Madrilene's Granddaughter

“I was saying that it is positioned just right to see two views, but sheltered from the worst of the weather.”

“Indeed, my lady,” Rachel agreed.

“Now you have seen it,” Hal, who had propped his shoulder against the stout doorway, spoke impatiently, “shall we go back to the house?” Each moment, he felt, away from Katherine was a wasted moment. Who knew what advances Piers was making in his absence? As he thought this, he experienced a shock to realise how close he was coming to being seriously at odds with his best friend. Dangerously so, given Piers’s reputation—no insult, fancied or real, was allowed to pass by Roxburgh. It must not come to that, Hal resolved…but if it should, then so be it. Tonight he had met the girl, the one girl, he wished to marry. No one, not even Piers, could change his mind on that.

“If I could pay a short visit to the stables,” Rachel said, getting up.

“The stables?” groaned Hal.

“Why, yes,” Rachel said resolutely. “I rode here on a very…old, but valiant, mount. I would see she is quite happy before retiring myself.”

As they walked the path to the stable yard, Hal asked, “If she is so old, Rachel, why is she still in commission?”

“You should ask my cousin that question,” Rachel said quietly. “Where I am come from, such a horse, with years of faithful service behind it, would be out to pasture. Katherine feels differently.”

In the stables, filled with the warm breath of its occupants, Rachel looked about her with bright eyes as Bess paused to caress those she knew and Hal attended her. Harry Latimar kept a fine selection of blood horses. Rachel progressed along the stalls until she found Primrose, who greeted her with weary delight. As Bess began a conversation with one of the grooms, Hal came to Rachel’s side. He looked Primrose over with a frown, sure that the Maiden Court stables had never seen such a shambling wreck before. He said idly, “You enjoy riding, lady?”

“Yes, I do, or at least I did.” She was sure he was not interested, but added just the same, “In Spain, in my home, I was set up on my first pony before I could walk. My former countrymen are the best judge of horseflesh in the world.”

“Is that so?” Hal enquired, stifling a yawn. “But since coming to this country, you do not enjoy the activity as you used to?”

“I have no opportunity to enjoy it, sir,” she said bleakly. “You see before you—” she indicated Primrose “—the poor creature I was given for the journey here. She is, in fact, the only horse at my disposal.”

Hal raised his eyebrows before her vehement tone. “Yes, well, while you are here please feel free to take any nag you wish from our stables and try it. My father, too, is accounted a fair judge of the animals.”

“I know,” Rachel returned unguardedly. “My grandmother told me that many times.”

“Your grandmother?”

A little flustered under his suddenly interested eyes, Rachel said, “Yes…my grandmother, who was, in her time, also a connoisseur of all things equine. In fact, the horse that she acquired in England when she knew your father and took back to Spain was so fine an animal it sired a whole generation of colts owned eventually by the great families of Madrid and Castile.”

Hal blinked. A few moments ago this little girl could have blended very well into the grey shadows of the night; now she was brilliant with colour. A Spanish grandmother would explain that shade of hair colour, black with a bluish sheen, and the ripe mouth—rose-red without resort to the French paste. Her figure, too, undisguised by her ill-fitting gown, was seductively proportioned and her skin, so creamily pale, also declared her ancestry. But how explain those eyes—the colour of autumn-touched beech leaves—or the clipped English voice? He said, “And your parents? Were they Spanish?”

Rachel lifted her chin before his deprecatory tone. “My father, sir, was an English gentleman, and my mother of Irish descent, whose antecedents claimed Brian Boru as their blood kin.”

“Ah, well, that explains your interest in horses. A combination of Spanish and Irish blood is indeed formidable in that field.”

Rachel flushed brightly. Her tongue had been carried away by the familiar scents and sights in this place, and she had made a fool of herself. Before she could answer a groom appeared in the half light.

“Lady Bess has returned to the manor, sir,” he said to Hal. “She bids you return when you are ready.”

“I am ready,” Rachel declared. “More than ready.”

Hal laughed easily, saying, “Well, if the Lady Rachel is satisfied, then so am I.” He glanced at the groom. “She is somewhat of an afficionado in the place we are standing now, Wat.”

