The Lady of Secrets Read online

  “I do not believe your father ever felt that way,” Meg replied. From what she had seen of Captain Remy, the man was honorable to his core, true to his country and the faith he espoused, but he was in many ways like his king, a moderate man, no religious zealot.

  In her youth, Seraphine had been far more fierce in her defense of the new religion. It had been a testament to her great love for Gerard that she had surrendered her beliefs to become a Catholic. Seraphine seldom ceded anything to anyone.

  “Your father has always admired and respected Gerard. As did you,” Meg reminded Seraphine.

  “That was when I thought we shared the same dreams and ambitions. As a woman, I knew I could never achieve anything of significance. But I could have helped Gerard become important and powerful, the kind of man who could make his mark on the world.

  “But Monsieur le Comte has never cared for anything but living quietly in the country, tending to his estate, work that a reliable steward could have done. Gerard might as well have been some peasant farmer for all he cares of what goes on in France beyond his own acres.

  “I saw something different in my son. As young as he was, there was a spark of greatness in François. But now he is gone and I am even more to blame than Gerard. If I had ever troubled to learn as much of the healing arts as I did swordplay—” Seraphine bit down on her lip, her eyes filling with tears.

  But she refused to shed a single one. Meg wondered if Seraphine had ever allowed herself to truly weep for the loss of her son. Knowing Seraphine, she doubted it.

  Meg touched her friend’s hand. “François’s death was not your fault any more than it was Gerard’s. Sometimes all the healing skill nor all the care in the world is enough to protect a child—”

  “So you would be like that priest and tell me what? That my son’s death was the will of God? A matter of fate? What would you know of it anyway? You have never had a child, Meg. Nor are you ever likely to.”

  Meg flinched as though she had been struck, drawing her hand away. Seraphine was instantly contrite.

  “Oh, God, I am sorry, Meggie. I didn’t mean that. You know what I am like when I am hurting, like a wounded she-wolf snarling and snapping at everyone.” She clasped Meg’s hand, squeezing it. “Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. I only wish I possessed some sort of potion or balm that could heal your pain.”

  “I fear there is no magical cure for grief. Only the passage of time, or so I am told.” Seraphine released Meg, her expression darkening again. “Gerard had another solution. He felt that we should attempt to have another son. As though I have not tried to give him other heirs. I have the graves of three stillborn babes to prove it. That François lived beyond his infancy seemed a miracle. I don’t think a woman as weak and wicked as I will ever be granted another such blessing.”

  “You are neither wicked nor weak. You have the most fiercely loving heart and you are the strongest woman I have ever met.”

  “You think so, Meg, but in truth I am a miserable coward. I cannot face the prospect of ever burying another child. I told Gerard he should set me aside, find himself a younger, more fertile bride. If he bribed enough church officials, I am sure a dissolution of our marriage could be brought about. I could retire somewhere to a convent and live a life of quiet contemplation and scholarship.”

  Meg nearly choked at the image of Seraphine as a nun. It would be like shutting up a lioness in a pen full of lambs. Seraphine herself was aware of the ridiculousness of the notion. Her lips quivered, and as soon as her eyes met Meg’s, she laughed. Meg could not help joining her. The mirth was a healing thing and it gave Seraphine an excuse to wipe a stray tear from her eye.

  “Perhaps I am not suited for the convent,” she conceded. “But the sad truth is I don’t think I was ever suited to be a wife and mother either. I have no idea what I am fit for.”

  “You have so many wonderful gifts. You are so bold, spirited, and intelligent.”

  “Ah, but we both know I would have been better off if I wasn’t. A quick wit is always more of a curse than a blessing. Intelligence is never valued in a woman.”

  “It is on Faire Isle. I oft think about the night of the choosing, when Ariane named me as her successor. But you were her niece. If I had never come to Faire Isle, she would surely have selected you and you might be so much happier.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Meg. Ariane was far too wise to have ever chosen me. My aunt loved me, but she recognized my flaws far better than you do. I am an impulsive, quick-tempered creature, and I have none of your gifts for healing. It was you who were meant to be the Lady of Faire Isle. A true daughter of the earth, content with your quiet life, spending your days growing your herbs, poring over your books, and teaching the old lore to others. The peace and security of that island is all that you have ever wanted.

