nervous.
âYou look sad, mistress.â
It interested me that she had noticed. âNot inordinately,â I replied. I did not want to converse about my worries with this worldly woman.
âIn fact, you have looked in poor humour since we left London,â she remarked, in no manner put off. âWhy is that?â
And so, since I must: âI have just left my daughterâin London. It was hard to say farewell. Sheâs seven years old.â
It had been hard indeed, but I had kept a smile in place, pinning memories of her farewell kisses in my mind.
âItâs young to leave a child. A girl childâ¦â
I detected a hint of criticism, and was quick to respond. âSheâs in the Lancaster household. A damsel to thetwo daughters. I was there too until the death of Duchess Blanche.â
Mistress Saxby nodded comfortably. âThen sheâll not lack for aught. You should give thanks, mistress.â
She made me feel ungrateful of the blessings that had fallen on me.
âAre you a widow?â she asked, gesturing to my black skirts.
âYes. Almost three months ago. He was fighting in Aquitaine for the Duke.â
âAh. A soldier.â
âI donât know whether he was killed in battle or brought low by disease.â My companion did not need to know that he was a knight and a landowner.
âDisease is a terrible thing,â she mused solemnly. âLast year my own husband took sick and died within the week. Look at the Prince, God save him. Heâs not long for this world, you mark my words. Weâll say a rosary for him at Lincoln.â Her squirrel-gaze held mine. âYouâre young to be a widow, mistress. How old did you say you were?â
I hadnât, but I recognised a practised talent for acquiring information. âTwenty-two years,â I said, smiling at the success of the technique.
âYouâll wed again. Or perhaps you have a sweetheart already? Unless it was a love match between the pair of you and youâre still in mourning.â I flushed at the implication that my emotions were so flighty. Mistress Saxby chuckled. âI see you have!â
âNo. I have no time for such things. Nor will I.â My reply was as sharp as her stare. âI have two children at home who need my care. And my husbandâs estatesâ¦â
Mistress Saxby tossed her head, the veil attached to herhat dislodged from its neat folds. âYour children will grow and move away. Your land will bring cold comfort. You need a man in your bed.â
I took a breath. âThatâs the last thing I need,â I remarked.
It was as if I had not spoken. âYour youth will be gone and forgotten before you know it. Without your pretty face, how will you attract a husband? Youâll be a lonely old woman.â
âDo you speak from experience?â I retorted, but she took no ill-humour from my sharpness.
âNot so. I have had three husbands. And more than oneâ¦
admirer
, shall we say. I am a widow at present, but I have my eye on a likely man.â Mistress Saxby pursed her lips at the prospect of the man in question. âAre you courted?â
Was I?
I would like to put the light back into your eyesâ¦
âYes,â I said, lured into indiscretion before I could stop myself.
âIs he a worthy man?â
âToo good for me.â
âNonsense. No man is too good for a good woman.â She slid a glance over me, her smile widening. âDo I suppose it is not marriage he offers?â
And I found myself replying to her catechism. âNo.â
âIs he wed?â
âYes.â
âDo they live together?â
âThey spent Christmas together in Dorset at Kingston Lacy.â That much I knew. âShe travels to London to join him. She carries their first child.â
Mistress Saxbyâs ample lips became a thin line as she contemplated. âIt doesnât sound too