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“Of that, I have no doubt. Besides, Martha will not rest until you are speaking as a true Jacobean young lady.”

“I don’t think she fully realizes what she’s taken on.”

“Do not take that burden upon yourself. Martha is extremely capable and remarkably fearless.” He gestured toward the door. “And to that end, I should probably take you to her chambers before she comes looking for you.”

Isla nodded but did not immediately move. “Do you think she would mind if I came to the nursery on my own occasionally?”

Memory of Maidstone’s mandate concerning restricting Isla’s access to his sons flooded Simon’s mind. To the best of his knowledge, Isla had not been left alone in the house since Maidstone had issued it. After their recent meeting in the parlor, however, Simon thought it likely that his brother-in-law’s stance would soon change. “As long as Miss Tomlinson is with you, I do not think Martha would mind at all.” He glanced at the boys’ nursemaid, who was currently watching the twins from the comfort of the nursery rocking chair. “And I speak from personal experience when I say that Will and Sam are always pleased to have visitors.”

Relief filled Isla’s eyes. “When I’m here, it doesn’t seem so important that I have the wrong vocabulary or don’t know how to use a quill.”

“Indeed,” he said. “How fleet of foot you are and how well you spin a peg top are far more important.”

“I think I’d better add practicing turning a peg top to my list of things to do.”

“Very wise,” Simon said, offering her his arm. “And if you also choose to add riding to your schedule, you will find me at the stables most mornings at sunrise.”

Chapter 10

Guy stood in the small square in the center of York, his gaze focused on the tollbooth a few yards distant. Memories assaulted him. Painful, loud, and full of hate. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to keep his feet planted. As unpleasant as it was to relive the day Margaret Clitherow had died, it was a good reminder of why he had returned to England. Of why he was so eager to light the fuse under the House of Lords.

Two women walked by, and he pulled the brim of his hat a little lower. Coming to York had been a risk. He’d been gone for a decade, but the young Guy Fawkes was known in this community, and it would take only one person calling out his name to end his anonymity. Worse, a person who knew his childhood associates might ask about Kit and Jack Wright. They’d been his closest friends at school and were his coconspirators now. The fewer who made that connection, the better.

His thoughts drifted to their headmaster, John Pulleyn. The venerable gentleman had been more than a teacher to Guy. He’d been a mentor—a father figure when Guy’s own father had died at the young age of forty-five. And though Guy had been raised in a Protestant home, John Pulleyn had opened his eyes to the evil that Henry VIII had spawned when he’d broken from the Catholic church. Pulleyn had made it his mission to educate the boys at St. Peter’s School on the harsh reality of living life as a devout Catholic in a country run by those whose pride and avarice had turned them from the right path. And that tutoring had included bringing his students to this very square to witness the cruel death of Margaret Clitherow, a woman who had been killed for openly teaching Catholic doctrine to others in her home.

Guy had been sixteen years of age. Old enough for the horrific experience to permanently sear itself into his mind. Old enough to know that he would never be as the craven adults in the crowd that day who had stood by, doing nothing while a woman’s anguished cries had filled the air.

His stomach roiled, fueled by the hate that festered there. There would be vengeance for Margaret Clitherow and the other Catholics in the country who had suffered a similar fate. And it would come far sooner than England’s tyrannical monarch could possibly imagine.

The bells of York Minster chimed, drawing Guy from his heavy thoughts and reminding him that he must be on his way. Turning his back on the tollbooth and his memories, he started down the narrow lane that led to his childhood home. A few more days and he would return to London, and then there would be little over a week before he and his comrades set things right. Anticipation hummed through his veins, the promise of vengeance dispelling his earlier frustration. His mother would undoubtedly consider a fortnight in York not nearly long enough to make up for his having been gone for so long, especially as he’d expressly forbidden her from gathering friends and neighbors to celebrate his return. But two weeks was all he could offer her. There were more important things at hand than a lengthy mother-and-son reunion, and his role in the coming events was pivotal. Straightening his shoulders, he increased his pace. Once the king and his ineffective government were destroyed, his mother would understand his need to leave—and his reason to stay away afterward.

Isla exited Copfield Hall’s front door and hurried down the stone steps. A little over two weeks ago, she’d slipped out of the house at a similar time, desperate to find answers—or even a way back to McQuivey’s Costume Shop—at the woodshed. Now she barely glanced at the distant structure as she followed the gravel path toward the stables, intent upon reaching it by the time Simon returned from his morning canter.

A robin sang in a nearby holly bush, and Isla smiled. Somehow, despite the craziness of her situation, her life at Copfield Hall had fallen into a comfortable routine with people she now considered friends. A morning ride with Simon, followed by penmanship practice in the parlor and a midday meal at which Martha reviewed seventeenth-century dining etiquette. The afternoon began with an hour spent with Sam and Will and then moved into another lesson with Martha that usually revolved around clothing, dated vocabulary, and approved subjects of conversation. Finally, Lord Maidstone and Simon joined them for an evening meal, where Isla was required to practice what she’d learned. They were each unfailingly patient with her efforts, but Isla chafed at how often she made mistakes and how slowly her calligraphy was improving.

Most nights, when she was alone in her bedchamber, she was beset by doubts that she would ever be able to pass herself off as a Jacobean lady. Those feelings had further intensified three days ago when Lord Maidstone had informed her that he had received an official invitation for them all to attend Lord Monteagle’s dinner. Her role at that event had immediately become more real—and ever more daunting. But somehow, after each night’s sleep, morning brought with it new hope and the opportunity to spend time with Simon.

She rounded the corner of the house. No one was in the yard outside the stable, but the doors to the large building were open. As she approached, Ezra emerged, drawing Belle behind him.

“Good morning, Ezra,” she called.

The stableboy looked up and grinned. “‘Mornin’, Miss Crawford. Looks as though we timed it just right t’day.”

“Yes.” Isla stepped closer and ran a hand down Belle’s long neck. “We’re getting rather good at this, aren’t we?”

He chuckled. “Well, I reckon Belle must ’ear ya comin’ ’cause she starts shufflin’ in ’er stall. If I don’t get ’er out fast enough, she lets me know.”

Isla smiled. She couldn’t deny that after almost a dozen rides together, she and Belle had developed a fondness for each other that Isla would not have believed possible when she’d first tried mounting the horse. “I think she knows that I’m as anxious as she is to be outside.” She glanced over her shoulder at the path Simon usually took. “Did I beat Lord Bancroft back today?”

“Yes, miss,” Ezra said. “Would ya ’ave me get the stool?”

Isla hesitated. Even though she always left her ridiculous farthingale in her bedchamber when she planned to ride, situating herself in the sidesaddle was much trickier without Simon’s help. On the other hand, if she were mounted when he arrived, they could leave straightaway.

“I suppose you’d better bring it out,” she said.

“Right ya are, miss.” Ezra handed her Belle’s leather straps and hurried into the stable.

He’d barely disappeared through the doors when Isla heard the pounding of hooves. She looked to her right and immediately spotted Simon and Blaze galloping across the pasture toward them. Isla’s heart rate quickened. At her side, Belle lifted her head, her ears twitching, alert to the return of her stablemate.