Remembrance Read online

  Alida punished her maid by withdrawing her favor from her. She shared no more secrets with her; treated her as one of many instead of as special. Burning her at the stake would have been kinder to Penella than such treatment, and Alida well knew this. It was the perfect revenge.

  Now, Penella should have been suspicious when she told her mistress that the old woman who had been hired to be a wet nurse to her daughter and that boy was asking to speak to her, and Alida showed no surprise. But Penella was so pleased to have something private to share with her mistress, that she noticed nothing extraordinary. Her mind was fully occupied with dreams of getting back into her mistress’s favor, of having her old privileges, her old power back.

  “Who else knows of this?” Alida asked sharply.

  “No one. She was walking about the courtyard with a shawl over her face and when she saw me she ran to me. You may imagine my distaste, my lady, when such as she dared to speak to me.”

  Alida had to control herself to keep from reminding the woman that she was merely a maid and no more important than this fat farm wife. But in the last few moments, Penella had slipped back into the close relationship she had once enjoyed with her mistress; it was as though the past nine years had never been.

  “She spoke to no one else? You are sure?”

  “Most certainly. She made a point of saying such. She said she has been waiting outside for two days, hoping to see you or me. She knows that I am close to you, that to tell me something is to tell you, so she spoke only to me.”

  What had once pleased Alida now disgusted her. How had she stood this woman’s presumption? When she’d been so alone that she’d had no husband, no friend, nothing but hatred in her heart, she had clung to this woman’s cloying ways.

  “Bring her to me,” Alida said. “Let no one see her. Give her a basket of herbs to carry so no one will suspect that she has anything to say to me but of her wares.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Penella said, joy racing through her heart. Some part of her knew that her ladyship’s anger had been caused by what had happened the night of the fire. Over the years Penella had come to regret warning those peasants of what her ladyship intended. What did they, or those babies, matter to her? If her ladyship wanted them dead, who was she to question that? But if the truth were told, she did not fully understand what she had done that night to anger her ladyship. Everything had turned out well since then, hadn’t it? So what had she done that was so wrong? Didn’t she do everything for her ladyship’s own good?

  “Yes,” Penella said, “I will get her, then you and I will talk to her.”

  “No!” Alida said sharply. “I will talk to her alone.”

  Penella opened her mouth to protest but closed it. “Yes, my lady,” she said, allowing as much anger in her voice as she dared.

  When her maid was gone—Alida thought that she must get rid of her—she tried to calm herself. Calm herself and think. She had to find out where this woman lived, where the boy was being kept. She had to make her talk.

  What Alida saw when Meg shuffled into the room was a very ordinary-looking woman, her face lined with ceaseless toil. She was fat and walked slowly, carrying her basket of herbs as though it were very heavy.

  What Alida also saw was the woman’s guileless blue eyes, as open and as innocent as a kitten’s. This was a woman who had not been tormented and hated all her married life as Alida had been. Alida would have died before she admitted it, but what she was feeling was jealousy. This fat old farm woman had not been born with beauty or wealth; her only children, born late in her life, had died. But, as though she were blessed by God, she had been given two strong, healthy children to replace them. No doubt her husband loved her, protected her, wanted nothing more than her happiness. While she, Alida, lived in this great, fine house John was still building and had a husband who, if told his wife had died, would do little more than shrug his shoulders.

  Alida smiled at Meg as though she were an emissary from the queen. “Do sit down. You must be tired from your journey. May I pour you a glass of wine?”

  Meg, prepared for coldness, was disconcerted by such warmth. Only three times before in her life had she had wine to drink, and then it had been heavily watered. And it had never been poured into a silver goblet by the white hand of a lady.

  Tentatively, Meg took the wine—and it went straight to her head. There was not a drop of water diluting this wine.

  Spreading her gown of dark red velvet about her, Alida took a seat across from Meg and watched until the wine was finished and the sweetmeats eaten. When Meg hesitated to take a second glass, Alida entreated her to do so, saying she would be hurt if Meg did not. “After all,” she said, “I owe you a great deal. You have been caring for my daughter these many years, have you not?”

  “Yes,” Meg said, feeling wonderful and relaxed; then she had the sacrilegious thought of understanding why men liked drink so much. And why they did not want women to drink. Feeling like this, it’s no telling what a woman would do. For herself, Meg was feeling quite confident; she could do anything.

  “Tell me about my daughter,” Alida said in the sweetest possible tones. “That is, if you wish to do so. I fear that now she is more yours than mine.”

  “Oh no, none of it,” Meg said, knowing she was lying, for both the children were hers. But the fuzzy feeling the drink gave her made her feel that this lie was all right.

  “Then you don’t mind talking about them?” Alida said, subtly hinting that she wanted to know about both children. Then, frowning, she took the goblet from Meg. Another moment and the old woman was going to be asleep.

  There was nothing on earth that Meg wanted to do more than talk about her children. Sometimes she got very annoyed with Will when he wanted to think about his farm and not their children. Once he’d said, very sternly, “Do not get so attached to what is not yours.” She’d laughed at that because there was no one as attached to the children as he was. Sometimes Meg thought that Will’s love for the two of them was even stronger than hers, so strong that he could not talk about them.

  “They are strange children,” Meg said softly, her mind going back to the farm. For all that, by comparison with this rich house, the farm was a poor place, she would not trade one rose from her cottage for all of this wealth. In the two days she had been waiting to see her ladyship there had been a feeling of, well, of something unhealthy about this place. Now all she wanted to do was perform her task and go home.

  Happily, her mind went back to the farm, to the simplicity of Will and their children. “The children are as alike as though they were two halves of a whole. When one is hungry, the other is hungry. What makes one ill makes the other ill. They like the same colors, the same foods. They have the same temperament, both loving…” She hesitated, searching for the right word.

  “They both love being players, like in the village,” she said at last.

  Concentrating, Alida tried to understand what she was hearing. Drama, she thought. Flamboyance. The children loved all the emotion that she had learned to suppress.

  Meg continued. “Sometimes the children will not talk to each other for hours—they will be working at their chores—but you can ask what they are thinking and it will be the same.”

  Meg’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. There was nothing in life she loved more than her children. She was sure she would never get into heaven for this thought, but sometimes she was almost glad her own children had died so she’d been able to spend these years with Talis and Callie. Her own children would not have been as entertaining as these two were; they would never have jumped on a great black horse and gone running off across the countryside. Her own daughter would not have told stories at night as they sat about the fire.

  Meg’s head came up, maybe a little too suddenly, since she felt dizzy at the movement. How could she have thought that this woman had evil intentions? She must be heartbroken that she had been denied the company of her delightful, adorable daughter. Of course she wanted