The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,31

ports of Castile?” Beaufort added, squinting at the map and the intricate arrow patterns.

“Portugal won’t trade with Castile, and trades only to a limited degree with Italy.” Eton felt warm, relaxed. His mind was clear, every thought lucid.

“Meaning, Portugal might welcome a new treaty—” Bolingbroke smiled, realizing the considerable possibilities. “And Castile…another future possibility.”

“Exactly,” the Earl of Derby agreed, thinking of Aberdeen and its harbor, along with Cordaella and her inheritance. When the girl married…depending on whom she married…Eton smiled. She could be of infinite value, an asset, unlike his own poor plain Elisabeth. It had been a stroke of luck—or was it genius?—bringing Cordaella to Peveril. She would more than pay for her keep. She would make his.

CHAPTER FOUR

‡

April 1412

IN PROTEST TO the girl’s threat, the plump elderly woman stood, her full skirts rustling beneath the simple blue houppelande. With a hasty motion, Mrs. Penny tucked the needlework into her skirts, folding her hands over her ample stomach. “His Grace will not stand for your impertinence. Neither will I.”

Cordaella turned disdainfully from the window. “Rubbish!” she cried.

“You grow wilder by the day, Cordaella Buchanan.”

“And you always say the same things.”

“Do not forget your place. You show too little gratitude for his lordship’s kindness.”

“Oh, he is kind, isn’t he?” Cordaella settled back down on the stool in front of the window, her arms propping her up on the sill. “In the six years I’ve been here—”

“Don’t start on that again. I don’t want to hear it. If you can’t be pleasant, Cordaella, you needn’t speak at all.” Mrs. Penny placed a hand on either side of her high back chair and eased down into the cushioned seat with an appreciative groan. “Your gratitude ought to assume a more pleasing demeanor. And even if you don’t feel grateful, you don’t need to wear it on your face.” She tugged the needlework out of her blue waistband and fanned her flushed face with the scrap of linen. “You are too sour. It’s almost as if you want everyone to know what a pitiful life you’ve had.”

“I want pity from no one—”

“Now I’ll grant you, it is a pitiful life—”

“Not even from you.” She concluded firmly, giving the nanny a look that would have wounded a more sensitive soul. “Besides, this castle is full of fools—the exception being Lord Philip—and I shall not pay lip service to the Earl or the younger children. Eddie is as much a baby as the day I arrived and goodness, he’s nearly twelve. Elisabeth—”

The nanny interrupted her. “The Etons have treated you admirably considering you were orphaned.”

“Mrs. Penny.” Cordaella looked at the old nurse as if amazed. “My uncle took me in because he profits from my warship. He receives all income from my lands, all revenues and taxes from Aberdeen and the various castles in the shire.”

“Yours?” The nanny sniffed. “I can’t help asking what everyone was asking. Why you? Why did the Duke Macleod leave everything to you? Philip, he is the one that ought to resent you, but does he? No, he is like a lamb. Always thinking of you—”

“Philip is good,” Cordaella admitted.

“Philip is more than good. He is an angel and you are ungrateful.”

Cordaella looked sideways at the old woman. “The Earl didn’t have to take me in. And he didn’t have to profit from the Aberdeen income. Until I marry, he takes everything.”

“See, you can be guaranteed an excellent marriage. You will take into the marriage an outstanding dowry. Elisabeth. Tell! Now she knows she won’t ever have that kind of dowry.” The nanny adjusted her girth as she shifted her immense weight on the cushion. “So why are you so sour today? This is more like the girl I knew six years ago, not like the young lady of fifteen who can have sweet manners and a pleasant face.”

“Perhaps I only wanted an invitation to join the party,” Cordaella answered more wistfully, watching the garden banquet again. From the window she could spot Elisabeth’s pale yellow damask gown swish through the guests, the dark gold embroidery on the yoke and sleeves glistening in the sun.

“His Grace has his reasons for your not going. Besides, it’s your pride that eats at you most.” The grizzled old head wagged slowly, perspiration beading her upper lip.

“Your pride will get the better of you, if you’re not careful, miss. I’ve seen it before. I’ve said it before.”

“But why couldn’t I go?”

The nanny shrugged. “Now that I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.”

“I did.