Storming the Castle

Page 22

Philippa made her way upstairs, thinking about that. No doubt the villagers were agog with excitement. Certainly by now they knew all about her stint as a nursemaid in the castle. The realization made her put on her second-best gown, a fetching pale blue one caught up under her breast with navy ribbons. She had a bonnet to match, a silly little thing that emphasized the color of her hair.
Once in Little Ha’penny the first person she saw was the baker’s wife, delivering hot rolls to the Biscuit and Plow. “Aye, so you’ll be a baroness as of Saturday,” Mrs. Deasly said comfortably. “When I think of you as just a little scrap, coming in here with your nursemaid, I can hardly believe you’re all grown-up. Your hair was like sunshine, even then, and you were the prettiest little thing I’d ever seen. It’s a lucky girl you are, Miss Philippa!”
“Yes,” she said, smiling at Mrs. Deasly. Even if she had to marry Rodney, she had loved and been loved, and that was more than many a woman could say.
As she approached the village square, she saw the vicar in front of his church, chatting with the blacksmith. Father Riggs was a gentle, stooped man, as dear to her as a grandfather. He was standing under an oak tree. The sun was slanting through the boughs, and his black cassock was dappled, as if it had been spotted with rainwater.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, my dear Miss Philippa. And it will be my honor to perform your wedding ceremony on Satursday,” he said, rocking back on his heels.
Philippa couldn’t quite manage a smile, but she nodded.
The vicar drew a little closer and scrutinized her face. “My dear, are you . . .” He stopped and began again. “Often those of the fair sex feel a trifle reluctant to marry, but I assure you that the rewards of being a dutiful and loving wife are remarkable, and realized not merely in heaven.”
Philippa nodded absently. She was wondering whether a broken heart ever scarred over. She returned her attention to the vicar when she saw that his face had grown soft and regretful, as if he were consigning her to the gallows rather than the altar.
He put a consoling hand on her arm. “I will certainly—” But at that moment she heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on cobblestones and her heart bounded. Surely it was Wick at last! She spun about so quickly that the priest’s hand fell from her arm. It was—
It was Rodney.
As soon as he saw her, he jerked his head to the two young men riding with him. They withdrew to the opposite side of the square, and Rodney swung off his horse. For a moment, he simply stood before her, his face tight, before by an effort of will, it seemed, he regained his habitual sleepy look.
At last, he bent into a bow. “Miss Philippa.” At the bow’s lowest point, she saw that he would be bald quite soon. Bald as an egg, likely.
She curtsied, and held out her hand to be kissed. “Mr. Durfey.”
“Ah, the dear betrothed couple!” Father Riggs chortled beside her.
They ignored him.
Rodney took her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and didn’t release it. “Philippa,” he said, with a windy sigh. “Ah, Philippa.”
Philippa said nothing. Instead, she looked at Rodney as a naturalist might examine a specimen, cataloging the thinning hair, the arrogant yet indolent slope to his chin, the genuine—yes, genuine—affection in his eyes.
“I am sorry,” he said finally, still clinging to her hand.
Philippa forced her mouth to curve upwards, but pulled her fingers away. “It’s quite all right.”
“I—I didn’t understand. I was slightly mad, I think. Your beauty is intoxicating.”
Philippa didn’t think he was mad. She thought that he was simply lustful, and that he would always be lustful. It was part of Rodney, together with his fleshy thighs and his warm eyes. She knew in that second that he would not be faithful to her. Not Rodney, not once he was a baronet. He would rove on, cheerfully deflowering maidens in barns, or perhaps even inns.
But at the moment, he was all hers, for good or ill. He snatched up her hand again, and held it tightly. “I love you,” he said, turning his shoulder on the vicar. “I love you, Philippa. I’ll do whatever you wish.”
She could see that he meant it. Rodney would frolic now and then with a willing woman—in a barn or otherwise—but at night he would return to her, with that love shining in his eyes.
For a second she felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if she were trapped behind a pane of glass, looking out at a world she couldn’t touch. Panic filled her, the suffocating fear that she would spend the rest of her life without ever being in the arms of the person she loved.
And all the more suffocating for being always in the arms of a person who loved her.
Dimly, Philippa became aware that she was swaying, her heart clenched at the thought of the life that lay ahead of her. Father Riggs squealed something, began fanning her with his hat.
Rodney pulled her to his chest, smashing her nose into his coat. She smelled starched linen and sweat. She was held there for several moments, lights playing behind her closed eyes, like the dappled sunlight on the vicar’s cassock. Her heart was beating in her ears as loudly as if a hunting party was pounding through the forest.
No . . .
It wasn’t her heart.
She pulled away sharply and turned to see a great party, all on horseback, slow to a walk at the beginning of High Street. They were gaily dressed in the brilliant embroidery and silks of nobility. There were grooms in scarlet livery, and even a coach following, its scarlet trim glittering in the sunlight.
“Lord Almighty,” Rodney muttered beside her.
The horses pranced down the street, their riders smiling and nodding to the villagers trotting from the cobbler and the smithy.
“It’s better than the fair!” she heard someone say shrilly.
But Philippa’s eyes were fixed on the rider in front, a man who was not wearing the exuberant embroidery of his royal brother nor the scarlet livery of the groomsmen. Nor was he wearing shining armor.
He was riding a snowy white horse. His costume was one her own father would have chosen: a dark, dark green coat with a snowy neckcloth. It was not ostentatious, but it proclaimed the wearer a gentleman.
Perhaps, even, a member of the gentry.
Perhaps, even, connected to a royal family, albeit a non-English royal family.
She stepped out from the shadow of the oak, her arm sliding from Rodney’s hand.
As Wick’s horse paced toward her, Philippa didn’t even smile. Her heart was too full for that: full of song and laughter and the love that would sustain her to the end of her life.
And Wick didn’t smile either. He was as grave as a king as he brought his mount to a trot, leaned down at just the right moment, swept out an arm, pulled her onto his saddle—and then galloped straight down the street and out of Little Ha’penny.
When they reached the edge of the town, alone now, since the royal party had stayed in Little Ha’penny, the better to dazzle the villagers, Wick jumped from the horse again and reached up.
She fell into his arms with a sob of pure joy.
Wick dropped to his knees there, in the dust of the road. “Miss Philippa Damson, would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
“Wick, oh, Wick,” Philippa said, reaching out a shaking hand to bring him back to his feet.