  “As for me …” Seraphine shrugged. “I think I would have been better off if I had been born a man. I would have been free to travel, to soldier, or hold an important post in the government. Perhaps I could have accomplished something of value before I die. Or maybe I am just destined to be one of those miserable people who are always restless, never content with their lot.”

  “Oh, ’Phine,” Meg began, but Seraphine cut her off with a quick smile. “No, I am sorry, Meggie. I never meant to burden or worry you. You should realize by now that I always rant and spout a deal of nonsense, especially when I am tired. It is time we both got some sleep.”

  Seraphine turned away, signaling that she considered the conversation at an end. Meg watched with a mingling of love and frustration, feeling that there was much more to be said, but she had no idea what it was.

  Surely she ought to be able to do something or conjure up some sort of wisdom to soothe her friend’s troubled spirit. Meg wracked her brain as she often did, trying to recall what Ariane might have said or done.

  But all she could call to mind was something Ariane had told her one afternoon when Ariane had been teaching her how to brew a potion to fight off the infection in wounds.

  Ariane had glanced up from the powder she was grinding with her pestle. “I can teach you a good many things, my dear. How to mend bones, how to curb fevers, stitch cuts, ease a woman through the pangs of childbirth. But when you are the Lady of Faire Isle, people will come to you for advice as well on troubles of the heart.

  “Too often you will have no solution to give them. All you will be able to do is listen with kindness and sympathy. You cannot take on their sorrow as your own, even the pain of those whom you love deeply. There will be times when you must stand back and let others find their own healing.”

  “But how will I know?” Meg had asked anxiously. “How will I know when I should try to help and when I should not interfere?”

  Ariane had smiled ruefully. “Ah, my dear, that is something I cannot teach you. You will have to learn that for yourself.”

  Meg sighed as she settled down on her bed of straw beside Seraphine. The silence stretched out and she realized Seraphine was already fast asleep. It was something Meg had always envied her friend, Seraphine’s ability to close her mind to turmoil and painful thoughts. She could drop off to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, just like snuffing out a candle.

  Even the cow had gone quiet, no longer shifting about in her stall. Meg alone was left wakeful, staring up at the rafters, her mind churning over her conversation with Seraphine, the feeling that she had somehow failed her friend.

  When Seraphine had first turned up on her island, Meg had welcomed her with open arms. She had been dismayed to learn that Seraphine had fled from her husband, but believed that all Seraphine needed was some quiet time to reflect and to heal.

  But that had been over five months ago and Seraphine showed no signs of dealing with her grief. The woman simply wouldn’t be still long enough to reflect upon anything.

  If she were braver or firmer, Meg thought, she should risk Seraphine’s wrath and send for the comte. Despite all Serap
hine’s fierce assertions, Meg was convinced that her friend still loved her husband.

  And why would she not? Gerard Beaufoy was a gentle man, kind and compassionate. He had gifted Seraphine with far more than a title and wealth. He had brought to their marriage a steadiness that Seraphine needed to balance her wild, impulsive nature.

  Gerard possessed exactly the attributes that Meg would have wanted in a husband herself. That is, if she had ever dared to think of marriage at all. But she had learned at a very young age the dangers of opening her heart to anyone.

  She had been not much more than a child when she had experienced her first infatuation with the young man that her father had hired to be her music tutor. But Alexander Naismuth had proved as treacherous as he was handsome. He had known of the dark legacy Meg had inherited from her mother and his only interest had been in acquiring all those dangerous secrets.

  Meg’s infatuation had nearly cost her own life and that of her father and stepmother as well. It had taken years for Meg to ever trust another man again. Not until … Felipe.

