with vows of poverty. The knot garden was exquisitely laid out with low box hedges to outline the beds, and even the stableyard had a couple of apple trees.
“The horses eat the windfalls,” Mistress Thursby said. “And so do the stableboys, and why not?”
They obviously loved their house and enjoyed showing it off to guests. They were apologetic even over a mild delay in serving dinner. “Our steward is not here just now. He is a Scotsman with family over the border—as indeed we ourselves have—and went off yesterday, to see a kinsman who’s been ill or had an accident or some such thing,” Mistress Thursby said. “Our household isn’t being overseen as well as it iswhen Hamish is here. He’ll be back soon, of course, but he’s missed, I assure you! He is so attentive to detail. We have a fair amount of company, even in this lonely place. We breed horses and people come to buy our stock at times, and now and then, of course, groups of traveling players come by, or a stray peddler or merchant. I am expecting an uncle of mine soon—he comes each year to stay for a few weeks. And of course, we often see our neighbors the Bycrofts. Although to tell you the truth, the Bycrofts . . .”
And then we all looked at each other and laughed, and Master Thursby said solemnly: “But they are excellent people in their way, and Mistress Bycroft never ceases from good works. She often goes to Grimstone to take charity to the poor villagers and her husband sees to it that their cottages are kept in good repair. Nor do they neglect to tend the souls of their tenants. No one can fault them.”
Whereupon, we all chuckled again. A servant brought in some wine and poured it, and as I sipped mine, I remarked that St. Margaret’s must have been altered a good deal since the days when it was an abbey. “I know,” I said, “because my own house was once an abbey and that, too, had to be much adapted before it became a real home.”
I paused, and then, catching at a chance to establish my Catholic credentials, I added gravely: “If the true religion should ever be restored in England, I suppose the Church might reclaim Withysham from me. I should be sorry, although I know in my heart that it would be right.”
There was a sudden hush. All the puckishness wentout of Mistress Thursby’s face. She actually put up a hand to brush tears from the corners of her eyes. “Oh, dear,” she said miserably.
Easygoing as the Thursbys seemed to be, I had accidentally touched a tender spot. “What is it?” I asked.
“Now, don’t you go making too much of it, my dear,” said Master Thursby to his wife. “The fact is,” he added to me, “that we love St. Margaret’s too much and can’t help but hope we will never lose it.”
“It would break my heart if we did,” said Mistress Thursby.
“Yes, well, that’s as may be. But if it’s ever God’s will that our religion be restored in England, well, as Madame de la Roche says, it’s a sacrifice we might have to make.”
“The heartache would be so terrible,” said his wife sadly.
“Yes, it would,” her husband agreed
They chatted merrily about themselves and seemed to enjoy their resemblance to each other, for it even extended to their clothes. His doublet and her gown were made of the same deep green velvet with yellow flowers embroidered on it.
Their home was a delight, its stern outer walls a complete contradiction to the comfort within. I had been shown at once to a bedchamber, as though it were taken for granted that I would stay the night, and it was a delightful room, the walls elegantly paneled and hung with pleasing tapestries, and gracious mullioned windows overlooking the cloisters and the knot garden. All the hearths that I saw looked as though they had been enlarged to accommodate welcoming fires instead of the meager affairs that were in keeping with vows of poverty. The knot garden was exquisitely laid out with low box hedges to outline the beds, and even the stableyard had a couple of apple trees.
“The horses eat the windfalls,” Mistress Thursby said. “And so do the stableboys, and why not?”
They obviously loved their house and enjoyed showing it off to guests. They were apologetic even over a mild delay in serving dinner. “Our steward is not here just now. He is a Scotsman with family over the border—as indeed we ourselves have—and went off yesterday, to see a kinsman who’s been ill or had an accident or some such thing,” Mistress Thursby said. “Our household isn’t being overseen as well as it iswhen Hamish is here. He’ll be back soon, of course, but he’s missed, I assure you! He is so attentive to detail. We have a fair amount of company, even in this lonely place. We breed horses and people come to buy our stock at times, and now and then, of course, groups of traveling players come by, or a stray peddler or merchant. I am expecting an uncle of mine soon—he comes each year to stay for a few weeks. And of course, we often see our neighbors the Bycrofts. Although to tell you the truth, the Bycrofts . . .”
And then we all looked at each other and laughed, and Master Thursby said solemnly: “But they are excellent people in their way, and Mistress Bycroft never ceases from good works. She often goes to Grimstone to take charity to the poor villagers and her husband sees to it that their cottages are kept in good repair. Nor do they neglect to tend the souls of their tenants. No one can fault them.”
Whereupon, we all chuckled again. A servant brought in some wine and poured it, and as I sipped mine, I remarked that St. Margaret’s must have been altered a good deal since the days when it was an abbey. “I know,” I said, “because my own house was once an abbey and that, too, had to be much adapted before it became a real home.”
I paused, and then, catching at a chance to establish my Catholic credentials, I added gravely: “If the true religion should ever be restored in England, I suppose the Church might reclaim Withysham from me. I should be sorry, although I know in my heart that it would be right.”
There was a sudden hush. All the puckishness wentout of Mistress Thursby’s face. She actually put up a hand to brush tears from the corners of her eyes. “Oh, dear,” she said miserably.
Easygoing as the Thursbys seemed to be, I had accidentally touched a tender spot. “What is it?” I asked.
“Now, don’t you go making too much of it, my dear,” said Master Thursby to his wife. “The fact is,” he added to me, “that we love St. Margaret’s too much and can’t help but hope we will never lose it.”
“It would break my heart if we did,” said Mistress Thursby.
“Yes, well, that’s as may be. But if it’s ever God’s will that our religion be restored in England, well, as Madame de la Roche says, it’s a sacrifice we might have to make.”
“The heartache would be so terrible,” said his wife sadly.
“Yes, it would,” her husband agreed
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