Rachel, who had been conscious of her flush and trying sternly to repress it, now found herself colouring more deeply. Afficionado! she thought angrily. To use such a word clearly puts me in my place. There followed some private thoughts using the untranslatable language of the Spanish stableyard where she had spent so many of her formative years. She followed her escort back to the manor, struggling for control, thinking also that it was a year since she had felt so angry—or so painfully alive.

In the hall, where a yawning servant was quenching the candles, they discovered the party had disbanded. George and his wife and family were being accommodated in the house and Bess and Katherine had also retired. Only Harry Latimar waited courteously in his hall to bid them goodnight.

Hal embraced him. “Go to your bed, Father, you look exhausted.”

“It is the excitement of having so many family members all in my home at once,” Harry said. “Some of whom,” he added with characteristic irony, “are seldom to be coerced back.”

Hal smiled. Only his father could issue a rebuke with such grace.

“Will you show the Lady Rachel where she is quartered?” Harry said as he turned to walk slowly up the stairs.

“I will.” Hal and Rachel watched him climb the stairs, then looked at each other. Used to court hours, Hal thought he could not sleep so early. He might as well spin out the time in the company of this odd girl. “Shall we go into the parlour and take a last glass of wine?” he asked. Rachel felt she had no choice but to accept. Why, she wondered, was she plagued with this feeling of inferiority? It was…humiliating.

The lights had been doused in the main hall, but the parlour still showed a flickering yellow glow from the heaped fire and a wash of moonlight pouring in through the open window. Rachel walked towards this light, wishing she could go to bed, and despairing with herself because she did not have the confidence to say so. She seated herself on the window seat. Hal opened one of the oak cupboards and took out a flask. He extracted the wooden stopper and poured a portion of the contents into two glasses.

“My mother’s blackberry cordial,” he said, turning with the glasses in his hands. “Reputed to be the best in four counties.” He had always loved this potent brew—or perhaps he loved the memories it evoked of endless hot Maiden Court summers, with their bounty of fruitfulness at the end, and the memory of himself, a small boy accompanying his beloved mother as she gathered the sweet-smelling berries under a hazy burning English sun. They had been such happy days, he thought now, he so intent on eating that which she wished to confine in her basket. He had often defied her, he recalled, with aggressive stance and stained mouth, but had never received a word of rebuke. Instead, Bess had laughed at his infant fury and cuddled him close, calling him her little wild man.

As Hal crossed the floor of the parlour to give Rachel her glass, he found himself wanting to relive those times—to tell her of them. It was a foolish notion, he decided, for his mother had been soft and gentle and this young woman was stern-faced and hardy. She had had, he guessed, a difficult youth, and such people were incalculable. He did not sit beside her, but stood staring out at the moon-silvered gardens. “So,” he said, when the silence between them had lengthened, “your grandmother knew my father once?”

“She often spoke of him,” Rachel said softly.

“My father used to have quite a reputation with women. Were they in love, do you think?” His voice, light and dismissive, annoyed her. She lifted her eyes to the portrait on the wall facing her. In love? What an understatement! At least, on her grandmother’s part.

Hal ceased looking out at the shadowed gardens and watched her face. “Well,” he continued, with an amused smile, “if it was a grand affaire, please don’t tell my mother.”

“Why should I? Anyway…it was a long time ago. Over and forgotten.” She had noted the smile and was instantly defensive in a way which hurt her to acknowledge.

“Nothing is ever over—or forgotten—with wives, or so I have heard,” Hal replied wryly. He finished his drink and went to the cupboard to replenish his glass. “What happened with them, I wonder?”

“Oh…my lord Earl preferred your mother, I believe.”

Hal came back to her, frowning. “So. My mother knew your grandmother, too? When did all this happen? Surely not after my parents were wed?”

“I believe so.” Why had she begun this? Rachel wondered. Only because she had desired his full attention after his disparaging treatment of her in the stable and later in this hushed room. Well, she had his full attention now: his blue eyes were fixed accusingly on her face. Yet, it was truly so long ago. But, surely, strong emotions must have a life of their own and continue to exist long after those who felt them were consigned to the cold grave, or sterile old age? Madrilene de Santos’s passion for Harry Latimar, so often expressed, even when she should have been past all physical longing, had been so vital—its very substance and force was tangible even in this quiet room, in this quiet house, where she had never visited. “I loved him so!” she had so often, and so fervently, declared, “and he would have loved me, too, if that coldhearted woman had been prepared to let him go.”

