The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Read online

  Copyright © 1986 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3374-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg

  Cover design by Danielle White

  To Johnnie

  We have saved the best till last

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  ENGLAND

  1. The Masquerade

  2. A Parson at the Ball

  3. Tournament of Steel

  4. A Matter of Honor

  5. At the Green Gate

  6. Humility

  7. The Inner Ring

  8. Back to Babylon

  9. At Whitehall

  10. Humility Finds a Man

  11. A Traitor Unmasked

  12. “They Knew They Were Pilgrims . . .”

  PART TWO

  THE MAYFLOWER

  13. The Sweet Ship

  14. Stowaways

  15. On Deck

  16. Captain Shrimp

  17. The Storm

  18. Another Kind of Storm

  19. Land!

  20. Mutiny on the Mayflower

  PART THREE

  THE NEW WORLD

  21. First Look at Eden

  22. Dorothy

  23. “It Will Be All Right!”

  24. The General Sickness

  25. “Love Is Not Cold!”

  26. Miracles Are Troublesome

  27. A New Service

  28. The Mayflower Sails

  29. Out of the Past

  30. “With All Your Heart!”

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE MASQUERADE

  “What! Not ready yet?”

  Lord Henry North burst into his daughter’s lavishly adorned chamber like the brusque February wind that furrowed the Thames and drove the beating waves against the stones of his ancestral home. His outburst made little impression on Cecily North. She gave a quick smiling glance at her father as he stomped in, shaking the snow from his ermine cape, then calmly continued gazing at her reflection in the silver hand mirror. A diminutive maidservant stroked her hair with an ivory comb studded with amethysts and jade.

  “We needn’t hurry, Father. They won’t begin without us.”

  Only three or four men in England could have taken so little heed of Sir Henry North. At the age of forty-five, he stood high on the pyramid of English culture. Except for the Lord Chancellor, the Lord of Lancaster, and King James the First of England, there was none to question his ways—and none who would answer him so casually as this beautiful daughter of his.

  His eyes suddenly flashed at Cecily’s careless answer, and he strode across the room to her. Taking her smooth bare shoulder with a surprisingly strong grip, he said, “You need a beating, my girl!”

  “No doubt I do—and so do you, Father.” Then she turned to him, taking his hand in hers and giving him a quick smile. “We are both too proud for our own good. But then—who’s to give us the whipping? There’s the rub.”

  Lord North could not conceal the quick grin that leaped to his lips. The hard grasp on her shoulder softened to a caress, and he grunted, “Know me too well, you do! You should have been a boy.”

  A touch of regret tinged his voice, and Cecily reached up with her free hand to cover his. No one knew better than she that the one vacuum in her father’s life was the lack of a son, and she got up and gave him a quick kiss, saying, “Never mind, Father. If Mother has her way, you’ll have a son-in-law soon. Then you can make of him what you will.”

  North held on to her, staring at her and wondering that she knew him so well. He saw a woman of twenty with hair black and sleek as a raven, highlighted by bold black eyes able to meet any man’s glance. Her full red lips needed none of the paint which ladies of the English court had imported from France. They were almost pouting, and smooth as silk. Her complexion, like his own, was olive and flawless. She was not tall, but the full curves of her body made men forget her stature; she had the full-bodied figure of her mother—in the eyes of many, the most beautiful woman in the court.

  “A son-in-law?” North released his grip and picked up her white fur mantle from the table, casting it around her shoulders. “I’ve lost out on the cattle show. Which hunk of prize young nobility has your mother been parading in front of you this time? Young Wentworth?”

  “No, Father, that was last month. He fell below the required standards,” Cecily laughed. “I think when Mother found out that there was a bar sinister on his mother’s side, she threw him to the wolves—along with all the others. Really, Father, I think Mother would marry me off to Lord Findlay—if he could stand up long enough to get through the ceremony!”

  “Well—perhaps it’s not so bad as that.” Lord Findlay, nearly ninety, was an enormously wealthy earl of Scotland. “But I must say that Wentworth was the best she’s dredged up so far.”

  “He’s a cup of cold tea,” Cecily shrugged. “Why don’t you ever nominate a candidate for the office of son-in-law, Father?”

  He was suddenly serious, and there was a faint light of anger in his eyes. But he said only, “Cecily, your mother and I have disagreed on so many things—but most of all on this. I want you to have a husband who will have three assets—courage, wit, and loyalty.”

  “What about titles and money?”

  “I can give him all he needs along those lines,” Lord North shrugged. “But I’ve seen enough of this marrying a girl off to a scarecrow made of sticks for a fancy title and a few sovereigns. I want your husband to be—the son I wanted. Then—then I can be at ease.”

  She turned to the door and shot him an arched look, “Well, there’s always Lord Roth. He has enough gold to satisfy even Mother.”

