A Murder at Rosamund's Gate by Susanna Calkins Page B

I cannot make headway about his feelings for her.”
    “Do you think he wishes to marry? Is he willing to wait, do you think, until he is his own master?”
    Lucy smiled. “I don’t really know. I haven’t truly inquired after his heart in some time now, but Will is always a lad to have several girls after him, with not one a particular favorite. There is a girl back home, Cecily, but ’tis only Mother who favors the match. I find her sweet but a bit dull myself. I’d be happy enough to call her my sister, though, should he choose her.”
    “Oh, I see,” Lucas said, pondering the last drops of mead in his cup.
    “I do not think,” Lucy continued, enjoying having someone to share her thoughts with, “being truthful, that Will wishes to wed either Cecily or Bessie, at least not now. He plays among the lasses, but I think he still desires a place for himself.”
    “Well, that be the way of many men, before getting married. Hopefully, he will see his sinning ways before it is too late. A good man will not string a woman along.” Seeing Lucy sniff, he added, “Oh, but you are frowning. You’re not thinking about Will, are you? My dear Lucy, is there someone you are pining after who has not been faithful to you?”
    “Oh, no,” she said hastily. “No sweetheart. No one like that.”
    “Good,” Lucas said, his face flushed. “I should not like to see you give your heart away, especially to some fickle lad who doesn’t deserve it. Or,” he said, leaning closer, “to someone from a family you can never marry into.”
    Lucy looked up sharply, catching his troubled look.
    “It is the way of the world, I’m afraid. Like marries like.” He shook his head ruefully. “Of course, that’s the good thing about someone like me,” he said, his eyes suddenly intent. “I can marry whom I please. Perhaps some charming wench who will conjure up a cakebread whenever I ask.” He stood up. Without warning, he kissed her forehead, just below her cap. “Don’t change, my sweet. I’m off now, nary a crumb to be found, so we will not face the wrath of Cook.”
    The door slammed behind him, and Lucy sat on the bench Lucas had just vacated. The way of the world, indeed, Lucy thought. She looked around the happy kitchen in sudden distaste. Why did the walls feel like a prison?

7
    Upon waking the next day, Lucy could see that Bessie had already slipped out to start her morning work, eager to finish lacing one of the mistress’s fine underskirts. The good mistress had promised her several of her old petticoats if she made haste and had these ready for spring. “I shall affix a fine braid of silver fringe that will show when my skirts part, like so,” Bessie had confided to Lucy a few days before. “When I am through, my underskirts shall be as fine as the Queen Mother’s own!” Bessie had then laughed at Lucy’s shocked face. “Oh, Lucy, don’t be such a stick. I saw Mistress Embry with her skirts like so, in church even!”
    “Well, that I cannot protest,” Lucy had demurred. “For she might be doing us all a great service.”
    “I did not know you had such a fondness for Mistress Embry, Lucy,” Bessie had said, giving her a sidelong glance.
    Lucy had laughed, a bit wickedly. “Well, ’tis true enough. But I was thinking that perhaps the sight of her skirts would shock the good minister into silence. Surely that would be an act of benevolence itself.”
    Her teeth chattering now, Lucy forced herself out of bed. She cast about for her heavy stockings before remembering she had left them in the kitchen to dry after yesterday’s shower. “I wonder if Bessie would mind if I borrowed her gray worsted stockings,” she said to herself. “They are so much heavier and warmer than my own.”
    Lucy began to rummage through Bessie’s clothes chest. To her surprise, she felt something hard wrapped up in a soft summer petticoat. Removing the light muslin wrap, she found a beautiful red lacquered case that Bessie had