The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(63)

“Have you ever been to sea, cielita?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Pity. There is nothing like the sea to teach man his proper place in the world.”

“What about woman’s proper place?”

He smiled, a little sadly but genuine. “So like your mother.”

“As I will be queen after her, I devoutly hope so.”

“My only regret in leaving England is you.”

“We are neither of us dying, Father. As most of our relationship has been conducted by letter, surely not that much will change?” This was not at all what Dominic had counseled, but brought to the point, she was horrified at the thought of crying. Queens did not cry.

“I hope you will remember, my child, that you have two parents in this world. If ever you need my aid or counsel, I shall swiftly supply it.”

“Even if my choices are not what you would approve?”

“Even then.” He touched her cheek, so lightly she almost could not feel it, and Anabel felt the tears hover at the edge of her eyes.

“I do love you,” she said, and impulsively grasped his hand with hers. “And I will miss you more than I can say.”

“Remember, cielita,” he whispered into her hair as he hugged her close, “the best way to honour me is to honour God. Think very carefully about the nature of truth, child, and don’t be blinded by Satan’s silken lies.”

And that, she realized, is at the very essence of our relationship. That my father will always care more about my soul than anything else about me.

That dried the tears trembling on her eyelashes, and she was perfectly composed—not to say hardhearted—when the two of them exited into the more populated chamber. There, the Spanish bid their formal farewells to the party, and Walsingham joined them for the short journey to the harbor.

As Anabel watched her father’s elegantly attired and always royal figure depart, Dominic moved noiselessly beside her. “Did you tell him how you felt?” he asked her.

“It seemed kinder to not,” she said. “Not all fathers care for emotions of a personal nature.”

She turned and gestured to Kit to join her. His sunny smile and genuine pleasure at being with her went a long way to easing the sting of an absent and emotionally distant father. Anabel caught Pippa’s eye as her twin moved forward, an unusual expression of concern on her friend’s face. But it quickly turned into a reassuring smile.

Best to look on the bright side. Philip had come and gone and she was no nearer a binding betrothal than before. And now she had only one parent to deal with. Anabel laughed at Kit’s impression of Cardinal Granvelle and linked her arm in his.

Time to enjoy herself.

—

The day after the disastrous fight between brothers, Charlotte’s Paris guests began to arrive. They came two or four or six at a time, a mix of old and threadbare aristocracy, newer merchant money, and scholars. Lucette noted with amusement that, as Renaud had prophesied, there were several unattached older women, lovely and warm, but none so engaging as Nicole LeClerc had been. Lucette didn’t think Charlotte would succeed in marrying her father off just yet.

Dr. Dee arrived in company with his Paris hosts, Edmund and Marguerite Pearce. Lucette declined to meet the group upon arrival in the courtyard, afraid that she would make a fool of herself before everyone present. She’d left Dr. Dee a message in his bedchamber instead, and shortly he was knocking on her door.

She flung open the door and nearly into his arms. He patted her back a little awkwardly, no doubt bemused by her behavior. She didn’t cry—just—but drew a steadying breath as she pulled away.

“Welcome to Blanclair,” she said wryly.

He laughed. “It would seem your time here has been rather more intense than your letters indicated.”

Closing the door, Lucette waited until they were both seated on chairs with matching cushions embroidered by Nicole LeClerc before she spoke again.

Her summary was in the manner Dr. Dee himself had taught her: succinct, information laid out without undue emphasis on any one point, leaving room for interpretation and new connections to be made. She drew no conclusions and thought she spoke with absolute neutrality.

And then she asked her single, accusatory question. “Did you know that Julien LeClerc was in Walsingham’s employ when he sent me here?”

“I did not know. I wondered—that is, I always accept as axiom that Francis Walsingham’s success in protecting Her Majesty is that he never tells all of what he knows. I am not surprised by this omission. He would not want you prejudiced beforehand.”

“You might have warned me!”

“That you were going to a place where all was not what it seemed? I thought you’d had sufficient warning for that. You know how to read a puzzle truly.”

Not when that puzzle is a man like Julien, she thought.

“And so?” prompted Dr. Dee.

“And so nothing. I have provided the information. Nightingale most definitely has some connection to Blanclair. As to the who…that is for a wiser head than mine to sort. Have you identified the murdered man I wrote you of?”

She asked the last question to deflect him from pressing her. She had said nothing, still, of Julien meeting the dead man in the tavern. And she had not turned over the fragment of the Spanish letter or Anise’s explanation for it. There were any number of arguments she could have used to defend her omissions, but in the end she knew it for simple arrogance.