Bart smiled, inclined his head in a slight bow, and gave her a roguish look. ‘You’re a sly one, Ned, to come home with a pretty French wench,’ he said.
Sylvie had an idea that the wordwenchwas not quite polite, but she decided to ignore it. The earl had an expensively dressed little boy at his side, and she said: ‘And who is this young man?’
‘My son, Bartlet, the viscount,’ Bart said. ‘He’s just had his ninth birthday. Shake hands, Bartlet, and say how do you do.’
The boy complied. He had the same vigorous physical presence as his father, despite being small. Sylvie smiled to see a wooden sword at his belt.
Ned said: ‘And this is Countess Margery.’
Sylvie looked up and saw, with a shock, the woman in the little painting. It was a second jolt to realize that in real life she was much more striking. Although older than the painting – she had a few faint lines around her eyes and mouth, and Sylvie put her age at thirty – the living woman had an air of vivacity and charisma that was like the charged atmosphere of stormy weather. She had luxuriant curly hair, imperfectly tamed, and wore a little red hat at an angle. No wonder he loved you, Sylvie thought immediately.
Margery acknowledged Sylvie’s curtsey, studying her with frank interest; then she looked at Ned, and Sylvie saw love in her eyes. Margery radiated happiness as she said hello to Ned. You haven’t got over him, Sylvie thought. You’ll never get over him. He’s the love of your life.
Sylvie looked at Ned. He, too, looked happy. He had a big place in his heart for Margery, there was no doubt about that.
Sylvie felt dismayed. Susannah Twyford had been a bit startling, but had been no more than fond of Ned. Margery had far stronger feelings, and Sylvie was unnerved. She wants my husband, Sylvie thought.
Well, she can’t have him.
Then Sylvie noticed a child of about two years, still unsteady on his legs, standing half-concealed by the full skirt of Margery’s red dress. Margery followed Sylvie’s look and said: ‘And this is my second son, Roger.’ She bent down and picked up the toddler with a swift motion. ‘Roger, this is Sir Ned Willard,’ she said. ‘He’s a very important person who works for the queen.’
Roger pointed at Sylvie. ‘Is she the queen?’ he said.
They all laughed.
Ned said: ‘She’smyqueen.’
Thank you, Ned, Sylvie thought.
Ned said to Margery: ‘Is your brother here?’
‘We don’t see much of Rollo nowadays,’ Margery said.
‘Where is he, then?’
‘He has become a counsellor to the earl of Tyne.’
‘I’m sure his legal training and business experience make him useful to the earl. Does he live at Tyne Castle?’
‘He’s based there, but the earl has properties all over the north of England, and I gather Rollo travels a lot on his behalf.’
Ned was still checking on the local Catholics, but Sylvie was looking at the little boy, Roger. There was something about him that bothered her, and after a minute she realized that the boy had a familiar look.
He resembled Ned.
Sylvie looked at Ned and saw him studying Roger with a faint frown. He, too, had noticed something. Sylvie could read his face effortlessly and she could tell, from his expression, that he had not yet figured out what was puzzling him. Men were not as quick as women to spot resemblances. Sylvie caught Margery’s eye, and the two women understood one another instantly, but Ned was merely puzzled and Earl Bart was oblivious.
The service began with a hymn, and there was no further conversation until the ceremony came to an end. Then they had guests for dinner, and with one thing and another Sylvie did not get Ned on his own until bedtime.
It was spring, and they both got into bed naked. Sylvie touched the hair on Ned’s chest. ‘Margery loves you,’ she said.
‘She’s married to the earl.’
‘That won’t stop her.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘Because she’s lain with you already.’