  His mere name conjured bad memories, but enough time had passed that the image of his face, the recollection of how it had felt to be locked in his embrace, had become a blur and that was just as well. The pain was gone, but the scar remained, forming a tough seal over her heart.

  Meg shifted to her side, Seraphine’s words echoing through her mind.

  “You were meant to be the Lady of Faire Isle … content with your quiet. The peace and security of that island is all that you have ever wanted.”

  Seraphine was right and yet there were times when Meg felt as though she paid a high price for her safety, the costly coin of loneliness. How long had it been since she had known the touch of a man? It had been years since she had even been kissed … until tonight.

  Her mind painted a clear image of the way Sir Patrick Graham had looked as he had carried her hand to his lips. The strong chiseled lines of his cheeks and jaw, the crisp wave of his hair, the vivid blue of his eyes, the gentle curve of his lips.

  He was a beautiful man and she would have had to have been as insensible as a stone not to feel some flutter of attraction. She held up her hand, trying to inspect it in the darkness as though some trace of Graham’s kiss might linger on her fingertips. But all she was aware of was the bruises that Dr. Blackwood’s rough grip had left on her arm.

  She had had little leisure to reflect upon the strange conversation she had overheard between the two men. Now fragments of it played over and over in her mind, rendering it even more difficult for her to fall asleep.

  “Come, Gil,” Sir Patrick had said. “We cannot afford to find ourselves at the center of anything that might draw down upon us the attention of local authorities.”

  What did that mean? That Graham and Blackwood were involved in some sort of clandestine activity, traveling without the proper papers? Perhaps they were English spies or guilty of some crime or perhaps she was merely letting her imagination run mad.

  It was natural that two Englishmen traveling on foreign soil should be loath to run afoul of French justice. There was no need to read anything sinister into Graham’s remark. She found the recollection of something that Blackwood had said far more disturbing.

  “You expect me to walk away, just so you can satisfy your curiosity about this witch?”

  Curiosity about the witch … there could not have been any words more likely to rouse Meg’s alarm. She had worked far too hard to bury her past to risk rousing the interest of any passing stranger. Unfortunately, she had done just that by getting involved with the Tillet girl.

  Whether Graham’s arrival in Pernod was a matter of pure chance or owing to some secret design, it didn’t matter. By this time tomorrow, she would be back safe on her island and not likely to see either man again.

  She closed her eyes, willing both Graham and his friend from her mind. Breathing deeply, she drifted into a troubled sleep.

  Chapter Five

  FIRE.

  The red-gold flames lit up the night, the scent of the smoke acrid in Meg’s nostrils, filling her with a sense of urgency. She had to locate the source of the blaze, extinguish it before it was too late. She stumbled through the narrow streets clutching the water pail in her hand. The glow seemed brighter, hotter, just ahead of her.

  The tall buildings that hemmed her in suddenly vanished, leaving her surrounded by a mob of people. Their hell-lit faces were twisted into ugly sneers as they raised their fists and chanted, “Burn, witch. Burn!”

  Meg recoiled in horror. Piles of burning faggots had been heaped about the feet of two women chained to stakes. One of them was a young girl, not much more than a child. She screamed in pain and fear. Even through the haze of smoke, her beseeching eyes found Meg.

  “Help me, great Lady of Faire Isle. I beg you.”

  Meg tried, but the bucket of water weighed her down and the crowd blocked her way. She fought her way forward, water sloshing over the side of the pail as she pushed and shoved.

  The flames leapt higher around the terrified girl. Meg broke free of the crowd, raised her bucket to hurl the water and then … nothing.

  The pail was empty.

  Meg sobbed as the flames engulfed the girl. The world seemed to explode around her, hurling Meg to the ground.

  She flung her arms over her head to protect herself against the deafening roar. When she finally dared lower her arms, the night had gone quiet. No trace remained of the pyre or the girl, save a few glowing embers. The mob also had disappeared, leaving Meg alone with a faceless figure shrouded in black.

  He loomed over her, pointing an accusing finger at Meg. “You did this. You are to blame for the execution of my sister.”