Bess Latimar had been that coldhearted woman, Rachel thought. Bess, who had most warmly welcomed her rival’s granddaughter to her home, Rachel also thought guiltily: and it is her son who stands before me now, defensive for his mother. Perhaps he would always associate her with something which had happened a lifetime ago, and judge Rachel Monterey as he must judge Madrilene. He had mentioned his father’s reputation—but we are two different people, Rachel and Hal, and should meet as distinct personalities. Even so, seeing the cynical smile playing over his mouth, she thought, if he has family to defend, so have I! She said indignantly, “It was not like that!”

“Like what?” Hal was startled once again by her sudden change from resigned composure to vivid attack.

Rachel got up. She crossed the room with her graceful step and stood before the portrait. Harry Latimar’s likeness looked disinterestedly out of the faded canvas. “I know what you are thinking,” she said. “But it was not like that. My grandmother was not one of your father’s…light o’ loves. She was a lady of the first water.”

That curious dignity, thought Hal, looking at her straight back and delicate, yet strong, shoulders. It is so hard to define, but I recognise it. My mother has it, and all my family. But it is more a part of this girl than them, for it has been hard won, and hard to maintain for her…And that expression in her eyes! As if she had just now seen the biggest threat to something dear to her. He reached behind him and closed the window with a sharp thud. “Well, as you say, it was all a long time ago. Now, you must be tired. If you have finished your drink, you will wish to seek your bed. I will show you where.”

Rachel swallowed. Why was she continually making herself appear foolish before this man? It seemed a long time since anyone had been able to provoke her so. She watched him select and light a candle, trying to decide why he antagonised her.

He came to the door and stood back so she could pass through before him, giving her his negligently charming smile as he did so. At the door of her room, he opened it, placed the candlestick on a table just inside and bade her a courteous good night.

Surprisingly she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the well-stuffed pillow.

In the early morning she awoke and lay for a few moments wondering where she was. Her room at Maiden Court was small, but well appointed; lowceilinged over a very comfortable bed, richly curtained as was the glazed window. A luxuriously thick rug covered almost all the floor space. Rachel sat up, noticing the polished chests, the shallow bowls of dried herbs and flower petals thereon, the way the sunlight streaming in picked out the delicate embroidery of the wall hangings. A beautiful and tasteful room, she thought with satisfaction, arranged exactly as she herself would have done.

This chamber had one door to the passage and another to a larger apartment which had been given to Katherine. It was too early yet, Rachel judged, for Katherine to begin to call for hot water, for food, for…well, anything the spoiled young woman wanted and which she expected her despised young kinswoman to provide for her.

Rachel lay back a moment, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury and leisure. What had Hal Latimar said last night? Take any nag from our stables and try it! She thought she would do that now.

Suitably dressed, she found the stables. A groom came forward and politely asked if he could help her. Together they examined the satin-skinned animals, and—Oh! the delight of choosing a lively, lovely creature with breeding and pride in every line; the joyous freedom of galloping out into the new day, scarcely dawned but already warm and fragrant with the scent of summer. To be riding through leafy country lanes, the fields on either side so full of healthy crops. Rachel rode for miles, ecstatically happy, until the position of the sun overhead reminded her she was a long way from Maiden Court and should turn back. She rode more slowly home; her mare was still lively but Rachel knew better than to return her to her stall in a lather. As she cantered gently down the slope before the manor house another rider joined her and she saw it was Hal Latimar.

“Good day, lady.” He removed his cap as he drew level with her. “I see you took me at my word last night.”

“Indeed.” She smoothed Belle’s damp mane. She was embarrassed by the exchange between them the previous evening, but saw that no such awkwardness existed for him. He sat carelessly on his tall chestnut, playing with the reins, his eyes fixed on the flushed roof of his home. The climbing sun turned his hair to gold. “You are out early today.” Somehow she had fancied him one of the breed of men who lay long abed in the mornings.

