Unquiet Hearts by Kathy Lynn Emerson

Author:Kathy Lynn Emerson [Emerson, Kathy Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Romance
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 1994-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Though she kept to her chamber on the night following Richard Latham’s death, Franke Roundlea did not rest long. Restored by a short nap, she rose and began to plan the funeral. She found she was enjoying the task enormously. She did not look forward to hanging all the rooms in black and turning all the mirrors to the wall, but she did take satisfaction in imagining Constance in widow’s weeds. Franke herself had been obliged to wear the heavy, enveloping, nunlike veil in public for more than half her life, mourning a dead husband she’d barely known, while Constance, as Philip Roundlea’s heir, had been able to indulge herself with bright, gaudy colors.

“Agnes,” Franke ordered, “go to Constance’s chamber and make sure the hangings have all been changed to black to make a mourning bed. Then help Werburga remove all of Constance’s clothing and take it to the laundress. I want all of it dyed black as soon as may be.”

Franke barely heard the girl leave. She was too busy trying to decide between scarves and gloves as gifts to present to those who would bear Richard’s coffin cloth. Nick could organize the food and drink, she decided, and distribute black cloth to mourners. He’d know, too, where the black saddles and bridles they’d purchased for her father’s funeral were stored. There was no point in wasting money on new ones for Richard.

She picked up pen and ink and started a list of those she’d insist participate in the funeral procession. Miles would be chief mourner but she wanted all the local gentry there, as well. At the least everyone who had attended the wedding had to put in an appearance, even that pompous oaf, Edward Parcivall.

“Franke?”

For once she was not in the mood to welcome a lover, but he was already inside her bedchamber. He hesitated, then locked the door behind him. “We have to talk.”

“Not now.”

“Yes, now. I want to know if there’s any truth in the rumors.”

“Rumors? What rumors?”

“About Latham’s death. They are saying in the kitchen that he was poisoned. Nick Carrier forbade anyone to eat of the remains of the feast. The coroner’s been sent for, too.”

Annoyed, Franke set aside her list and glared at Henry Redich. His green doublet was so old and worn that his elbows were all but showing through the cloth. She’d order a new one made for him, she decided. Bright yellow. Richard’s secretary had no obligation to wear mourning for his dead master, and they could do with a spot of color at Catsholme.

“Did you hear me, Franke? They suspect he was murdered.”

“What? Oh, Richard. Yes. I suppose I should have expected something like this. What a bother if he turns out to be as much trouble dead as he was living.” She toyed with the feather end of the quill in brooding silence.

“They will question everyone, search for someone with a motive.” His quavering voice and the fact that he would not meet her eyes betrayed his real reason for seeking her out.

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