April daffodils pushed up through the rich loam of the
downs. Dr. Falconer studied Lady Roxbury for some moments before he spoke. „It
is a galloping consumption, Your Ladyship. You will not see out the month.“
Lady Roxbury’s mouth tightened and the teasing light vanished from her eyes.
She had suspected as much; only a fool would not, once the blood began to appear
on her lawn kerchiefs.
There was a strangled sob from Knoyle.
„Hush your howling,“ Lady Roxbury rasped hoarsely. „Anyone would think you
were to be turned out without a character! It was only a chill,“ she said to Dr.
Falconer, hating the note of pleading she heard in her voice.
„It has settled on the lungs.“ His voice was gentle, but her ladyship heard me
death sentence in it. Dr. Falconer was no country horse-leech after all, but King
Henry’s own physician, His skill was preeminent; there were few he would, have left
Town for, but the Marchioness of Roxbury was one.
„I… see,“ she said. Each breath was a struggle. A greater struggle was to resist
the feathery unsoundness in her throat and chest that brought the wracking spasms
of bloody coughing. „Thank you for coming, Doctor,“ Lady Roxbury said. She
held out one slender jeweled hand, and Dr. Falconer bent over it with courtly
punctilio.
„Please consider yourself my guest for as long as you care to – and assure my
other guests I will be joining them soon,“ she said.
Dr. Falconer hesitated a moment before replying. „Of course, Your Ladyship. I
shall carry out your wishes to the letter.“ He hesitated over her hand a moment
longer, as if there were something he would say, then turned and left.
Lady Roxbury turned to her abigail.
„Knoyle.“ The one word was all she could manage; the tainted brittleness in her
chest was rising into her throat, choking her. She reached out blindly, grabbing the
abigail’s broad warm hand with chill fingers of surprising strength.
„No one! Tell – no one!“ she gasped. Then the treacherous creature in her chest
woke to willful life and spasm after spasm shook her slender body, until she lay
weak and trembling beneath a coverlet starred with her life’s blood.
It is not fair, she thought to herself some hours later. The pop and hiss of the
burning coals and the measured ticking of the long-case clock in the dressing room
were the loudest sounds in Lady Roxbury’s world. She did not doubt that all was
being done within Mooncoign’s walls just as she would have it done, but she
realized unwillingly that the time was coming when she would no longer be able to
enforce her wishes – when, in fact, she would have no wishes at all.
And then Mooncoign and the Marchionate, which was entailed upon the heirs of
her body, male or female, would revert to the Grown, and someone not of her blood
would walk Mooncoign’s galleries of age-mellowed stone.
It is not fair! Though the side-curtains of the bed were closed, Lady Roxbury had
ordered the curtains at the foot drawn back so that she could see the portrait over
the fire. Within its frame of gilded plaster, the painted visage of Lady Roxbury’s
grandmother Panthea, the first Marchioness, gazed mischievously down at her
descendent, magnificent in satin and lace. Panthea’s bejeweled hands toyed with a
key, a dagger, and a rose, in sly allusion to the Roxbury arms and their motto: „I
open every door.“
Oh, if there were only a door for this, away from the cruel weakness of her body
and the knowledge of duties unfulfilled –!
„A visitor for you, my lady.“ Knoyle’s voice trembled – as well it might, since
she was acting against her mistress’s express orders to admit no one.
Lady Roxbury struggled upright against her pillows, anger deepening the hectic
color in her cheeks. „Who – “ she began, before the inevitable spasm of coughing
took her. As she clutched her
downs. Dr. Falconer studied Lady Roxbury for some moments before he spoke. „It
is a galloping consumption, Your Ladyship. You will not see out the month.“
Lady Roxbury’s mouth tightened and the teasing light vanished from her eyes.
She had suspected as much; only a fool would not, once the blood began to appear
on her lawn kerchiefs.
There was a strangled sob from Knoyle.
„Hush your howling,“ Lady Roxbury rasped hoarsely. „Anyone would think you
were to be turned out without a character! It was only a chill,“ she said to Dr.
Falconer, hating the note of pleading she heard in her voice.
„It has settled on the lungs.“ His voice was gentle, but her ladyship heard me
death sentence in it. Dr. Falconer was no country horse-leech after all, but King
Henry’s own physician, His skill was preeminent; there were few he would, have left
Town for, but the Marchioness of Roxbury was one.
„I… see,“ she said. Each breath was a struggle. A greater struggle was to resist
the feathery unsoundness in her throat and chest that brought the wracking spasms
of bloody coughing. „Thank you for coming, Doctor,“ Lady Roxbury said. She
held out one slender jeweled hand, and Dr. Falconer bent over it with courtly
punctilio.
„Please consider yourself my guest for as long as you care to – and assure my
other guests I will be joining them soon,“ she said.
Dr. Falconer hesitated a moment before replying. „Of course, Your Ladyship. I
shall carry out your wishes to the letter.“ He hesitated over her hand a moment
longer, as if there were something he would say, then turned and left.
Lady Roxbury turned to her abigail.
„Knoyle.“ The one word was all she could manage; the tainted brittleness in her
chest was rising into her throat, choking her. She reached out blindly, grabbing the
abigail’s broad warm hand with chill fingers of surprising strength.
„No one! Tell – no one!“ she gasped. Then the treacherous creature in her chest
woke to willful life and spasm after spasm shook her slender body, until she lay
weak and trembling beneath a coverlet starred with her life’s blood.
It is not fair, she thought to herself some hours later. The pop and hiss of the
burning coals and the measured ticking of the long-case clock in the dressing room
were the loudest sounds in Lady Roxbury’s world. She did not doubt that all was
being done within Mooncoign’s walls just as she would have it done, but she
realized unwillingly that the time was coming when she would no longer be able to
enforce her wishes – when, in fact, she would have no wishes at all.
And then Mooncoign and the Marchionate, which was entailed upon the heirs of
her body, male or female, would revert to the Grown, and someone not of her blood
would walk Mooncoign’s galleries of age-mellowed stone.
It is not fair! Though the side-curtains of the bed were closed, Lady Roxbury had
ordered the curtains at the foot drawn back so that she could see the portrait over
the fire. Within its frame of gilded plaster, the painted visage of Lady Roxbury’s
grandmother Panthea, the first Marchioness, gazed mischievously down at her
descendent, magnificent in satin and lace. Panthea’s bejeweled hands toyed with a
key, a dagger, and a rose, in sly allusion to the Roxbury arms and their motto: „I
open every door.“
Oh, if there were only a door for this, away from the cruel weakness of her body
and the knowledge of duties unfulfilled –!
„A visitor for you, my lady.“ Knoyle’s voice trembled – as well it might, since
she was acting against her mistress’s express orders to admit no one.
Lady Roxbury struggled upright against her pillows, anger deepening the hectic
color in her cheeks. „Who – “ she began, before the inevitable spasm of coughing
took her. As she clutched her
Similar Books
Kaldean Chronicles: Kaldean Sunset (Book I)
Maxwell Bond
The Firefighter and the Virgin Princess
Jemma Harte
Heretic
Bernard Cornwell
When Madeline Was Young
Jane Hamilton
Murder in the Smithsonian
Margaret Truman
Dark Inside
Jeyn Roberts
Men in Green Faces
Gene Wentz, B. Abell Jurus
Cops 02 - Love on the Run
Kori Roberts
