CHAPTER ONE
The Archbishop
scrutinised Lord Haverstock through narrowed eyes, his mouth turned down in
disapproval as he awaited an answer.
Robert Hayward,
Earl of Haverstock had responded to a summons from Archbishop Cranmer to come
to Lambeth Palace, but he had not enquired as to His Grace’s reason for the
meeting. He rather thought it had something to do with his absence from more
masses than he attended, but it seemed he was wrong.
The Earl had as
little to do with churchmen and church services as he could manage and he saw
no justification for any such clergy to be asking him about his personal
affairs, even one as exalted in the hierarchy as the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Since he left
Miranda in Norfolk and returned to London, he had led an aimless life. He spent
the first few months of their separation drinking himself into a stupor and
spending his new found wealth on the worst kind of women, but not one of them
could come close to making him forget his wife. The alcohol did not help
either, so he had given that up when he found his muscular figure, of which he
had been so proud, was turning to flab.
Miranda would not
like to see that, and if he ever saw her again, he wanted her to be certain of
what she was missing.
The summons from
Cranmer had puzzled him; he would have thought the man had more important
matters to attend to than whether some obscure earl was attending mass. Now he
knew the real reason, he felt his anger rising. What the hell had it got to do
with him if he and his wife lived apart? And who had he to thank for reporting
such to the Archbishop?
“And just who has
brought this to your attention, Your Grace?” He asked.
“That is of no
matter. Suffice it to say it was a concerned party, thinking only of your
happiness and that of Lady Haverstock, I am sure.”
Robert scoffed
loudly.
“I am sure,” he
muttered under his breath.
Some nosy servant
or tenant, no doubt, someone miserable in their own life and not able to
consider his wife might well be happier without him. She had many opportunities
to stop him from leaving, but had taken none of them. He could only conclude
she was content without him.
“There is no reason
for you to concern yourself, Your Grace. Her Ladyship and I are both content
with our domestic arrangements.”
Cranmer shook his
head slowly, disapprovingly. Did the man never smile?
“My Lord, that
choice is not yours to make. I am told Lady Haverstock has been ill of late; I
imagine it is a lack of marital attention which is making her so.”
Robert sighed
impatiently. He had no belief in the notion that a woman had to have a man
inside her in order to remain healthy. It was a silly idea as far as he was
concerned and one which made no logical sense, but if it was true that Miranda
was ill, he ought to at least show his face, be sure she was receiving the best
care. The fact was, he hardly knew the woman. Their marriage had lasted just
long enough for her to conceive and give birth to a child, before her refusal
to give up her continued public mourning for her late husband drove them apart.
Still, he had grown
fond of her during those few months, very fond in fact, and reports of her ill
health troubled him. He always thought he would go back one day, try to resolve
their differences, but the longer he stayed away, the harder it became.
He scrutinised
Cranmer where he sat opposite him and wondered just what answer he should give.
His first impulse was to refuse the Archbishop’s order. If Miranda wanted him back
she would have written herself and without knowing for certain that was her
wish, he had no desire to return.
But there was his reputation
to think about. Miranda came from one of the oldest noble families in the land;
he did not. Her heritage was far superior to his and they both knew it. He
still had status to build, still had to earn the respect of the common people,
whereas his wife was born to that respect and her reputation was unsullied. It
would do him no good if he refused the Archbishop’s command or if his
indifference were to show.
He turned his
attention to Cranmer’s last remark, the belief that a woman needed marital
relations in order to stay healthy, in order to prevent a build up of dangerous
vapours in her body. Ridiculous idea.
“I doubt that, Your
Grace,” he answered at last. “I shall visit her, if you insist, to be sure she
is coping without me.”
A little sardonic
smile formed on his lips as he said the words. The idea that Miranda might have
a problem coping without him was laughable.
“You will do more
than that, Sir,” replied the Archbishop. “I expect you to stay with her, remain
constant to her, as a true husband should.”
“And what if she
refuses my company?”
