A Divided Inheritance Read Online Free Page B

for other countries knew no bounds.
    How she loved his French and Spanish lessons, and hearing him talk of the romance of Paris and Madrid! And she loved it when he pointed out the paintings of the lesser-known saints in the city
churches, and told her their life stories.
    No point in sitting moping like this, she thought. She stood up, brushed down her skirts and descended purposefully below to make her prayers. She shivered in the chill damp of the cellar, and
hoped Father and Zachary were warmer at Bainbridge’s. She could not decide whether they were brave or foolish to continue holding Masses at home. Father said Protestant spies were everywhere,
and the thought of it made her uneasy.
    She closed her eyes as usual and began an Ave, threading the ivory beads through her palm with her thumb. She vowed that even though Cousin Zachary and her father might be worshipping at a
proper altar with a proper priest, her own soul would not be one jot behind theirs.
    When her Aves were done and the Pater Noster too, she prayed for her father and for the souls of her dead sister and mother, and for her king – that he might find some peace in his heart,
so that Catholics might live unmolested in this great city. She prayed for Joan, her elder sister too, who was in France. She was a nun, and probably did not need prayers, being full of the holy
life as she must be by now, but Elspet always included her. She had fond childhood memories of her throaty laughter and still missed her company.
    Teeth chattering, Elspet stood up, but then, as an afterthought and because it was her duty to include all her family, she reluctantly knelt back down again and said a hurried prayer for Cousin
Zachary.
    Prayers done, she bounded upstairs to check that the dogs had been fed and fetched some warmed milk and honey from the kitchen, and a plate of cinnamon toast. It was always chill until the fires
took properly and her feet were numbed from kneeling for prayers. On the way back she passed by the old nursery – Cousin Zachary’s door. She paused outside, as if hooked by an invisible
thread, and put her ear close to the jamb. There was no sound from within – so it was true, he had gone out with Father.
    In a trice she had put the tray down on the boards outside and lifted the latch. The door creaked open in the draught. She looked over her shoulder. No sign of a servant. She’d peek in for
a few moments, she thought – just to see what sort of a man he might be. After all, last night he had not even joined them for their supper, but had eaten a tray of cold meats and pickles in
his room, and then Father had taken him into his study. Their muffled voices had told her nothing, though she had heard her father’s laugh once or twice. It struck her that it was a sound she
had missed, one she had not heard since her mother was alive.
    She stepped inside the old nursery and pulled the door so it half closed behind her. The shutters were only open a fraction, so it was moistly warm; the remnants of a wood fire had settled to
ash in the grate. She tiptoed over to the foot of the bed where lay her cousin’s travelling trunk and clothing, and yesterday’s discarded worn russet-brown doublet and breeches. She
fingered the fabric. Just as she thought; not hardwearing, not proper quality. So he was not from a well-to-do family, nor one of rank. And his garments were thrown here all in disarray, so he was
not a tidy person either. Martha must be busy; no servant had yet been in to put his things away.
    She looked to his trunk. Did she dare? Feeling guilty already she hooked open the lid of the trunk with the tip of her index finger, just an inch. A few lawn shirts and undergarments lay
crumpled and none-too-clean, as if they had been thrust inside in a hurry. She could not see much, so she lifted the lid away from her until it was fully open, her breath loud in the empty
room.
    She stared a moment. No prayer book or tract that she could see