Chapter Nine #3
Rory was closest. She swung around so fast she hit Mari-Elle on the side of the head with the pitcher of wine she was holding. The woman teetered, her wimple knocked askew.
“You stupid…!” She suddenly remembered Gaston sitting next to her. If she were going to convince the man that she was a changed woman, then she would have to start acting like it. She calmed herself and straightened her wimple. “You seem to have forgotten my food.”
Rory lifted her eyebrows in feigned horror. “My heavens! Sorry, chicklet, I shall get it right away.”
She skittered away and Gaston found himself biting off huge guffaws that promised to fill the room.
Across the table, Patrick’s red face was staring into his lap and Nicolas had his napkin over his mouth, chewing slowly but laughing silently like a fool.
Antonius coughed heavily and pretended to drop his knife to the floor.
Gaston was shocked at what was apparently going on.
Shocked and angered that Remington and her sisters had disobeyed him, but mightily amused at what promised to take place.
He knew he should stop it, but he was frankly curious at Mari-Elle’s reaction to Rory’s brassiness.
He decided to allow Remington and her sisters to continue their charade, if for nothing more than to be fortunate enough to gaze at Remington. He missed her already.
Gaston’s knights recognized her but no one said a word. Whatever she was doing was her own business, yet a few wondered if Lady de Russe had ordered her to serve as a common servant. Obviously Sir Gaston wasn’t upset in the least, so wise men that they were, they made no comment.
Remington came up on Gaston’s arm. “More wine, my lord?”
He gazed up at her, trying desperately not to show any emotion. “Aye.”
He raised his goblet and she lowered the pitcher and they bumped. The collision wasn’t hard, but suddenly the pitcher was flying backwards and nearly the entire contents spilled itself on Mari-Elle’s lap.
Mari-Elle jumped to her feet with shock and Remington let the pitcher fall.
“Oh, my lady, I am so sorry,” she gasped with a good deal of overacting. “I am ever so clumsy, my lady, please forgive me.”
Gaston watched, baffled, as Remington grabbed the rag on her dress and began wiping the wine off his wife’s fine surcoat. He could see that every swipe of the rag left a black streak and Mari-Elle looked down at herself, horrified.
“Look at what you are doing,” she screeched. “Stop this instant!”
Remington dropped the rag in mock horror at what she had done. “My lady, a thousand apologies. Please.”
Mari-Elle was fully preparing to swat the unfortunate serving girl but she caught Gaston’s critical look over the top of the wench’s head and reconsidered. Though it was far more difficult this time around, she forced down her anger.
“I am sure it will wash,” she said through clenched teeth.
Remington bowed and scraped herself away from the table, backing up several feet until she was well clear of them.
Then, as Gaston watched, she straightened regally and smiled the most devious smile he could ever remember seeing.
He was torn between wanting to take her over his knee and wanting to applaud her bravado.
In spite of his conflict, he was growing increasingly curious about Mari-Elle’s behavior.
The woman he had married would have been whipping the hide from the servants by now.
As he was dwelling on Mari-Elle’s change of character, Rory barged forward, a full trencher in her hands. Carefully, she sat it down in front of Mari-Elle.
“There you are, chicklet,” she said happily. “Enjoy!”
Gaston looked at the food on the trencher and just knew there was something wrong with it. He passed a glance at Arik and the two of them quickly looked back to their food. Whatever the woman got, she deserved worse and they were not about to put a stop to it. Yet. The show was far too amusing.
Mari-Elle began to eat and they held their breath.
But nothing happened and she continued eating, smiling at Gaston now and again.
He ignored her, acutely aware of Remington replenishing wine at the next table and stealing a glance at her here and there.
At the far end of the table, Rory was laughing loudly with several of the knights and then suddenly cuffed one on the side of the head.
“That wench is….unusual,” Mari-Elle commented. “Are all of the servants here as cheeky as she is?”
Gaston did not answer; Arik replied when he saw that he wasn’t going to. “For the most part, they are a loyal lot, my lady.”
Mari-Elle turned her nose up and resumed her meal. “Thank God I brought my own people with me. We shall soon have Mt. Holyoak running smoothly.”
Gaston looked at her, then. “Your conclusion is based upon the assumption that I will allow you to remain at Holyoak and is, therefore, faulty. As it is, the fortress and its house run quite sufficiently for my taste and your interference is neither needed nor wanted.”
