Scoundrel Of Dunborough. Margaret MooreЧитать онлайн книгу.
Something Else?”
She kept her composure and silently prayed for forgiveness for the lie she was about to tell, along with her other recent sins. “I am Sister Augustine now.”
“Until later, then, Sister.”
“Yes, until later,” she agreed as she turned to follow the maidservant to the stairs leading to the family chambers.
Despite her answer, though, she had already decided she would not be joining Gerrard in the hall later, or at any time. When she was with him, the past crowded in on her, the memories fresh and vivid, both the good ones and the bad.
Lizabet passed the first door. “That was Sir Blane’s,” she said, her voice hushed as if she thought someone would overhear.
“And that was Broderick’s, the late lord’s eldest son,” she continued as they passed another. “I suppose you heard what happened to him? Killed by a woman! Sir Roland’s wife’s cousin. I can hardly imagine it.”
“A woman?” Celeste repeated, unable to hide her surprise.
Gerrard’s older brother had been a big man and a bully, fierce and cruel. To think that any woman had been able to—”
“Aye, it’s true. He was about to kill the man Lady Mavis’s cousin loved, and Lady Thomasina killed Broderick instead.”
Sister Sylvester once said that a loved one in trouble could give a person great and unforeseen strength. It seemed that she was right. “From what I remember of Broderick, I find it difficult to be sorry, however he met his end.”
Lizabet slid Celeste a questioning glance. “You know the family?”
“In a way. I’m Audrey D’Orleau’s sister.”
The young woman came to a startled halt. “I—I’m sorry, Sister!” she stammered.
She didn’t wait for Celeste to respond, but quickly continued on their way.
“This chamber is Gerrard’s when he sleeps here,” she said, hurrying past another door, “and this is Sir Roland’s.” Lizabet opened the last door in the corridor and stood aside to let Celeste enter.
The room was a far cry from the way she’d imagined any chamber of Roland’s. She’d been expecting bare walls and few amenities, something Spartan in keeping with his cold, stern demeanor. Instead, there were tapestries on the wall, linen shutters as well as wooden ones on the window to keep out the cold, a dressing table and two brightly painted wooden chests for clothing. Against the far wall was the biggest bed Celeste had ever seen, made up with thick blankets and a silken coverlet. The bed curtains were a bright blue damask and there was even a carpet on the floor.
She immediately conjured a vision of a couple in that luxurious bed, a well-built man with shoulder-length hair making love to some faceless naked woman with long, curling brown tresses.
But what price did a woman pay for such luxury?
“Aye, it’s big,” Lizabet said with a smile when she saw where Celeste was looking. “Lady Mavis—Sir Roland’s wife, that is—she asked for a new one the day she got here. Could have heard a cow cough a mile away when she said his bed wasn’t big enough.”
The maidservant blushed and lowered her eyes. “Sorry, Sister. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“It’s all right,” Celeste assured her, turning away to hide her own embarrassed blushes.
“Anything you need, Sister? Other than some warm water to wash?”
“No, that will be enough. Thank you.”
“Then I’ll be back soon with the water and some fresh linen,” Lizabet said, leaving the room.
Celeste immediately removed her cap, veil and constricting wimple. She was relieved to be rid of them and glad to be alone, away from curious people and their stares and whispers, as well as Gerrard and the memories he brought back.
She unpinned her braid and ran her fingers through the thick, waving brown curls. As she did, she wondered what Gerrard would think if he could see her hair. More than once the mother superior had threatened to cut it off. More than once Celeste had avoided that.
It wasn’t that she cherished the long locks so much. Her hair had been a sort of battleground, and every time she kept her curls, she felt the mother superior had lost a battle, although the war wouldn’t be won until she was allowed to take her final vows.
Sighing, Celeste looked down at her hands and thought of all the times she’d tried, usually without success, to braid her sister’s shining hair.
These were the same hands that Audrey had held tight when their father raged at their unhappy mother, proof that marriage was no sanctuary. The same hands that had scrubbed and cleaned and been clasped in prayer when Celeste displeased the mother superior at the convent, which was almost every day.
The same hands that she hoped would be carrying a cask of gold and jewels when she returned to Saint Agatha’s, if what her father had said was true and he had hidden treasure in the house. She would present the cask to the bishop and tell him it was for the church on the condition that the mother superior be sent to a convent as far away from Saint Agatha’s as possible. Then life at Saint Agatha’s would be perfect. She would be safe and at peace, out of the world that had so much conflict and misery.
First, though, Celeste had to find her father’s hidden hoard, and soon, in case the mother superior came looking for her.
Not that she regretted running away. She’d had no choice about that, for the mother superior never should have forbidden her to come back after her sister had died. Celeste was only sorry she’d stolen Sister Sylvester’s habit, even though that, too, had been necessary, for safety on the road. As for claiming to be a nun, that was for safety, too.
Especially when she saw the look in Gerrard of Dunborough’s eyes. She didn’t want to be the object of any man’s lust.
And certainly not his.
* * *
Norbert regarded his son with scornful disbelief as they stood in his shop, surrounded by candles of various sizes.
“Your eyesight must be going, boy,” the well-dressed chandler sneered. “Gerrard and a nun? I’d as soon believe you could make a decent wick.”
“I saw her myself,” Lewis insisted, his tall, thin frame slightly hunched as if to protect himself from a blow. “They were coming from Audrey D’Orleau’s house. Maybe she’s her sister come to look for the treasure.”
Norbert gave his pockmarked son a sour look. “There’s no treasure in that house and you’re a fool if you think so. And if that is Audrey’s sister, she’s probably come to sell the house and all the furnishings and maybe her sister’s clothes, too. After all, a nun won’t have any use for them.”
Norbert stroked his beardless chin. “Put up the shutters. It’s nearly time to close up for the day, anyway.”
Lewis stared at him, dumbfounded, and wasn’t fast enough to avoid the slap that stung his cheek.
“What are you gawking at, boy?” his father demanded.
“You’ve never closed the shop early before.”
“I am today.” His father licked his palm and smoothed down what remained of his hair, then straightened the leather belt around his narrow waist and long, dark green tunic. “I’m going to the castle to find out if that woman is Audrey’s sister, and if she is, to offer my condolences.”
“But you said Audrey was no better than a whore who got what she deserved.”
Scowling, his father raised his arm and Lewis immediately moved out of reach. “Don’t you dare repeat anything I said about Audrey D’Orleau to anybody,” Norbert warned, “or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”
“I