Cranmer coughed
meaningfully and hid his face by getting to his feet and turning away.
“Do you imagine she
has er…other company?” He asked. “Or perhaps she is using something, some aid
to her womanhood.”
His face flushed a
little as he spoke, but not enough for Robert to believe his questions were
reluctant. He had often wondered about the sort of enquiries a churchman felt
entitled to make and just why that churchman would want to make them.
Whatever his
reasons, Robert felt affronted on his wife’s behalf. They may not have a
marriage to speak of but the very notion that she would take a lover was
ridiculous. He did not know her well, but he knew her well enough to know that
much.
“Lady Haverstock is
a noblewoman of the highest pedigree,” Robert told him. “It is unthinkable that
she would commit adultery. As to your other suggestion, that is between her and
her God and none of my business, nor yours.”
His voice rose as
he spoke, the anger gathering. How dare he? How dare he ask such intimate
questions, questions Robert himself would not ask his wife?
“As long as you are
certain,” the Archbishop murmured.
“What does that
mean?”
Cranmer sighed heavily
before he turned his eyes to stare at Robert.
“My informant tells
me there is a man, that Her Ladyship has been entertaining a stranger in your
house and even allowing him to stay the night.” He paused to allow his meaning
to become clear, then added: “But if you are certain.”
Robert felt his fury
beginning to consume him now along with a stab of jealousy which surprised him.
“I am very certain,
Your Grace,” he said after a moment. “My wife’s moral character is beyond
reproach.”
He got to his feet,
preparing to leave, but the Archbishop’s next words halted his steps.
“Lord Haverstock,”
he said. “You will return to your wife and your marriage, at once. It is within
my purview to order a reconciliation and that is what I am doing.”
Robert felt his hands
bunching into fists, his jaw clenching. Were this man not the highest churchman
in the land, he would not be safe from Robert’s wrath.
“And if I refuse?”
He demanded.
“Then I will have
no alternative but to excommunicate you.”
***
At the very hour her
husband was accepting an order from the Archbishop of Canterbury, Miranda, Lady
Haverstock, was walking along the beach near Haverstock Abbey, trying to
persuade Sir Gerald Horton that his nephew had never visited Gorston Hall,
despite reports to the contrary. The man had been in the area for some weeks
now and it seemed he had been told the boy for whom he searched was seen in the
company of Lord Gorston.
When he first
arrived, he wanted to look inside Gorston Hall, seeing as it was standing
empty, but Miranda had persuaded him that her husband had taken the keys with
him to London and she had no idea when he would return.
But he was
persistent and she felt vulnerable; it seemed the best way to deter him was to
appear as helpful as possible and Haverstock Abbey was vast, so she had invited
him to stay a few nights. It had never occurred to her until later that such an
arrangement, when she was alone in the house but for the servants, would create
gossip. Now she wanted him to leave and hoped this meeting would be their last.
She was glad of the
cool breeze from the sea. The weather had turned from bright and cheerful
sunshine, to hot and humid and it was all she could do to prevent her long
skirts from sticking to her legs. She loved the beach; it went on for miles
when the tide was out and sometimes one could walk for hours without getting
near the shore. She had loved these beaches since she was a little girl and she
had walked along them with her first love, Viscount Simon Hampton, even though
they were constantly chaperoned.
The beaches along
the North Norfolk coast were their place, hers and Simon’s. The chaperones
would follow behind while the young couple held hands and whispered together
and these sandy plains combined with the distant sound of the sea would always
remind her of him. Even when the tide was far out, the sea left a salty, clean
taste in the air. The pine forests which edged the beach were thick and green
and she and Simon had often plotted to escape into those forests, just to be
alone, but it was a long time before they managed to escape their escorts.
That had been so
many years ago, before things had suddenly changed, before her future plans
collapsed into nothing with Simon’s sudden death. Yet still this beach reminded
her of him, of the love they had felt for each other.
