“Sir Thomas, I beg you will take a seat in the shade here, while I fetch Kate for you.” Alys ran in front of him, barring his path, then pointed at the sculpted stone bench beneath the platform. Leaving him to consider her offer, she hurried past him towards the giggles, then came to a halt, slack-jawed.
At the end of the yew walk, Kate and the gardener were clasping hands as he leaned down to kiss her pouting lips. Before Alys could warn them, she heard the heavy tread of Sir Thomas behind her. By the rood! She might not care a whit for Kate, but whatever sins her cousin committed would be reflected on her and the rest of the household. It was so humiliating.
What should she do? Cough loudly? Pretend to faint on Sir Thomas? A brief look at his granite expression decided her in favor of the cough.
The gardener looked up, then bowed, his long hair falling forward to hide his face.
“Mistress Aspinall!” Sir Thomas brushed Alys aside and bore down on Kate. The gardener held his ground, looking ready to protect his mistress from the angry intruder. Alys supposed she must admire him for that, as she would anyone not intimidated by Sir Thomas.
“Tom!” Kate cried in ringing tones, hurrying forward. “I hadn’t expected you so soon.”
She held out her hands.
Had she no shame? Alys took a deep breath, her mind racing. “Sir Thomas, be not disquieted. Kate and yon fellow are rehearsing a scene from a short play we have found to amuse ourselves.”
“Oh, never mind that now, Alys! Tom, take my arm—it delights my heart to see you after so long. It must have been a month at least. Why are you so neglecting me?”
Kate’s complete lack of self-consciousness seemed to do the trick. Sir Thomas almost smiled as he made his bow and turned away with her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.
Alys hung back, watching the gardener where he stood in the shadow of the yew trees, the tension in his body patent. Eyes glued on the departing pair, he shook his clenched fist, muttering, “A plague on you, Kate Aspinall. And on Sir Thomas Kirlham, too!” Then he stalked away out of sight.
Alys hurried back to the house. Kate wouldn’t bestir herself to be hospitable to their visitor—she’d be expected to do everything and could expect a scolding if she didn’t move swiftly.
It wasn’t until she reached the stout oak front door of the manor house that she stopped to ponder. Why had the gardener sounded so angry? And how, for that matter, did he know who Sir Thomas was, since the nobleman wasn’t local to Suffolk, and this must be the first time he’d seen him at Selwood?
The fellow was a conundrum. And if Kate had taken a liking to him, it might be best for all concerned if he were to be quietly dismissed.
Chapter Four
Kit’s legs were folded uncomfortably beneath him as he snipped and picked at the low box hedges of the maze. The new plants set in at the beginning of the season were taking well, their leaves dark and glossy. Now they needed to obey the gardener’s knife.
He liked pruning. It was a mindless task, giving him time to think. So long as the head gardener wasn’t breathing down his neck, there was plenty of time to think in this job and to watch. Whatever nefarious activities were taking place in this house, he would expose them, sooner or later. The lives of everyone in, or associated with, Selwood Manor would be laid bare—a nest of vipers uncovered to be crushed by Walsingham’s boot.
Kit had peeped through a window and seen Kirlham comfortably settled to a game of chess with Mistress Aspinall—there was naught in that to arouse suspicion. Alys Barchard had left them to it and marched off towards the bakehouse, her shoulders stiff, her lovely mouth a grim line. What would she look like if she were to smile?
Sitting back on his haunches, he surveyed the remaining box plants. His shoulder blade ached. He reached up to rub it, then stopped as a shadow fell across his eyes. Recognizing the somber grey of Alys Barchard’s kirtle, he leapt to his feet, making a bow which he hoped didn’t appear too courtly.
She had a smudge of flour on her cheek—from helping out in the bakehouse? He’d wager Kate Aspinall never sullied her pretty pink hands with such toil.
His smile seemed to surprise her. Were servants not expected to smile at Selwood?
Mayhap if they knew their employers were in league with the Catholics or the Spanish, they had little to cheer them. He gave Mistress Barchard the look which had melted many a heart at court—he could learn more about her if he tipped her off guard.
Her gaze dipped to his mouth, then fixed itself rigidly beyond him.
“I would speak with you.” She stepped within the confines of the maze.
“Any wish of yours is mine also.” How fortunate she wasn’t looking at him, or she’d have seen him wince. Faith, he was meant to talk like a gardener, not a practiced courtier demonstrating his chivalry. “Aye, Mistress,” he amended, following her into the labyrinth of box plants.
At the first corner, she stopped, keeping her back to him. “Your behavior this morning was beyond the pale. If it were up to me, you’d be cast off for that. Acting as you did with Mistress Aspinall, and in front of our guest to boot. This household may lack a master, but it does not lack morals.”
He might debate that point. Gazing at her, he couldn’t help but admire her tiny waist, the dark, waving hair escaping from her hat to caress a neck as white as swansdown. If only she would turn around and grant him a view of the tops of those creamy breasts.
A pox on it! Kit thrust his knuckles into his mouth