He turned to survey her and, as if reading her thoughts, replied, “We are early risers, us Latimars—well, apart from my sister who dearly loves to waste the best part of the day. Shall we ride on down?” He assisted her to dismount in the yard and took both horses into the stables.

Bess was already in the hall. She had enjoyed the supper last night, but would enjoy today even more for her precious great-grandchildren would be present.

“May I help you with anything?” Rachel asked, shedding her cloak.

“How kind. I would welcome your help cutting some flowers from the garden. I love to have fresh blooms in the house, but fear bending is difficult for me these days. There is a basket and shears by the door.” The two women strolled out into the radiant day.

“It will be hot today,” Bess remarked.

Rachel lifted her eyes to the sky. “Yes. I enjoy this warm weather, it reminds me of home—my old home, I mean.” Her voice was so wistful.

Bess said in quick sympathy, “Yes, I suppose you must miss Spain very much.”

“Oh, I do!” Rachel said, adding impulsively, “You cannot imagine, unless you have seen for yourself, how much colour and light there is there. Even the poorest of dwellings has its brave show of flowers in little pots the owners have made themselves. And the sea is almost as bright a blue as the sky.” She paused as she saw Bess regarding her with a little pucker on her brow. “I beg your pardon, my lady.” She flushed. “Of course it is not quite…proper in England to praise anything Spanish.”

Bess began to walk along the path, looking into the flower beds. She touched a fragrant bush of roses. “Shall we have some of these? They smell so sweet, apart from being beautiful. As to praising one’s home—we all should be allowed to do that.”

Rachel bent to snip an armful of the glossy-leaved flowers and, as she leaned close to Bess, her own perfume hung in the air between them. Bess closed her eyes a moment. It was not a scent favoured in England; it was both subtle and invasive and it held memories for her. Of another girl in another time.

“Madrilene…” she murmured.

Rachel started. “That was my grandmother’s name,” she said without pausing to think. “Madrilene de Santos—very unusual, I believe. Few have heard it.”

“I have heard it,” Bess said shortly. She began to walk swiftly away. Rachel followed uncertainly.

“My lady?” she faltered. “Have I offended in some way?” Bess stopped and spun around.

“I think I knew your grandmother,” she said abruptly.

Rachel blushed. “Yes…I know.”

“Ah…you know,” Bess repeated. She looked about her garden unseeing, then said, “I think I would prefer to gather the flowers alone. Pray return to the house.” That time! she was thinking, that dreadful time! When an unscrupulous girl almost wrecked my good marriage. Now her granddaughter stands on my land as bold as brass and says, Yes…I know! Ever since Rachel Monterey had entered the hall of Maiden Court, Bess had been constantly reminded of someone else. Reminded! Why, she must have been blind. Rachel could be Madrilene’s reincarnation. And she had felt pity for the girl. Pity, bah! Any female with Madrilene de Santos’s blood did not need that gentle mercy—her pathetic ways were just a pose as her grandmother had assumed so many. Oh, it was an old, old story, but as fresh to Bess as if it were yesterday.

While Bess had been confined producing her twin son and daughter, Harry Latimar had remained with the royal court when Madrilene de Santos, spoiled and wealthy Spanish ward of King Henry Tudor, had arrived to take her place as one of Catherine Howard’s waiting ladies. Immediately her lustrous dark eyes had alighted on Harry and she had waged a deliberate campaign to snatch him for herself. Bess, and Harry, too, had eventually foiled her in this, but—standing now in the tranquillity of her gardens—Bess could still remember the pain of that whole year of her life. And the anger. Gentle and peaceable Bess had always been, but not meek, and to be confronted nearly four decades later with such an unwelcome ghost roused fire in her breast. With a face of stone she made a sweeping gesture. “Go back into the house, I say!” As Rachel stumbled away, she thought again, I must have been blind. Why, it could be she, my old enemy: all that shining black hair, that walk—as if she carried a crown on her elegant head. She stared after the retreating figure with hatred in her heart.