Lord Gorston’s
offer of marriage had rescued her from scandal and shame, and for that she had
been grateful at the time, not dreaming for one moment how badly she was being
used. She had no idea then that she was aiding a monster. They lived separate
lives and she had been his widow for only six months when King Henry presented
her to Lord Robert Haverstock as a prospective husband. She was happy for a
little while and she believed Robert felt the same. She had come to love him,
almost as much as she loved Simon, but she could not bring herself to abandon
the grave of her late husband and Robert felt her continual visits to the small
churchyard to be an insult to him.
So he had left and
she begged him to stay, but she could not give him what he wanted; she was too
afraid.
Since he left, she
had exchanged a few letters with him and had often thought of trying to make
amends, trying to win him back, even if it did mean staying away from the
grave. She was very lonely without Robert, alone here with his son, Robin and
her own little Jamie Simon.
She had given it a
lot of thought in recent months, had limited her graveside visits to two or
three times a week instead of every day and she no longer wore mourning black
for those visits. But she could not abandon them completely and she hoped her
efforts would be enough of a compromise.
Her plans were
settling in her mind and she had intended to write to Robert or even make the
journey to London to meet with him and discuss the possibility of a
reconciliation. That was when Sir Gerald arrived, looking for his missing
nephew, he said. She had given him dinner and allowed him to stay a few nights,
as the only inn for miles was somewhat below standard and Haverstock Abbey had
plenty of space, lots of bedchambers. But she could not seem to persuade him to
leave, to look elsewhere or give up the venture altogether and his visits were
forcing her to take to her bed with anxiety.
She thought it
likely his continued visits were causing gossip in the surrounding country. It
was well known she had parted from her husband and the local folk had little to
excite them; a possible scandal among their betters was always welcome.
Now she savoured
the cool breeze from the sea as she walked along the beach with her visitor,
hoping this would be the last time he would question her. She was running out
of excuses and suggestions and she could not reveal the truth, no matter what.
She had made a solemn promise, a promise she intended to keep at all costs.
Was it possible
that he would go away without an answer, that he would give up his quest? Or
would he be forever searching, forever wondering? Other people to whom Sir
Gerald had spoken sympathised with him, thought him hard done by to have lost
his nephew. He had told them all how he had been away at sea and on his return,
had learned of his sister’s death but could find no word of her son. But
Miranda could not help him and all she wanted was for him to go away and leave
her and her sons in peace.
She needed Robert.
She needed to tell him everything and let him deal with it all, but she knew
she would not. If she was ever going to tell him, it would have been after their
marriage when they were beginning to find love for each other. He had given her
a further opportunity when she gave him a son; he had sat on her bed holding
her hand and told her he would stay if she would only tell him the truth, and
she could not do it. She could see he did not want to leave, the decision was
in her hands alone, but she could not tell him the truth. To expect him to
support her if he knew what really happened was just too much; at least this
way he would not think so badly of her.
Her secrets
destroyed that blossoming love before it had grown and now he had gone. He had
probably spent five years bedding Lord knew who, he had grown farther away from
her and likely no longer cared for her at all.
“You have been very
kind, Lady Haverstock,” Sir Gerald was saying now. “But every enquiry I make
leads me back to Gorston Hall. I have been told now by more than one person
that my nephew was last seen in the company of Lord Gorston.”
“And as I have
explained, Sir Gerald, I cannot help you. My late husband did not involve me in
his affairs. If he hired your nephew for some work he wanted done, he would not
have told me or anyone else. I fear you have had a wasted journey.”
Sir Gerald shook
his head.
“Not at all. I feel
there is more to learn here and I shall be staying longer. Have no fear; I will
book into the inn in the town.”
She took a deep
breath. Good; at least she would be spared the embarrassment of asking him to
leave. He waited for a few moments, but when she made no reply he turned back
toward the cliff path, holding out his arm for her to take, but she shook her
head.
“I would like to
walk some more,” she said.
She watched him go,
watched him make his way to the path leading up to the Haverstock estate. He
turned at the top and waved; she waved back. She did not want him in the house
and although she suspected he waited for a further invitation, she would not
give it.
