The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,32

And he said I’m of an age for marrying but there are none here for me to marry.” She had hated his answer, hated his smugness. He was still so pompous. It made her sick.

“There you have it, and instead of being grateful that he is looking after you, you sit here moping.”

“I am not.”

“You are. As sure as my name is Agnes Penny, you have the sulks.” Mrs. Penny rethreaded her needle with red.

“I even dressed,” Cordaella whispered, toying with the wide sleeves that fell back from the wrist, exposing the creamy white chemise beneath. The violet and gray surcoat was cut narrow through the shoulders and bosom, falling in long loose folds from pleats at her breasts. “He doesn’t have to be ashamed of me. I wouldn’t behave badly.”

“Maybe he fears you’d draw more attention than his own. Who can say?” Mrs. Penny jabbed the needle through the fabric, pulling gently on the thread. “You don’t try to look at it from his point of view. The fact is, the issue is, that you aren’t…” and she hesitated, searching for the right words, “or, what I mean is, you are a problem.”

“A problem?” Cordaella leaned forward against the glass until her brow rested on the thick pane. She watched as three ladies met on the lawn, their gowns the colors of peacock blue, vivid green, and buttercup yellow, the fabric swirling as they talked and laughed. Two men sauntered past, bowing, laughing, their jupons just as bright, more blues and greens with leggings of contrasting color. “I’ve never wanted to be a problem. But sometimes it has been so hard.”

Mrs. Penny attempted to soften her tone. “Come, child, come sit by me. You haven’t finished your cider.”

“But it’s cold now. And I don’t really care for it.” Cordaella’s heavy plaits of hair tumbled over her shoulders, falling from the coil on her head, bringing the headpiece of rolled fabric and cut leaves down.

“At least let me fix your hair.”

Cordaella watched as the cluster of ladies moved from the middle of the lawn to the white tent pitched close to the hundred year old oak tree. The giant limbs of the tree supported one side of the white canvas. That was where he was supposed to be, this special visitor, the Irishman who had been recently knighted by the King.

“Cordaella?”

She stood up and went to Mrs. Penny’s chair where she knelt long enough to let the nanny twist the coils back up and fasten the headdress on. “There.” Mrs. Penny patted her. “You look lovely again.”

Cordaella didn’t return to the window, taking a stool in front of the hearth instead. This had once been Eddie’s seat before he was too large for anything but a regular chair. “Do you remember my Aunt Charlotte?” she asked, hugging her knees.

“Oh, yes.”

“Was she happy here? Didn’t she find it terribly different from Aberdeen?”

“I think your aunt accepted whatever life gave her.”

“Which means she received very little, doesn’t it?”

“That is not at all what I intended, miss, and you know it. Your aunt was a lovely young girl. She had spirit and intelligence and considerable charm.”

“I wonder that she died so young.”

Mrs. Penny bit off a bit of red thread and selected a new bobbin from her basket. “From what I know, all the Macleod daughters died young. A tragedy for the clan.”

“I wish I had known them.” Cordaella rose from the stool and wandered aimlessly about the chamber, touching odds and ends as she passed. The water pitcher. A pile of yarn. One of Philip’s old books. No one really used the nursery anymore. She wasn’t sure why she had taken refuge here today. Perhaps it was the size. Or the view. From the window she could see across the peaks, not to mention the courtyard below. “I wish there was something of them to hold onto—just for luck, or memory. Maybe it would help.” She had returned to the window, her fingers on the thick bubbled glass.

“If I could, I’d give you a bit of the Macleod smile. Those sisters had the sweetest expressions…” Mrs. Penny sighed, “Oh, well, it is just as well. None of you take after your mothers—” Elisabeth interrupted her by dancing in.

“Oh, Cordy!” she cried, sinking into a chair. “You missed a wonderful party.”

“Did I?” Cordaella picked up Philip’s old book and settled down in a chair by the window.

“Everything was so lovely! And Sir Bran—” Elisabeth acted as if she were swooning, her small mouth