A Perilous Beginning (The Pearl Heirloom Collection Book 4) Read online

  a Perilous beginning

  Alyssa Dean Copeland

  Copyright © 2019 by Alyssa Dean Copeland.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover design by The Killion Group

  Edited by John Klocek

  Book Layout ©2019 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Printed by CreateSpace

  A Perilous Beginning / Alyssa Dean Copeland. – First Edition.

  ISBN: 9781797497693

  For Barron...

  It may not be a 2016 Bentley Turbo R—silver on the outside and red on the inside… but it’s close.

  Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is…

  ― William Shakespeare

  Canonical hours

  Lauds – Daybreak

  Prime – 6:00 a.m.

  Terce – 9:00 a.m.

  Sext – Noon

  Nones – 3:00 p.m.

  Vespers – 5:00 p.m.

  Compline – Before retiring

  Martins – During the night

  Times alter according to sunrise and sunset.

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 1564

  The young maid barged into the ship’s cabin with little consideration for her lady’s status. Viola Bryant straightened her back and lifted her chin, and thought again of how her father had acquired such a twit for a handmaiden. He had found the girl in Bristol, begging near the docks. Instead of slipping her a coin, he offered her a temporary position caring for his beloved daughter, much to Viola’s dismay. Had he not been in such a hurry to leave Gloucestershire, her father could have found someone more suitable.

  “M’lady,” the girl rasped, slamming the cabin door closed, then leaning against it, catching her breath.

  Viola surmised the men above had been chasing the maid and that she had stormed in here to find a safe haven.

  “The ship’s captain requests your presence to sup with him this night.”

  Viola lifted her brow. “I am certain my father does not wish my presence.”

  “Aye,” the girl panted and wiped her brow. “But he does. I was told ta git you ready.”

  She didn’t believe that her father would even consider seeing her after their conversation a fortnight ago when he took it upon himself to decide her future. She touched the sapphire and gold pendant around her neck. Was it possible her father had reconsidered? Viola pulled out a chair and sat down. “Ready my gown. The indigo-blue.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” The maid pulled the gown from the cupboard. “You did not speak of the reason you journey toward France.”

  Viola barely glanced at the girl before turning her attention to a book on the small wooden table. Our Lady Psalter. A book on the rosary. It had belonged to her mother who passed it down to Viola, along with her journals and forbidden books. Viola had read from it when her mother lay sick in bed, her frail fingers moving along the delicate beads as Viola began a new prayer.

  The maid persisted. “You are to be settled into a convent, m’lady?” She picked up the brush and gently ran it through Viola’s long, dark hair. “It may be none of my concern, m’lady, but if you’re to be placed in a convent, why do you carry so many belongings?”

  Viola tilted her head and took a deep breath. The twit oversteps her bounds yet again, she thought to herself. “My affairs are none of your concern. I prefer to be attended in silence.” Had they been on land, Viola would have dismissed the chit immediately; however, her own handmaiden, who feared magic more than her mistress, had abruptly disappeared the night after the Berkeley ball when dark rumors spread across Bristol. Her former handmaiden was worthless.

  The girl stopped brushing her hair.

  “My apologies, m’lady, however, I am certain the nuns will not allow you to carry so many possessions with your person.”

  Viola turned away, her mind reeling. The girl, after all, was merely a peasant; she could not possibly know what the nuns would do.

  Viola left the cabin and followed the girl to the captain’s chambers. A boy no older than eight followed them. Viola believed the ship’s page was there to inform her father of any misdoings, as if she might jump ship and swim back to the mainland.

  Her father and the captain sat at a round, wooden table filled with maps and papers. Their goblets held a thick, brownish liquor. Her father, head bent down, was reviewing a sheet of parchment with a furrowed brow.

  The captain looked up. “Lady Bryant. It is an honor to have you join us for supper. Please sit down.” He glanced at her escort. “Summon the cook. We are ready.” He shuffled the papers together and dropped them on the floor, then called out, “Have the maid assist.”

  Viola stepped up to an empty chair and waited, hands clasped. She continued to stand for what seemed like several minutes before the captain stumbled around his chair. “My apologies, my lady.” He pulled out the chair. The stench of alcohol emanated from his breath. He must spend his time with harlots, she mused to herself.

  She slid into the seat and glanced at her father. He remained focused on the parchment.

  “It is my hope your accommodations are acceptable,” the captain said.

  “They are.” If you consider a small space with the stench of wet wood acceptable.

  The captain set a goblet of wine in front of her. He turned to her father. “We dock at Nantes on the morrow. The next morn, we follow the coast to Tenerife.” He pointed at the parchment. “There.”

  “And what cargo do you intend to purchase?”

  “Sugarcane. With a short trip, I should double or triple my investment without crossing the ocean.” The captain paused. “Do you wish to travel with us to Tenerife or do you wish to board when we return to Nantes?”

