you are big enough, the gowns can be updated and fitted for you. Your mother would love to know you would use them again, I imagine.”
Cecily paused a long moment, then quietly, in tremulous tones, she asked, “What is Sumerton like?”
“It’s a lovely place, much like your home,” Father Alec told her. “It is surrounded by a lush forest teeming with life and there is a lake the Pierces keep their barge on. There are stables filled with beautiful horses and mews with regal hawks. And Lord Sumerton loves hounds. The king himself has called them among the finest in England.”
“The earl—I am his ward now?” Cecily asked.
Father Alec nodded, then, realising it was too dark for her to see, said, “Yes.”
“Is he kind?”
“He is,” Father Alec told her in truth. He had never known Lord Hal to be unkind. The man always smiled, always had a gentle word for his children, never raised a hand to anyone. “He is kind and quite young, in truth.” He smiled in fondness. “He and Lady Grace, the countess, are both vibrant with youth and vigour. It is … well, it is a fun place, my lady—very alive. And me, I am tutor to their children, which means I will be educating you as well.”
“Tell me of the children,” Cecily prompted.
Father Alec’s legs were getting sore and stiff within the confines of the wardrobe, but he continued. He would win this child. Rather win her than have to drag her kicking and screaming to Sumerton. He rubbed the backs of his knees as he talked.
“One, young Aubrey—they call him Brey—is just your age, and Mirabella is thirteen. They are loving children and eager to make your acquaintance,” he said. “Why, the whole household has been in a thrall of preparations since news of your wardship. They will be so disappointed if I cannot convince you to join me.” He paused. “Won’t you join me, Lady Cecily?”
She was silent again. “Yes,” she acquiesced at last. She pushed open the doors, squinting as blinding white light flooded the wardrobe.
Father Alec scrambled to his feet, then extended his hand toward the girl.
She accepted it, emerging from the depths of the wardrobe to reveal a stunning beauty with rippling waves of rose-gold hair and startling teal blue eyes set in a tiny face with skin the colour of alabaster. Father Alec’s breath caught in his throat. An example, he thought to himself. I am looking at an example of God’s art, for this child is nothing if not a masterpiece.
He squeezed the little hand in his. She turned her strange eyes to him, eyes that were a mingling of so many emotions—fear, grief, anxiety, longing. Longing to trust, to be happy. To live.
Together priest and child proceeded out of Burkhart Manor, where waited the coach that would carry them toward Sumerton and Cecily’s new life.
Cecily was well accustomed to opulence, but never had she seen such beauty as that possessed by Castle Sumerton. Father Alec had explained the history of the castle to her as they rode. Built in the fourteenth century and a favourite summer estate of Lancastrians and Yorkists alike, the palatial fortress was awarded to the Pierces, along with the title of earl, when their family assisted Henry VII in his victory over Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth. Since then not only had a little town of the same name emerged nearby to support its needs, but it had been visited by ambassadors and kings and prelates, scholars, princes, and pundits. An advocate of education, Lord Sumerton entertained Europe’s most celebrated minds, men such as Thomas More and Desiderius Erasmus. The Pierces adored giving grand entertainments and feasts, Father Alec told her, and there was seldom a week that passed without guests.
It sounded very grand to Cecily. Yet even as her heart raced with anticipation she feared the transition. She feared liking her new home, liking her keepers. What if she grew too fond of them and forgot her own family? Even now, so soon after her parents’ deaths, their faces were obscured in her mind’s eye, forms that resembled the people she had cherished but were not quite right. Like paintings, their features were soft, a little lacking in definition. Guilt surged through her as she thought of it and she found herself focusing on the miniatures she had brought with her, staring for long hours at the little faces. But what were miniatures but paintings? They were not her parents; in fact, these miniatures were very poor reproductions indeed.
But as she approached Castle Sumerton thoughts of her parents were replaced by fearful curiosity. The large keep with its climbing turrets captured her breath. She could not imagine playing hide-and-seek here. She took in the vast expanse of lush green forest that surrounded the fortress; it made it seem sort of isolated as opposed to the open, sprawling green fields that had made up the Burkhart lands. Somehow this comforted rather than intimidated her.
Taking Father Alec’s hand, she allowed him to lead her into the great hall, which was being set for a feast. Servants bustled everywhere. The hall was being swept and sweetened, trestles set up, plates laid, and orders shouted. Cecily looked toward the cathedral ceiling, one side of which was outfitted with three large windows allowing the light to stream in and dance across the floor. She stood in one of the rays, watching the flecks of dust float and sparkle in the sunlight. She smiled.
“Ah! She has arrived!” a jovial voice cried, rousing Cecily from her reflections. She turned to face a well-built man in his early thirties sporting a close-cut beard, wavy brown hair that curled about his neck, and twinkling blue eyes. His countenance was kind. Cecily was immediately disarmed.
She curtsied. “Lord Sumerton.”
Lord Sumerton dipped into a bow. “My dearest little lady,” he said. “We mourn the loss of your parents; Baron Burkhart and I were educated together with the Wyatts of Kent.” His eyes softened with fondness over a memory, perhaps of the carefree days of youth. He returned his gentle blue gaze to Cecily. “Please know that we will take good care of you and hope you will be very happy with us here at Sumerton.” He took her hands in his, offering a bright smile. “I should like to present my family.” He indicated a slim, fair woman beside him whose blond hair was pulled back beneath her gable hood. Her sleepy brown eyes were bleary and unfocused. “This is Lady Grace, my wife.”
Another curtsy.
“And these are my children. Aubrey and Mirabella.” Lord Sumerton gestured toward the children. Lord Aubrey offered a quick bow. He was fair haired and wiry, his smile slow and sweet. His cheeks flushed when he looked at Cecily. She smiled and curtsied in return.
Lady Mirabella was slender and tall, her black hair cascading down her back in soft waves. The green eyes peering out of her olive-skinned face were keen as they scrutinised Cecily. She shivered as she offered a curtsy.
“You will share the nursery with them, Lady Cecily, until you are older,” Lord Sumerton told her. “Matilda is our nurse.” He nodded to a short, buxom young woman with bouncing red ringlets who tossed her a reassuring smile. “And of course you know our tutor and chaplain, Father Cahill.”
Cecily offered a fond smile to the priest whom she had placed all her trust in since this peculiar journey began. It comforted her to know he was a fixture in the household; perhaps it would make her adjustment easier to bear.
“Children, take her to the nursery and get acquainted,” ordered Lady Grace in soft tones. “We will send for you at supper.”
“Yes, my lady,” they chorused. Cecily threw one pleading glance at Father Alec, as though begging him to stop them, to stop her life from moving forward, to suspend the moment of bittersweet uncertainty and anticipation a bit longer before Reality began.
Father Alec only smiled.
Cecily averted her head, allowing herself to be shown out of the hall and up a flight of narrow stairs to the nursery. It was a room far lovelier than her nursery. The tapestries depicted cherubs surrounding the Blessed Virgin, all enveloped in a light so welcoming Cecily longed to be embraced by it. The beds were dressed in sumptuous white lace with cornflower blue velvet curtains to match those that were drawn across the bay window. The floors were covered in soft bearskin rugs