twitch on the floor—”
Linnea and Beatrix huddled together as their grandmother ranted on and on. They were perched in the window alcove, Linnea still garbed in her sister’s now-stained finery. There had been no time to exchange clothes again and return to their own identities, and now neither of them considered doing it. Lady Harriet was in a towering rage. Even their father shrank away from her when she was like this.
“At least Maynard shall live, blessed be.” Lady Harriet stared at Linnea—whom she mistook for Beatrix. “’Tis well you did, to repair his wounds. But then I should not be so amazed. You have ever been a blessing upon this family.”
Linnea sat there stunned, not knowing how to react. When her grandmother’s piercing stare slid to Beatrix, however, and darkened with her habitual dislike, Linnea cringed, and her hand tightened on her sister’s.
Fortunately Lady Harriet’s fury was too focused on Axton de la Manse to bother with the second of her granddaughters. She stalked once more across the room, then fixed her son with her narrowed glare. “Have you nothing to say? No ideas on how we might rid ourselves of Henry’s pestilence?”
“What would you have me do?” Sir Edgar muttered, though without any real show of spirit. “Maynard lies at death’s door. And you saw his arm—his sword arm. Even healed it will never be as strong as it was.”
“’Tis the very reason I propose poison! Beatrix, what say you? Belladonna or bittersweet?”
Beside her, Linnea felt Beatrix stir. But a quick tug on her sleeve stopped her from answering. It was Linnea who responded. “Bittersweet would work, but it has a distinctive taste and would be hard to disguise. And we have no belladonna.”
“Ach! Accursed man! There must be something else we can use.”
“Perhaps it would be better to wait until after he weds Beatrix,” their father suggested.
“After! After? And let him ruin her?” Lady Harriet cried, shaking her stick at him as if he were insane. In truth, it was she who looked more than a little mad at that moment, with her hair springing loose around her face in hanks of wiry gray. The flickering lights of the torchères painted her gold and red, with grim shadows lining her ancient face.
Linnea was so caught up in the exchange between her father and grandmother that she did not anticipate her sister’s reaction to this news.
“He wishes that we be wed ?” Beatrix gasped when the full impact of her grandmother’s words struck her.
Lady Harriet shot her a venomous glare. “Not you, fool. ’Tis Beatrix he would wed. Why would he wish to marry you —”
She stopped abruptly. So did Linnea’s heartbeat. She knew. Somehow, that easily, their grandmother had deduced the truth.
As the old woman made her way toward the two of them, one ominous click at a time, the sisters sat frozen, side by side in the window. The one was garbed in plain plunkett cloth, her hair wrapped in a head cloth no better than that worn by the indoor servants. The other wore the softest kersey, albeit soiled, with gold braid winking back the flickering of the smoky torchères. When Lady Harriet stopped before them, her eyes flitted back and forth, from Beatrix’s flushed face to Linnea’s, which had gone as pale as death.
She surely was in for it now, she feared, and she braced herself for the thrashing she expected. To impersonate her sister was bad enough; to deceive her grandmother and thereby make a fool of her—would bring all of the Lady Harriet’s considerable wrath down upon her head with a vengeance.
The old woman grasped Linnea’s chin with gnarled fingers that were unexpectedly strong and tilted her face toward the uncertain light, searching it for a clue—any clue. Linnea sent a furtive glance toward her father, but it was clear that he did not care about what was happening. His daughters had always been of far less value to him than his sons. He’d lost young Edgar almost ten years
Linnea and Beatrix huddled together as their grandmother ranted on and on. They were perched in the window alcove, Linnea still garbed in her sister’s now-stained finery. There had been no time to exchange clothes again and return to their own identities, and now neither of them considered doing it. Lady Harriet was in a towering rage. Even their father shrank away from her when she was like this.
“At least Maynard shall live, blessed be.” Lady Harriet stared at Linnea—whom she mistook for Beatrix. “’Tis well you did, to repair his wounds. But then I should not be so amazed. You have ever been a blessing upon this family.”
Linnea sat there stunned, not knowing how to react. When her grandmother’s piercing stare slid to Beatrix, however, and darkened with her habitual dislike, Linnea cringed, and her hand tightened on her sister’s.
Fortunately Lady Harriet’s fury was too focused on Axton de la Manse to bother with the second of her granddaughters. She stalked once more across the room, then fixed her son with her narrowed glare. “Have you nothing to say? No ideas on how we might rid ourselves of Henry’s pestilence?”
“What would you have me do?” Sir Edgar muttered, though without any real show of spirit. “Maynard lies at death’s door. And you saw his arm—his sword arm. Even healed it will never be as strong as it was.”
“’Tis the very reason I propose poison! Beatrix, what say you? Belladonna or bittersweet?”
Beside her, Linnea felt Beatrix stir. But a quick tug on her sleeve stopped her from answering. It was Linnea who responded. “Bittersweet would work, but it has a distinctive taste and would be hard to disguise. And we have no belladonna.”
“Ach! Accursed man! There must be something else we can use.”
“Perhaps it would be better to wait until after he weds Beatrix,” their father suggested.
“After! After? And let him ruin her?” Lady Harriet cried, shaking her stick at him as if he were insane. In truth, it was she who looked more than a little mad at that moment, with her hair springing loose around her face in hanks of wiry gray. The flickering lights of the torchères painted her gold and red, with grim shadows lining her ancient face.
Linnea was so caught up in the exchange between her father and grandmother that she did not anticipate her sister’s reaction to this news.
“He wishes that we be wed ?” Beatrix gasped when the full impact of her grandmother’s words struck her.
Lady Harriet shot her a venomous glare. “Not you, fool. ’Tis Beatrix he would wed. Why would he wish to marry you —”
She stopped abruptly. So did Linnea’s heartbeat. She knew. Somehow, that easily, their grandmother had deduced the truth.
As the old woman made her way toward the two of them, one ominous click at a time, the sisters sat frozen, side by side in the window. The one was garbed in plain plunkett cloth, her hair wrapped in a head cloth no better than that worn by the indoor servants. The other wore the softest kersey, albeit soiled, with gold braid winking back the flickering of the smoky torchères. When Lady Harriet stopped before them, her eyes flitted back and forth, from Beatrix’s flushed face to Linnea’s, which had gone as pale as death.
She surely was in for it now, she feared, and she braced herself for the thrashing she expected. To impersonate her sister was bad enough; to deceive her grandmother and thereby make a fool of her—would bring all of the Lady Harriet’s considerable wrath down upon her head with a vengeance.
The old woman grasped Linnea’s chin with gnarled fingers that were unexpectedly strong and tilted her face toward the uncertain light, searching it for a clue—any clue. Linnea sent a furtive glance toward her father, but it was clear that he did not care about what was happening. His daughters had always been of far less value to him than his sons. He’d lost young Edgar almost ten years
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