Page 21 of Her Noble Groom

Chapter seventeen

P enna’s benevolence lasted through the Christmas holy days, but with the arrival of Epiphany came the summons—Thomasse was ordered to attend the celebrations.

The house blessing had proved difficult.

The music and singing harkened to happier times, and she escaped to the safety of her chamber immediately after.

Staring into the looking glass above the dressing table, she gently fingered her cheek, no longer black and blue, but a sickly yellowish green. At least the swelling had subsided. Soon, she would appear whole again—at least on the outside. But how long until the inner wounds healed?

Now she had to gather what remaining strength she had to endure the midday feast. An open invitation had been issued to the entire parish, and her father would probably attend.

She would now have to face him—and James.

Having been confined to her chamber for many days at Madame de Beauvoir’s instruction, she had seen neither of them since that day. Would her father guess the truth?

She slipped on her shoes and trudged down to the great hall. Her heart sank when she spotted James at the bottom of the stairs. She closed her eyes. What must he think of me? Does he blame me for what happened?

She could not bear it if he looked at her with disdain—perhaps all he saw now was a ruined maiden.

Every part of her longed to run back to her chamber, lock the door, and hide beneath the blanket. Unfortunately, that was not a possibility.

She opened her eyes and drew a deep breath before descending the stairs.

James smiled hesitantly. “I thought to sit with you,” he said. “No need to talk. Sometimes ’tis nice to just have a friend close by.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she descended the last steps, grateful James somehow understood. If her father were present, having James beside her, no matter how much he disapproved, would give her courage.

James offered his arm and led her across the great hall.

Her father stood in the far corner, his body thinner, his hair limp beneath his worn hat. His eyes widened as they approached. “Thomasse, what happened?”

She avoided his gaze. “I came to visit you Christmas Eve and stumbled over a chair in the dark.” She held her breath, wondering if he would perceive the lie.

“That explains the disorder I found upon my return. I thought maybe pirates ransacked it.” He smiled wryly. “Not that I have anything worth taking.”

Her father scanned the great hall. The tension drained from her body, thankful he seemed too preoccupied to pursue the conversation further. He did not even seem to notice James beside her.

Her father leaned in close and whispered, “My ship leaves in the morn. I go to join Queen Margaret d’Anjou.” He squeezed her hand. “Keep the faith. Ere long we shall return to England in triumph.”

Her chin trembled. “But Father, what of me? I shall be all alone.”

He glanced at the lord’s table. “You are well taken care of here. I must take this chance to regain my title and lands.”

She threw herself into her father’s arms and hugged him tightly. “What if I never see you again?”

“Do not fret over things that may never happen.” He returned her embrace, then pulled away. “I must be going. I just came to bid you farewell.” He touched his hat and glared at James, but said nothing.

Thomasse watched as her father wove his way through the crowd until the door closed behind him.

James touched her back. “I see places in the back corner.”

Once they had settled onto a bench at a trestle table, Thomasse said, “Strange my father did not ask more questions. The cottage was a horrible mess. ”

James leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Philippe told me you did not want your father to know. I cleaned up the cottage ahead of his return from Grosnez Castle.”

She fumbled with the laces of her cotehardie. “After everything, you did that for me?”

“I could never wish you ill.”

Servants filed in carrying platters of meats, fruits, nuts, bread, and cheeses. A trencher was placed before Thomasse. She picked at her food. Although it smelled delicious, she had no appetite.

She gazed about the room. Several women huddled near the sideboard, whispering and glancing furtively in her direction. They turned away quickly when they saw her looking their way, and she wished she could shrink from sight.

James tensed. He mumbled something that sounded like, “I have a mind to tell those hens to keep their gossip out of the gutter.”

Thomasse’s face heated. “Please, do not think you need to defend my honor.”

“You have endured enough without idle rumors.”

She touched his arm. “Gramercy, but I do not deserve such kindness.”

The Epiphany performances commenced with players enacting the scene of the Magi presenting gifts to the baby Jesus. In the past, she had enjoyed such entertainments. Now it felt like an obstacle, prolonging the feast, keeping her from the safety of her chamber.

When the performance ended, the room erupted with cheers. The chief baker entered carrying a platter holding the kings’ cake, and set it before the seigneur.

De Carteret delivered a speech and a small, dark-haired lad tottered forward, followed by a young maiden dressed in a green gown, a babe on her hip. Much commotion ensued, culminating in the maiden holding a tray of cake slices as the lad scampered about the room, handing them out to the guests.