He was good looking
man, although many years older than Miranda and she was sure his handsome looks
and her own invitation to stay at the Abbey were the main motives behind Father
David’s questions. The village priest had taken it upon himself recently,
during confession, to ask personal questions both about her relationship with
Sir Gerald and about her lack of marital relations with her husband.
She refused to
reply, refused to be interrogated on such personal issues by a celibate priest,
but she knew he was not happy.
Surely a
respectable woman could give shelter to a grieving uncle without everyone
finding something wrong in her act of generosity? Apparently not.
She had to make him
leave, had to convince him somehow that there was nothing in Norfolk for him.
She thought of lying, of telling him the boy had told others he was leaving,
but it was too late now.
The beach had
always been the best place in the world in which to think, to make decisions,
especially now in this sticky heat and with such a gigantic burden weighing her
down. She walked on.
***
Robert made his
arrangements to return to Norfolk. It was a long journey, two days at least by
coach and not one he had any urgent desire to make. He was torn in two
directions; part of him wanted nothing more than to hurry to her side and be
sure she was well and safe, whilst the other part of him wanted to put her in
the past where he did not have to think about her.
He could send
physicians to tend his wife, if indeed she was really ill, but if she was, he
was quite certain her illness had little or nothing to do with his absence. If
she were that bad, why had he received no word? She might not have sent for
him, but surely one of her ladies would have.
Her son by Lord
Gorston was eight years old now, a young earl with no manor to show for it
since Gorston Hall stood almost derelict and as his stepfather, Robert had
taken over the Gorston lands to enhance his own.
The lands and
income would be returned to the boy when he came of age or earlier if he
married and he would need the house as well. It was Robert’s duty to begin
preparations for that day and Gorston Hall would need a lot of renovation work.
It was doubtful that anyone had set foot inside the place since his marriage to
the then Lady Gorston. His place was there, at Haverstock Abbey with his wife
and son, as well as his stepson. He had known that almost since he arrived in
London, but he never had the confidence to return. He used to watch for a letter
from her, always hoping she would send for him, but after a while he had
realised how foolish that was. She did not want him; that was apparent from her
rejection of the opportunity he gave her to make him stay.
He could not see
where anything would have changed, but still he would return to Haverstock
Abbey and he would take up his proper position as her husband, even if it did
prove to be merely a façade.
The Archbishop’s
reminder that it had been five years since he and Miranda had parted made him stop
and think. That would mean his own son was five years old and he had not even
laid eyes on him since the day he was born. He was rather ashamed of that, but
he knew the boy was safe and he had little interest in an infant.
He could still
remember that day though. He remembered waiting in the next chamber, listening
to Miranda’s cries and wanting to rush in to her, but her ladies had stopped
him.
“My Lord!” One of
them told him. “A birthing chamber is no place for a man.”
Her name was Mavis,
the wife of a knight newly qualified.
“Who cares? My wife
is in pain, she is to have my child. She may need me.”
Mavis shook her
head, touched his arm soothingly. Robert had been forced to learn the ways of
the nobility in a very short time since the King honoured him with his title,
and Miranda had been wonderful in discreetly helping him, but to keep him out
when she was in pain? He wanted to be with her, to help her and if that desire
showed his working class origins, he no longer cared.
“She will not want
you there, My Lord,” Mavis assured him.
“Why?”
She blushed.
“She would not want
you to see her like that,” she said.
“That is
ridiculous! It is my child.”
“Yes, My Lord and
if you ever want another, you will abide by her wishes.”
He stared at her,
tried hard to fathom her meaning, but he had no clue.
“What does that
mean?”
“It means, My Lord,
that a woman giving birth is a sight you are unlikely to forget. Please; I know
what she would want.”
So he had allowed
her to guide him and perhaps she was right, but he really wanted to be at
Miranda’s side, to take some of the pain from her, absorb it into himself.
