Knight's Acre: Till Death Do Us Part

by Margaret Brazear

  “Why do we have to go into Newmarket?” she asked. “There’s a perfectly good inn just a couple of miles up the road.”

  “Think about it, sweetheart,” he said. “We need to be private, but someone might see us if we go to the local inn. Imagine the gossip.”

  She smiled and snuggled against him. Of course he was right. They were not thinking of doing anything immoral, but even so it would look bad. He was trying to protect her reputation, going out of his way to do so. That was one of the things she loved about him; he was so considerate, always thinking of her before himself.

  ***

  Catherine’s mother was in the small kitchen, roasting a joint of brisket for their Sunday dinner. She had given up trying to match her daughter to the Earl, since as far as she or anyone else knew, he had got himself engaged to Jessica Milligan.

  She wasn’t going to go quietly though; she had nagged about it ever since she first heard Jack Milligan’s boasting. And she had not yet forgiven Catherine, though what she thinks she could have done to snare the Earl, Catherine had no idea. The Earl might be out of bounds now, but that didn’t mean Mary Simmons was content with her daughter marrying that criminal from over Church Lane, that Michael Kimpton.

  The boy had been in borstal for stealing when he was only twelve and later had only narrowly missed going to prison because the Earl spoke up for him. There was some scandal about him breaking into the Castle in the night, looking for the ghost, he said. The law wanted to have him for breaking and entering, but His Lordship had spoken up and said he wanted the matter forgotten, that no harm had been done.

  It had been good of him, very good. Mary sighed heavily; he would have made her Catherine a wonderful husband, such a kind man, and so handsome. And so rich.

  Catherine came down the stairs after changing her church clothes into something more comfortable. The rich aroma of roasting beef filled the tiny cottage and she made her way to the kitchen to see if her mother needed any help with the meal.

  Mary turned and gave her a quick glance before going back to peeling potatoes.

  “That dress is getting a bit shabby now,” she said. “Change into your blue one.”

  “Why?” said Catherine. “Is Reverend Mason coming for dinner?”

  Mary Simmons often invited the Reverend for dinner or for tea; she thought it would give her a step up in village society to be friendly with him.

  “No, not the vicar,” said Mrs Simmons. “I’ve invited our new neighbour to join us for our Sunday meal; it’s only friendly, him knowing no one here.”

  “Well, I don’t see why I should have to change again for his benefit,” said Catherine. “I’m clean enough.”

  Her mother glared at her.

  “He’s a bit older,” she said, “but a reasonable sort of man. And he says he’s got a trust fund, so you could do worse.”

  Catherine’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t quite believe her ears. It was understandable, though implausible, that her mother might want to pair her off with the Earl, but the new neighbour? Really?

  But Catherine wasn’t the meek young lady she was meant to be; she wouldn’t quietly obey her parents, even if she had not yet reached the age of consent. She had a brain and a mouth and she had no hesitation in using them both.

  “What on earth is wrong with you?” she demanded angrily.

  “Don’t you speak to me like that, young lady,” said her mother. “Honour thy father and thy mother, that’s what the good book says.”

  “The Bible says a lot of things that are unlikely,” said Catherine. “I cannot believe you are trying to palm me off on this bloke. You don’t know anything about him.”

  “He’s got a trust fund,” said Mrs Simmons smugly.

  “I don’t care if he’s got a golden coach and a palace,” said Catherine. “I am going to marry Michael Kimpton; when will you accept that?”

  “Never!”

  The knock at the front door interrupted what threatened to turn into a massive argument. Catherine knew she should have more respect for her mother and she had even heard of girls like herself meekly marrying whoever they were told to. But that would never be Catherine; she loved Michael and it was her life, nobody else’s.

  Mrs Simmons wiped her hands on her apron before removing it and draping it over a kitchen chair. She wore a welcoming smile to greet the newcomer.

