The Countess by Claire Delacroix Page B

curiosity all the while. Every step persuaded her that she was right, but still she would hear the truth from her mother’s lips.
    And this was her chance. She rode to hunt in the silvery light just before the dawn, with her mother alone. Soon, she would know for certain.
    The raindrops hung on the deadened branches of the trees like crystals, they dropped on the thick bed of fallen leaves in a silvery melody that no musician could repeat. Jacqueline had never guessed there could be so many hues of silver and grey, yet when she looked to the sea, she saw even more shades. The water was tinged with indigo and green and darkened to black, rife with shadows and secrets.
    Even under other circumstances, Jacqueline would have done anything to remain in this wild yet oddly tranquil place. Under her particular circumstance, she would do even more.
    A pair of boys ran behind Eglantine’s palfrey, laughing up at her, and that prized peregrine perched upon Eglantine’s gloved fist. Her mother looked glorious and noble, and rode as though she was born to the saddle. She was gracious and lovely, composed and polite, and certain of what to say in every circumstance. Eglantine was perfect—and Jacqueline of late doubted that they shared any blood at all.
    On this day, Jacqueline felt that she bumped along as elegantly as a lump of wet potter’s clay. The contrast between her mother’s smooth horsemanship and her own lack of grace was particularly strong.
    Demons had claimed Jacqueline’s body in the past year, for she accomplished naught with even her former measure of ease. At Arnelaine, she had fallen off steps that once she had leapt over, she had walked into doors, even now she burst into tears unexpectedly. She did not like the arrival of her courses, the eruption of her breasts, the changes in her body that made her look like a woman. She did not like the way men eyed her these days, as though she might make a fine meal.
    Yet her mother had not only endured these changes, but bore their mark elegantly. Where Jacqueline sprouted fulsome curves, her mother was lithe. While Jacqueline remained short, her mother was tall. While Jacqueline’s hair was straight as sticks and the hue of straw, her mother’s was wavy and honey-hued, like some gossamer confection of the angels.
    To be sure, Jacqueline loved her mother—she merely wished that she was possessed so readily of such grace. Surely she might have inherited Eglantine’s smooth assurance, instead of her father’s shorter stature and awkward manner?
    Jacqueline watched her mother talk to the peregrine, saw the hooded creature respond by bobbing its head. As long as she could recall, her mother had hunted with Melusine.
    Jacqueline hated Melusine. More accurately, she hated what Melusine did—and she hated that her mother showed no fear of the terrifying creature. The bird was meant to kill, to tear and maim, and its cold eye instilled a healthy fear in Jacqueline.
    Yet her mother cooed to it as though ’twere a harmless lamb. Eglantine feared naught, while her daughter feared so very much.
    The bird’s festooned hood was removed and Melusine scanned the countryside with a steely purpose that made Jacqueline shiver. Her mother loosed the tethers and the hunting bird gave a cry. It took to the air, rising high to circle once over the women.
    â€œShe has been caged too long on this journey,” her mother murmured. The raindrops briefly glinted off the bird, then its outspread wings were etched dark against the lightening sky. Jacqueline felt her usual measure of awe for its savage beauty.
    â€œShe is hungered.” Eglantine tracked the bird’s progress with her narrowed gaze. When the bird swooped and dove, talons extended, Jacqueline felt ill with the certainty of what was happening ahead.
    Her mother, though, dug her heels into her steed with purpose and she knew she had best do the same. By the time she caught up,