Page 22 of Her Noble Groom

Chapter eighteen

T homasse trudged down the pathway leading to Madame de Beauvoir’s cottage. Three months had passed since that irrevocable day. Although her body had mostly healed and her mind had improved, a few lingering concerns remained.

The path curved, revealing a cottage nestled amongst a copse of trees.

Larger than typical for common folk, the two-story structure boasted a real chimney, and a freshly hoed garden area awaited spring planting.

Thomasse knocked on the door. It was answered by a maidservant who took her cloak before fetching Madame.

Dressed in a blue cotehardie and white wimple, Madame greeted her. “Thomasse! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?”

“A matter of delicacy,” she whispered.

Madame beckoned Thomasse to follow, and led her through the cottage. Each room they passed contained furniture of quality. Thomasse schooled her countenance and bit her tongue. It would be rude to inquire how such wealth had been accumulated by the healer and her husband, the seigneur’s reeve.

When they reached a small room in the back, Madame gestured toward the bed and drew up a wooden chair. “Sit, my child. Let us discuss the matter plainly.”

Thomasse sat on the meager bed and adjusted her skirt.

“Mostly I am healed.” She glanced nervously at the table across the room, littered with a mortar and pestle, and several bottles filled with potions, herbs, and other plant specimens.

“My flow has not returned, and I often take ill in the morn.”

Madame pursed her lips. “Lie back so I may examine you. ”

Thomasse stretched out and Madame lifted the skirt of her cotehardie and kirtle, pressing and prodding until Thomasse winced.

“Does that pain you?” Madame asked.

“Just uncomfortable.”

Madame pulled Thomasse’s skirt down, then selected a cup from the table and handed it to her. “Piss in the cup. Call me when you are done.” Madame quit the room, closing the door behind her.

Thomasse had seldom taken ill as a child, and the few times a surgeon had been called, he had never made such a request. For a moment, she questioned Madame’s competency as a healer, then reminded herself Penna had expressed confidence in her. Nor had she heard rumors of Madame being a witch.

With the cup half full, Thomasse called out, “Finished!”

Madame returned. Her brow furrowed as she studied the contents. “Did you drink all the elixir I provided?”

Thomasse looked away. “A few times, but it tasted vile.”

Madame pulled the chair closer and grasped Thomasse’s hand. “I thought as much.” She hesitated for a moment. “You are with child.”

Thomasse jerked her hand free. “That cannot be.”

The healer sighed heavily. “I wish it were not so.”

“But I have no husband.”

“But you have known a man.”

Thomasse sprang from the bed. “You are wrong.” As she fled the room, she heard Madame say, “I will come by the manor to check on you.”

Her vision blurred, her mind numb, she stumbled out of the cottage and retraced her steps down the pathway, running with no destination in mind. She arrived at the water’s edge, winded, her side aching.

She slowed to a walk as the initial shock of Madame’s pronouncement sank in.

Was she right? She had heard the whispers that a woman could only conceive when she took pleasure in the act.

There had been no pleasure, only pain. But a healer would not lie about something of such import.

Denial faded as logic crept in. All the signs, her missing flow, the sickness in the morning, pointed to the truth of it.

Soon there would be no hiding it, and the gossip would be ruthless, her reputation in tatters, amid the endless speculation on who might be the father .

Thomasse wandered along the shore of St. Ouen’s Bay, stopping now and again to gaze across the water, thinking of her home in Sussex.

Stooping, she grabbed a handful of sand and let it slowly sift through her fingers.

Had life gone differently, had they not been forced to flee, she would be married to Jack and the prospect of a child would be welcome news.

To think once she had despised the thought of a marriage to him. Anything would be better than this.

In bygone days, she had heard murmurings of young ladies whisked away to a country estate, under the pretense of a much-needed reprieve from the demands of court.

But here on Jersey, there was no place to hide until the babe arrived.

Deemed an immoral woman, she would certainly be dismissed as Philippe’s governess.

And with no means of supporting a child, what was she to do?

When her father returned, given his ambition, would he turn his back on her?

She weighed her choices. If she kept the child, she would be rejected by society—condemned to begging along the roadside or turning to harlotry.