  “Mr Stanley,” she said. “Welcome, welcome. Come in, have a seat. Dinner is almost ready.”

  The table in the corner was set for four with an embroidered cloth covering it. Everything looked really cosy and warm and the new neighbour smiled thankfully.

  “Please,” he said. “Call me Frederick.”

  “Oh, that would be too familiar,” said Mary coyly, an attitude Catherine neither liked nor approved of. “This is my daughter, Catherine,” she went on.

  “Oh, such a lovely young lady,” said Frederick.

  He had a obsequious way of talking that sent shivers down Catherine’s spine, but it was likely nervousness at being with strangers.

  They sat down for dinner, Frederick looking appreciatively around at the cottage with its clutter of mismatched ornaments and wall plates.

  “Tell us, Mr Stanley,” said Tom Simmons, Catherine’s father, “how did you end up here? The Earl doesn’t normally rent out the dwellings in this row to outsiders. They’re tied cottages, meant for tenant farmers and the like.”

  Frederick smiled, a smug little smile.

  “It was a favour to Her Majesty,” he said. “I was once a member of her staff.”

  Mr Simmons raised an eyebrow, obviously impressed by this information.

  “The Queen?” said Mary. “You used to work in the palace, for the Queen?”

  “I did. I had an unfortunate accident and could no longer work. Her Majesty and His Royal Highness were kind enough to arrange accommodation for me as well as my little trust fund.”

  “His Royal Highness?” said Catherine. “Do you mean the Prince of Wales?”

  “No, no,” said Frederick. “Although of course I do know the Prince. No, I was referring to the late Prince Consort.”

  But Prince Albert has been dead for more than thirty years, thought Catherine. She wasn’t sure of this man’s age, but it was clear he was too young to have worked for Prince Albert. He’s a liar, but how clever a liar, that is the question. Not terribly clever, obviously.

  “And you are unmarried, Sir?” asked Mary.

  He blushed, like a little girl, thought Catherine. She didn’t think she had ever seen a man blush before.

  “I am, Madam,” he said.

  The two elder Simmonses thought that very odd, a man his age who had never been married. But to pry any further would be very ill mannered, so they would just have to contain their curiosity for another time.

  He would surely have said if he was a widower; that would have been more usual than simply agreeing that he wasn’t married. Perhaps he was divorced; now that would be a juicy bit of gossip and a reason for him to keep quiet.

  Catherine got up and began to clear away the dirty plates. She was hoping to escape to the kitchen, but Mary had not finished embarrassing them all, not yet.

  “Of course,” she said. “My daughter, Catherine, was almost engaged to His Lordship, but then his love was stolen away by the little trollop next door.”

  Catherine spun around, the plates in her hands rattled dangerously and she dropped them back onto the table to avoid dropping them onto the floor.

  “Mother!” she cried angrily. “That is a bare faced lie and you know it! And Jessica is not a trollop!”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” Mary replied. “You were all set to start courting the Earl when that so-called friend of yours got in the way. You could have been a countess by now, and instead look what’s happened. She’s on her way to the altar with him and you still have no one.”

  It was hard to keep a secret under pressure like this and her tongue almost got away from her, but she
bit her lip and drew herself up to her full height.

  “I have Michael,” she said.

  “Him? I’ve told you and told you, girl, your father’ll never let you throw yourself away on that criminal.”

  How humiliating. Why does she have to make such a fuss in front of a stranger?

  “I am going out,” she said. She turned to Frederick. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Stanley. Perhaps we can talk again, sometime.”

  He pushed his chair back and got to his feet, gave her a little bow as she hurried out of the cottage, as fast as she could without actually running. Her cheeks were burning and tears brimmed in her blue eyes, but they were tears of anger, of fury and embarrassment. The sooner she was married to Michael and away from here, the better.

  ***

  The hotel Simon had chosen was one of the upper class ones, converted at some time from a small mansion. As he parked the automobile in the forecourt, she looked at the other guests with concern, fearing she and Simon might not be permitted inside.

