Page 15 of The Favourite

“Daughters?” He burst out laughing. “Jane, are you envisaging yourself raising a houseful of bastards now?” She felt herself turn hot all over. Of course, part of it was outrage he was addressing her with such familiarity. “No, Jane, you are the only one of us entering our marriage with an illegitimate child in tow,” he assured her, mockingly.

“Do not—!” She glanced around. “Do not say things like that! This topic of conversation is hardly proper!” she hissed.

“Dear me, I did not mean to offend your sensibilities,” he muttered, “and I hate to point this out, Jane, but ‘twas you raised the matter of bastards in the first place.”

If she was not better raised, Jane would have been tempted to stamp her foot. She detested the man. How in the world did the Queen expect her to take him for a husband? Pulling herself up to her greatest height, she turned her most severe look upon him. Annoyingly, she still had to tip her head back to do it.

“Jane,” he commented softly. “When you are Mistress Bartree’s age, that frosty expression may stand you in good stead. For now, however, you are far too young and pretty to pull it off with any measure of success.”

So surprised was she, by his calling her pretty, that she continued tongue-tied until the next turn in the corridor where they were to part ways. “Good evening to you, Lord Bardulf,” she managed to voice in freezing accents.

“And to you, my good Jane. ” His voice floated back over his shoulder as he turned to the left. “May you dream sweetly of me.”

She very nearly tripped over an uneven flagstone. By the time she reached the modest rooms she shared as part of the Queen’s entourage, Jane was all of a quiver. She shut the door behind her as though pursued by a pack of hounds and leaned back against it, catching her breath. This was not happening to her… it could not!

A tinkling laugh from the adjoining room startled her. She had thought to have the place to herself since Magnatrude Bartree remained with the Queen. She had thought the other two ladies she shared with, Osanna and Patience, away from court at present.

Hearing excited accents, Jane realized her assumptions were quite wrong. “I assure you, Patience, ‘tis entirely true, for I heard it from Lord Morgan himself and he heard it from …”

Jane did not tarry to hear anymore, instead fleeing to the privacy of her bedchamber. Even in there, she could not breathe easy, for disquieting thoughts crowded her head giving her no peace. Clapping her cold hands to her hot cheeks, she paced from one wall to the other, muttering under her breath. What was she going to do?

“Jane?” A hesitant knock at her door had her gasping. “Is that you?”

Jane closed her eyes a moment before making for the door. She opened it a crack and found Osanna Spencer’s concerned face peering in at her. “Yes, it is I,” Jane responded after a heartbeat.

“I thought I heard your step in the corridor. I hope we did not—that is—we did not realize you had returned already from the country,” Osanna said. “Patience and I were just discussing the sad estrangement of Lord and Lady Beswick.” As she said this, Osanna’s cheeks turned bright red. Jane realized with surprise that she was lying through her teeth.

Why was she bothering to lie? Jane wondered. Gossip was always rife at court and … Oh. Seeing the expression of guilt on Osanna’s face, the truth finally dawned. They had been discussing Helen. Or rather, Helen’s untimely death. Silly of her, she should have expected that the news would not take long to reach the palace.

An image flashed into her mind. A freshly dug grave. That cold, chilly morn a week ago. Her uncle’s speculative expression and the terrible numbness of it all. How could her lovely, lively sister now lie under that dark earth?

“—were wondering if you would like to accompany us down to supper?” Osanna was babbling, twisting her hands together. Jane gazed back at her blankly. Then she realized an offer had been extended for her to accompany Osanna and her friends down to the Great Hall.

Generally, Jane did not sup or mingle much with the other ladies-in-waiting. She opened her mouth now on an instinctive refusal, but then found herself hesitating. After all, cowering here in her room like a frightened child was not going to help matters. She needed to maintain appearances and look at least as though her whole life was not falling apart.

Jane nodded. “That would be most agreeable, thank you,” she murmured and saw the flash of surprise on Osanna’s face. She, too, had been expecting Jane to decline.

“Oh good!” she responded swiftly, though Jane did not know how sincere her words were. She knew the others thought her sadly stand-offish and had never really cared. Secure in her position as the Queen’s favorite, she had not needed anyone else’s good opinion.

Osanna talked brightly as they went to meet her friends who loitered still in the sitting room. On reaching the sitting room, all three seemed similarly astonished at Jane’s joining them. Still, after a moment’s awkwardness, they greeted her politely enough. Patience Stanhope hesitantly offered her condolences on Jane’s recent loss and the others quickly followed suit.

Jane had responded with courtesy and her habitual reserve. Mercifully, they seemed content with this and soon became their usual chattering selves. Together they had gone down to supper, and Jane had managed to get through the ordeal without showing herself up too badly.

It was true that Osanna had been forced to slyly nudge her a couple of times to prompt her participation, and there was one course she simply could not bring herself to touch. Helen had always favored roast beef and mustard above all dishes.

She fancied there were more whispers and glances her way than usual, but she found these easy enough to rise above. On the whole, she thought she managed tolerably well. Neither the King nor the Queen made an appearance in the Banqueting Hall that eve, and Jane wondered if they were, even now, in the midst of a heated argument about the King’s latest bastard. A morsel of food stuck in her throat, and Jane was forced to take a swig of wine to wash it down.

Taking a deep breath, Jane considered matters calmly. If the King agreed to the wild scheme, then her niece could be freed from their uncle’s clutches. That was her primary objective, after all. Other considerations, such as choice of bridegroom, could be swept aside in the urgency of securing the child’s future, she told herself, gripping her goblet stem for dear life.

Whether Viscount Bardulf was any better than Viscount Morpington she had no notion. At least he was not a drunkard unless he hid it considerably better than Rodrey. Did he gamble? That too, she did not know, and if he was a lecher, then she had never heard ‘twas so.

Of course, it was an accepted fact that men played at the dice cup and consorted with mistresses. Their reputations did not suffer for such things, so long as they kept them in their rightful place. In truth, such behaviors were expected of them. Then again, Viscount Bardulf was not the typical Karadokian male, maybe because he was not one.

Jane knew nothing of the Western Isles, but as the Queen’s countryman, she supposed she could not hold that against him. He must have been an established part of Wymer’s court for several years now, she thought. He had certainly been a staple ever since she had arrived three years ago.

She gave her head a quick shake. She had just decided that her bridegroom was not the most important consideration, had she not? Instead, she must concentrate on the child. At present, her niece was safe enough, surrounded by the staff her sister had engaged to provide for her every need.

Uncle Phillip could exert no malign influence while she was a mere babe in arms. Indeed, it was highly unlikely he had gone anywhere near the infant since its birth. He had no interest in children. Instead, he was likely contenting himself with ruling the roost at Kinnerton and devoutly hoping the King did not kick him out in light of Helen’s death.