His Lady Fair. Margo Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ collar that had once adorned the neckline. With the hard work that was required of her, Ria knew those fineries would quickly be ruined.

      Besides, she had her own jewelry, a precious locket—a bauble of gold with a secret latch that held a lock of her mother’s golden hair within. Ria always carried it with her, though she kept it tied up in a square of linen so that no one would ever see it. And take it from her.

      She spun around and gave herself leave to imagine that, just this once, she was dressed in the glorious gown before its lining and jeweled collar had been ripped from it. She could almost feel the weight of the gems, and dream she was tall and slender and lovely like Cecilia, making heads turn and eyes glitter with envy.

      ’Twas a foolish fancy, Ria knew, but her little dreams made life at Alderton Keep bearable. Her life had always been harsh, and it seemed to grow worse with every passing year.

      Her aunt Olivia had made it quite clear that Ria would never be recognized as a member of the family. The Morleys would provide her a roof, food for her belly and the occasional bit of cast-off clothing. But Ria would be required to work for it.

      The bastard daughter of Lady Sarah Morley deserved no better.

      “Ria!” Cook’s harsh voice interrupted her wandering thoughts. Ria quickly tied a scratchy woolen shawl ’round her shoulders—more to cover up the shortcomings of Cecilia’s dress than for warmth—and flew out of the buttery, into the kitchen.

      “Where’ve yer been, girl?” Cook demanded.

      “I—I’ve just—”

      “Get the pot out of the fire fer me now,” the sour-tempered cook ordered, “then give it a good stir.”

      Ria lifted the heavy cauldron from its hook in the huge blackened fireplace and carried it to a sturdy wooden table in the center of the kitchen.

      “Ye slopped some of m’ stew over the side, ye beef-witted dewberry!” Cook screeched at her, cuffing the side of her head and nearly knocking Ria down as she struggled with the heavy pot. “Now wipe up the mess ye made!”

      “It wouldn’t have sloshed if you’d put it in two smaller pots like I told you before,” Ria retorted just as Cook cuffed her again.

      She knew better than to sass Cook, but it went against her nature to keep silent over unfair criticism. Ria rubbed the bruised spot on the side of her head and picked up a rag. She said nothing more, but began cleaning up the spill.

      “When yer done there, yer to take this tray up to Lady Olivia’s solar,” Cook said. “She’s got a guest wi’ her, so try not to splash or spill while yer up there.”

      Ria glanced up to see a large wooden tray laden with ale and other refreshments. She was bone weary, but it did not matter. She would take the tray to her aunt Olivia, then await further orders. Just as she always did, and always would.

      Within the warmth and comfort of her solar, with its thick walls and narrow windows, its warm fire and colorful tapestries, Olivia Morley poured warm wine for her visitor from London, a justice from the high court, and tried to conceal her agitation.

      The widow of Jerrold Morley, Olivia was still a comely woman, with nary a gray hair in her thick sable mane—at least none that had a chance to flourish before being plucked out. Her eyes were of the same soft brown as her hair, though their softness was deceiving. Her vision and acuity were as sharp as ever.

      “No, my lord,” Olivia Morley said to the visitor. “There never was a child. And even if Sarah’s issue had survived, she would not, could not have inherited Rockbury.” She maintained an even, well-modulated tone as she spoke to Lord Roland, as distinguished a gentleman as she’d ever encountered. Not the slightest hint of Olivia’s discomposure showed as she lied.

      “But my lady, the property is en—”

      “I care not how the property is entailed,” Olivia continued in a haughty tone, “or who wrote Sarah Morley’s will.”

      “Sarah Burton.”

      Olivia shrugged indifferently. “I will not allow my husband’s property to go to the child of a harlot!”

      “But Rockbury was never your husband’s propert—”

      “Of course it was!” Olivia raged as she stood up from her chair. She paced in front of the fire, her hands twisting angrily in front of her. It was so unlike her to lose control of her temper, and she worked to subdue it. “Whoever heard of such a bequest? The very notion of a bastard inheriting such an estate is ridiculous. Absurd. Preposterous! As Sarah’s next of kin, my husband—”

      “I assure you, Lady Olivia,” the visitor replied calmly, “the estate in Staffordshire was clearly, and quite legally, a gift to Lady Sarah from King Henry IV. The property was hers…to bequeath to whomever she chose. And as to the bastardy of—”

      “Nonsense!” Olivia persisted. “The will can be broken. Surely the king did not intend to reward my husband’s sister for her wanton behavior.”

      “My lady, you are speaking of the late Duchess of Sterlyng,” Sir Roland said through clenched teeth. “And she had every right to bequeath Rockbury where she would. King Henry’s papers indicate that he gave the title to Rockbury to your sister-in-law as a reward for her loyalty to his cause, in spite of her family’s ostracism for it.

      “And according to Lady Sarah’s last will and testament, the property was properly, legally, bequeathed to her offspring, a girl-child named…Maria Elizabeth.”

      “It was our understanding that the child perished,” Olivia said tightly.

      “But there have been rumors—”

      “None of them true, I assure you.”

      “Then Rockbury reverts to the crown,” Sir Roland said as he arose from the comfortable settee near the fire.

      “But that is impossible, sir!” Olivia declared with her hands clasped tightly in front of her gilt girdle. “Rockbury should be part of my son’s estate! He will have it!”

      “Nay, my lady,” Roland replied quietly. “The crown will have it back.”

      A light tap at the door failed to penetrate Olivia’s distracted state, so Lord Roland bade the newcomer to enter.

      A young serving maid appeared, a lovely girl whose mass of wavy, honey-gold hair was more out of its chignon than in. Her eyes remained downcast.

      He could not help but notice the young woman’s delicately crafted face, with skin as clear and sweet as fresh cream. By her looks, she could have been a highborn lady, he thought, but for her subservient manner and the reddened, chafed skin of her hands.

      The justice turned his attention from the serving maid and spoke to the well-dressed woman who stood before the fireplace, her expression one of controlled fury. “I had hoped to find Lady Maria and discharge my duty to her this afternoon, and be well on my way to Chester before nightfall,” he said, easily dismissing Lady Olivia’s unpleasant mood.

      Olivia tightened her lips slightly before speaking. “I am sorry. As I said before, there was no chi—” she said, then spoke sharply to the maid. “Go on! СКАЧАТЬ