The Adventurous Bride. Miranda Jarrett
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Название: The Adventurous Bride
Автор: Miranda Jarrett
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
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He gazed up at the painting. This was what he had left, for the days he had left. This was all that mattered now, and his only hope for redemption. The picture’s power was not in its size—it was small enough to fit into the bottom of a traveling trunk—but in the perfection of every tiny brushstroke, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin.
He could not look enough at the perfect oval face, full of compassion and understanding. He wanted that serenity. He wanted that peace, that grace, yet he knew he’d never have it until he fulfilled his promise. Two centuries of war and the cruel hand of man’s greed had separated the pieces of the triptych, but Archambault had vowed to make the Blessed Mother’s altar whole again before he died, for Her glory and his salvation.
Last spring his agents had found the panel that had originally hung to Her right, with Archambault’s own ancestors kneeling in worship beneath a chorus of cherubim. The panels had been cleaned, the gilded gesso frames restored.
Yet still the left panel remained lost, a lopsided disgrace to the Blessed Mother’s perfection. He’d dared to believe it had been discovered in Calais this week. He’d believed, and been disappointed again. All his money, all his power and connections, yet once again he’d been left empty-handed.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he murmured hoarsely, bowing as low as he could over his cane. “By my honor, I will find it. I will not give up the quest. If you will only grant me the time, my lady, then it will be done.”
With her head against Diana’s shoulder, Mary drowsed in the coach. While yesterday they’d made effortless progress, stopping for dinner and then at a tolerable inn for the night, this day had been one tedious delay after another. One of the four post horses slated for their team had turned up lame before he’d even been put in the traces, and they’d been forced to wait until another could be brought.
Lord John had predicted that the large English coach would be too unwieldy on more narrow roads, and he’d unfortunately proved an accurate prophet. Over and over again they’d come up behind a farmer’s wagon, and it had taken considerable quarreling between their driver and the farmer, and then even more considerable wrangling of the wagon with the coach before they could pass. There’d even been one time where they’d been stopped for a herd of cattle to be driven from one pasture to the next.
The day had been very warm, too, the sun hot on the coach’s lacquered roof, and the leather cushions had soon grown sticky to the touch. The sweat had collected beneath Mary’s hat and down her neck, sliding down to dampen her shift and stays, and trickled down the back of her legs above her garters, until all she could think of was reaching the next inn and shedding every stitch of her hot, confining clothing, no matter how indecorous or untoward.
Now with their lanterns lit, the driver was striving to make up the lost time with his weary team, driving them as fast as he dared through the dark so they could reach their inn for supper, and the night.
The coach bumped over a rut in the road, waking Mary enough that she pushed herself upright and stretched her arms before her. As sleepy as she was, she sensed that something was different with the coach. She could hear the a new tension in the driver’s voice as he shouted to the postilions, and the way the men riding on top of the coach were moving around, talking sharply to one another. Shaking off her sleep, she slid along the seat to the window, pushing aside the curtain to peer out into the night.
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