Page 13 of Feathers in the Wind
Bess scanned the room with a bright, excited gaze. ‘Don’t the men look fine?’
‘They do,’ Perdita conceded looking around the gathering of bright plumes and gold braid.
‘What is it about men about to do battle that makes them seem so heroic?’ Bess wondered aloud.
Before Perdita could reply she heard her name called and turned to see an unmistakable figure dressed in chartreuse satin, his hair curling past his shoulders and the beginning of a moustache on his upper lip, pushing his way through the throng. The other young men paled in comparison to Robin Marchant’s good looks and Bess let out an audible sigh.
‘Close your mouth. You look like a fish,’ Perdita murmured.
‘Do I look all right?’ Bess fussed with her collar.
‘You’re perfect,’ Perdita assured her.
Robin swept the ladies a deep bow and they both responded with a polite curtsey. As he straightened, Perdita realised how tall he was. Although she would have described Adam Coulter as well above middle height, she recalled now that when she had seen them together, Robin had topped his older brother by several fingers.
‘Mistress Clifford, Mistress Gray, what a pleasure to see you both here,’ he said with a smile, his gaze only for Bess.
‘What brings you here?’ Perdita enquired. ‘I didn’t think you were with Northampton?’
Robin tore his gaze away from Bess and glanced around the gathering.
‘Denzil is here to talk with Northampton. I can’t see him for the moment.’
‘You must introduce us,’ Bess said. ‘We would dearly love to meet your brother.’ She glanced at Perdita with a sweet smile. ‘We’ve heard so much about him.’
Robin turned to peruse the crowd. ‘Ah, there he is.’
As Robin gestured, a man pushed through the crowd towards them. Perdita saw at once where Robin got his height. Denzil Marchant was a big man both in height and breadth. His long, strawberry-fair hair bristled around his face like a mane and he affected a fashionable beard and moustache in emulation of his royal master.
Adam Coulter bore little or no resemblance to either of his brothers. Joan had described him as the cuckoo in the nest with some justification.
‘Rob. I’ve been looking for you,’ Denzil boomed at his brother. ‘My apologies, ladies. I didn’t see you there.’
Robin turned to the women. ‘My brother, Lord Marchant, may I introduce Aunt Joan’s stepdaughter, Mistress Clifford, and kinswoman, Mistress Gray.’
‘How does my aunt?’ Denzil asked after the courtesies had been exchanged.
‘She’s very well at the present,’ Perdita replied. ‘Although, as you probably recall, her health can be uncertain.’
Denzil frowned. ‘She still suffers from that rheumatic fever?’ When Perdita nodded, he said, ‘I must pay a visit to her.’ He looked around the company. ‘Is your brother here, Mistress Clifford?’
‘He is. He has raised a company of men for Lord Northampton,’ Bess replied.
‘Good to hear.’ Denzil’s face darkened. ‘Now what’s this Robin tells me about my scapegrace brother taking Parliament’s shilling?’
‘We believe he’s with Lord Brooke at Warwick,’ Bess said.
Denzil’s moustache twitched, a crease deepening between his shaggy eyebrows. He shook his head. ‘Brooke? So, it’s true.’
Robin shrugged. ‘I told you I had it from his own mouth, Denzil. Both these ladies were present.’
Denzil snorted. ‘He’s no blood of mine. I’ll shed no tear when he’s hanged as a traitor. Well, if you’ll excuse me ladies, I have work to do. Robin, to me if you will.’ He swept a bow and was gone, pushing his way through the crowd like a ship broaching the waves.
Robin glanced after his brother. ‘My apologies, ladies. I am afraid that I too must abandon you.’
‘So soon?’ Bess could not hide her disappointment.
A smile lit Robin’s face. ‘I promise we will meet again soon, Mistress Clifford.’