At last the cry of
a young babe made him glance questioningly at Mavis and she went to open the
door and see if her mistress was suitably attired for her husband to see her.
She turned back to
Robert and nodded with a smile and he rushed inside to see the little scrap of
humanity who had caused his wife so much pain.
“It is a boy, My
Lord,” she whispered hoarsely. “A son for you, a son who will have that noble
blood running through his veins, just as I promised.”
He glanced at the
child with little interest, then turned back to his wife and gathered her into
his arms, kissed her face, her mouth, her forehead.
“Thank you, my
love,” he said softly. “Are you all right? I wanted to be with you, but they
would not let me in.”
“Thank goodness for
that,” she said with a laugh. “You are the last person I would want to see me
like that.”
“That is what your lady
said.”
“And she was
right,” she told him, holding tight to his hand. “Are you pleased with your
son?”
“He is a handsome
boy. He has his mother’s beauty; let us hope he also has her generous heart.”
His one hope now
was that Miranda would give up her continual mourning for her late husband, her
regular visits to the Gorston churchyard, her attendance on his grave. They had
argued about that before and now their son was born, he wanted nothing more
than to forget Lord Gorston ever existed. He was fond of the man’s son, Jamie
Simon, little Earl of Gorston, and was prepared to treat him as his own, but
the boy’s father was dead and gone and should stay buried.
His wish was not to
be. As soon as Miranda had recovered from the birth, she went to the Gorston
churchyard to pay homage to her late husband. He could not tolerate that, it
was disrespectful and unfair, when they had grown close and he hoped she would
realise her future was with him and their sons alone.
He had seen her
from his chamber window. It was the first day the physicians allowed her to
leave her bed and her priority was not with Robert, not even with her sons –
her priority was to hurry to the Gorston churchyard with fresh flowers for the
tomb.
She went on foot;
it was not far, the churchyard and Gorston Hall itself could be clearly seen
from the upper floors of the Abbey, and Robert decided to follow her on foot.
He thought it would be quieter, than he might take her by surprise, perhaps
even witness something he had previously missed.
He waited outside
the churchyard for her, leaning against the post of the lychgate, his arms
folded, his expression showing his displeasure. She walked toward him with her
head down, her eyes firmly fixed on the cobbled ground.
“That is the last
time,” he told her as she emerged.
She stopped and
stared at him, looked down at the dead flowers she had just removed from the
grave.
“Robert,” she
replied. “I did not expect to see you.”
“Of course not. I
thought I made my wishes clear before the birth of our son, My Lady. There will
be no more visits to the grave.”
She walked past him
and took the dead flowers to the compost heap which stood beside the wall, then
she turned back to him, put her hand gently on his arm.
“Robert, please try
to understand.”
“No, I will not
understand. Our son is thriving and tonight I wanted us to be together again; I
have missed you. I hoped you might have missed me, but it seems I was wrong.”
“No, you are not
wrong. I have missed you and I will welcome you to my bed this night.”
Still he made no
move toward her, still his arms were folded rigidly and still he did not smile.
She could not be allowed to see how his heart was breaking, how much it hurt
that she would not do this one thing for him. She could not be allowed to see
how hard it was to refuse her invitation.
“Not without your
promise,” he said. “No more visits to this place. Not regularly like this
anyway; perhaps on the anniversary of his death.”
He was hurt to see
tears spring to her eyes and he reached out at last and pulled her into his
arms.
“Please, Miranda. I
cannot know your reasons, and I might even accept that, but you must give up
this vigil or I cannot live with you. I thought you had come to care for me.”
“I have,” she said
quickly, her arms going around his waist. “But I have to come here; I have to
be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“Sure that nothing
is amiss.”
He sighed heavily
then pushed her away and turned to walk back to the Abbey. They had had this
conversation many, many times and it always ended in the same frustrating and
unsatisfactory manner, with more questions than answers. He could take no more.
