Of One Heart

chapter 20





April 1-4, 1533



"Is this some sort of perverse jest on your part, Sandhurst?" Jeremy Culpepper demanded, his cheeks red with outrage and stuffed with the freshly baked bread he had been chewing.

"Shh!" Andrew laid a finger over his mouth and shook his head with mock severity. Drawing his friend into a corner of the kitchen, he whispered, "It's only for a few more days, old man! Just until we reach London."

"I don't believe it! The chit's followed you to Paris, begged to marry you after all, and still you won't tell her who you really are! Sometimes I think you continue this farce only because it amuses you to watch me humiliate myself answering to 'Playfair' and acting the part of your manservant!"

"Jeremy, stop ranting." The spark of humor had gone from his eyes. "I have my reasons for not telling Micheline I'm the Marquess of Sandhurst, and I can assure you that they have nothing to do with you. Instead of complaining, why not look on the bright side? It's April. Spring's in the air, and we leave for England within the hour." He gave Culpepper a distracted smile. "Cheer up."

Pretty Therese Joubert, at ten the oldest of Nicole's three children, came in then and he greeted her, glad for the interruption. She offered them some sweet butter to spread on the warm bread, which Jeremy accepted. It seemed that his appetite only increased when he was upset.

Sandhurst excused himself to check on the horses. Outside, he glanced up to the third-floor window that Micheline had flung open earlier to let in the sunshine. Last night's snow was only a memory; today was warm and fragrant with the promise of spring. Micheline was making final preparations for the journey to London while Aimée kept her company. It would be their last opportunity to talk for a long time to come.

Sighing, Andrew wondered once more if he was right not to divulge his true identity to Micheline yet. He told himself that he wanted her to have a chance to become accustomed to one thing at a time. So much had happened just in the last twenty-four hours. What if she had second thoughts as they traveled to England? It seemed better that she be given the opportunity to ease into her new life... or even to change her mind.

Sandhurst had other reasons that he was less willing to examine. Part of him still worried that Micheline might have acted on a romantic whim. It was difficult to forget all the things she had said to him during their weeks at Fontainebleau, and difficult to believe that the shadows were gone from her eyes forever. They were both new at love, and there was still a part of him that remained detached, watching in cynical disbelief. He, too, needed the next few days, before she learned that she was marrying the Marquess of Sandhurst after all, and not Selkirk the painter.

Besides, he had grown to like his new identity. He was in no hurry to reclaim his wealth, title, relatives... or past.

"For a man in love, you look altogether too serious," St. Briac remarked, coming up behind him.

Sandhurst mustered a faint smile. "In this case, love is proving to be fraught with untold complications. My heart may be filled with joy, but my mind is overcrowded with worries."

"Will you take a piece of advice from an old married man?"

"Gratefully!"

"Listen to your heart if you begin to despair. You and Micheline have genuine love on your side. I've learned, during years spent with Aimée that have been anything but tranquil, that problems which may seem insurmountable when they arise really can be sorted out—and later forgotten—if two people love each other enough. Have faith, and for God's sake, don't give up!"

"It sounds as if you're sending me off to war,!" Andrew remarked sardonically.

"Believe me, war is far simpler than marriage... but nowhere near as much fun!"

St. Briac's wry laughter was irresistible. Sandhurst joined in, clasping the Frenchman's hand. "I appreciate your sage advice... I think!"

* * *

A hearty midday meal was served in the Joubert kitchen, complete with several toasts to the future happiness of Andrew and Micheline and the health of the next St. Briac baby. Then, amid loud cries of "Au revoir!" and "Bonne chance!" Andrew, Jeremy, and Micheline rode out into the crowded street, bound for London.

They first had to reach Calais, which lay on the northernmost coast of France. Sandhurst's first thought had been to hire a coach, but Micheline would not hear of it. She loved nothing more than riding. On horseback they could reach Calais more quickly, and since the weather was fine, what was the point of a coach?

Once they were out of Paris, Andrew watched as she galloped ahead. She wore a ladylike habit of hyacinth-blue velvet, and her curls were protected from the wind by a pearl-studded gold crispinette and a velvet cap, but Micheline's manner was that of a free-spirited young girl.

"What a wonderful day!" she exclaimed, laughing as she looked back over a shoulder. "Don't dawdle, you two! We've a long way to go!"

Even from a distance he could see the sparkle in her eyes. "Dear God, I hope she won't feel obliged to change once she learns she's to be a marchioness," he murmured.

"What's that?" Culpepper asked, his own gaze riveted on Micheline.

"I said, hurry up! Have you no shame? Do you want to be left in the dust by a female?"

