Laura Cassidy - Madrilene's Granddaughter

He turned to survey her and, as if reading her thoughts, replied, “We are early risers, us Latimars—well, apart from my sister who dearly loves to waste the best part of the day. Shall we ride on down?” He assisted her to dismount in the yard and took both horses into the stables.

Bess was already in the hall. She had enjoyed the supper last night, but would enjoy today even more for her precious great-grandchildren would be present.

“May I help you with anything?” Rachel asked, shedding her cloak.

“How kind. I would welcome your help cutting some flowers from the garden. I love to have fresh blooms in the house, but fear bending is difficult for me these days. There is a basket and shears by the door.” The two women strolled out into the radiant day.

“It will be hot today,” Bess remarked.

Rachel lifted her eyes to the sky. “Yes. I enjoy this warm weather, it reminds me of home—my old home, I mean.” Her voice was so wistful.

Bess said in quick sympathy, “Yes, I suppose you must miss Spain very much.”

“Oh, I do!” Rachel said, adding impulsively, “You cannot imagine, unless you have seen for yourself, how much colour and light there is there. Even the poorest of dwellings has its brave show of flowers in little pots the owners have made themselves. And the sea is almost as bright a blue as the sky.” She paused as she saw Bess regarding her with a little pucker on her brow. “I beg your pardon, my lady.” She flushed. “Of course it is not quite…proper in England to praise anything Spanish.”

Bess began to walk along the path, looking into the flower beds. She touched a fragrant bush of roses. “Shall we have some of these? They smell so sweet, apart from being beautiful. As to praising one’s home—we all should be allowed to do that.”

Rachel bent to snip an armful of the glossy-leaved flowers and, as she leaned close to Bess, her own perfume hung in the air between them. Bess closed her eyes a moment. It was not a scent favoured in England; it was both subtle and invasive and it held memories for her. Of another girl in another time.

“Madrilene…” she murmured.

Rachel started. “That was my grandmother’s name,” she said without pausing to think. “Madrilene de Santos—very unusual, I believe. Few have heard it.”

“I have heard it,” Bess said shortly. She began to walk swiftly away. Rachel followed uncertainly.

“My lady?” she faltered. “Have I offended in some way?” Bess stopped and spun around.

“I think I knew your grandmother,” she said abruptly.

Rachel blushed. “Yes…I know.”

“Ah…you know,” Bess repeated. She looked about her garden unseeing, then said, “I think I would prefer to gather the flowers alone. Pray return to the house.” That time! she was thinking, that dreadful time! When an unscrupulous girl almost wrecked my good marriage. Now her granddaughter stands on my land as bold as brass and says, Yes…I know! Ever since Rachel Monterey had entered the hall of Maiden Court, Bess had been constantly reminded of someone else. Reminded! Why, she must have been blind. Rachel could be Madrilene’s reincarnation. And she had felt pity for the girl. Pity, bah! Any female with Madrilene de Santos’s blood did not need that gentle mercy—her pathetic ways were just a pose as her grandmother had assumed so many. Oh, it was an old, old story, but as fresh to Bess as if it were yesterday.

While Bess had been confined producing her twin son and daughter, Harry Latimar had remained with the royal court when Madrilene de Santos, spoiled and wealthy Spanish ward of King Henry Tudor, had arrived to take her place as one of Catherine Howard’s waiting ladies. Immediately her lustrous dark eyes had alighted on Harry and she had waged a deliberate campaign to snatch him for herself. Bess, and Harry, too, had eventually foiled her in this, but—standing now in the tranquillity of her gardens—Bess could still remember the pain of that whole year of her life. And the anger. Gentle and peaceable Bess had always been, but not meek, and to be confronted nearly four decades later with such an unwelcome ghost roused fire in her breast. With a face of stone she made a sweeping gesture. “Go back into the house, I say!” As Rachel stumbled away, she thought again, I must have been blind. Why, it could be she, my old enemy: all that shining black hair, that walk—as if she carried a crown on her elegant head. She stared after the retreating figure with hatred in her heart.

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