Promised to the Crown by Aimie K. Runyan Page A

Elisabeth could read the look in his eyes: I wish the post had come when she was out or asleep and I could have burned the letter before she knew it existed.
    â€œHow very much like my mother.” Elisabeth punched the ball of dough and tossed the letter into the oven, hoping its acerbic words wouldn’t sour the bread.
    Gilbert took his wife in his arms and rested his chin atop her head, stroking her hair the way she liked. “She doesn’t matter.”
    â€œNo, though I’m not surprised that she feels the way she does,” Elisabeth said. “What surprises me is that she went to the trouble of dictating a letter to tell me so—and paying the post. Mother prided herself on never lowering herself to such gestures. It seems unusually petty.”
    â€œ Petty is a good word. . . .” Gilbert held Elisabeth close, then released her, lest the neighbors see and laugh at the folly of a couple in love. “Your mother would not approve of our marriage, would she?”
    â€œNo,” Elisabeth answered without hesitation. “She would not. Our marriage gains her no advantage in society. Though you are the best of husbands, she would not have permitted this union. But Papa would have loved you, Gilbert.”
    â€œI wish I could have known him,” Gilbert said, rubbing a finger across her cheekbone. “So much I could have learned from him.”
    â€œMaman has always been such a bitter woman.” She breathed a sigh of annoyance as she returned to her labors.
    â€œShe’s an ocean away,” Gilbert said, caressing her from behind.
    Her muscles, sore from the expansion and the foreign movement inside her, as well as her day of toil, melted like pastry dough left to soften by the oven.
    Gilbert smiled. “Just you worry about growing us a healthy baby and banish all her bitterness from your heart, my love.”
    â€œI’ll do my best.” Elisabeth closed her eyes. He truly is the best man I have ever known, she thought. Papa, how I wish your marriage had been as happy.
    Â 
    In the following week, Elisabeth tried to take her husband’s advice, but it was not an easy task.
    Questions plagued her at every moment.
    Why did Mother bother writing? Why is she so embarrassed to stay with Uncle Roland, a man of such good standing in society that Mother would not take her baker husband and plain daughter to visit him? Why did Jacques Moraud break off an engagement that was advantageous to him, despite my refusing Denis?
    These questions, and others, flitted through Elisabeth’s brain as she kneaded balls of dough, despite her efforts to keep her mind on her work.
    â€œBailiff Duval, good afternoon,” Gilbert said, causing Elisabeth to look up from the tray of dinner buns she was shaping for the ovens. The tall man with his impressive gut was charged with carrying messages from the courts, along with other clerical duties, and was very pleased with himself for the important job.
    â€œAfternoon, Beaumont,” Duval said, not charmed as others by Gilbert’s convivial nature. “I’ve come to speak with Madame Beaumont.”
    â€œWhat business could you possibly have with my wife?” Gilbert stepped around to the front of the counter.
    â€œJust a few questions, Beaumont.” Duval stood tall, as though trying to impress Gilbert with his stature, both physical and social.
    â€œIt’s all right, Gilbert,” Elisabeth said, placing a calming hand on her husband’s bicep. “I’m happy to answer the bailiff’s questions, as long as he doesn’t mind me taking a seat.”
    For a moment, Bailiff Duval considered her words as though she was serious in her request to take a seat in her own shop. “Fine, fine,” he said.
    â€œAsk your questions then,” Gilbert said, his patience gone.
    â€œThere has been some question as to whether your documents were in order when you arrived, Madame Beaumont,” the