  Her father glanced down at the map. “I may like to see this Tenerife.”

  The captain slapped his hand on the table, shaking the goblets. “Very good! Very good, indeed!”

  Viola watched the exchange, then waited in silent protest for several more minutes.

  Her father finally set aside the parchment. “Good-den, Viola. How fares your journey?”

  She winced. “Pleasantly, Father.”

  The captain smiled. “Your father disclosed that you have chosen to commit yourself. Nantes is a beautiful city. I am certain you will enjoy your new home.”

  Viola gave a curt nod and glanced at her father. He caught her eye.

  The captain continued. “I prefer to put my faith in my crew and with my ship. Fear not; the reason for your journey will be kept secret.”

  Her father lifted his goblet. “And for that, you have my utmost gratitude.”

  Viola straightened her back and took a deep breath.

  The ship’s page and her handmaiden entered and prepared the table. They set plates of biscuits and salted pork, a bowl filled with a mixture of horse beans and chickpeas, and another filled with fresh plums.

  The men continued to talk. Viola picked at her food, lost in her own thoughts until the captain ment
ioned war.

  “Nantes will be safe enough. Been over a year now since Catherine de Medici mediated a truce with the Huguenots.”

  Her father set his knife down and wiped his mouth with a cloth. “Another war with the Huguenots would be… most unpleasant.”

  “Indeed.”

  The captain glanced at Viola. “I hear the Bishop of Ross is in Paris. When he recovers, you may have a guest at the convent before he journeys home.”

  Doubtful, Viola thought. She had no intention of staying in France for that length of time.

  “Is the pork not to your liking?”

  “It is suitable.” She stood up. “With your permission, Father, I shall retire to my room. I do not feel well.”

  Her father nodded.

  The captain stood up, knocking his chair to the floor. “Would you like an escort?”

  “No, I can find my way.” Viola left the room, and slowly walked through the narrow hallway, the page following a few paces behind her. Her room, lit with a single beeswax candle, was empty, with the peasant girl nowhere in sight. Viola wasn’t surprised. She removed her mother’s pendant from her neck and caressed its large sapphire. It was worth a small fortune. With a velvet cloth, she wrapped it. She glanced around to be certain that no one was present, then lifted the lid of a trunk and removed its contents. At the bottom, she opened a flap which concealed her mother’s jewels—her lifeline. Her destiny would not be denied.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The carriage ride to the monastery was hot and brutal. Beads of sweat formed at Viola’s brow, but she refused to pat them dry. The wheels bounced through the deep ruts of the dirt road. Viola dressed in her finest black gown and petite hat, a bit of lace draping down its front. Buttons of tiny pearls set in gold flickered in the sunlight. She hadn’t worn the dress since her brother’s wife’s death years before. Still, a thread around a sleeve had loosened. Her handmaiden should have repaired it prior to their departure. It couldn’t be fixed now: they’d left the chit at the docks, just as Lord Bryant had found her.

  Viola gracefully reached her hand over to the window curtain and let the fabric drop. As much as she desired, she refused to leave it open simply to lean over and peek out, like an excited child. Nor did she want to show her father any of the fear she felt or the deep hatred she had for him.

  “You appear to be in mourning.”

  Viola didn’t even give him a glance. Deep inside, she was mourning. She thought to escape, but her father’s watchful eye never left her those first few days before they shipped off to France. So, finally, she had pulled herself together, had begun to strategize. When her father told her to pack, she packed every item worth coin.

  She felt the carriage slow and heard the coachman announce their arrival. At long last, their caravan slowly approached the gates of the convent. She gripped a small satin bag embroidered with colorful silk and gold metallic threads, holding her mother’s prayer book and rosary.

  Viola waited for her father to step out of the carriage to wipe her wet palm on her dress. He turned and offered her assistance. She reached for his hand out of propriety. She nodded after she alighted from the carriage and stood soundly on the ground and released it quickly.

  High stone walls protected the three-story granite structure, her new home. In the courtyard, several small groups of women in black habits with their hair covered with black veils, strolled upon the green grass. Along the side of the stone wall, a lone man placed a basket in the back of a wagon hitched with a single horse. In the distance, she spotted the steeple of a small church surrounded by a smaller stone wall.

  Her father reached out his arm. “Come, Viola.”

  Two nuns wearing long veils covering their faces greeted them at the arched doorway and beckoned them down a long hallway. She followed at a slow pace. The dark corridors darkened more with each step; the thick, hot air reeked of musty incense.

  They arrived at a heavy wooden door. The shorter nun pulled it; the high piercing squeak of hinges announced the visitors. Two chairs sat on either side of a small, walnut table worn with age. The only decoration on the walls was a simple wooden cross hanging above the doorframe.