  “You are wrong,” Meg said. “I tried to save her.”

  “Your legend lured her to her death and he signed the warrant. Both of you must pay for your cruelty.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Who are you? Who is this ‘he’ you are talking about?”

  The phantom did not answer. Instead he brandished a flaming torch. “Burn, witch. Burn!”

  Meg shrank back, but too late. The flame caught the sleeve of her gown, setting the fabric ablaze …

  “No!” Meg bolted upright, slapping at her clothing. It took her a moment to realize that she was not on fire. She was menaced by nothing but stray bits of straw that clung to her skin, causing it to prickle. Meg brushed the wisps aside.

  She exhaled a deep breath and dragged her hands over her face to force herself more fully awake and shake off the last vestige of her nightmare.

  She wondered if she had cried out. Surely her thrashing about should have been enough to rouse Seraphine, but the woman slept on, undisturbed. The sight pricked Meg with a rare sense of irritation.

  She longed to shake Seraphine awake and— And do what, tell her friend she had had a nightmare? Seraphine would merely roll over and growl at Meg to forget about it and go back to sleep. It was only a bad dream.

  Yet there had been a time when Seraphine would have been obliged to take Meg’s dreams more seriously. When she had been younger, Meg had been tormented by nightmares of a more prophetic nature. But it had been years since she had been afflicted with such vivid dreams and those at least had made a rough kind of sense.

  Her visions had always involved people she knew, like her good friend, Jane Danvers, or her great enemy, Queen Catherine, not dreams about a girl Meg had never seen before. And yet there was something familiar about the girl, something about her eyes and the cast of her countenance that reminded Meg of someone she had met.

  But who? Meg wracked her memory, but the recollection was as elusive as grasping at wisps of smoke. She flopped back down on the blanket with a wearied sigh. Closing her eyes, she drifted in and out of a fitful sleep.

  When the first light of morning crept into the cowshed, Meg hailed it as a relief. The sun seemed like a peacemaker, declaring a truce in her battle with a restless night.

  Rubbing bleary eyes,
she struggled to her feet and winced at the stiffness in her back. She stretched and yawned, gazing down at Seraphine, curled up on her mound of straw as though she were nestled in the downiest of feather beds.

  Meg was in no hurry to rouse her. As swiftly as she was able to fall asleep, Seraphine had a tendency to bolt awake. Not for her the languor with which most noblewomen faced their mornings. Seraphine would leap out of bed like a knight in full charge, ready to tilt with the new day.

  Meg needed a slower, gentler beginning. She liked the quiet of those first moments of morning, to reflect, to gather her strength to face whatever the day might hold. She tiptoed past her sleeping friend and stepped outside.

  The sky was overcast, heavy with the threat of more rain. The breeze that stirred Meg’s hair carried with it the smell of wet grass and an earth washed and renewed. Meg breathed deeply, savoring the rich aroma, willing it to clear her mind of bad dreams, disturbing strangers, and all the distressing events of yesternight.

  No one else was stirring except for an ostler heading toward the stables, perhaps to ready the mounts for the Englishmen. It behooved travelers to get an early start and she hoped Sir Patrick Graham would be eager to do so. She would be glad when the two men resumed their journey. But she doubted Sir Patrick would have much success rousing Blackwood before noon. The last Meg had seen of the doctor, he had been slumped over a table in the taproom, in a fair way to being dead drunk.

  But that was the unfortunate Sir Patrick’s problem. Meg had one of her own. The sight of a scraggly rooster, strutting through the stable yard, reminded her of her resolve to find la Mère Poulet and coax her to the safety of Faire Isle. Even though Bridget’s accusations had been proved false, there would be those who would regard the old woman with increased hostility.

  Meg knew little of her other than those few times she had seen la Mère Poulet begging outside the inn or one of the cottages. Whenever Meg had tried to approach her, the old woman had shied away, disappearing into the field beyond the village. La Mère Poulet was wary of strangers, a caution that Meg understood and respected.