  He gave her a quick look and said, “Yes, he has. And enough courage and wit to satisfy me. But what about you, Cecily? Does the Lord Simon Roth have enough to satisfy you?”

  For one brief moment, Cecily let the habitual smile slip from her face, and she said soberly, “I don’t know, Father. I just don’t know.”

  He took her arm and led her to the door. “Well,” he said gently, “perhaps at the ball tonight you may find out. It’s revealing, what a man is in his own castle. Maybe you can look beneath that smooth surface Simon covers everything with.”

  “Yes, that may be.” Then Cecily smiled at him. “He’d do for all of us, wouldn’t he, Father? Enough money for Mother, enough courage and strength to suit you—and enough of a man for me.”

  As they went down the stair to meet Lady North, Cecily heard her father say so softly that she almost missed the words, “Strength, money, a title—but what about the man?”

  Cecily did not answer, but said instead, “Mother, you look beautiful!”

  “Thank you, Cecily.”

  Lady No
rth had heard those words so many times that they slid easily off her smooth face. She was more beautiful than her own daughter, this woman. Even now at the age of thirty-five, the smooth skin, the flawless figure set off by the low-cut gown, the hair without a touch of white, the sleek complexion that put to shame younger women—all was totally admirable.

  “We’ll be late, Cecily,” Lady North said. “But you will be worth the wait for the guests.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” Cecily answered with a rather cold smile. “I suppose it will be the same party, after all.”

  “Who else would you expect?” Lord North asked. “The nobility doesn’t grow a great deal from day to day. Now, the barque is waiting. Let’s be on our way before this snow gets worse.”

  The home of Lord North was on the Thames, and he kept a barque for transport on the river; designed by Henry the Eighth, it was manned by a crew of twelve oarsmen who could send the vessel up or down the Thames as fast as the best carriage. The royal symbol, a lion, was still affixed to the prow, a circumstance that prompted the rather rare wit of the Sovereign, King James. He had once remarked to the court, “North has all the money in the realm—and all that’s left is the Crown itself.”

  “Not so, Your Majesty,” North had protested with a wry smile. “As long as I have the money, you may keep the crown!”

  Not many dared jest so easily with this dour king. He had grown up with a sour breed of Scottish churchmen who had taken most of the humor out of him, but it was a mark of the royal favor that he had merely laughed at North’s jest.

  The journey from the palace of Lord North to that of Lord Simon Roth took less than two hours, but it was bitter cold, and the family shivered in spite of the thick furs.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, Lord North pulled the curtain aside and peered out into the swirling drifts. “I think we’re about to land. That looks like Simon’s palace.”

  “Good! I’m about to turn into a block of ice!” Cecily said with chattering teeth. “And after all this, I suppose it’ll be just another boring affair.”

  “Not quite the same, Cecily,” Lady North smiled. She seemed to be impervious to the cold. “Remember, this may be your home someday.”

  Cecily shot her a quick glance and then looked toward her father. Then she said wryly, “Then Simon is the next hot-blooded stallion we must consider?”

  “You are crude, Cecily,” Lady North shrugged without a trace of anger. “Try to be more civil to Lord Roth.”

  “And to the parson,” Lord North added suddenly as he helped Cecily up onto the pier.

  “Parson?” Cecily asked suddenly. “What parson?”

  “I forgot to mention that a relative of mine—a distant relative—will be one of the guests tonight,” Lord North grinned. His face was fixed with the cold, but there was a grim humor in his dark eyes as he handed his wife up to stand on the wharf beside his daughter. “I would appreciate it if you both would be hospitable to him.”

  As they hurried along the paved walk toward the towering palace of Lord Roth, Lady North asked, “What parson is this, Henry? You haven’t mentioned him to me.”

  “Just a poor relation,” Lord North said with chattering teeth. “A son of old Henry Winslow—a younger son, a distant cousin of mine, I might add. I’m thinking of employing him.”

  Lady North thought about that, then as a footman opened the door to the palace, murmured, “Beware of poor relations, Husband. They can do you no good.”

  “Must we be concerned only with those who can do us good?” Lord North asked with a humorous look in his eye. He led the two women into a hallway, and they took off their wet cloaks and proceeded down toward a large set of double doors. “Can we not do some good for a worthy relation?”

  Lady North did not even acknowledge his question, but Cecily asked pertly, “What possible good can a parson do you?”

  They had reached the double doors which a footman opened to reveal a large anteroom, and Lord Simon Roth walked toward them.

  “He may be of more use than your average parson,” Lord North murmured. “I hear he’s an able man.”

  “He’s probably a dried up, pinch-lipped piece of dust!” Cecily said, then put a smile on to meet the man who was reaching out to take her hand.

  Lord Simon Roth looked a great deal as an English nobleman ought to look, Lord North acknowledged. He took in the tall figure—spare, to be sure, but muscular and youthful despite his thirty-seven years. There was a hawk-like quickness in the brow as well as in the lean face that bent over his daughter’s hand. I should have looked like that, Lord North thought regretfully.