That was the last
time he saw her and his son, but he was sure Miranda would have written if
anything were amiss. Robert hardly noticed the rocking of the carriage on the
uneven road. His mind was fully engaged on thoughts of what he might face at
home, of his wife’s reception, whether she would welcome him, whether she had
given up her unfathomable mourning for her late husband.
A suitable marriage
would have to be arranged for the young Earl of Gorston and although that was
Robert’s duty, being the boy’s stepfather, perhaps his mother had already begun
enquiries. It was possible that whoever she approached would need to negotiate
with him, not her, but on the other hand a noblewoman who traced her ancestors
back to the conquest even, commanded a lot more respect from her peers than the
average female.
The lad was only
eight; there was still plenty of time and perhaps discussion of a suitable
match for him might give Robert and his wife something to talk about, something
in common.
Robert still felt a
little intimidated by Miranda’s antecedents; his own earldom was brand new,
given to him by King Henry VIII for loyal service, just as Miranda and all her
wealth had been given to him. The fact that they had come to care for each
other was an extra gift neither of them had expected.
To be fair, she had
done everything she could to make him feel the importance his title conveyed
and she had succeeded to a certain extent. It was certainly a delightful
surprise to him to find she was not the proud, disdainful woman he had
expected. Her disposition was one which any man would be pleased to see in a
wife, but despite the success of their marital relations and the birth of a
healthy son to succeed him, they had quarrelled bitterly. They had quarrelled
over the corpse of a dead man.
Robert tried to be
the master in his own house and Miranda gave every indication that she wanted
that, wanted her husband to take charge of the estate and everything an earl
should have control of. She helped him to achieve that position on every
occasion; whenever he was unsure of how to act, she would discreetly steer him
in the right direction, without anyone knowing that she did so. Whether such
was part of her disposition or whether she felt it would shame her if he appeared
weak, he had no idea, but he was pleased with the way things were developing.
The exception was her insistence on dressing in mourning every day and visiting
the grave of her late husband.
She had done this
each morning since his death and was greatly admired by the local people for
her devotion to his memory, but Robert felt she should give up this public
display once she married him. Her continued visits to the grave dressed in
black told the world that Lord Gorston was the real love of her life and Lord
Haverstock a poor second. But she had refused his request point blank and with
no real explanation. She said it was impossible to explain but she had her
reasons.
Now Robert was
making the trip he had thought about so often, but he deeply resented being
ordered back to her, especially when it involved such a long and arduous
journey. The distance meant he had no way of asking her to her face if she
really wanted him there and if she did not, he would have to make the same
journey again in reverse. On the other hand, the Abbey was his house, not hers,
and he had every right to reclaim it and her whether she liked it or not.
As to being
excommunicated, it was hard to know what one would be excommunicated from right
now; the King was still Catholic, so he said, even though he had broken with
Rome and his Archbishop had definite Protestant leanings.
The problem wasn’t
the threat; left to himself it wouldn’t bother him too much, as he had little
faith in the power the church gave itself. But he had to think of his family,
his tenant farmers and servants, everyone who lived and worked on his estate.
They would all be deprived of church comfort, no baptisms or even burials, no
Last Rites when one of them died, not even the comfort of the confessional.
Most of those people were incredibly pious and would never be able to live with
such a deprivation. They would all be convinced they were on the path to hell
and damnation.
He may be of low
birth, still struggling to accept his own position, but he was not that
selfish. He had to accept his situation for the sake of those for whom he was
responsible. So he would travel to Norfolk and he would see his wife, discover
her feelings on the subject of resuming what had been a very brief marriage.
He did not leave
her only for his own satisfaction, but hers as well. He wanted to give her time
to adapt to this new marriage, this new husband. He waited in vain for a letter
from her asking for his return.
He was older now,
more mature and more capable of giving Miranda the courtesy of allowing her to
decide some things for herself. It would be hard, but if she wanted to keep her
secrets, it was little enough to ask. The idea of a stable marriage and family
was far more appealing to him now than it had been then. He was still very fond
of Miranda and she was the mother of his child; despite their estrangement he
owed her the consideration of finding out how she felt.
