“If you do, I shall show the king the stripes you have inflicted upon my back,” she threatened.
“Oh!” The Countess of Welk collapsed into a chair, her countenance pale, her hand fluttering over her heart.
“Now look what you have done to your mother,” the earl said.
“She is only surprised that I have spoken up as she has herself longed to do all these years of her marriage to you, my lord,” Bess bluntly told her father. “Please, sir, be fair. Charlie has never before sought to wed a lady. He loves me enough to ask the king’s aid in making our dream come true. We love one another.”
“Are you with child?” her father demanded angrily.
“Oh!” The Countess of Welk closed her eyes in despair.
“What?” Bess looked astounded at her father’s words.
“Have you allowed this Stuart bastard liberties?” her father said. “Have you lain with him? My question is plainspoken, girl.”
“Your query is outrageous and insulting, sir,” Bess said. “I have not allowed the duke any liberties. Nor have I shamed myself or him by behaving in a wanton manner, laying with him without benefit of clergy. How dare you even suggest such a thing, my lord!”
“I am your sire, and it is my right to make certain that you are chaste, particularly here at court, where gossip can ruin a maid’s reputation even if it isn’t the truth,” the earl replied. “I only seek to protect you, Bess. You are my youngest child.”
“I thank you for your concern, my lord,” Bess said dryly. “Now with your permission I must return to St. James. The queen allowed me but two hours away, and my time grows short.” She curtsied and departed her parents.
Having no choice, the Earl and Countesss of Welk grudgingly accepted their daughter’s decision in the matter. Charles Frederick Stuart and Elizabeth Anne Lightbody were married in the king’s own chapel at Windsor Castle on the third day of May in the year 1639. They had withdrawn immediately from the court, visiting only rarely thereafter, content to remain in the countryside at Queen’s Malvern, Charlie’s estate. And to everyone’s surprise, the ebulient and charming not-so-royal Stuart was a loyal and devoted husband.
“What color thread?” the duke asked his wife in response to her request.
“Whatever you can find,” Bess said. “But try and find some light color. There will be black for certain, for these Puritans are forever mending their garments until they are more thread than fabric. However, try and find something light,” Bess instructed him.
“Can I go to Worcester with you, Papa?” the duke’s eldest son, Frederick, asked his father.
“I should welcome your company, Freddie,” his father replied.
“When?” the boy queried.
“In a few days’ time,” the duke promised.
“Let me go too,” Autumn said. “I’m so bored.”
“Nay,” her brother said. “It is not safe on the road for a young woman these days, sister.”
“I could dress like a boy,” Autumn answered him.
“No one, little sister, would ever mistake you for a boy,” Charlie said, his eyes lingering a long moment on his sister’s shapely young bosom. “It would be impossible to disguise those treasures, Autumn. Like our mother, you have been generously endowed by nature.”
“Don’t be vulgar, Charlie,” she snapped at him.
Bess giggled, unable to help herself. Then, managing to control herself, she said, “We’ll find something fun to do, sister, while Charlie is in Worcester. The apples are ready to press, and we can help with the cider making. Sabrina loves cider making.”
“Your daughter is nine, Bess. At nine little girls love just about everything. Why did the pocky Parliament have to behead King Charles and declare this commonwealth? I want to go to court, but there can be no court without a king. God’s blood, I hope your cousin young King Charles comes home to rule us soon! Everyone I speak to is sick unto death of Master Cromwell and his ilk. Why doesn’t someone behead him? They called old King Charles a traitor, but it seems to me that those who murder God’s chosen monarch are the real traitors.”
“Autumn!” her brother pleaded, anguished.
“Oh, no one is listening, Charlie,” Autumn said airily.
He shook his head wearily. He had never thought when his mother asked him to allow Autumn to visit this summer that she would prove to be such a handful. He kept thinking of her as his baby sister, but as she had so succinctly pointed out to him earlier, she was going to be nineteen in another month’s time. He wondered why his mother and stepfather had not found a suitable husband for Autumn; but then he remembered the difficulties they had had marrying off his two elder sisters. And who the hell was there in the eastern Highlands for the Duke of Glenkirk’s daughter to marry? Autumn had needed to go to court, but these last years of civil war had made such a visit impossible, and then his Uncle Charles had been executed. Now what English court there was existed in exile, sometimes in France, sometimes in Holland. He didn’t know what they were going to do with this sister, but he suspected they had better do it soon, for Autumn was ripe for bedding and could easily find her way into mischief.
The day he had planned on going to Worcester a messenger from Glenkirk arrived before dawn. It was early October. The clansman had had a difficult time eluding the parliamentary forces in Scotland but, moving with great caution, he had finally managed to cross over the border. From there he had made his way easily to Queen’s Malvern. Grim-faced and obviously quite exhausted, he told the duke his news was for Lady Autumn first. The duke sent for his wife and sister, who came quickly, still in her dressing gown, hearing her visitor was a Glenkirk man.
“Ian More! Has my father sent you to escort me home?” Autumn asked excitedly. “How is my mother? ’Tis good to see one of our own.”
Wordlessly—and, the duke noted, with tears in his eyes—the messenger handed the letter to Autumn. “ ’Tis from yer mam, m’lady.”
Eagerly Autumn broke the seal of the missive and opened it. Her eyes scanned the parchment, her face growing paler as her eyes flew over the written words, a cry of terrible anguish finally escaping her as she slumped against her brother, obviously terribly distraught, the letter slipping from her hand to fall to the carpet. She was shaking with emotion.
The clansman picked up the parchment, handing it to the duke, who now had an arm about his sister. Charlie quickly read his mother’s words to her daughter, his handsome face contorting in a mixture of sorrow and anger. Finally laying aside the letter, he said to the clansman, “You will remain until you are rested, Ian More, or does my mother wish you to stay in England?”
“I’ll go back as soon as the beast and I have had a few days’ rest, m’lord. Forgive me for being the bearer of such woeful tidings.”
“Stable your horse, and then go to the kitchens for your supper. Smythe will find you a place to sleep,” the duke told the messenger. Then he turned to comfort his sister, who had begun to weep piteously.
“What is it?” Bess asked her husband, realizing that the news the Glenkirk man had brought was very serious.
“My f-father i-is d-d-dead!” Autumn sobbed. “Ohh, damn Master Cromwell and his parliamentary forces to hell!” She pulled from her brother’s gentle embrace and ran from the family hall where they had been seated.
“Oh, Charlie, I am so sorry!” Bess said. She looked after her young sister-in-law. “Shall I go after her?”
The duke shook his head. “Nay. Autumn considers such a public show of emotion on her part a weakness. She has been that way since her childhood. She will want to be alone.”
“What happened?” Bess queried her husband.