A cold breeze hit Thomasse’s back when the outer door opened and slammed shut.

The room hushed as every eye turned toward the newcomer.

A disheveled young man, his face red and puffy, staggered across the room and leaned against the lord’s table, arguing with someone.

Whispers rippled through the crowd—“’Tis the Bastard of Rozel. ”

The sot pointed at the maiden in the green gown, who stood rooted in the middle of the room, eyes wide.

He lurched toward her, and she shrank back, drawing her charges closer.

He circled behind her and placed a lingering kiss on her nape, his hand caressing her shoulder in a manner a bit too familiar.

Thomasse’s stomach wrenched as a similar memory of the pirate surged in. She jumped up from the table, nearly tripping over the bench. She squeezed through the guests, tripping over her skirt as she stumbled up the stairs to her chamber. She leaned against the door, gasping for breath.

Unfortunately, the door was not thick enough to block out the shouts drifting up from below. She crawled away and leaned against the bed, covering her ears.

Below, the door slammed and more memories rushed in; the thump of the latch barring her escape from the bay-side cottage, that beastly man cornering her like a frightened animal, his warm breath on her neck, the sour stench of ale—

No. She would never think of it again.

Grabbing the bedpost, she placed one hand over the other as she drew herself to a stand. She lit the candle on the bedside table, noting the cup of elixir waiting for her. She padded across the cold stone floor to draw the heavy curtain, blocking out the sunlight.

In the dim light, the scene downstairs replayed in her head. Thomasse trembled as she recalled the man’s drunken, erratic behavior, and the terrified look on the maiden’s face when he kissed her neck.

Were all men like that? Her mind raced to other swains who had stolen kisses in the hidden corners of the garden. Had she just been lucky all those times?

Her head jerked up at the quiet tap on the door—most likely Penna come to make sure she drank the elixir. Picking up the cup, she emptied the contents into the chamber pot and crossed to the door.

“Who is there?”

“Philippe. You left early from dinner. Are you unwell? ”

For the first time since Christmas day, her heart brightened, and she opened the door. “I am glad you have come. I never thanked you for saving my life.”

“I was not permitted to see you,” Philippe mumbled. “Mother and Madame de Beauvoir kept your door guarded.”

Thomasse beckoned him to come in. She perched on the bed and patted a spot beside her. “Sit with me for a few minutes.”

“You look better.” He reached out to touch her cheek, and she flinched. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I am still nervous about being touched since—you know—” She lowered her head. “That day changed me.”

“How?” He studied her face for a moment. “Your face might be bruised, but it will fade. You still look beautiful to me.”

Thomasse wrung her hands. “Something inside has broken, and I do not know how to fix it.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly.

“I find it difficult to be in company, to witness the happiness of others, folks going on with their lives as before. And when they see me, they whisper.” What she refrained from saying was that, despite her story, she feared they knew the truth, as if her sin and shame were branded on her forehead.

“I have told no one,” he said.

She clasped both his hands and said, “Bless you, Philippe,” then quickly released them.

He picked at the hem of the blanket. “And your father? What did you tell him?”

“That I tripped over a chair.”

“You should be honest with him. He is worried about you.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It is what father’s do.”

Those simple words of a child broke something new. The fact that she dared not—even feared—telling the one person she should be able to turn to for understanding and protection intensified her mental anguish.

Philippe searched her face, earnestness in his piercing blue eyes and that obstinate lock of hair falling over his forehead. “I would never hurt you like that bad man did. ”

Thomasse brushed the hair away from his eyes. “Of course you would not—you were the answer to my prayer.”

Philippe slid off the bed and headed to the door. “I better go before Mother discovers me here.”

“Philippe, remember to say your prayers.”

He nodded, and the door clicked shut behind him. Thomasse laid down and pulled the blanket tightly around her.

Philippe’s innocent words vexed her. For too long she had excused her father’s indifference.

She clenched her teeth, her body flushing with heat.

Tonight, obsessed with his ambition, he had shown little concern for her well-being.

It wasn’t just his distraction that angered her, but every bad decision he had made that led to her downfall and disgrace.

If he had not hung Richard of York’s head over the gate...

If he had never brought her to Jersey...

If he had allowed her to marry James...

None of this would have happened. She would never have been alone in the bay-side cottage, never encountered that reprobate man.

His leaving her alone on the isle, with no family, was the final insult.

He had left her to face everything alone.

Lessons would begin again in the morn. She would have to muster the courage to make it through the day, pretending all was well.