  “Welcome,” Lord Roth murmured to Cecily as he touched her hand with his thin lips. “I hope you will feel at home.”

  “Perhaps I shall,” Cecily answered, giving her dark and piercing eyes into his gaze. Both of them knew that he was proffering more than a casual visit, and there was a light in Lady North’s face as she nodded slightly at her husband.

  “You ladies will want to dress, will you not?” Simon said. “Henry and I have a little business. We will meet you in the ballroom.”

  “Thank you.” Cecily followed the maid who led them down a hall, across a spacious anteroom and up a flight of winding steps. Then, they went down another carpeted hall and finally arrived at a room so large and spacious that it might have served as a ballroom for a lesser lord. It was flanked by a row of tall windows with real glass that let the dim light through quite effectively and illuminated the rich walnut tones of the cupboards, tables and chairs, as well as the massive bed that dominated the room.

  Cecily took in the ornate decorations, the tapestries and silver and gold plate that gave a touch of color to the room, then shrugged. “Simon has built quite a place here.”

  “None in England like it,” Lady North agreed, looking at the rich furnishings. “And it may be yours, of course.”

  “Oh? You’re really thinking of Simon now?”

  “Of course.” Lady North cast a smooth glance at Cecily. “He’s the most powerful man in the kingdom—next to your father—or will be, with the proper guidance.”

  “I see. And what about Wentworth and the others?”

  “Not at all possible!”

  “No, I can see that,” Cecily agreed wryly. “But Simon—he has all the qualifications for a son-in-law?”

  “Certainly!” Lady North said. Her smooth composure was broken by a faint surprise. “Surely you must have known that he was the only choice? The others were merely preliminary.”

  “Of course!”

  “Well, now that it’s settled—”

  “But is it settled?” Cecily asked quickly. “What about Father?”

  “Oh, Simon has enough dash even for him,” Lady North said impatiently.

  “Oh—and what about me?” Cecily asked suddenly. She picked up the dress the servant was holding up for her approval, then added, “Marriage is a little more than money and a title, Mother!”

  Lady North seemed to freeze. Her cold face focused on her daughter, and she said almost in a whisper, “No—it is not, Cecily! You are engaging in some sort of romantic dream—a poetic fancy—” Her nose wrinkled slightly as if she had smelled a fetid odor. “Your private affairs I will not inquire into, but your duty to marry within the realm where fate has placed you, that I must see to.”

  Cecily gazed into her mother’s cold eyes and said almost in a whisper, “That is your way, Mother. It is not mine!”

  For a long instant they stared at one another—mother and daughter, so alike, yet separated by a great gulf in mind and passion. Finally Lady North nodded slowly and said, “You will have your own way, Cecily; your father has spoiled you. But in the end, you will do as I have done. You will consider what is best for your own destiny. Have your fling, but do not make the tragic mistake of throwing yourself away for some romantic dream. You are your father’s daughter—and he is a romantic fool. I cannot help that. But you are my daughter as well. I know you do not love me, b
ut it is my way you must follow if you are to survive. So—be cautious!”

  “Yes—as you were, Mother,” Cecily said, and allowed the maid to dress her for the masquerade.

  But as the maid draped her with the ornately bejeweled gown and tried the black mask over her face, she thought bitterly, I don’t need this to hide what I am!

  Then she followed her mother down to the ballroom to join the merrymakers—all adorned, and all masked.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A PARSON AT THE BALL

  “Not longing for the days of Good Queen Bess, are you, my dear?”

  Cecily turned from the large painting she had been staring at to meet the gaze of Lord Roth. He wore an elaborate doublet buttoned up the side with gleaming pearl buttons. The complicated embroidery on his sleeves alone must have commanded the work of a seamstress for weeks. A black mask hid his face, but there was no mistaking the bold eyes that gleamed at her through the eye slits.

  “Yes, I think so, Lord Roth.” Cecily held her own mask of Dutch lace away from her face carelessly. “There were men in those days—look at them.”

  The large painting portrayed a wedding, with Queen Elizabeth carried in a canopied litter borne by courtiers. There was a festive air of celebration gleaming from the painting, and Cecily pointed out the famous men close to the queen.

  “See, there’s the Lord High Admiral—and there’s Edward Somerset, the Earl of Worcester. What a man he was! Then I think this must be Lord Hundson, holding his rapier, as usual! I don’t know this one, however.”

  “That’s Henry Brook.” Roth smiled wolfishly and let his mask fall. “You would have liked him, I think. He had a great deal of that dash and spirit you profess to admire.”

  “Oh? What happened to him?”

  “He was beheaded for treason by Queen Elizabeth, who had first raised him to power.” The glittering eyes of Lord Simon held a gleam of humor as he added, “The usual fate of adventurers such as you find so admirable, Cecily.”