A Very Tudor Christmas
“They will hear you. We’ll never be able to hear what’s happening if they find us here,” Margaret Clifford whispered fiercely as she and her cousin squeezed into the tiny closet right above her parents’ great hall at Clifford Manor. Beatrice was her best friend, but she was three years younger than Meg’s eighteen, and inclined to be giggly. It had been that way ever since Bea’s parents, Meg’s mother’s sister and her husband, died and Bea came to live with them as a toddler.
Beatrice clapped her hand over her mouth and huddled closer to Meg as they knelt on the floor. “I won’t say a word, Meg, I vow it.”
“I never should have let you come with me,” Meg murmured. She had tried to slip out of their shared chamber without Bea seeing her, but she hadn’t been quick enough. Beatrice had begged and cried so very much that Meg knew she had to drag her along. Time was short, and she had to discover what her parents were talking about with Lord and Lady Erroll.
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