Free Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) by Catherine McCarran Page B

Seymour dashed after them leaving me without a
fare-thee-well.
    What do I do now?
    “You
were not serious, Margot.” Lady Frances’ whisper caught my ear.
    Disdain
contorted Margot’s lively face. “Don’t be a ninny, Frances. Why would I want
the Countess’s leavings?”
    “Is
she terribly insulted?” I blurted, and shrank as all three looked at me.
    “Oh,”
Margot muttered. “The littlest Boleyn.”
    My
heart leapt. Lady Margaret Douglas knew who I was! Had they spoken of me in the
Privy Chamber?
    “I
am a Shelton, by birth. My Lady,” I appended a moment too late.
    Margot’s
chancy eyes rolled upwards. “Oh, no, by your manners you are a thorough
Boleyn.”
    “My
cousin George speaks well,” Mary Howard put in.
    “That’s
because he’s almost French,” Margot sniffed. “What is your name, ma petite
Boullayne?”
    Mary
Howard gave me a tiny smile. I took it for encouragment.
    “Mary—Mary,
my lady Margaret—Shelton that is.” I prayed the earth would swallow me
whole. How could I stumble over my own name?
    Mary
Howard touched Margot’s arm.
    “Oh,
leave off Mariah,” Margot chided. “I have had my fun. I am pleased to know you
Mary-Mary Shelton. You may not call me Margaret.”
    I
shot Mary Howard a bleak look of appeal. She shrugged at my discomfort, as if
to say ‘this is how it is’. Lady Margaret snapped her fingers inches from my
face.
    “I
am called Margot, because the Queen already has a Margaret of whom she is most
fond—Lady Margaret Lee. Mary Howard here is Mariah, as the Virgin Mary
Wyatt came first to Anne’s service, and because the Lady is not fond of her own
sister Mary Carey.”
    “She
calls her Lady Carey even in private,” said Lady Frances.
    “What
will she call me?” I dared to ask them.
    Margot
shrugged a shoulder. “Who can say? She may not call you anything.”
    “Cousin
Mary would do,” offered Mariah. I looked at her round face, high forehead, dimpled cheeks. Mary Howard is beautiful, I decided. Too beautiful.
    “I
suppose cousin Anne likes you very much,” I said before I could stop myself.
    Margot
snorted. “She likes keeping her Uncle Norfolk happy.”
    Mariah
pinched her shoulder. Margot squeaked.
    “Speak
of the Devil and the Devil may come,” Mariah hissed.
    “Your
father is the Devil?” I asked.
    Margot
and Mariah both stared at my baffled face, then burst out laughing in high
frantic peals that to my ear sounded strained. Lady Frances chewed her lower
lip and laughed not.
    “Just
where in Norfolk were you raised?” Margot asked, both hands wiping tears.
    “Shelton
Hall,” I said, and let my tongue have its way again when her narrowed eyes said
she’d never heard of it. “We are not bumpkins. We know all about the Duke of
Norfolk.”
    “You
know nothing, Mary Shelton, and should be grateful for it,” Mariah’s flat voice
crushed my pique. I studied her a moment. She was more beautiful than
Gabrielle. The angles of her face were finer, her
sea-blue eyes wider, her chestnut hair held a touch more gloss. She was well
educated, and well connected by blood and marriage to every important family in
England. Her father was the second highest noble in the kingdom. She possessed
every advantage my family craved. Jealousy carved a deep foothold in my
stomach.
    I
envied Margot even more. She was born to royalty. She might marry a king. She
did not need beauty nor education, but she had so much of the latter she should
not miss the former. She had a strong face made for strong expressions, but
luminous, outspoken hazel eyes even Mary Howard might envy. They were born with
all the advantages. Their lives held no risk.
    “Come
along Mariah,” Margot drawled, sounding bored. “Leave Mistress Shelton to her
sewing.” Her long tapered fingers reached out and brushed the untouched
make-work Jane Seymour had thrown at me. “She is in need of the practice.”
    I
sank onto my stool as the three of them glided away, proud and poised as swans.
    All
of