“Aunt Marguerite?” Celeste swallowed back the iron taste of apprehension that rose in her throat. Her beloved companion’s face, usually so rosy, now looked the color of yesterday’s ashes. “I pray you, sweet Aunt, speak to me!” Far from answering her niece, Marguerite barely breathed. Strong hands grasped Celeste’s shoulders. “By the sword of Saint George, my lady, come under the cover of the trees. You’ll catch your death in this damnable English weather.” Gaston, his voice grown hoarse from years of commanding green-willow youths, spoke with gruff gentleness in her ear. “I shall attend your good aunt.”
“Non!” Celeste shook herself free of his grip. “I will not leave her side for a moment. I cannot let her die!”
Swearing a string of colorful words heard more usually in the taverns of Paris, Gaston vented his frustration upon the five men-at-arms and the white-faced driver who strove to lift the overturned wagon off the unconscious lady.
“Move, you filthy lice! Put your backs to it! What are you? Coney rabbits?”
Ignoring her sergeant’s language, Celeste focused her attention on the faint rise and fall of Marguerite’s spare bosom. The good Lord be praised! She lived yet! Clasping her aunt’s hand in hers, Celeste willed her young strength into Marguerite’s fragile body. The side of the baggage wagon that pinned the woman against the wall of the ditch barely moved, despite the combined efforts of the men.
Shielding her eyes against the cold, driving rain of the autumn storm, Celeste scanned the flat countryside about them. Farmers’ fields, recently harvested, lay in dark boggy patches, relieved here and there by sheltering trees, whose black dripping branches released the last of this year’s leaves. She gnawed her lower lip as her gaze swept across the unpromising scene. If a troubadour wove this latest misadventure into verse, several handsome knights would come galloping down the road any minute, led by the darkly handsome Sir Lancelot. Alas, this was no story sung by a hearth fire or illustrated in one of her father’s precious books. The rain pelting against her face hid the tears Celeste couldn’t stop from rolling down her cheeks. She must not let her men know how truly frightened she was. A dark, square building, half-hidden by a rise in the landscape, suddenly caught her attention.
“Gaston, regardez!” She pointed across the flooded fields. “A house, and of goodly size, I think.”
Gaston let go the near wheel and squinted in the direction his mistress pointed. “Oui, my lady. And pray God they understand French, for there’s not a man among us who speaks this bastard country’s tongue.” He motioned to the young driver who attended the horses under a roadside copse of elm trees. “You, Pierre! There’s a house of some sort ahead. Don’t snivel and ask me where. Mount up my Black Devil and ride for help.”
The slim boy nodded, then flung himself into Gaston’s saddle.
“And if you value the hide on your skinny arse, do not return without goodly company!” Gaston shouted after Pierre as the boy urged the great stallion into a gallop. “Pah! I may skin him like a coney if he mistreats my horse!” the sergeant growled into the gale.
Celeste shook the droplets out of her eyes. “Please, good Saint Catherine. Let whoever they are understand Pierre!” she prayed, her words snatched from her lips by the wind. Her veil whipped into her face, wrapping her features within its wet white folds. Angrily she snatched the bothersome thing off her head, allowing her raven tresses to fly freely about her. A low groan returned her attention to her aunt.
Marguerite’s eyelids fluttered, blinked, then opened. For a scant moment, the woman stared past Celeste, and then her face crumpled into a portrait of pain.
“I am dying!” Marguerite wheezed. Then, in a clearer tone, she snapped. “What happened?”
Celeste’s heart leapt with joy. If Marguerite could complain and question at the same time, she was certainly not dying.
“Hush, sweet darling,” Celeste crooned, in much the same way Aunt Marguerite had often comforted her and her sisters when they were younger. “Don’t try to move. The wagon hit a rock in the roadway. It broke one of the wheels and bounced you out. Then the wagon fell on top of you. Are you badly hurt?” she added, hoping to sound calm and in control of the situation.
Marguerite rolled her eyes. “Oui, silly child! Of course I am hurt! And what is that ox Gaston doing about it, one asks? Swearing death and destruction, as always? Fah! We never should have set foot on this cursed island! Why couldn’t you have stayed in the Loire and become a nun?” Marguerite groaned loudly again.
Celeste kissed her aunt’s hand and murmured foolish endearments, all the while hoping to hear the sound of horses approaching. Where was that laggard Pierre?
“Bonjour, Lady Marguerite!” said Gaston, peering over Celeste’s shoulder. “We shall have you free in no time.”
Marguerite glared at the rough-hewn soldier. “In no time? Ha! You speak true, you slug. Time will run out before you can manage to relieve me of this burden. Then where will I be, eh? With the angels in heaven, that’s where!”
“I predict your good aunt will recover,” Gaston muttered in Celeste’s ear. “Her tongue still holds a sharp sting.”
The wagon shifted slightly. Gaston threw his weight against it, growling down a great number of oaths upon drivers, horses, English roads, English weather, and England in general. His scarred brown leather boots slid down the muddy embankment as he fought against the unwieldy weight.
“Courage, good Aunt. Pierre has gone for help.”
“Bah!” Marguerite grimaced. “A great heap of good that will do! ’Tis like sending a tortoise to market!” She groaned again, though Celeste could not tell if it was more for effect than from pain. Aunt Marguerite’s convenient headaches and mysterious stomach disorders were legendary among the extended Montcalm family. This time, however, the older woman indeed had something to complain about.
“I am not surprised this happened. A witch put her curse on us from the moment we landed, I am sure of it.” She sighed. “Why must your parents send you to this godforsaken country simply to be married?” Marguerite continued, her voice growing weaker. “Just wait until I next see your father! I tell you truly, Lissa. I shall deal him such a blow upon his ear, he will see stars at midday!”
Celeste smoothed her palm across her aunt’s brow, as if she could wipe away both the pain and the ceaseless rain. “Hush, sweet darling. Save your strength. Pierre will return soon.”
“Ha! When the devil speaks the truth!” Moaning softly, Marguerite closed her eyes.
Celeste cast an anxious glance at Gaston. Raindrops hung on his bushy eyebrows and dripped from his salt-and-pepper beard. He gave her the ghost of a rueful smile. “It will take more than an upset cart to silence Marguerite de la Columbiare. Wipe away your fear, my lady.” The old soldier squeezed her shoulder, then renewed his fierce exhortations to his laboring men.
Thank the good Lord her father had sent Gaston with her when Celeste and Marguerite left their chateau, L’Étoile, two months ago! Two months? Nay, it seemed like two years, and the journey to her unknown bridegroom was only half-over. Celeste pulled the cloak closer over Marguerite, trying to block the worst of the storm. Gruff Gaston had been her father’s faithful sergeant during his youthful campaigns. Now he served his master’s youngest daughter with equal devotion. Celeste promised herself to commend Gaston’s steadfastness to her parents as soon as she was safely at Snape Castle—wherever in this wretched land that odd-sounding place was.
“By the holy cross, it is about time!” Gaston bellowed. “Take heart, my lady. Pierre returns, and brings