  An elderly woman in the same garb as the women outside sat behind the walnut table. Her face was filled with wrinkles and a long, gold chain with a large cross swung against the front of her robes when she stood. “Joseph Bryant, I presume?”

  Her father stepped into the room. “Yes.”

  “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. I received your letter only days ago. This is your daughter?”

  Viola barley moved her head in greeting. Goose bumps prickled her skin. This was a house of the Lord; she should be feeling at ease. “Yes.”

  The woman nodded. “Your father informed us of your decision to dedicate yourself. I assume you are well trained. Are you able to read and write?”

  Viola shifted her eyes to her father, then with a blink, she looked directly at the nun.

  Her father answered. “Yes, she has been educated by some of the finest tutors in England. She is fluent in several languages and her penmanship is legible.”

  “I am certain we will find you a place where you will be comfortable and happy.” The woman pulled on a rope. “In the meantime, I believe your father and I have much to discuss, such as the terms of your dowry.” She paused. “Take a moment to say your farewell. The sisters I summoned will assist you in acquiring appropriate clothing. In due time you will take your vows.”

  Viola turned around. The two nuns stood quietly at the door.

  Her father took her hands. “You brought this upon yourself, but you are safe here. You will not be on trial for your… misdeeds.”

  “My misdeeds?” Viola whispered so the women in the room wouldn’t overhear. “Father, you do not know of what you speak. There is still time. There is no reason for you to leave me here. Take me back to England, back to the estate.”

  “No. This is best.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I will visit when the opportunity arises.”

  Viola doubted her father, a Protestant, would step foot back into France by choice. She breathed deeply and lifted her eyes. “Farewell, Father.”

  She walked to the doorway where the two nuns waited and glanced back one more time to the man who raised her before following the women from the room into the hallway.

  The shorter of the women spoke, barely above a whisper. “I am Sister Anne and this is Sister Isabella. You are lucky for you are to have a private cell, unlike many who come here.”

  Lucky indeed.

  They climbed a wooden staircase and turned down a long corridor. Doors, evenly spaced, stood closed on each side of the hallway. Finally, they stopped in front of one. Sister Isabella turned the handle. The room was tiny, no bigger than a servant’s quarters, but even more bare. A neatly made small cot lay to one side, with a freshly pressed smock and kirtle upon it. Against the other wall, a small wooden table and chair. There were no colorful tapestries or any adornment except for yet another small, plain, wooden cross over the bed. Sister Anne walked to the room’s window and opened its shutters. Viola could see only the high walls around the convent. Had the room been one or two stories higher, she might have been able to see the countryside.

  Viola glanced around the room. “It appears my belongings have not yet arrived.” There didn’t seem to be enough space in the room to hold her belongings, not even a cupboard to hang her clothing.

  Sister Anne gave a nervous laugh. “Your trunks will either return with your father or be donated to the convent as part of your dowry. The choice will be your father’s.”

  Viola quickly turned to Sister Anne. “All of my belongings?”

  “Why, yes. The convent will provide everything you need.”

  Viola grimaced. “I must speak with my father.”

  “Impossible.” Sister Isabella spoke for the first time.

  Viola pulled the door open, Isabella pushed it shut. “You have taken your leave. The abbess wil
l not see you.”

  “My belongings must be retrieved...”

  “Do not fret,” Sister Anne said. “They will be well taken care of.”

  Her plan had unwound at an astonishing rate.

  She silently sent up a prayer for her trunks to be returned to England rather than donated to the convent. “And my clothing?” She glanced down at her dress.

  Sister Anne gave a tight smile. “Donated or returned. Again, it will be up to your father.”

  Viola lifted her satin bag. “What of my mother’s prayer book and rosary?”

  Sister Anne patted Viola’s arm. “I will ask Mother Superior. It may be possible she will allow you to keep them.” She took the bag and placed it on the empty table, then reached for the clothing on the bed. “You will wear ordinary garments until you are veiled.” Anne held up a heavy linen smock and a mundane brown kirtle.

  Viola’s eyes went wide, but she tightened her lips before her mouth could drop open. To dress like a commoner. A peasant.

  Isabella reached for Viola’s sleeve. “Such fine fabric.”

  Viola tugged her arm away.

  “’Tis a pity you are to be placed here with such a dowry at your disposal. Tell me, was there a man with whom you did not want a union?”

  Viola gave Isabella a sideway glance. “It would do you good, when you attend me, to keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  Anne froze and darted her eyes toward Isabella, then back.

  Isabella stepped behind Viola. “Very well. Let us proceed.” She began to unbutton Viola’s gown.

  Isabella gave a quick tug, pulling Viola’s hair. “Ouch.”

  “My apologies. A stray length of hair. In due time you will no longer need to worry, for your locks will be sheared when you take the veil.”

  Viola touched a long strand. She felt her face flush.

  Anne squeezed her forearm. “There will be time to adapt.”