Sandhurst was laughing now himself, and urging his steed forward. The sun struck sparks on his hair as he drew alongside Micheline and reached out to briefly catch her hand.

"I am the happiest lady in France!" she proclaimed, beaming at the man she loved.

He arched a brow. "I only hope you will express corresponding sentiments when you are in England."

Micheline laughed. "How could I not? I shall be Madame Selkirk then!"

Behind them Jeremy Culpepper rolled his eyes and wondered if he'd ever see this coil unsnarled....

* * *

It had been dark for an hour when the three travelers stopped at a quiet auberge called the Levrette, near the village of Poix. The place appeared clean, which was a change from most inns, and the food smelled appetizing.

First, they ate in the common room. There was a rich potage served on pewter dishes covered with thick chunks of bread. Micheline ate as heartily as the men, enjoying the mixture of veal, beef, mutton, bacon, and vegetables. They drank strong sour wine from pewter cups, then Sandhurst bade the innkeeper show them their rooms. By then Micheline was glad to escape, for the stares of the other male guests, including two ruddy-cheeked monks, were making her nervous.

"Your chambers are at the end of the corridor, on the right." The innkeeper, carrying tankards of wine and ale to other guests, motioned vaguely with his bald head. "They're the only two I have that adjoin."

Sandhurst glanced back at Jeremy. "Go and see to the horses, won't you, Playfair?"

"But—" Color flared in his cheeks. "As you wish, master!"

Upstairs, Micheline followed right behind Andrew into the first room and put down her bag of possessions on the grander of two beds. When the straw tick made a crunching sound, she tried not to wince.

"A far cry from Fontainebleau," she said, smiling bravely, "but it won't matter as long as you're next to me."

Sandhurst crossed the chamber and opened a connecting door. "I appreciate the thought, but you'll be sleeping in here." Picking up her belongings, he disappeared through the doorway.

Surprise then embarrassment washed over her. Slowly Micheline followed her betrothed into a smaller room with a clean and serviceable bed for one.

"I don't understand," she whispered.

The sight of Micheline's flushed cheeks was nearly too much for him.

"Last night was a mistake that I don't intend to repeat until we're married," he explained evenly. "It would be best if we didn't bind ourselves together with words—or acts—of love until... you are absolutely certain that you have made the right choice."

Her iris-blue eyes were wide with confusion. "I have already made my choice! I want you!"

"You may have second thoughts after we arrive in London."

The sight of his sculpted profile, accentuated by the firelight, filled her with longing that was heightened by his cool demeanor.

"What's wrong with you? Are you afraid that I'll meet the Marquess of Sandhurst and be led astray?" Micheline approached him and declared, "I don't want Lord Sandhurst! As far as I'm concerned, he can take his title and his wealth and go to the devil!"

Andrew flinched slightly. When her small hands clasped his own, their eyes met and he opened his mouth. Whether he'd meant to speak or to kiss her, Micheline wasn't sure, for a moment later he was turning away.

"Sleep well, fondling. We have a long day ahead of us if we're to reach Calais by nightfall."

* * *

Micheline enjoyed the next day's ride, over countryside that was different from what she was used to. They passed through valleys that were already beginning to turn green. Farms and villages were set amid willow-hung canals, while wooded hills curved gently in the distance. Micheline wished that Jeremy would disappear and that she and Andrew could pause for a leisurely meal under one of the romantic-looking willow trees.

Instead, they ate quickly at a village tavern, then continued the long ride to Calais. Dusk was upon them when their destination appeared on the horizon, its towers and battlements seeming to rise straight out of the sea. The walls were broken by Lanterngate, the broad archway that led into a town Micheline found quite charming. The crowded, winding streets were lined with wooden houses with crow-step gables and pleasant gardens. They passed Our Lady Church, with its tall, graceful spire, and the cobbled marketplace, which boasted wares brought in on the ships, then stopped before the swinging sign of the Cross Keys tavern. Andrew dismounted, then helped Micheline down from her horse. She savored the sensation of his hands about her waist.

"Well," he said, "the worst is over. We'll sail at first light, and you can relax the rest of the way to London."

Relaxing wasn't exactly what Micheline longed to do, but there seemed little to be gained by arguing. Later that night she looked out the window of her solitary chamber, observing the shadowy ships that crowded the wharves along the foreshore. Moonlight played over their various shapes as they swayed in the glittering blue-black ocean, their pennants streaming in the wind.

Which one would carry her to England? And what waited for her there?

Micheline slept alone again, dreaming fitfully of Andrew, until her door opened in what seemed to be darkness and his voice urged her gently, "Dawn is breaking, Michelle, and we must sail with the tide."

