‘Keep going,’ Felice called to Marcus’s men who led the way. ‘On past the cathedral and then turn right.’ South, she said to herself, if the apse is still in the same place. ‘It’s called Colebrook Street, Marcus.’
Here in the eastern corner it was quieter, leafed with pale new trees and lined with houses enclosing the area that had once been Saint Mary’s Abbey. Just beyond the little church of Saint Peter stood a large timbered house within a spacious corner plot made by the high city wall, the home of one of Winchester’s best-known citizens, Lady Mary West.
The outward ambience of serenity was deceptive, for the Winchester widow was larger than life in every respect, booming her welcome to the unexpected guests as if she had known of their imminent arrival. She sailed down the wide panelled passageway to meet them from the garden that bathed brilliantly in the evening sun, the sides of her wide bell-farthingale knocking against everything, sending a silver tray crashing to the floor and her pet spaniel yelping for cover. ‘Hah! Back already, m’dear?’ she called merrily. ‘Brought a beau with you this time? Well, if it’s my approval you’re after you’d better bring him out here where I can see him. What’s his name?’
This unnerving habit of talking about those in her presence had been known to alienate people, especially men. But Felice succumbed to the mighty embrace of the padded figure whose magnificence would have made even the queen’s ladies blink, and told her who and what Marcus was. As she had expected, Lady West took to his extravagant chivalry like a duck to water, linking her arm through his and noisily accepting his flattery without a single contradiction. Felice’s worries fell away; it was as if she had come home.
For all Lady West’s bluff heartiness, she was perceptive and exceptionally wise, kindly, and alarmingly undaunted by men; her reputation as a Roman Catholic recusant was well known to the citizens of Winchester, many of whom sheltered beneath her authority. She had regularly been fined for non-attendance at the parish church, but not even the threat of gaol would make her change her mode of worship to this new-fangled Church of England. She had survived the changes of the last twenty years, and now the Winchester authorities were beginning to admit defeat.
She had been a friend of Felice’s mother for many years; she knew Lord Deventer and, although she was aware that his surveyor was a neighbour of hers, she had never met the elusive man. However, it took her very little time to read between the lines of Felice’s apparent disenchantment and Marcus Donne’s somewhat premature departure from Wheatley. As the mother of a large grown-up family, she was still close enough to their doubts and disputes to understand love’s cheating ways.
As she waved farewell to Marcus early next morning, she was sure that Felice would not have seen the last of him, having about him a keenness that in Felice was only skin-deep. He was pleasant, but nowhere near strong enough for this young lady who was of her father’s mould rather than her mother’s.
‘There now,’ she said to Felice as soon as Marcus’s cavalcade was out of sight. ‘No more men for a while. How does that suit you?’
‘Well enough, I thank you,’ said Felice with some feeling, but smiling to sugar the impulsive reply. ‘I like him, though.’
‘Who wouldn’t, my dear? I imagine your mother will, too. Now, shall we take a look at your lists and decide where to begin? I know all the best merchants in Winchester. And perhaps it’s time to take a look through your wardrobe, while you’re here, and bring it up to date. My tailor is very good; how about a trip to him, for a start?’
Felice and Lydia eyed each other’s dresses critically, not for the first time. Lady Honoria Deventer’s energies of late had not been directed towards her daughter’s appearance, nor had Felice shown much interest in the styles she knew to be changing, little by little, the paddings and slashings, stiffenings and quiltings, the furs, puffs and braids. A farthingale was something she had never found to be practical enough for her purposes, and the one she had taken with her to Wheatley had been impossible to transport on the packhorse to Winchester during her escape. Now she was being offered a chance to remedy all that, and it was no coincidence that an image of the glamourous Levina Deventer passed before her mind as she said, ‘I think it’s about time too, my lady. I cannot tell you when I last had a new gown, and poor Lydie’s been wearing my cast-offs for these two years or more.’
Lady West’s high-class tailor, William Symonds, had a shop below his house in The Pentice, just off the High Street where, as a former mayor, he lived amongst Winchester’s wealthiest citizens. One look at the well-stocked shelves told Felice that she was not going to finish her business here without paying heavily for it, yet, once amongst the bolts of velvet, taffeta, tiffany and silk damask, she succumbed to the excitement of having the exotic fabrics draped over her. All around the shop were rows of farthingales and ready-made corsets, half-made bodices and drawings of sleeve-details, kirtles, embroidered chemises and partlets, rolls of gold braid and fine linen for collars, lace, feathers and patterned bands. She stopped thinking about the cost, nor did she balk for long at Lady West’s inducement to be more daring.
‘With your looks and colouring, you can get away with anything,’ Lady West said loudly from the other side of the colourful shop. ‘Here’s some lustie-gallant,’ she called. ‘And what about this incarnate?’
‘Not red,’ Felice said, wincing at the ruby brilliance. ‘I’ve never been comfortable in red.’
‘Nonsense, love. Tell her, Mistress Lydia, if you please. Red suits her.’
Persuaded, Felice chose an orange-red called Catherine pear, a bluish-white known as milk-and-water, and a colourful silk called medley which they told her was the height of fashion, though she would have preferred willow. Naturally, it took them all morning, though the servants carried back to Colebrook Street only the farthingale and two exquisitely made corsets, enough fine lawn for several cool smocks for summer and, from the hosier, three pairs of real silk stockings.
‘Shoes this afternoon,’ said Lady West, energetically.
