Mistaken for a Lady by Carol Townend

no sign of her elusive husband, she had hidden herself away at her manor at St Méen with only Mari for company. It had taken a visit from the new Lady Clare to winkle her out.
    Lady Clare had been wonderful. So understanding. The new lady of Fontaine had had a hard life, and she was quick to make it plain that she wasn’t going to make difficulties. Lady Clare had asked Francesca to think of her as a sister. And it had been Lady Clare who had urged Count Myrrdin to let Francesca keep St Méen. By rights it should have devolved to Clare as the count’s true-born daughter.
    Notwithstanding Clare’s kindness, Francesca hadn’t found it easy to adjust to her change of status. She’d felt wounded. Her mind had been in a tangle. Sensing that she needed to recover somewhere where there were no reminders of her past life, she had come to Champagne.
    Heart like lead, Francesca fingered the cold metal edge of the travelling chest. There was no time for shock today, though in truth that was what she felt. She stared blankly at the chests. They contained everything she owned and before the revel she had spent days packing in preparation for her departure from Paimpont.
    Having had no reply from Tristan, Francesca had concluded that she was no longer welcome here. She had been ready to leave—if Tristan had brought his news a couple of days later, he would have found her gone.
    Some weeks since, after much heartache and soul-searching, Francesca had decided that Judgement Day would come before Tristan deigned to answer her letters. She had contacted her friend Helvise, a friend she’d met in the Provins marketplace, and told her she was ready to go to Monfort. Helvise came from a humble background just as she did, and when Helvise had confessed to feeling overwhelmed regarding the running of a small manor outside the town, Francesca knew she could help. Francesca might not be a real lady, but she had been trained to run a castle and answering Helvise’s questions had been child’s play. And when Francesca had offered to move to Helvise’s manor so she could teach her all she knew, Helvise had jumped at her offer.
    Francesca had realised that if she continued to live in Tristan’s manor, she would never be free of him. She would for ever be waiting for him to ride into the courtyard. Why, if she had a silver penny for every day she’d caught herself wishing he would sweep her up on to his saddle-bow and carry her back to Château des Iles, she would be a rich woman.
    The scales had fallen from her eyes, she had waited long enough. She wanted a real marriage. God willing, she wanted children. It was possible she and Tristan had simply been unlucky. Of course, she only really wanted Tristan’s children, but if she couldn’t have them with him, much as it grieved her, she’d find someone else. There was no point being married to a man one never saw. Beginning a new life with Helvise had seemed the perfect solution, there was great comfort in being needed.
    Helvise must be told of this change in arrangements.
    I must repack, and quickly. Count Myrrdin is dying and I must go to him.
    Heart heavy, Francesca reached into the trunk and shifted her neatly folded crimson gown to one side. Red fabric was costly and worn only by nobles. The gown wasn’t suitable for the ride to Brittany, and even if it had been, these days she didn’t have the gall to wear it.
    She riffled though the chest. Whatever happened, she must remember one thing—the only reason Tristan had come for her was because he was honouring Count Myrrdin’s deathbed wish to see her again. Would Tristan have come to Champagne if not for the count’s last request? She doubted it.
    Tristan had mentioned the need to travel light. She would need a couple of her most serviceable gowns; a couple of cloaks; a spare veil; a pair of shoes in addition to her riding boots; one good gown; an extra shift...
    Mari