An hour later she found herself on a trim, tastefully appointed yacht called the Stargazer. The waves were rather choppy under the lavender-gray sky, but the wind was with them. Once the sails were set, Andrew joined Micheline on deck. His normal good temper was returning now that they'd left France behind and England lay just a few hours away.

"Wherever did you get this magnificent craft?" queried Micheline.

Culpepper, in the act of tying off a line, shot a look at his friend.

"That's not important," Sandhurst said in a tone that was light and firm at once. "What is important is that we have a comfortable means of travel across the Channel. Do you know, I surprise myself, but I'll own that I'm happy to be returning to England!"

"Are you happy that I'm with you?" she asked, eager by now for some reassurance.

"Yes, of course I am." Seeing Micheline shiver in the sea air, he put an arm around her and held her close, then sought what seemed to be a safer topic. "I nearly forgot to tell you—St. Briac is going to send all of your clothes and other possessions on to London."

Micheline was surprised. She'd nearly forgotten the abundance of gowns, jewels, and accessories she'd accumulated in anticipation of her marriage to the Marquess of Sandhurst.

"That's nice, I suppose... though it's a relief to know I won't really need all of that once we're married. I truly will prefer a simpler life."

"I am contrite that I haven't even provided you with a maid."

"But, I don't miss that in the least! Playfair is acting as chaperon, isn't he? And after we're married, I'd much rather have you all to myself. Servants only get in the way. Why would I want a maid when I'll have a husband to brush my hair and unfasten my gowns?" Her expression was sensually radiant.

Sandhurst shut his eyes for a moment, wishing he didn't have to think at all. "Why don't you go below? There's food and wine in the cabin, and you'll find a few books as well."

Although she would have preferred to stay with him, something in his eyes made her obey. When he took on that remote look, it worried her. Most perplexing was the fact that she couldn't explain to herself why he was keeping himself so distant. The possibility existed that he didn't really want to marry her, that she'd forced his hand with her blatant words and actions in his bed at the Jouberts'. That thought was enough to make her grateful for the distraction of books waiting below.

Rough seas lengthened the crossing, and it was dark when the yacht anchored at Dover. Sandhurst had decided that a hot supper at a small inn called the Hand-in-Hand would do them ail good, but afterward he intended to sail the remainder of the way up the Thames to London. As much as a part of him dreaded returning to his real life and telling Micheline the truth, he was eager to end his charade.

After supper they cast off under a bright full moon and charted a northeasterly course along the coastline toward the North Foreland, at which point they could turn west and sail directly for London. Micheline remained on deck for a time, wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak that she'd found in the cabin. It smelled tantalizingly of Andrew, and she wondered, not for the first time, how he had come by this yacht.

"You must be awfully cold," he remarked, glancing up from his charts.

"Only a bit." In truth, she felt better than she had since they'd left Paris. Andrew seemed more relaxed, and though everything that lay ahead was unknown, Micheline felt as if she were being borne into the future on the hands of fate. It seemed that whatever happened would be for the best.

He had crossed the deck and extended a masculine hand which traced the line of her cheek. "We won't be in London until daybreak, fondling. The bunk in the main cabin is quite comfortable. Why don't you get some sleep?"

The sight of his handsome, moon-silvered face squeezed her heart with emotion. "I'll go on one condition."

"Name it." Sandhurst's smile flashed in the dark.

"Will you come with me and kiss me good night? I've been so lonely at bedtime...."

"All right, if you'll promise not to test my powers of endurance."

"I promise!"

Happily she led the way below. In the cabin Andrew leaned against the bulkhead and tried not to look as Micheline stripped off her clothing swiftly, then climbed into the snug bunk, still wearing her chemise.

"What a good girl you are!" he chuckled.

"Tuck me in." She smiled.

"It's time you learned the way we say things in England, my darling."

"Pray instruct me." Micheline was fairly beaming.

He bent over her, his eyes mesmerizingly warm as he tightened the covers around her slim body. "You see, I'm tucking you up."

"I shall try to remember."

Sandhurst smiled in a way that melted her heart. He stroked her hair, which resembled dark cognac spilled over the pillow. "It won't matter what you say, Michelle. Everyone will love you... just as I do."

"Don't forget my good-night kiss."

He cupped her face in his golden-brown hands and bent toward her. She felt pleasantly dizzy when his parted lips gently touched her own, slowly savoring each taste and sensation for a long minute. She wanted to twine her arms about his neck and longed to feel the length of his body against hers, but remembered her promise.

Finally Sandhurst lifted his head and sighed. "I'd better go above before Jeremy crashes the Stargazer into Ramsgate."

Nodding bravely, Micheline whispered, "Bon nuit, mon cher."

He rose and walked away, but paused near the bulkhead to look back at her. "Good night, Michelle. Tomorrow will be an eventful day. Sleep well and remember... I love you."

