Page 19 of Her Noble Groom

Chapter sixteen

P rayer book and lantern in hand, Thomasse slipped into the chapel through the side door.

The priest was in the midst of offering a prayer as she eased the door shut.

She shuddered. Somehow, she had lost track of time.

There would be no escaping the forthcoming rebuke.

She tiptoed toward the front. The congregants’ heads were bowed, and her breath caught when her gaze fell on James, seated on a back bench.

They had not spoken since that mortifying day. Too ashamed to face James, she had taken meals in her room. No amount of apologies could fix the hurt she had caused. That is unless she could convince her father to relent.

Thomasse and her father had parted ways in anger after the incident, and she hoped that, in the spirit of the holy days, they could set aside their differences and reconcile.

After vespers, she would ask Penna for permission to visit him. She would plead James’s and her case, even though she knew her father was unlikely to relent.

Philippe caught her eye as she slid in beside him and set the lantern and prayer book beneath the bench. Penna, eyes closed in prayer, clasped her rosary. But it was the seigneur’s absence that surprised her. He never missed vespers. And to be absent on Christmas Eve—

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The congregation rose for the final hymn, and her spirit soared. When she sang, the cares and worries of life faded away. When the final refrain ended, the momentary lull broke into a hum of conversation.

“Is Father ill?” Philippe asked his mother.

Penna looked down her nose. “He is delayed on a matter of business. ”

Thomasse’s heart squeezed. Philippe was only a lad worried about his father, and yet his mother dismissed his concerns.

Stern faced, Penna pushed past Philippe to confront Thomasse. “You arrived late to services.”

Thomasse stared at her boots. Of all the nights to draw the woman’s displeasure. “My apologies, Demoiselle Penna.”

Her lips pinched into a thin line. “See it does not happen again. Seigneur de Carteret and I expect you to set a good example for Philippe.”

“Yes, Demoiselle Penna.” Thomasse took a deep breath. “With your permission, may I spend Christmas Eve with my father?”

Penna inclined her head. “Give him our Yuletide greetings.”

“Gramercy. I shall return in the morning.” Thomasse curtsied and collected her prayer book and the lantern from beneath the bench.

She shivered as she stepped out into the crisp night air. Lighting the lantern, she hastened down the path leading to the bay-side cottage. She lifted the lantern higher, spilling light across the path as it inclined.

Philippe’s voice drifted through the night air. “Wait for me!” She halted until he caught up. Together, they trudged up the hillock and watched as the last bit of light vanished from the sky.

“It is cold. You should get home lest you become ill,” Thomasse said.

“I wanted to wish you Happy Christmas.”

“The same to you and your family.”

With the tip of his right patten, Philippe drew circles in the mud. “Can you forgive my mother?” he mumbled.

“Do not blame her. I was the one in the wrong.”

The bells of St. Ouen’s Parish Church pealed, announcing the official end of Advent and the commencement of the Christmas holy days. In the distance, pinpoints of light danced as the villagers rushed home after vespers.

Philippe touched her arm. “Take care. Evil men lurk in the dark.”

Thomasse’s heart warmed, and she hugged Philippe. “You put too much stock in servants’ tales. The cottage is just down the hill.” She tousled his hair. “I promise to be back by morning.”

She watched Philippe cross the green and disappear safely into the house. Lowering the lantern, she stepped cautiously as she navigated her way down the hill. It would not do to turn an ankle in the dark, for no one would miss her since this visit to her father was a surprise.

A sliver of moon slid out from behind the clouds, its reflection shimmering on the water.

A ghost-like ship floated just beyond the bay.

With its sail down, the mast looked like a dead man’s hand reaching up from the depths.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled.

Heart pounding, she hastened to the cottage.

When her knock went unanswered, she pushed the door open, stepped inside, and barred the door.

She leaned against it, drawing several unsteady breaths.

Philippe’s warning must have sent her imagination reeling.

A few embers glowed on the hearth. She selected a couple of logs from the woodpile beside the door and stoked the fire, then settled onto a chair at the table to await her father’s return.

