Lucie rubbed Melisende’s head until the cat began a rumbling purr and stretched her front paws out in contentment. Then Lucie fell to her work and her thoughts.
Sir Robert. She hardly knew him. What had possessed him to make this visit? And such an offer as the Corbett house? What was she to do with him while he was here? He said he would help with the heavy work while Owen was away, but he was a frail old man. And what did an old campaigner know of the work in a shop or garden? Sir Robert’s visit was the gesture of a father who wished to make amends for his neglect of Lucie and for his sins against her mother. He had wrested Amelie from her home in Normandy and left her with strangers in Yorkshire, blamed her when she bore but one daughter and no son, and by his neglect inspired the despair that killed her. He was trying to work off his guilt.
It was his widowed sister, Dame Phillippa, who had impressed on Sir Robert the effect his behaviour had had on his only child. Phillippa had stayed with Lucie when Nicholas was dying. When she had returned to Freythorpe Hadden, where she was housekeeper for her brother, she had told Sir Robert how the torment of Amelie had affected Lucie’s life. Since that time, Sir Robert had prayed for Lucie and showered her with gifts.
But by then Lucie had not the habit of loving Sir Robert. To her he would ever be the loud soldier smelling of leather and horse sweat who had never remembered her name as a child, who had sent her to bed without answering her terrified questions the night her mother died, and who had sent her off to St Clement’s and forgotten her there.
What was she to do with him in the small house? He had no idea what her work as master apothecary entailed. He was not yet reconciled to her having married beneath her — and twice, at that. He could not understand her pride in being a master apothecary.
What would he think of her summons to St Mary’s to examine Dame Joanna? Or the Reverend Mother’s plea for help?
Perhaps she should do more for Dame Isobel. Perhaps that was God’s plan in having Sir Robert visit now: he would witness Lucie’s service to the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England. He would realise that she had not wasted her life, nor was she her mother, dependent for everything on a man she hardly knew, terrified that if she did not bear him a son she would be discarded, and so destitute. He would see that she had no time to be his nursemaid.
Melisende’s head jerked up. Lucie looked round. Sir Robert stood behind her, dressed simply. ‘Now, you see? I brought practical clothes. Put me to work!’
Brother Michaelo found Lucie in her garden, explaining the arrangement of the beds to a white-haired man who listened politely, occasionally stealing an odd, emotional look at the apothecary. Though old, the man had the bearing of a soldier. Michaelo saw something in the face that made him guess this must be Sir Robert D’Arby; there was a resemblance to Lucie, though in which aspect he could not say exactly. Perhaps — yes, the jaw. And the level gaze.
‘Mistress Wilton, forgive the interruption,’ Michaelo said with a bow, ‘but His Grace the Archbishop requests the honour of your father’s presence at supper this evening. He understands Sir Robert D’Arby is staying with you and, of course, extends the invitation to yourself.’
Lucie’s blue eyes widened in surprise. Her already straight back managed to straighten more. She touched the elderly gentleman’s hand. ‘Sir Robert, this is Brother Michaelo, secretary to John Thoresby, Archbishop of York and the King’s Lord Chancellor.’
‘Indeed?’ Sir Robert glanced at his daughter with a puzzled frown.
‘Brother Michaelo, this is my father, Sir Robert D’Arby.’
Michaelo bowed to them both. ‘Sir Richard de Ravenser and Jehannes, Archdeacon of York, also dine with His Grace this evening.’
Sir Robert, recovering his poise, inclined his head. ‘We shall be honoured to dine with the chancellor.’
After Brother Michaelo departed, Sir Robert turned to his daughter. ‘John Thoresby, Archbishop of York and Chancellor of England. Why does he so honour me, I wonder?’
Lucie wondered, too. And so hard on the heels of Owen’s departure.
Refusing to let the archbishop’s summons fluster her, Lucie closed the shop at the usual time, deliberately making no change in her routine. So little notice. As if their plans for the evening were presumed to be nothing. But perhaps this invitation was for the best. She had dreaded the first evening alone with Sir Robert.
When Lucie stepped into the kitchen, she found her father already waiting down by the fire, grandly dressed. Tildy followed Lucie up to her bedchamber. ‘I’ve aired your blue dress and veil, Mistress Lucie, and heated water for you to wash.’
‘Tildy, I am not meeting the King.’
‘He is Lord Chancellor of all England, Mistress Lucie! ’Tis almost as much an honour.’
‘Owen never fusses when he eats at His Grace’s table.’
‘Oh, Mistress, it is an honour, no matter what you say. And I must hear about everything. What you eat, how Lizzie serves, what hangings are in the hall — everything.’
Lucie laughed, despite herself. ‘Would that I could send you in my stead. You would be a much more appreciative guest. But I am curious to meet Archdeacon Jehannes. Owen speaks of him fondly.’ Lucie lifted the blue veil, to be worn with a simple gold circlet to hold it in place. She frowned. ‘In faith, is this appropriate, Tildy?’
‘He is accustomed to the ladies at court, Mistress. This is most fitting.’
Lucie fingered the soft wool of her gown, also a lovely pale shade of blue. Her Aunt Phillippa had had the dress and veil made for her on her last birthday. Fortunately, the slightly darker surcoat would hide the tightening of the gown round her five-month waist. Not that she had reason to be embarrassed about her condition, but she did not care to flaunt it.
Tildy fussed over Lucie, winding her mistress’s hair into coils on cither side of her head, arranging the veil, adjusting the surcoat over the gown. As Lucie turned to let Tildy admire her handiwork, there was a knock on the kitchen door. Tildy hurried down, Lucie right behind her. Sir Robert had made no move to open the door himself, accustomed to a grander household with many servants.
A man in the archbishop’s livery stepped inside. With a bow, he introduced himself. ‘I am Gilbert, Mistress Wilton. His Grace has sent me to escort you and Sir Robert to his palace.’ A sword hung at his side, a dagger was tucked into his belt.
‘Escort us? But it is not yet sunset. We can find our way. And we have Sir Robert’s squire.’
‘His Grace insisted.’
About to protest again, Lucie thought better of it. The weapons suggested that the archbishop was in earnest about something. She extended her hand. ‘Then come, Gilbert. We must not keep His Grace waiting.’
Tildy was proud of her pretty mistress as Lucie left on her father’s arm, following Gilbert and Sir Robert’s squire, Daimon.
Nine
Thoresby met Lucie and her father halfway across the hall.
‘Welcome, Mistress Wilton, Sir Robert. You are most gracious to come.’
Lucie curtsied. ‘Your Grace honours us.’ Her eyes were downcast, but he had seen how alertly she had glanced round the hall as she entered. She looked lovely, in a blue gown that matched her eyes. In carriage and grace, her noble breeding showed.
Thoresby turned to the white-haired gentleman. He had expected a somberly dressed man, knowing of D’Arby’s long pilgrimage to the Outremer after his wife’s death. But D’Arby surprised him, elegant in a green velvet gown with a jewelled belt hung with an intricately carved dagger. ‘Sir Robert, you are most welcome. I met you once, years ago, when you were in the King’s service.’