Chapter Four

On her way back to the manor Rachel thought, Hal Latimar! He had said last night, “Don’t tell my mother”, yet he had done so himself at the first opportunity and caused upset to that kind woman and—what?—to herself. Yesterevening she had received kindness and sympathy from Bess; for the first time since landing on England’s cold coast she had felt that someone actually cared. Now it was all spoiled. Rachel entered the hall, raging with the injustice of the situation. Whatever her grandmother had done was nothing to do with her, it had been done and decided before she was born. Tears filled her eyes.

“Why, whatever is wrong?” Hal was standing just inside the door.

“You should know!” Rachel returned furiously. Judith, George’s wife, joined them, looking into the trug at the roses.

“Why, you did not do so well. Where is my mother-in-law?”

“Still in the gardens,” Rachel said indistinctly. “She no longer wished me to help her.” Judith looked out.

“I’ll go and help her. Find a receptacle for those, will you, Rachel?”

Rachel brushed past Hal. Yes, she would find a receptacle. That she could so, for that was her function—to be nothing more than a servant arranging flowers. Hal followed her.

“What do you mean, I should know?” he asked her at the kitchen door.

“Please stand aside. I must find a…receptacle.”

“My lady mother does not keep her flower bowls and such in the kitchen, but in a cupboard in the parlour. I will show you.”

Grimly she followed him to the parlour and selected a bronze bowl from those he showed her. Hal called for a maid and asked her to fill it with water. Rachel still held the basket gripped in her two hands. He removed it and set it on the floor.

“Now, what is this all about? Why are you so upset?” he asked again.

“You told your lady mother about what we talked of last night,” she accused him.

“I did not. I have just this moment come in from the stables and have not seen her yet this day. Besides—what if I had? Why should it matter so to you?”

“Why?” Rachel turned her eyes, tearful and brilliant, on him. “Because she was so kind to me last night and now looks upon me with disfavour. Extreme disfavour.”

Through the open door Hal could hear Katherine’s distinctive voice and Piers Roxburgh’s deeper tones. He had no time to waste with this girl’s fancies. Impatiently he said, “Well, if you walk about life looking as if you expected it to take a stick to your back, you can be sure it will. The real world is not…kind, or…favourable, Rachel. One must hold one’s head high and learn to keep one’s pride.”

Rachel was outraged. “I beg your pardon? I hardly think you are the best judge of that!”

Hal considered her for a moment in silence, then said slowly, “Why? Because you perhaps think, as so many do: there goes Hal Latimar—good looks, good breeding, wealth, competent skills in all the courtly arts and a proud ancestry? Fortunate man! But, my dear girl, where I have chosen to make my way there are dozens better bred, scores better heeled, and hundreds more comely. The one advantage I have over any of them is my heritage of the Tudor monarchs’ penchant for Latimars. And that is a card I would disdain to lay.” There was a heartbeat’s pause in which she, in turn, considered him, guessing this was a side of the golden Latimar boy he rarely exposed. It was interesting, and so was his first comment to her.

“Do I really look as you described?”

“Indeed you do. When you entered the hall last night you looked for all the world as if you expected to be banished with all speed to the servants’ quarters.”

The unshed tears were still present in her eyes. She blinked them away. “Is that so surprising?” she asked with a catch in her voice. “It is hard to be me, you know. With no one do I come first now. Or even second or third.”

“Yes, well,” he said uncomfortably, “I can see it must be difficult to spend so much of your time with someone so incomparably beautiful and talented as your cousin.”

That was not what she had meant at all! Annoyed, she retorted, “My mother was ten times more lovely and talented, and she treated those who served her with the same respect they granted her.”

“I am sure you intend no criticism,” he said coldly. “I assume you have some gratitude towards the Lady Katherine,” he said the name with reverence, “for welcoming you into her home and making you her friend.”

“We are not friends—” Rachel bit back her next words which would have been bitterly lacking in “gratitude”. Many times in the last year she had thought, Some keep a dog they can kick when the mood takes them, Katherine keeps me for this purpose. There was a rustle of silk at the door and Katherine herself appeared in the doorway. She wore a gown of amber satin, almost an exact match for her eyes, and flashing diamonds at her throat and in her ears. Inappropriate, Rachel thought, for a midday meal where children would be present, but Katherine often displayed poor taste in an area where any true lady would have been adept.