Read Online Thwarted Queen by Cynthia Sally Haggard - Free Book Online
Authors: Cynthia Sally Haggard
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comes?”
Margaret leaned forward and patted my hand. “It is not in your hands, but in God’s. Only God can tell whether your son will be spared.”
“Is that so, Mama?” asked six-year-old Eleanor Talbot . Margaret’s youngest was the most striking of her three daughters, with fair hair the color of silver and unusually colored eyes. Now, she tilted those violet eyes up to her mother’s face.
“What about Our Blessed Lady?”
“Of course, she’d know as well,” replied Margaret, smoothing back the child’s silky hair.
“But wouldn’t she know more than God?” asked Eleanor.
Margaret frowned. “I don’t know, my sweet. Why do you think she would?”
Eleanor smiled, revealing even white teeth. “Because she’s a lady, and ladies always know more than gentlemen.”
“Why do you think that?” I asked. Where had the child got such ideas?
“Gentlemen do not always think with their heads,” remarked Eleanor, executing a stem stitch.
“What do you mean child?” said Margaret. “Of course they do.”
“Not always,” replied Eleanor. “Sometimes they think with their pricks.”
I flinched, the pleasant summer afternoon gone.
“Eleanor!” said Margaret, flushing. “Where did you hear that?”
Eleanor hung her head and fiddled with her work. “I was repeating only what Chantal said,” she murmured. Chantal was a local girl who worked in the kitchens.
Margaret put a ringed finger under the child’s chin, tilting it so that she could look directly into her daughter’s eyes.
“That is not the sort of thing ladies say,” she admonished gently. “You know your lord father wouldn’t be pleased. And one day you’ll be a married lady. You’ll never be happy unless you learn to curb your tongue.”
“Yes, Mama,” murmured Eleanor, dimpling. “But suppose I wish to take the veil?”
Margaret was saved from replying by the appearance of a diminutive figure rushing over.
“Mama! Mama!”
Three-year-old Joan threw her arms around my neck. I smiled, taking her in. Joan’s dark brown, almost black hair had come free from her headdress and was coiling down her back. She was dressed in a silken dress of dark blue that was stained and badly creased. Yet she looked carefree and happy.
Annette de Caux, both governess to the older children and nursemaid to baby Henry, followed Joan at a more sedate pace. She held Joan’s discarded headdress in one hand. “Lady Joan,” she exclaimed. “It is not seemly for you to wander with your hair so wild—” She broke off as she caught my eye and sank into a deep curtsey.
I smoothed Joan’s loose hair and gathered her into my arms. I covered her soft cheeks with kisses.
Annette sighed and thinned her lips.
Joan tilted her head and smiled. “Mama,” she said, clutching at my sleeve with sticky fingers. “Where’ve you been? I want to play ninepins.”
“It’s too hot to play now, my sweet,” I murmured, brushing strands of hair out of Joan’s face with the tips of my fingers. “And I’m busy. I must finish this sewing.”
“But you’re always busy nowadays,” replied Joan, her lips quivering. “I only wanted to play for a little while.” She pouted for a moment, then smiled.
I sighed. Joan was breathtakingly lovely, her eyes a deep blue, her face shaped like a heart. Pink roses bloomed in her cheeks. I held her more closely and inhaled her sweet scent.
“Why don’t you let Annette take you to the kitchens?”
At this, Joan’s face lit up. Annette folded her arms and shook her head.
“Are we going to be allowed to have sweetmeats?” Joan asked, running the tip of her tongue around her rosy lips.
Margaret laughed. “Yes indeed, you sweet child.”
“Are you coming too, Margaret?” asked Joan as she scrambled off my lap.
“Lady Margaret,” said Annette softly.
Margaret laughed again. “Your mother and I will come soon enough. We can play ninepins outside when it is cooler.”
I bent and gave Joan one last kiss.
Margaret leaned forward and patted my hand. “It is not in your hands, but in God’s. Only God can tell whether your son will be spared.”
“Is that so, Mama?” asked six-year-old Eleanor Talbot . Margaret’s youngest was the most striking of her three daughters, with fair hair the color of silver and unusually colored eyes. Now, she tilted those violet eyes up to her mother’s face.
“What about Our Blessed Lady?”
“Of course, she’d know as well,” replied Margaret, smoothing back the child’s silky hair.
“But wouldn’t she know more than God?” asked Eleanor.
Margaret frowned. “I don’t know, my sweet. Why do you think she would?”
Eleanor smiled, revealing even white teeth. “Because she’s a lady, and ladies always know more than gentlemen.”
“Why do you think that?” I asked. Where had the child got such ideas?
“Gentlemen do not always think with their heads,” remarked Eleanor, executing a stem stitch.
“What do you mean child?” said Margaret. “Of course they do.”
“Not always,” replied Eleanor. “Sometimes they think with their pricks.”
I flinched, the pleasant summer afternoon gone.
“Eleanor!” said Margaret, flushing. “Where did you hear that?”
Eleanor hung her head and fiddled with her work. “I was repeating only what Chantal said,” she murmured. Chantal was a local girl who worked in the kitchens.
Margaret put a ringed finger under the child’s chin, tilting it so that she could look directly into her daughter’s eyes.
“That is not the sort of thing ladies say,” she admonished gently. “You know your lord father wouldn’t be pleased. And one day you’ll be a married lady. You’ll never be happy unless you learn to curb your tongue.”
“Yes, Mama,” murmured Eleanor, dimpling. “But suppose I wish to take the veil?”
Margaret was saved from replying by the appearance of a diminutive figure rushing over.
“Mama! Mama!”
Three-year-old Joan threw her arms around my neck. I smiled, taking her in. Joan’s dark brown, almost black hair had come free from her headdress and was coiling down her back. She was dressed in a silken dress of dark blue that was stained and badly creased. Yet she looked carefree and happy.
Annette de Caux, both governess to the older children and nursemaid to baby Henry, followed Joan at a more sedate pace. She held Joan’s discarded headdress in one hand. “Lady Joan,” she exclaimed. “It is not seemly for you to wander with your hair so wild—” She broke off as she caught my eye and sank into a deep curtsey.
I smoothed Joan’s loose hair and gathered her into my arms. I covered her soft cheeks with kisses.
Annette sighed and thinned her lips.
Joan tilted her head and smiled. “Mama,” she said, clutching at my sleeve with sticky fingers. “Where’ve you been? I want to play ninepins.”
“It’s too hot to play now, my sweet,” I murmured, brushing strands of hair out of Joan’s face with the tips of my fingers. “And I’m busy. I must finish this sewing.”
“But you’re always busy nowadays,” replied Joan, her lips quivering. “I only wanted to play for a little while.” She pouted for a moment, then smiled.
I sighed. Joan was breathtakingly lovely, her eyes a deep blue, her face shaped like a heart. Pink roses bloomed in her cheeks. I held her more closely and inhaled her sweet scent.
“Why don’t you let Annette take you to the kitchens?”
At this, Joan’s face lit up. Annette folded her arms and shook her head.
“Are we going to be allowed to have sweetmeats?” Joan asked, running the tip of her tongue around her rosy lips.
Margaret laughed. “Yes indeed, you sweet child.”
“Are you coming too, Margaret?” asked Joan as she scrambled off my lap.
“Lady Margaret,” said Annette softly.
Margaret laughed again. “Your mother and I will come soon enough. We can play ninepins outside when it is cooler.”
I bent and gave Joan one last kiss.
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