J ames watched Thomasse quit the chapel. He made to follow, but was stopped several times by people offering Yuletide greetings. He lost sight of her, and by the time he stepped out into the cold evening air, she was not on the green. She must have hurried back to the manor house to avoid him.

He leaned against the outer wall of the chapel. So much for the extra care he had taken when combing his hair; she had not even glanced his way.

A light bobbed in the distance, moving along the path to the bay-side cottage.

It could only be Thomasse. He sighed. He would not chase after her.

If life had worked out differently, they would be walking home together, husband and wife.

Instead, he must content himself with watching her from afar—the only way he could ensure that no harm befell her, at least as far as the crest of the hillock.

“Have you seen Thomasse?” Philippe asked.

James, startled from his reverie, kept his eyes on Thomasse. “What?”

“Never mind, I see her,” Philippe said, and took off like a colt galloping down the path .

“Wait for me,” Philippe called.

She stopped and waited until Philippe reached her, and they walked on together. If only that were me, James thought. How crazy to envy an eleven-year-old boy.

Since the confrontation with her father in the stable, they had not spoken.

He had searched for her in the great hall at meal times, but she did not show.

At first he thought she needed time to work through her feelings.

But as time passed, and she still did not show—well, he did not know what she thought.

Did she resent him for not pleading harder for her father’s blessing?

Though he regretted it now, he doubted the outcome would have been different.

Did she doubt the depths of his love? He hated that things had ended so badly—so many things left unsaid.

The bells of St. Ouen’s Parish Church pealed in the distance. Philippe sprinted down the hillock, across the green and into the house. When James looked back, Thomasse had disappeared.

The sound of hooves in the darkness caught his attention. Geoffroi de Beauvoir, the manor’s reeve, appeared. He sought out Penna, who paled as he spoke. Then he wheeled his horse and galloped off into the night.

Penna hastened over, breathless, her eyes wild. “Geoffroi has just brought word—there are pirates in the bay.”

“Thomasse!”

“You need not worry. The bells of St. Ouen’s Parish Church will sound the warning for all to flee to Grosnez Castle. Come, we must prepare the manor for attack.”

T he cry of the gulls pierced Thomasse’s consciousness.

She jerked backward, unsure of her whereabouts, until her gaze lit upon the fishing net hung neatly on the wall.

She glanced around for her father, but she was alone; his mat showed no signs of being slept in.

Her mind raced as she ticked through all the mishaps that may have befallen him .

Common sense soon prevailed. One of the tenant families must have invited him to dine, and he stayed the night. So much for her Christmas Eve surprise.

She busied herself as she awaited his return, stoking the fire and preparing a stew.

With nothing left to fill the time, she retrieved a distaff and three spindles from the basket atop a small dresser between the bed mats.

It had been months since she had last done any spinning, and she wondered if she still had the skill.

She slipped two spindles into her pocket, grabbed a handful of wool, and settled next to the fire.

She had just started on the second spindle when her eyes stung and watered, and the cottage filled with the stench of scorched gravy and burnt cabbage.

Setting aside the distaff and spindle, she threw open the shutters before grabbing the ladle and stirring the pot.

Footsteps sounded outside. She dropped the ladle, eager to greet her father.

She opened the door, coming face-to-face with a tall stranger.

His bedraggled hair hung to his shoulders, his garments sodden, his scabbard awry.

She gasped. “Who are you?”

“Praise God. You speak English.” His voice was a pleasant, deep baritone. “My ship capsized in the bay. I would be much obliged if you would invite me in to get dry.”

Her first thought was to slam the door, send him away.

But with circumstances similar to her own, how could she not pity him?

She paused, uncertain. It would be rude not to extend the same favor James had when they first arrived.

From the stranger’s manner of speech, she perceived him to be an Englishman of some merit.

Surely all would be well. Besides, her father would be along shortly.

She beckoned him inside, and he strode over to the fire, removed his cloak, and spread it on the ground. He reached out his hands to the warmth and his eyes lighted on the kettle. “I hesitate to impose further, but might you spare a bite to eat?”

“I am certain my father will not object,” Thomasse replied. “I did not catch your name.”

“Many pardons. The name is Hareford.” He bowed deeply. “John Hareford, in service to the Earl of Warwick. ”