Remington was at the next table and listening to the conversation closely. A knight held up his tankard and she obliged with her pitcher of wine.
Mari-Elle blanched. “I am not welcome in my husband’s fortress?”
Gaston had sincerely hoped to avoid this until later when they were in private, but he had spoken rashly in reaction to her suggestion that Mt. Holyoak was their fortress. It was his, and Remington’s.
“We will discuss this later, madam,” he said coldly.
Trenton bowed his head over his food, his appetite gone.
So his father was a cold bastard just like his mother said, only…
today they had spent over an hour together and his father had been very kind to him.
He wanted his father’s love so much, but he was deeply confused. Why did his father hate his mother so?
Stung, Mari-Elle returned to her food, knowing her task ahead would not be an easy one. She would have to be more clever than Gaston, a monumental chore.
Remington moved to Gaston’s table once more, topping Arik’s and Patrick’s cups. She moved around to Mari-Elle.
“More wine, my lady?” she asked pleasantly.
Mari-Elle nodded shortly and watched the wine fill her cup. Then, much to Gaston’s concern, she turned to Remington and scrutinized her closely.
“You are rather pretty for a common serving wench,” she said cattily. “Are you, mayhap of a higher station?”
Remington blinked at the question, the statement. “Nay, my lady. I am what you see.”
Mari-Elle raised an eyebrow. “I am sure you have not gone unnoticed by the knights,” she said. “Tell me then, girl. You served the former lord, did you not?”
“Aye, my lady,” she had in more ways than one.
“And is the climate of the household still attuned to Richard?”
Remington actually found that her dander was rising with the woman’s haughty tone. She had been quite docile until this moment. “We are loyal to Sir Gaston, my lady.”
Mari-Elle gave Remington one last arrogant look and returned to her wine. “We shall see. Where is your mistress, then? I ordered her to attend this meal.”
Gaston raised a black brow. “You do not give orders here, madam. You receive them. I specifically ordered Lady Remington to remain in her rooms until your departure. You will not, nor do you need to, see her.”
“Lady Remington?” Mari-Elle repeated. “What kind of name is that?”
“French, I believe, my lady,” Remington was starting to flush around her cheeks.
Mari-Elle glared at Remington. “I did not ask your opinion, girl. Leave us.”
Remington swept away, her jaw clenching and her face red. She brushed past Skye and Rory near the kitchen door.
“Bitch,” she hissed. “No wonder Gaston hates her.”
“Look at the boy, Remi,” Skye whispered. “He looks terribly uncomfortable.”
Remington gazed at Trenton, a smaller version of his mighty father. “Poor thing,” she murmured, and then looked pointedly at Rory. “Whatever you put in her food, I hope it makes her so miserable she wants to die.”
Rory grinned. “Oh, I can guarantee that she will be feeling quite awful in an hour or so. Charles gave me a root that will make her food run right through her. She shall be in the privy all night.”
Jasmine joined the little group, setting her wine pitcher down. “Charles and Dane have surely finished sabotaging her room by now,” she whispered. “Just wait until Lady Mari-Elle retires for the night. God help her.”
Remington had a delightful mental picture of what lay in store for Lady de Russe. It never occurred to her that Gaston might become angry over what they had done; she thought she was helping him.
“Remember; we deny all knowledge,” she whispered urgently. “Unless Gaston plans to put us to the whip, we continue to deny everything. And you, Rory; the suspicion will be on you and you must not give in. We know how you like to confess your sins.”
“What if Lady Mari-Elle puts us to the whip?” Skye asked, fear shadowing her face.
“Gaston won’t let her,” Remington said confidently. “See how he ignores her? I promise you, the woman is as good as gone.”
“Is it time for our song yet?” Jasmine asked eagerly, picking up her lyre from its perch on the wall.
Remington passed a sly glance at Mari-Elle, studying the woman’s sharp profile. “Oh, yes.”
Remington couldn’t sing a note. In fact, the only sister who could remotely sing was Jasmine, and she couldn’t sing if she were playing her lyre because she lacked the coordination.
But they had a special song in mind for Lady Mari-Elle, composed by Rory no less, and they would sing it or die trying.
Anything to welcome the new mistress of Mt. Holyoak.