Page 82 of The Forsaken
“You mean at the retirement village?” Gabe asked, perking up.
“Those cottages have everything a person my age needs. There are no endless flights of stairs, there’s a little garden, and there are loads of people my age. And they have activities. I can take up watercolor painting or do Pilates.”
“Do you even know what that is?”
“Don’t patronize me, son. I might not be overly active now, but I was quite athletic in my day. Your father always said I had stunning legs.”
“And he’d know,” Gabe joked. Graeme Russell had adored his wife, but he’d always noticed pretty women, especially those that were fit. “Mum, I think that would be ideal,” he said, suddenly more hopeful about the future.
“It would, but I can’t bring myself to sell the family home. Some big developer is going to come in and build luxury flats, or something equally ghastly. The land has been in the Russell family for centuries. It’s your children’s legacy.”
“Mum, unless Quinn and I move to Berwick and spend a fortune restoring the family home, it will be a ruin by the time my children are old enough to understand what a legacy is. We have to either go all in, or let it go out of the family, and the choice is yours.”
“Gabriel, you’re a historian, for the love of God. How can you feel no connection to the land of your ancestors?” Phoebe exclaimed.
“I do feel a connection to the place, but uprooting my family and playing ‘lord of the crumbling manor’ is not my life’s plan.”
“That’s it then,” Phoebe conceded. “I’ll call an estate agent after I return from London. We’ll sell the house and land, pay the death duties, and use the remaining funds to buy me a cottage at the retirement village and you a bigger flat in London.”
“Are you sure you’re all right with that, Mum?”
“Your father is probably spinning in his grave, but yes, I’m all right with it. There’s no use holding on to the past if the past has no hold over you.”
“It’ll be better for everyone. You’ll see.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. I just feel a little guilty, that’s all.”
“I know. I do too. Who’s going to look after Buster when you come down for Emma’s birthday?”
“I’ll leave him with Cecily for a few days. I’m actually looking forward to visiting London. It’s been too long. I’d like to go to the National Gallery, and maybe see a show.”
“I’ll get tickets. Is there anything specific you’d like to see?”
“I’d like to seeKing Charles III. I heard great things about it,” Phoebe replied.
“Consider it done.”
“Thank you, son. And plan something romantic for you and Quinn. You two can use a night out. I’ll be happy to mind Emma.”
“Quinn would like that. Good night, Mum.”
Gabe disconnected the call and turned for home. He did feel better after talking to his mother, but a nagging sense of guilt gnawed at his insides. His mother was right; Graeme Russell would be spinning in his grave if he knew. Gabe sighed. Moving up north would accomplish one thing that staying in London wouldn’t: It would get Quinn away from Luke once and for all.
FIFTY
NOVEMBER 1464
Westminster Palace, London
The rain fell in sheets, soaking everything in its path and leaching every bit of daylight from the rooms. Braces of candles were lit despite the early hour, and a fire burned in every grate, adding a bit of coziness, but not nearly enough heat to warm the chambers.
Guy and Sir Anthony Hayes, one of Warwick’s most trusted knights, stood guard at the antechamber on Warwick’s orders, doing their best to look bland and disinterested in what was happening inside as the earl’s voice thundered from behind closed doors. Warwick didn’t bother to hide his displeasure at being thwarted, and anyone who passed close enough to the door could hear exactly what was being said. All Guy and Anthony could do to protect the earl’s privacy was advise the passersby to move on and not linger in an ill-disguised attempt to hear more.
Guy had arrived at Westminster Palace a few weeks ago as part of Warwick’s retinue. The earl had recently returned from abroad, having been involved in negotiations with France regarding a bride for King Edward. The object of the discussions was Bona, the daughter of Louis, the Duke of Savoy, and the sister-in-law of King Louis XI. Pleased with the outcome of the proceedings, the earl had been eager to share the news with Edward.
The ride from Middleham had been a merry one, with the earl regaling his escorts with stories of the French court and enjoying the journey as they passed through peaceful villages and sleepy hamlets. Warwick had appeared not only happier, but healthier. He’d looked gaunt and tired after the siege of Norham Castle and the subsequent foray into Scotland, but after weeks ofbeing wined and dined by the French, he’d seemed more his old self, bursting with vitality and brimming with self-importance. That had been before he found out on his arrival in Westminster that he’d been negotiating on behalf of a bridegroom who was already wed.
“Who does he think he is?” Warwick roared from the antechamber, addressing his brother, George Neville, the Bishop of Exeter. “A monarch does not marry on a whim, and in secret! Elizabeth Woodville is a beauty, no one is contesting that, but he could have simply bedded her, or even set her up as his mistress if he’s so smitten. He could have fucked her until he tired of her—and he will tire of her—while still doing his duty to the Crown. He didn’t have to marry the wench, by God! Think of it,” Warwick continued, his ire not having diminished an iota since learning of the marriage several weeks ago. “A Lancastrian widow, with two children, who’s of advanced years, and comes from a long line of no one of consequence. What was he thinking?” Warwick’s voice growled like distant thunder, too far away to do any damage, but still threatening.
