One morning Isabel sitting in her chamber heard voices below her window. The words themselves reached her not, yet the tone was apparent to her. There was the Count’s smooth, exceeding silky; Peregrine’s holding exasperation for the moment well controlled.
Seemingly unheeding she yet listened intently. Mary Chester raised anxious eyes from her embroidery; Leonora calm as her mistress, worked steadily; Monica, paling, fingered her rosary.
Anon the Count laughed. Light though the sound was it held a stinging note. Peregrine’s voice rose somewhat harder.
“Madam,” breathed Mary very low some unnamed fear clutching at her heart.
Isabel looked towards her. “Yes?” she queried, eyebrows raised.
“’Tis naught,” stammered Mary reddening, words halting on her tongue.
“Ah!” The exclamation came from without. Though holding pain, Mary detected triumph in the sound. She moved very swiftly to the window.
“Madam!” she said again in horror.
“What is it?” asked Isabel quickly.
“The Count Bonaventure lies upon the ground,” stammered Mary. “Methinks that Peregrine—” she broke off trembling.