Page 40 of Feathers in the Wind
Louise waved her fingers at Bess. ‘No need for such formality, my dear. Here among my friends and family, I am simply Louise.’ She cast a glance at Robin, one elegant eyebrow arched meaningfully. ‘I trust the lovely Robin has been looking after you well?’
Bess giggled, her hand flying to her throat. Robin's face darkened.
The full force of Louise’s attention now turned to Perdita. Perdita took a breath. This woman was truly beautiful, with thick gold hair and almond- shaped green eyes. Denzil stood looking at her with glazed eyes. Like a moth drawn to a candle, Perdita stared, unable to take her eyes from this woman. Little wonder that men were attracted to her
‘Our kinswoman, Mistress Gray,’ Joan said, the scowl firmly fixed between her brows. Clearly of all the company, Joan remained unmoved by Louise.
Louise allowed Perdita a cursory nod before looking around the room. ‘I am frozen to the bone, Joan. I require a fire and sustenance.’
Joan gestured in the direction of the small, downstairs parlour. ‘Both await you through here, Louise.’
A hastily lit fire struggled in the fireplace of the parlour and a dank, unseasonable chill still hung on the air. Louise’s lip curled in barely concealed distaste.
‘Denzil. A chair.’ She waved a fine-boned hand in Denzil’s direction and he scuttled forward pulling a chair toward the hearth. Louise sat, extravagantly arranging her damp scarlet skirts to best advantage. Everyone else remained standing,
She sighed extravagantly. ‘This English weather. It almost makes me long for France.’
Perdita smiled as Joan ignored the whining. ‘The queen was successful in her mission?’ Joan enquired.
Louise turned to her and smiled. ‘Very,’ she said. ‘With the arms she has brought with us, this affray should be over in no time.’
Ludovic entered bearing a tray of the same hearty fare that had satisfied a prince. Louise’s nose twitched at the sight of the pastries and small ale.
‘Had we had some notice of your arrival, Lady Marchant, we would have prepared some more exciting delicacies,’ Bess conciliated.
Louise flashed a smile in Bess’s direction. ‘We did not wish to waste time. Denzil, I will take that pastry.’
Denzil scurried forward, arranging a pastry on a platter and handing it to his wife. Whatever spell Louise had used to bind her husband to her will, it was a powerful one. Perdita had never believed in witches, but then she had never met Louise Marchant.
As Louise delicately picked at the pasty, she chattered about the wonders of France and the hardship of the journey back to England. Perdita wandered across to the window and stood looking out at the rain-swept landscape as Louise held court to her silent audience.
‘Imagine, we were fired upon when we landed in Yorkshire. The queen, her very Majesty, had to cower in a ditch. Who are these upstart rebels that they should treat their king and queen in such a fashion?’
The rustle of petticoats drew her attention back to the room as Louise rose to her feet, brushing crumbs from her skirt.
‘On the subject of upstart rebels. Where is Adam Coulter?’
Perdita answered for Joan. ‘He is in his bed.’
Anger flashed across Louise’s face. ‘What do you mean?’ She cast a glance at her husband. ‘From what Denzil tells me, it has been nearly three weeks since he was wounded. He cannot still be abed?’
‘His wound suppurated and he has suffered a serious relapse of wound fever,’ Perdita lied.
She had no fear of Joan betraying the untruth, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Bess cast a curious glance at Robin. Robin answered with a shrug. Perdita breathed. They would confirm her tale.
‘Robin is this true?’ Louise rounded on Robin.
‘We feared for his life on more than one occasion,’ Robin responded without a flicker of an eye.
Louise narrowed her eyes. ‘I am sorry to hear that. Robin, take me to his bedchamber.’
Robin glanced at Perdita and Perdita stepped forward. ‘I will take you, Lady Marchant.’
With her heart in her mouth, Perdita opened the door to Adam’s bedchamber and repressed a quick smile. The man who, half an hour previously, had been contemplating a ride to Warwick, now did a very convincing impression of a man on his death bed. He made a feeble effort to pull himself up on the bolsters as Louise swept in to the room, followed by Denzil and Robin.
‘Louise, I thought I heard your voice,’ he said in a weak voice. ‘Looking magnificent as always. In fact, you’ve hardly changed.’
Louise stood at the end of the bed regarding him for a long moment, before she said, ‘You on the other hand. I would not have recognised you. You have become quite the… what are they calling them, Denzil? Quite a roundhead.’
