Page 66 of Pippa of Lauramore
I cringe as I look at the mess of paint on my canvas.
No. She’s simply nicer than I am.
We’re in the middle of Mother’s flower gardens. It’s another bright day. A few clouds pass through the sky, but they are fat and lazy and in no hurry. Mother faces the waterfall. She’s painted it a hundred times, and I would be ready for a different subject by now, but she never tires of it. No matter how many times she captures its likeness, it always looks different. Different colors, different moods—she’s very talented.
I’m painting a red Ptarma lily. Mother had them brought over so she could be reminded of her childhood home. They stand tall, almost to my shoulders. Huge blooms grow from short stems on the stalk. When Mother paints them, they are glorious. When I paint them…they are less than glorious.
I think it would look better if I threw globs of paint at my canvas.
“You’re over-thinking it, Pippa,” Mother says, as usual.
Leonora is working on a mountain scene. She’s also very good, and she and Mother paint often. I join them occasionally, but I tire of it before they do.
I haven’t told Leonora how I tried to catch Archer this morning. We haven’t been alone. After last night, she now knows how we’ve been helping Galinor. She didn’t approve, but she didn’t reprimand me either.
“Lord Rigel was looking for Archer this morning,” Mother says as she taps the end of her paintbrush to her lips, studying her painting. Her words startle me, and I accidentally brush a long green stroke right through one of my flower petals. “I told him Archer had asked for a few days away.”
Marigold looks up. “When was this? He didn’t mention it at dinner last night.”
“Archer spoke to Ewan after the meal,” Mother says. “He said he had a friend who needed help. Of course, Ewan granted him the time. Archer never asks for anything.”
Leonora glances at me. She’s chewing her lip, but she keeps silent.
“Did he mention it to you, Pippa?” Mother asks, turning to me. It might be my imagination, but I think there’s something beyond curiosity in her bright green eyes.
“Yes, he said something like that.” I wave my hand as if his departure is so insignificant I’ve already forgotten the details. Unfortunately, the paintbrush is in my hand, and a big green glob falls on my dress. I scowl at it.
“I wonder what Lord Rigel wanted?” Marigold muses, oblivious to my or Leonora’s discomfort.
Mother sets her paintbrush down. “I don’t know.” She turns to me. “Rigel is doing well in the competition. He’s a very handsome young man.”
I’m about to remind her dangerous things are often beautiful when Lady Marigold giggles—actually giggles—and then says, “He’s a bit dark and dangerous, isn’t he? I’m surprised he’s not your type, Pippa.” She lowers hereyes. “But I can see why you’re hoping for Galinor to win.”
“Galinor is doing very well,” Mother says. “It’s not the match Ewan hoped for, but he is certainly proving himself to be quite capable.”
I almost laugh. It’s fortunate for Galinor thatArcheris so capable.
“What happened to Archer’s mother?” Marigold asks, her voice soft and curious.
I freeze and then tell myself to relax. Archer isn’t here, and it’s perfectly normal for Marigold to be curious.
“She died many years ago when Archer’s father was still master archer. We didn’t know it at the time, but she had sliced her hand with a knife. It was at the beginning of the Dragon Wars when the fighting was still in Lauramore. The physician and the herbalist, the one before Yuven, were overrun with the injured,” Mother says, her eyes sad with the memory. “She didn’t seek help for her hand, and the wound became infected. By the time the physician was notified of her condition, it was too late.”
I feel sick listening to the story because I know the rest of it. Archer had been at his father’s side at the battle, but he was sent home for supplies. He found his mother delirious with fever. He’d only been nine at the time. He watched her die.
His father grieved for weeks. It was then that Archer found out who his mother was—Lady Madeleine Archer of Errinton. Wracked with grief, his father swore he should have never married her and taken her from herfamily. He felt he caused her death, and to this day he’s never forgiven himself.
“Is it true? Was she really a lady?” Marigold asks.
Mother nods. “She was. Madeleine was one of my dear friends. She often visited in my early days here in Lauramore. It’s during one of those visits she met and fell in love with Bernard. Her father was furious.”
“Master Archer is a good title,” Marigold argues.
Mother shakes her head. “They wanted a prince for her. Once she was married, I don’t think her family ever spoke with her again.”
This is part of the story I didn’t know. Archer’s mother and my mother were friends? I had no idea.
“After she married Bernard, did you still speak with her?” I ask.
