Her shrug was so slight it might have been merely an inhalation. “Is Lexeter saved, dear Brother?”
He longed to remind her it did not need saving. However, the new taxes that would pass over his demesne like the spirit of the Lord had passed over the Hebrews who marked their homes with lamb’s blood to save their firstborns, could have proven the ruin of Lexeter.
“It is saved.”
“By Lady Laura.” Sebille glanced at the door behind which their mother awaited him. “Lady Raisa will make misery of you.”
“More of you.”
Once again, a shrug that might or might not be. “Now you shall have to send her to her dower property.”
As the queen required and Lothaire did not regret. “You will not be persuaded to remain at High Castle, Sebille?”
“For what? I must have a purpose, and that I have in serving the Lady of Lexeter who shall soon relinquish that title.”
“It does not have to be that way. You are still young—”
“I am not, Lothaire.” She unclasped her hands, loosed prayer beads that fell against her skirt and swung from the girdle to which they were attached. “Prepare yourself,” she said and led her brother to their mother’s chamber and fit the key.
Chapter 11
Laura surged to sitting, looked to wide-eyed Clarice and Tina, then the ceiling.
“Wh-what was that?” her daughter asked.
Was it Lady Raisa’s response to learning her son was to wed the woman who had cuckolded him?
“Mother?” Clarice leaned forward in the chair she had dropped into when Sir Angus admitted them to the chamber.
Laura swung her legs over the mattress and stood. “It sounded like a hawk. Did it not, Tina?” She widened her eyes at the maid, entreating her to agree.
Tina frowned and resumed the transfer of her lady’s possessions from the packs to a spacious trunk set between the windows. “Certes, hawks screech like that,” she allowed. “Mayhap one entered the donjon through an open window.”
“It sounded like a woman’s scream,” Clarice said.
Laura feigned a shrug. “It was a strenuous journey. Do you not wish to lie down?”
Clarice peered at the ceiling as if awaiting further disruption, then dropped back in the chair. “I am not tired. I prefer to explore my new home.”
Laura might have acquiesced as often she had since Maude’s passing, but this was High Castle, and until she wed Lothaire, it was not truly their home—indeed, might never be if the one who had screeched found a way around Queen Eleanor.
“You may acquaint yourself with it later,” Laura said.
“Why not now? I just sit here with naught to occupy myself.”
How had Maude responded to argument? Two answers—the first being firm correction of a young Laura, the second less than firm correction of the stronger-willed Clarice. Though Laura had not dozed so deeply she was unaware Maude often yielded to her beloved granddaughter, ever it had been easier to allow another to rear her child.
Now it is for you to do, she told herself. You were raised well, presented so fine a young lady the foreboding Raisa Soames approved of you wedding Lexeter’s heir.
“Well?” Clarice tossed her hands wide.
“We shall aid Tina in unpacking and arranging our clothes.”
“But ’tis for her to do! I wish to look about the castle.”
“Later,” Laura said firmly and started toward the maid.
Clarice thrust up out of the chair. “Then I shall rest.”
Laura longed to allow her to laze on the bed though she claimed she was not tired—far less conflict than exerting authority to teach her daughter responsibility as Maude had done with Laura when she was younger than Clarice—but she set a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“What?” The girl’s demand caused anger to nip at her mother.
“You shall aid with the clothes, Clarice.”
“Ah nay, milady,” the maid said with false cheer surely meant to ease the tension. “The task is best left to me.”
“You are more fatigued than we are, Tina. Thus, we ought to unpack whilst you rest.”
“I will not!” Clarice gasped.
Laura kept her chin up. “You will. Now come.” She started to draw her daughter toward the packs, but the girl pulled free and moments later tossed open the door and started down the corridor.
Laura hesitated amid Tina’s entreaty, “Let the child go,” then once more reminding herself she was awake, broke free of all that conspired to drag her in a less uncomfortable direction and ran.
“Clarice!” she called when she saw her daughter stood in the middle of the corridor as if also pulled in two directions.
Clarice resumed her course, but her mother’s legs were longer, and Laura did not stomp her way to the landing. As she took hold of the girl’s arm, Clarice swung around. “I do not wish to be with you.”
“Regardless, you are. As I am your mother, you shall abide by my instruction.”
“Instruction? You are not Lady Maude.”
“True. I am more to you than that. I am your—”
“You are not! You are a shadow.”
Laura nearly choked on her next breath. “A what?”
“A shadow.” Defensively, Clarice raised her chin. “’Tis as Lady Maude told.”
Hurt flooding Laura, she whispered, “She said this to you?”
Her daughter hesitated as if considering a lie, then scowled. “Nay, ever she defended you. I heard her tell it to the baron.”
Her stepson, Michael’s older brother.
Laura swallowed. “She spoke true. A shadow I was, but a shadow no longer. Though I cannot replace Lady Maude in your affections, I am trying to be a better mother.”
“Then you are failing. Try harder!”
Were she alone, Laura would put her face in her hands to muffle her cry of pain. Instead, she suppressed it. “I know, and I regret it.” She released her daughter, touched her cheek. “If you will help me—”
Clarice drew back.
Lowering her hand rather than display how empty it was, Laura said, “I know change is difficult, especially our loss of Maude, but—”
“What of Donnie?”
Her affectionate name for the one who had been her playmate the same as Simon had been Laura’s. But Donald, nearly three years older than the cousin he did not know Clarice to be, had left behind the playthings of boys as evidenced by his exploration of the playthings of men—that which dealt the blow that awakened Laura.
Clarice made a sound of disgust. “It was just a kiss, but you had to make more of it, and now I have lost him as well.”
“You are nine, Clarice! He is nearly twelve. It was not just a kiss.” At the time, perhaps, Laura silently conceded. It had been the same for her at close to the age Clarice now was, but as the years had born out, it had meant far more to Simon. And had been the beginning of the end of Lothaire and Laura.
The tears brightening Clarice’s eyes contrasting with her stubbornly set jaw, she said, “Methinks you are jealous that no one kisses you.”
Laura lurched back, but when her daughter spun away, recaptured her arm.