there, since Rupert would be occupied in London. In spite of Patience's quietly gracious manner, Micheline felt doubly uneasy when left alone with both her "sisters." Instinct told her that Patience sympathized with Cicely.
Meanwhile, Lady Cicely Weston was on her best behavior. She was unfailingly polite to Micheline, especially when Andrew was nearby, but there was no real affection in her voice or manner. Cicely seemed to truly wish her sister-in-law did not exist. One day, when they'd found themselves alone in the summer parlor at Weston House, Micheline had decided not to strike up a conversation, just to see how her sister-in-law would react. A full five minutes had passed during which Cicely refused to look up from her book, pretending that she hadn't noticed Micheline's unremarkable presence.
Micheline sighed now, staring at the tray of food. She felt drained of energy these days, though she continued to hope that the combination of rest and the Cotswold hills would reinvigorate her. After all, they'd just arrived the night before, and it was a rather long trip, but tears came unbidden to her eyes as she thought of Cicely out riding with Andrew in her place. Was she even riding Primrose?
Betsy reappeared to direct the serving girls who brought in the copper bathtub and buckets of steaming water. After scolding Micheline for not eating, she stood over her mistress and watched as she managed to swallow a few bites of gingered bread. Mary came to wash her hair, then Micheline asked to be left alone for a soak in the tub.
Resting her head against the copper rim, she closed her eyes, helpless to resist the strong pull of fatigue. This longing to sleep was entirely new to her, and extremely frustrating. She wanted to dress and hurry out to join Andrew at the stables when he returned from his ride, but even the thought of so much activity made her wait to attempt it. Just a few more minutes of rest... Micheline sighed, and a tear slid down her cheek, but she did not stir.
"You look altogether too sad for one so lovely," Sandhurst's voice remarked from the doorway.
Her eyes flew open. "Andrew!"
"None other." He was leaning against a carved dresser, the picture of casual strength in the fawn doublet, breeches, and boots he'd worn the first night at Fontainebleau. His brown eyes watched her intently. "What ails you, sweetheart?"
Micheline searched for her soap in an effort to avoid her husband's gaze. "You know well enough what ails me—and how much I wish I felt otherwise... but after all, it is for a good cause!"
"I wasn't speaking of your recent passion for sleep," Andrew said, walking over to sit back on his heels beside the bathtub. Gently he traced the course of her tear with one fingertip. "What's all this?"
Laying her cheek against his warm hand, Micheline sighed. She had no intention of burdening him with her insignificant worries. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm just not myself, and I don't like it any better than you do."
"Michelle, I always like you." Sandhurst flashed a grin then and her heart melted. "I'm in need of a bath. Do you suppose there's room for me?"
Copying his tone, Micheline smiled radiantly and assured him, "My lord, there's always room for you!"
Chapter 34
June 9-11, 1533
Each morning, Micheline would wake when Andrew rose at dawn, but then a tide of sleep would pull her under for more long, dream-filled hours. As if drugged, she would drift upward toward consciousness every so often, then sink back into oblivion. Her greatest challenge during early June was summoning the resolve to get out of bed to bathe and dress.
So when Micheline found herself outdoors in the garden before eleven o'clock one morning, her mood was self-congratulatory. Clad in a pretty summer gown of white and azure silk, she wound her way through the formal walks and shady alleys, past knotbeds and borders of damask roses, columbine, purple bugles, snapdragons, and red campion, cutting flowers and dropping them into the basket looped over her arm.
"My, don't you look the country gentlewoman!"
Micheline glanced up to see Cicely approaching from one of the clipped expanses of lawn.
"I love it here," she replied simply, ignoring the hint of derisiveness in the younger girl's voice. "It's especially enjoyable this first year, since I am never certain what nature will unveil next."
Cicely selected a fragrant damask rose from the basket and held it to her nose. "You'll be happy to know that