* * *

The sky had barely begun to lighten when Micheline awoke, filled with excitement. Having found a stoppered jug of fresh water, a basin, and a cube of castile soap, she washed and then donned clean undergarments and a gown of azure figured velvet, its low square bodice trimmed with pearls and gold lace. A simple pearl necklace and pearl earrings were added, plus a delicate gold chain with a sapphire that rested near her breasts. After she combed her long curls and tucked them into a golden crispinette, Micheline ventured from her cabin.

It was so quiet except for the sound of the river, and she had no idea where Andrew was, or where and whether he had slept during the night.

She found him on deck, looking rested and fresh. He wore a handsome doublet of tawny camlet that she had not seen before, and his hair was tousled in the breeze.

"Michelle! You're up early." Sandhurst's eyes were warm with delighted surprise as he adjusted a line, then crossed the deck to take her in his arms. "How beautiful you are."

Her only response was an incandescent smile. Sandhurst stared down at her, amazed by the magical glow that spread from her body to his, before bending to kiss her, wonderingly at first, and then more passionately, until Micheline's slim arms rounded his shoulders and her fingers tangled in his hair, pressing him closer still.

"Ah-hem!" Jeremy had to clear his throat repeatedly, in various noisy ways, before the couple seemed to notice him.

At length Sandhurst raised his head and arched a brow. "What is it—Playfair?"

The other man glared at him. "The Tower's in sight. I thought you might like to know!"

When Andrew released her, Micheline looked around curiously. A pale pink mist hovered over the Thames, but still she was able to make out the branching masts of vessels ahead on the river, and a forest of bare spires that rose above the endless maze of gabled rooftops.

London! They had arrived!

The closer they came, the more boats Micheline saw. The Thames was crowded, even at this hour, with vessels of every description.

"The city has such narrow streets that people would rather travel by water," Sandhurst explained.

"Look!" she exclaimed in delight, pointing at a trio of swans that passed the Stargazer in single file.

"You'll get used to them," he said, smiling, "and don't touch. They're fond of biting."

They sailed past the Tower, where the river ran through the bars of the Traitor's Gate, and soon approached London Bridge, with its twenty piers and nineteen arches. There they dropped anchor, amid the larger trading ships, and before long Micheline found herself on a barge, being rowed through the rapids under the bridge in progress upriver.

Sandhurst sat quietly beside her, his eyes hooded as he exchanged occasional glances with Jeremy, who constantly raised his brows this way and that and made all sorts of contortions with his mouth. His friend pretended to ignore him, and Micheline began to wonder if the poor manservant might have some kind of nervous disorder.

The barge drew up alongside a water gate that led to a splendid mansion of rose brick. Micheline was too awestruck by all she had seen to be surprised. This was obviously not Andrew's home, but only a means of reaching it, she reasoned. He handed her over to the first dry step while Jeremy dutifully paid the waterman.

Sandhurst was intending to sit with Micheline in the garden and tell her all, but his plan was spoiled by the appearance of one of his servants, who rushed down the steps to greet them as they came through the gate.

"Welcome home, my lord!" the boy cried enthusiastically. "We weren't sure if you'd ever come back!"

"Hello, Bartholomew," Sandhurst muttered, wincing when he heard the lad shout "Sir Jeremy" behind them.

Micheline's expression was confused. "Why does he call you 'my lord' and Playfair 'Sir Jeremy'?" The sight of his averted face sent a chill down her spine. "Andrew?"

"As it happens, I was just about to explain all that to you, Michelle." He led her over to a stone bench on the far side of the well-tended garden. The green shoots of daffodils and hyacinths were already poking up amid white, pink, and violet crocuses.

"Please, do!" Micheline exclaimed. "I have never been so puzzled! Whose house is this, and why are we here?"

Andrew stared out at the river, yet barely saw the fast-moving boats or the borough of Southwark on the south bank of the Thames. He sighed heavily, then turned to meet Micheline's urgent gaze.

"This house belongs to me, fondling, as does the Stargazer. Will you still love me if I tell you that I am not poor, but rich?"

"You know full well that I would love you in any condition, but I do not understand! How—"

"Wait. There's more. It seems that I have other revelations to share." He paused to let her absorb his words. "You should brace yourself."

She took a deep breath. "Continue."

"My name is not Selkirk, either, though it was my mother's name before she married. I don't make my living as a painter."

Micheline's head was spinning, and for a moment all she could think of was her discovery in December that Bernard had been a stranger all through their marriage, smiling and professing his love even as he deceived her.

"Sweet Michelle, it's time you knew the truth. I am Andrew Weston, Marquess of Sandhurst."