  They were all dressed so gloriously, the ladies in the latest fashions, with clothes made from expensive velvets and satins. One woman was wearing a diamond necklace that probably cost more than Jessica’s father earned in a year.

  She looped her hand through the crook of Simon’s arm as they left the vehicle. People were turning their heads to look at them, which made Jessica uncomfortable, but they were looking at the car. It wasn’t often they saw one outside London and even there they were scarce.

  Leaning close to him Jessica spoke in a hushed voice, afraid to be overheard.

  “Are you sure we can come here?” she said.

  “What do you mean?” he replied.

  “Well, look at everybody else. I don’t have clothing that fine and neither do you. They might not let us in.”

  He laughed, a gentle laugh that didn’t mock.

  “We will be allowed in,” he said. “I promise you.”

  Then he led her to the dining hall where he ordered a cream tea and cake for them both, along with a large pot of tea. The crockery was exquisite, bone China from one of the famous houses. It was painted with delicate roses and had a gold rim all the way around the edge. Jessica was almost afraid to drink from the cup, afraid she might drop it and watch it shatter into tiny pieces.

  She ate everything on the plate, every tiny sandwich and scone, then the waitress appeared with a five tier cake stand full up with wonderful creations of cream and sponge, some pastry, some fruit cake.

  Her eyes met Simon’s and he smiled. She didn’t want to appear greedy, but how often would she have a chance to sample delicacies so scrumptious?

  “Go on,” he said. “Treat yourself.”

  She did, helping herself to a small cupcake and a pink meringue filled with cream. Simon ordered more tea to wash down the rich confectionaries and after that, she reluctantly admitted to herself that she could eat no more.

  “Come,” said Simon. “If you have finished eating, we can go upstairs. What I have to say can only be said in private.”

  He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a plain, gold ring which he held out to her.

  “Put this on,” he said softly.

  It was a wedding ring! Jessica couldn’t understand what he meant by asking her to wear a wedding ring, but she slipped it on the third finger of her left hand anyway.

  “Why do you want me to wear this?” she asked.

  “Because if the manager thinks we are unmarried, he will not allow us to take the room I have booked. It is a silly, outdated custom, but good hotels like this would frown upon such a thing.”

  “But nothing improper is going to happen, is it?” she asked hesitantly.

  Suddenly her trust in Simon was waning and that was not a feeling she enjoyed. She was afraid now, afraid to go to the room with him.

  “No, of course not,” he said enthusiastically. “I just need to tell you something important and we must be private, we simply must.”

  She nodded and walked beside him to the reception desk where he was given a key to one of the bedrooms. Jessica’s heart was racing now; she knew that being alone with him, especially in a bedroom, was not right. But he had said he had something important to tell her and where else could they be private?

  The room was luxurious, the sort of place Jessica had never seen, or even imagined before. The chairs were upholstered in rich brocade in a bright blue shade, the curtains matched and the bedspread was covered in a white satin eiderdown, embroidered with blue flowers.

  Even the headboard was upholstered in satin, with satin covered buttons sinking into it and it was edged in gold braid. Her feet sank into a rug that bore a busy pattern of flowers and leaves.

  This was all too much for Jessica and she grew ever more fearful. She thought she knew Simon, knew him well, but this was just so unexpected and so inappropriate.

  “Well,” she said, “what do you have to tell me that is so important?”

  He sat on the bed and patted the space beside him with the palm of his hand.

  “Come,” he said. “Sit beside me.”

  “I think I had better stand,” she said.

  “Please, darling,” he said, reaching out a hand to her. “You don’t think I would hurt you, do you?”

  “No. I just don’t think I should sit on the bed with you.”

  She could feel her cheeks heating up and tears beginning to form in her green eyes. He couldn’t be trying to trick her, could he? Not Simon.