His driver found a
reasonable inn on the road, where he and his servants could stay the night, where
his horses would be looked after. After five years in London, it seemed odd to
find such a place isolated like this, with nothing around it for miles but
fields. He found the lack of traffic and voices to be eerie, but it was
something of a relief nonetheless.
The food was not
terrible and the clientele what one would expect of such a place. A travellers’
inn was open to all sorts of people, from the lowest to the highest in the land
and as such there were a variety of facilities to suit them all.
The place was not
too crowded and Robert was able to eat his meal in peace. He was weary and
stiff from the journey and anxious to retire for the night, but hunger must be satisfied
first. He looked around the small dining room at the patrons, including two women
for hire sitting together in the corner and throwing provocative glances his
way.
They were easy to spot,
with their bosoms hanging over their bodices, nipples on display, the dirty
lace at their sleeves, their overly made up faces and dyed hair.
Robert wondered if
he should take a chance with one of them, wondered if he felt in the mood. He
had two mistresses in London to see to his needs but it had been many years
since he had savoured the charms of this sort of woman. They possessed skills
to tempt him, but no. If he was to return to his wife, he at least wanted to
greet her with a pure heart.
The stairs creaked
and as he climbed to the bedchamber to which the innkeeper had assigned him, he
could feel the eyes of the two prostitutes following him, perhaps hoping he
might beckon one or both of them to follow.
The bed was
serviceable, good enough for one night and with well worn feather mattresses
and bolsters. The bed curtains could have done with a good clean, but no
matter. He would leave them open; it was a fine night and he was far enough off
the ground with the two mattresses not to worry about draughts or vermin.
As he climbed into
bed and lie down to stare at the grubby canopy above his head, his mind
wandered back five years to the circumstances of his marriage and the reasons
they parted. It was something he had not thought about in all of that time, but
now he knew he had to. He was returning to Miranda, even if it was at the
command of a prince of the church; he did not want to begin with mistakes,
errors of judgement which had parted them in the first place.
If he could
remember everything that went wrong, precisely as it went wrong, he might be
able to avoid making the same mistakes again.
He was surprised to
feel a little dart of anticipation at the thought of seeing her again. She was
a lovely woman, dark hair, pale skin and lips any red blooded man would long to
taste. She was sweet and compliant as well, not shrewish like his mistresses
could be, like some of the women of his acquaintance.
Miranda’s heritage
and breeding showed in her every action and word and she treated him with the
respect someone of her class and upbringing would always give to her husband; he
appreciated how fortunate he was to have her.
But she refused to
stop visiting the grave of her late husband, every single day and she would
never tell him why; he just did not believe, from the way she spoke of him,
that he had meant that much to her. Robert was convinced he was a laughing
stock in the village and town, even among the servants. He imagined they would
be gossiping about him, saying he was second best, not as good as Lord Gorston.
What else could one expect? Gorston was a proper nobleman, not like Haverstock,
given the position in payment for services rendered to the King.
They might even
have heard he was the son of a blacksmith although Robert had told no one that,
not even Miranda. He was not ashamed of his background or his origins; his
father had worked hard to send him to be trained as a knight and his progression
from there was all down to that sacrifice. He was proud of his achievements and
of his parents’ sacrifice, but his father had cautioned him specially to tell
no one. Had she asked, he felt sure he would not have lied to Miranda, but she
never had and he believed her lack of curiosity in that regard was in deference
to him, to his new position and his future among the nobility.
Of course, he could
be wrong. It was always possible she did not ask because she did not want to
know what humble beginnings her husband had come from, did not want to know
that the father of her child was from such lowly stock. Robert did not believe
that; Miranda was far too generous and considerate to ever think like that and
he did her an injustice by even considering the possibility.
Whenever he
remembered all the subtle things she had done to make him feel worthy of her
and everything else he had gained, he loved her all the more.
This time would be different. This time he would try to understand, even
if Miranda never revealed her secrets; this time he would concede they were her
secrets and not for him to know.
