you were their only child?”
“I fear so.”
Dona Elena sighed. “I have but one child myself, my son Marc. He has been the greatest blessing of my life, but I would have wished to give him brothers and sisters.” She drew a gold locket on a chain from inside her surcoat, opening the engraved oval to show Marguerite the miniature portrait inside.
Marguerite peered down at the painted image of a dark-haired young man. “He is certainly very handsome.”
“That he is. And he is soon to make me a grandmother!”
“How very gratifying. You must wish to hurry back to Spain to see the new baby.”
Dona Elena pursed her lips as she snapped the locket shut. “Alas, he makes his home near Venice now. But I hope to see him again soon after we leave England.”
Whenever that would be. Marguerite feared they would all be at Greenwich, strolling round and round the gardens for weeks to come, with nothing at all resolved. And she could not even devise how to discover what this lady knew of Nicolai.
“You must wish for children of your own one day, Señorita Dumas,” Dona Elena said.
For one flashing instant, Marguerite remembered the kicks of the horse’s hooves, the burning, searing pain in her belly. Her twelve-year-old body, barely budding into womanhood, bleeding on to the ground. “If God wills, Dona Elena,” she said, knowing full well His will for her had already been revealed. He turned from her long ago.
“If you were one of my ladies, I would have you settled with a fine husband in a trice,” Dona Elena said confidently. “Even from the convent, I arranged seven happy marriages among the children of my friends! I am known for my eye for a good match.”
Marguerite laughed. “That must be a useful gift indeed, Dona Elena.”
“It gives me great satisfaction. Some people, though, do not trust my skills. They resist what is best for them.”
“Do they? I vow I am convinced, Dona Elena! I would be happy to put my fate in your hands, if I was fortunate enough to be one of your ladies.”
Dona Elena shook her head ruefully. “If only you could help me convince poor Nicolai.”
“Nicolai?” Marguerite asked innocently, a bubble of excitement rising up in her at the mere mention of his name. She was a fool in truth.
“Nicolai Ostrovsky, who is a friend of my son. He leads such a disorganised life, señorita! Travelling up and down, no home of his own, though his fortune could surely afford one. Such a lovely gentleman.”
“Is he the handsome one, with the golden hair?” Marguerite whispered.
“Ah, you see, Señorita Dumas, even you have taken notice of him! All the ladies do. I have told him many times that any of my young attendants would be most happy to marry him, but he refuses.”
Marguerite glanced back over her shoulder at Dona Elena’s chattering ladies. They were pretty enough, she supposed, with their smooth, youthful complexions and shining dark hair. Surely too young and pious and—and Spanish for Nicolai! How could any of them possibly understand a man like him, when not even Marguerite herself could?
“Does he give a reason for his refusal?” she asked casually.
“Only that his life has no room for a wife. But I say he grows no younger! If his life has no room for a family, he must change his life. Make a home before it is too late.”
A home. Marguerite feared she did not even know what the word meant, as wondrous as it sounded. “He must be a great friend to your son, Dona Elena, for you to take such concern.”
“He is indeed! He saved Marc’s life.”
Very interesting. “How so?”
“I do not know the particulars. It happened in Venice. Or was it Vienna? No matter. He saved my son, and I shall always be grateful to him. And now he comes all this way to watch over me! Such a good man, señorita. If only he would let me repay him by finding him a fine wife.”
They walked on, the conversation turning to lighter matters of fashion, but Marguerite’s thoughts whirled. Could it really be that Nicolai was not here at Greenwich on matters of state and politics, but merely—friendship?
It scarcely seemed possible. Marguerite had never heard of such a thing. There must be something else, something Nicolai hid from the sweet Dona Elena, that brought him to this meeting. He had to be in the pay of someone else. But what was it he really sought?
Marguerite was more determined than ever to find out.
Chapter Eight
“What will you wear tonight, mistress?” asked Marguerite’s borrowed English maid, sorting through the clothes chest.
“Hmm?” Marguerite asked, distracted. She was sitting before her small looking glass, restlessly moving combs and jars about though she was meant to be dressing her hair. She would never be ready for the banquet in time if she carried on like this! Then she would have to go down in her chemise and stays. “What do you think?”
The maid examined the jumble of garments, at last holding up a skirt and bodice of silver-and-white satin. “This one, mistress! And the gold tissue sleeves.”
It was one of Marguerite’s best outfits, with the trim worked in a flower pattern of tiny crystals and silver-gilt embroidery, and she had meant to save it for the end of their English stay. But she remembered Dona Elena’s pretty attendants, her vow to see Nicolai married to one of them. It aroused in Marguerite a fierce, irrational yearning to outpretty them all, to capture Nicolai’s gaze and hold it only to herself. To never surrender it to some Spanish ninny, who might indeed make a fine, sweet wife, but who could never keep his interest for long.
“Abruti!” she cursed, throwing down a comb so hard one of the delicate teeth snapped. What was wrong with her tonight? She didn’t want Nicolai’s attention. Indeed, those unearthly blue eyes watching her just made her task that much harder. And it was nothing to her if he married fifty featherbrained Spanish girls. A hundred, a thousand!
Marguerite pressed her hands to her temples, feeling the throbbing veins just under her skin. She had sometimes heard of François’s spies going mad under the unceasing pressure of their work, turning into raving lunatics who had to be locked away because they no longer knew friend from foe. Was that what was happening to her?
“Non,” she whispered.
“Mistress? Is aught amiss?” the maid asked, her voice full of concern. Perhaps she did not often see ladies throw small tantrums, as the placid, polite English queen kept everyone under such control.
“Nay, I think I am just tired,” Marguerite answered steadily. “The white will do very well. You have a good eye.”
As the maid laid out the garments, Marguerite reached for her bottle of perfume. It was a special scent, blended for her by the royal perfumer. Her father used to tell her how her mother wore the fragrance of springtime lilies all the time,
