He stood up, his body rigid. “Do not say that. Do not even suggest it.”
“Get out!” she suddenly shrieked. “Go back to Mt. Holyoak and stay there. I do not want to see you ever again.”
He was pale and shaking. “If I leave, Remi, you most certainly will never see me again. Think about what you are asking.”
She put her hands on the stone wall, leaning her forehead against it. Her soft sobs filled the room. “I… will not… give up my son. I… hate you for… suggesting it.”
“You would give me up instead?”
She did not answer, continuing to sob. Without another word, Gaston quit the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
February 1487
Somerset, England
Winter this farsouth was not such a terrible thing. Remington stood by the hearth, folding freshly washed laundry, feeling the warmth of the fire against her flesh.
And there was laundry aplenty, as there usually was on laundry day. She continued to fold rough woolen underwear; just like the kind she had been wearing all these months to remind mortals of their vanity. But with her itching belly, woolen underwear was torture. There were days when she wore no underwear at all simply because she couldn’t bear it.
Next to her, Martha was folding briskly. “Keep up the pace, Remington. There is much more to do.”
Remington smiled at her friend, younger than she and a ward of the church. Her family had perished some years ago, leaving young Martha an heiress. Edward had placed her in the care of Prioress Mary Margaret of Wells Abbey, and the nuns of the abbey had raised her from birth.
“Faster, Remi,” Martha urged, pushing a stray lock of pretty brown hair from her face.
“I cannot move so fast these days,” Remington remarked, tossing a folded garment on the pile.
Martha nodded sympathetically. “How much longer do you have to go? Seven weeks? You shall never make it.”
“I hope I do,” Remington patted her hugely swollen stomach. “I should not like to give birth to a seven-month baby.”
Martha’s blue eyes roved over Remington. She knew little about her friend, only that she was escaping a bad marriage. Prioress Mary Margaret knew the whole story, of course, but she was the only one. No one else seemed to know much about the beautiful pregnant woman.
Missives came for her all of the time, but she never read them. She sent them back, unopened, and continued with her new life. She had traded in all of her beautiful dresses for those of coarse linen or wool, all of her jewelry for headbands and aprons. Once, a man dressed in armor from head to toe came to see her, but the prioress sent him away. Someone said he was Matthew Wellesbourne, the White Lord, but no one had asked Remington about it. She would not tell them, anyway.
Missives came from the north of England all the time. She never read any of them, but she had sent one north. Only one missive in reply to dozens she must have received. Indeed, lovely Lady Remington was a mystery.
Wells Abbey was a small establishment, gleaning the Somerset countryside and schooling the young peasant children. It was a peaceful existence, devoted to knowledge and charity. It was a life completely different from the one Remington had left, and she consumed it eagerly. Anything to forget Gaston!
But it was difficult to forget him every time she felt the child move, which was constantly. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. There wasn’t a night that went by that she did not dream of his hands on her body, his mouth against hers. Andthere wasn’t a night that passed that she did not cry softly for the want of him.
But she had to separate herself from him. Every day, she repeated their last conversation in her mind and she was torn between great remorse and great anger. How could he have agreed to surrender Dane? How could she have been so cruel as to tell him she could not believe him anymore? Why had she been so brutal to him, saying things she did not mean, telling him to leave her be? It all came down to one thing; that he had traded her son like a commodity to gain an annulment. She would not do it, and she knew Guy would not reconsider his term. She knew exactly what he had meant when he had said her request would cost her dearly. It had cost her her soul.
She had taken her anger out on Gaston. He had walked out and she had not seen him since. All of the missives she had returned unopened simply because she was afraid to read what had transpired as a result of her rage. She did not want to read of Gaston’s hate for her in writing. She knew Guy was laughing at the both of them, and she was deeply sorry for Gaston. He was a proud man and had suffered through so much humiliation in his life, and she was grieved that she had contributed much to his humiliation.
The church had been more than happy to grant her sanctuary. Father de Tormo had selected Wells Abbey because the prioress was his cousin. But she had severed all contact with de Tormo after she had arrived at Wells, simply because she knew he would tell Gaston. And she did not want him to know anything.
She had no idea what had happened to Uncle Martin. After her fight with Gaston, he had disappeared and she had not seen him again. She hoped he was all right, but the fact was that he probably hated her, too, for being so stubborn and cruel. So did Henry, and everyone else who had supported Gaston. It madeGaston look like a fool, of course, to rally such support for no reason and she was miserably embarrassed for them both.
In the six months she had been at Wells, she had tried to forget about him. The one missive she had sent to Mt. Holyoak had been addressed to her son, to let him know what had happened. She wondered if he had let Gaston read it.
Tears tightened her throat every time she thought of Gaston finding another woman to love. With Mari-Elle dead and his annulment to her most likely complete, there was no reason for him not to marry again. The thought of him lying with another woman made her insane with grief and pain. But it would serve as just punishment to her if he had remarried.
God, she was so confused.
“Remington?” came a sharp voice.