Or she could leave the babe on the doorstep of the church and pray a loving family took it in.

But what if the babe ended up in the wrong hands and was used as a servant?

She may be in a desperate situation, but the babe was still her flesh and blood.

The thought of someone treating her child cruelly weighed heavily on her heart.

Marriage would solve her problems, but who would marry a woman thus dishonored? Or agree to raise a bastard child as his own? Her pride would never allow her to declare the father. Besides, chained in the dungeon, he could not provide for them.

Unbidden, scenes from that day flashed before her eyes, reigniting the old feelings—the fear, the helplessness, the mental anguish. After all these months, the physical pain had not diminished—as if a hundred daggers pierced her heart.

She continued walking; the waves breaking as the tide rolled in. She spotted the group of rocks where James had rescued her from drowning. A choked sob escaped her lips. If he had not saved her, she would have been spared all this pain and sorrow.

She wandered northward along the shore. The terrain steepened, and Grosnez Castle appeared up ahead. Irresistibly, she was drawn to the abandoned structure. Leaving the path, she picked her way through the brush and passed through the portcullis.

The wind whistled through the empty hallways as dry leaves tumbled across the floor, strewn with dried grass and splotched with bird droppings and dried mud.

She ran her hands along the cold, rough stone walls as she climbed the stairs to the solar, drifting from room to room, all empty save one that held a broken cradle.

She quit the castle and continued up the steep path along the rocky northern coast. If only Agnes was here to comfort her, to wrap her arms around her like when she was a girl and assure her everything would be all right.

Here, she was surrounded by people who scarcely knew her.

She had no one to confide in, much less someone who would show her love and compassion.

Once she had known that with James—but she had lost that too. She stood near the edge of the cliff and stared into the dark water swirling below.

Huge waves smashed against the rocks. The burn of cold water would be less painful than this torment. The depths beckoned, promising an end to her misery, the answer to all her problems.

J ames slowed the roan to a trot as he neared the stable. Someone called his name, and he wheeled the horse around to find Madame de Beauvoir running toward him, clutching a cloak. He drew back the reins, bringing the roan to a halt. “What is it?”

Her breaths came quick and heavy. “Thomasse—came by the cottage—left distraught—forgot her cloak—not at the manor—never returned.”

“Did she give any hint where she might have gone?”

Madame shook her head and handed James the cloak. “I fear for her safety.”

“Why? What happened? ”

“I cannot say, but someone must go find her.”

James draped the cloak over the saddle. “I shall go.”

“Thank you,” Madame stepped back, gripping her side. “I knew I could depend on you.”

A lump formed in his gut when he did not find her at the shore.

Not only was it cold, but a maiden wandering alone—Thomasse knew the danger.

He retraced the path leading to the manor.

As he passed the chapel, he spotted Philippe’s friend, William, sitting on the hillock watching the ships sail by.

He nudged the roan forward. “William! Have you seen Thomasse?”

He pointed northward. “I saw her walk that way.”

“How long ago?”

“’Tis been quite some time, but she has not returned.”

James touched his coif. “Much obliged.”

William scrambled up. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Not wishing to cause alarm, James held up the cloak. “That is unnecessary. I only seek to get this back to its rightful owner.”

Heading back to the shore, James turned northward. Several fishing boats rested on the sand. Gulls circled overhead and shrieked as the fishers sorted their catch into baskets. He inquired of several if they had seen a young maiden pass by. When none had, his unease deepened.

The sandy shore turned rocky, and he steered the roan up the path that wended along the coastal cliffs. The wind picked up, and the temperature dropped. What was Thomasse thinking, walking out in this chilly weather without her cloak? She could catch her death of cold.

With each passing minute, the vise of fear tightened its grip.

Grosnez Castle emerged ahead, and he hoped she had sought shelter there.

He called her name, but received no answer.

He rode to the entrance, and called her name again.

Silence, except for the howling of the wind.

Near the portcullis, he noted fresh footprints on the damp earth entering and leaving the abandoned castle.

He continued up the trail. Beyond, a blonde woman, skirt flapping in the wind, stood on the cliff. “Thomasse!” he shouted, as he urged the roan to a canter, then drew back the reins as he neared.