  “All right,” he said at last, dropping his arm. “You stand if it makes you feel more comfortable.” He paused and swallowed hard before he went on. “Jessica,” he said. “I went to London yesterday.”

  “I know,” she said. “You told me you were going, on business for the Earl.”

  “No,” he said. “I told a white lie, as I didn’t want you to worry. But the fact is, I went to see a doctor.”

  “We have a doctor in Newmarket,” she said.

  “Not this sort of doctor,” he said. “This one is a specialist in heart disease.”

  Jessica stared, those tears spilling over now as her lip trembled and she fought the urge to run to him, but it was a losing battle. Before she knew what she was doing, she was in his arms, sitting on the bed beside him, just as he had wanted.

  “What is it?” she said at last. “What’s wrong?”

  His hand cupped her face, his gentle eyes met hers and he kissed her softly.

  “It’s not good news,” he said. “I seem to have some sort of infection around the heart.”

  “And? What are they going to do about it?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “There is nothing they can do.”

  “What are you saying, Simon?” she demanded.

  “Do you see now why I wanted to be private?” he said. “They’ve given me but a few weeks. And it’ll not be pretty. The doctor says I’ll deteriorate fast now, that I’ll get weaker and weaker. I don’t want you to see me like that.”

  Her face was wet, her lip shivered, and she clung to him, kissed him with the abandon she had been yearning for. He was going to die! She was going to lose him and now was all that mattered.

  ***

  Jessica returned to the village with a feeling unlike any she had ever known or expected to know. What had happened that afternoon was an experience she could never have imagined. It had hurt a little but that lasted only seconds and then she knew beyond any shadow of doubt that Simon loved her as much as she loved him.

  She wondered if Catherine knew about men and women; she wondered if she had ever done that with Michael. But it wasn’t something she could ask, not even her best friend.

  Simon let her out of the car at the gates to the edge of the Castle grounds. She asked him not to come too close to the High Street and her own home; she wanted to walk the rest of the way, wanted to be alone with her thoughts and savour the memory of the afternoon. She wondered if she looked different, if her father would know, and she de
cided to call on Catherine before she went in, just to make sure. Just what she would do if she did look different, she had no idea.

  She didn’t get as far as Catherine’s house. She caught sight of her, walking toward her from the other end of the High Street, and she waved. Catherine waved back and stopped walking, beckoned her to join her where she was.

  “I’m so glad I caught you before you knocked,” said Catherine. “You’ll never believe what my mother did at dinner time.”

  She looped her arm through Jessica’s and they turned away from the High Street together and walked to the woods while Catherine related her mother’s embarrassing actions earlier that day. Jessica was pleased to listen; it would take her mind off her own adventures and silence her on the subject. She was longing to tell her friend all about it, but she had not yet decided if that was the right thing to do. Simon might not want anyone else to know about his health and that was his secret to tell, not hers.

  “You mean she was trying to match you up with the new neighbour?” said Jessica. “But she knows nothing about him. He could be Jack the Ripper for all she knows.”

  “She even told him that I was practically engaged to the Earl before you came along and spoilt it.” She paused and squeezed Jessica’s hand. “Where that leaves you, I don’t know. What he must think, I can’t imagine.”

  “I don’t care what he thinks, Catherine,” she said. “He’s nothing to me.”

  “No, he isn’t, and he’s nothing to me either, nor ever will be. Oh, Jess, what am I going to do? How am I ever going to persuade them that I’ll not take anyone but Michael?”

  “You could tell your mother that he’s come into a large inheritance,” said Jessica with a laugh. “That’ll probably do it.”

  “You’re right,” said Catherine. “Now, tell me how you’re getting on with the wedding gown.”

  “It’s nearly finished,” said Jessica. “But I need to hurry. Simon will want to bring the wedding date forward.”

  She hadn’t meant to allow her tongue to run away from her, but it was said now and she could not unsay it.