The Dark Lady's Mask by Mary Sharratt Read Free Book Online Page B

child of his blood.
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    P APA MADE A SWANLIKE end, fading in music. Within his locked bedchamber, his brothers sang their prayers while Aemilia knelt outside the bolted door. Her face washed in tears, she listened as her uncles’ chanting ushered Papa out of this world into the next, where his spirit rose on pure white wings, soaring in a blaze of light straight into the presence of his secret God.

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    EMILIA’S WORLD HAD BEEN a crystal globe reflecting Papa’s loving intelligence. Now that orb slipped from her grasp and shattered.
    At the burial, her uncles hunched together and drooped, those old men whose time might also come soon. Though it was April, the cold and damp crept up Aemilia’s calves as she watched Papa’s coffin lowered into the gaping earth.
    She pressed her numb face against Mistress Locke’s cape as the rain fell, drenching them in heaven’s tears. Her soul shrank to a small black point. The last rites had only just ended when she heard Mother speak the words that turned her heart to ice.
    â€œYou and Francis must come live with us now,” Mother said to Angela. “There’s plenty of room and you’ve a baby on the way. I’ll sleep with Aemilia, and you and Francis shall have the marriage bed.”
    Mother was inviting that devil into their home, into Papa’s
bed,
and Papa was not an hour in his grave. Even Mistress Locke frowned at Mother and pursed her lips as if swallowing some rebuke.
    â€œCome, poppet,” Mother said in a too-bright voice, holding her arm out to Aemilia. “Let’s go home.”
    Aemilia only stared at her mother. How could she ever forgive her? It was Mother who insisted that Angela wed Master Holland with all speed. Mother had invited him into their home, offered him their best wine, and would have handed over Papa’s savings had she been able to find them. She was that hoodwinked. With Papa gone, there was nothing more to stop her. Master Holland would take Papa’s place as master of the house. He would destroy them as he had destroyed Angela.
    You will never be driven from this house,
Papa had promised her, her father who had been banished from his own home at the age of nine, his beloved villa in Bassano with the fresco of apes and goats. But Aemilia knew she must flee or be ruined.
    When, for the second time, Mother reached out to her, Aemilia cleaved to Mistress Locke. But she met her mother’s gaze without flinching. She let her anger shine like a torch.
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    A STRIDE A FAT LITTLE chestnut mare, Aemilia gazed down the long highway.
    â€œChild, don’t let your heart be broken.” Anne Locke’s voice was as gentle as a feather caressing Aemilia’s cheek as they rode toward Lincolnshire. “Your father is with God now.” The lady’s voice swelled in conviction. “He is truly part of the Elect.”
    Papa’s mask fooled even Mistress Locke,
Aemilia marveled even as she splintered in grief.
    The way to Grimsthorpe seemed to stretch on forever. So much open countryside with so few buildings—Aemilia felt impossibly exposed. Nowhere left to hide. She had never been so far from home. Still, she exulted to think how she had escaped living under the same roof as Master Holland.
    Thomas Vaughan rode with them, as did Mistress Locke’s grown son, Henry. Both men were armed with swords and rapiers in case they should meet villains on the Queen’s Highway. The mere thought of that made Aemilia want to curl into a tiny ball. This was her fifth day in the saddle and every inch of her was sore.
    Refined ladies rode aside, Anne Locke had explained, to look elegant while showing off their elegant gowns, which was all very well for solemn, slow processions, such as when the Queen rode in progress. But only a vain idiot, she swore, would ride long distances perched sideways in a saddle with both feet resting on a planchet and no way to properly grip the horse with