The change of environment, the indulgence of pleasing oneself and the stimulating company of her hostess, not to mention that sudden relaxation of tensions, was an intoxicating mixture that Felice could not recall ever having tasted before. Still laughing at some silliness of Lydia’s, she tripped happily down the wide staircase of Cool Brook House, resting on the lower landing where the balustrade balanced a massive pineapple on its angle. Lady West’s voice mingled with a man’s, flowing across the panelled hallway from the garden and causing Felice to hesitate rather than intrude upon their conversation.
Her heart somersaulted inside her new whalebone corset, her hand stiffening upon the smooth wood as the tone of the man’s voice reached her softly through Lady West’s loud chatter, and she knew then that all her hopes and fears had converged like tributaries into one fast-flowing river. He had come to find her.
It was immediately obvious that he had not come from Wheatley that day; his deep gold and sage-green doublet and matching trunk-hose that showed no sign of dust was set off by spotless white at the neck and wrists. He greeted her with a courtly bow, sweeping off his green velvet hat around which curled a peacock feather and, having replaced it, treated her to a lazy smile that took in every detail of her unwelcoming expression. ‘My lady,’ he said.
‘Sir Leon. You are here on business?’
‘Part business, part pleasure,’ he said. ‘We could have travelled together if you’d told me of your intentions.’
Lady West looked at Felice in surprise, but said nothing.
‘Yes, sir. I realise that. Do you stay long?’
‘Long enough to help you with the purchases and to escort you back to Wheatley.’
‘I may be here some time, sir. Perhaps you’d better…’
‘Good. These things are best not rushed. Lady West tells me you’ve not fixed a date for your return.’
‘I’ve made no decisions of any kind except what new gowns to wear. On that I was given
some encouragement; quite an unusual experience for me these days. That alone tempts me to outstay my welcome.’
Lady West was not slow to sense the hostile undercurrents on Felice’s part. ‘Impossible,’ she said. ‘Your welcome extends indefinitely, my dear. For ever, if you wish. My home is yours. Now, please excuse me if I leave you for a moment or two; I shall return presently.’ She touched Felice’s arm in passing.
Sir Leon bowed and waited for Felice to speak. When she did not, he held out a hand, hoping for hers. ‘Come now,’ he said, softly. ‘Our parting was not on such bad terms, was it? Did you think I’d be angry?’
‘At taking matters into my own hands? Certainly it had crossed my mind, since it takes only that much to anger you.’
‘Well, then,’ he said, smiling at her waspishness, ‘now that we’re both here, shall we begin anew, since we left our disagreements at Wheatley?’
‘But we didn’t, did we, Sir Leon? I brought my lists with me and I intend to order everything on them. Mr Donne went on to Sonning.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Elizabeth told you, I suppose,’ she said, with resignation.
‘She had no choice. I asked her.’
‘Of course. So you followed, just to make sure I didn’t go with Marcus.’
‘I was scarce a half-hour behind you, lass,’ he said, quietly. ‘I knew exactly where you were going and I followed because you are my responsibility. I want no changes of mind while you’re in Winchester. I take it that Lady West hasn’t been made aware of our relationship?’
Alarm flared in her eyes, giving an edge to her tone. ‘No, naturally I’ve told her nothing of that. If it makes no sense to me, I can hardly expect Lady West to understand it.’
‘I think you misjudge the lady’s abilities, Felice. She’ll understand if I tell her. And why should she be kept in the dark when all Wheatley and your parents know?’
‘My what? You’ve been in contact with them?’
‘Well, of course I have. I’m in contact with Deventer constantly for one reason or another.’ He drew her towards a wooden bench, the back of which rested against a high yew hedge that sheltered them from the house. ‘Come, sit awhile. It’s what friends do, you know.’ He felt the resistance in her hand and smiled at her vacillation.
Finally, she sat, eyeing him warily. ‘So they know of this clever arrangement, and they agree with you, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘And Lord Deventer must be wondering why he hadn’t thought of the idea himself. It never ceases to amaze me, Sir Leon, how men can know so much more about what women need than the women themselves. I don’t suppose you could give me some warning of the next stage in your plans, sir, or would that be asking for the moon, d’ye think?’
‘Probably. But perhaps when you begin to trust me, when you begin to take me into your confidence, then I’ll start to tell you of my plans for you.’
‘I already know of your plans for me, sir,’ she retorted. ‘I would have had to be alarmingly stupid not to have seen through them by now. It was the timing of them to which I referred.’
‘Yes, that was also what I referred to. Perhaps we could work on that together, eh?’ His fingers lifted a dark tendril of hair from her neck and replaced it on top of her head, scorching her with his touch and drying her next words before they could emerge. He waited, patiently. ‘Well?’
‘I came here for two reasons, Sir Leon,’ she whispered, eventually. ‘One was to continue the task my stepfather set for me, and…’
‘And?’
‘And the other…’ She looked sideways at his hands and found herself unable to speak with any real conviction.
‘Was to evade me. Yes, I knew that, too. I shall help you with one but not the other. We did it once before, remember? We can do it again.’
He referred to the planning of the garden, she knew, but things had changed since then. The painted face of Levina Deventer laughed silently over his shoulder and disappeared. ‘I doubt it, sir,’ she whispered, ‘as long as others come between us.’
‘Then tell him to go,’ he said.
Chapter Seven
Lady West mopped a dribble of onion sauce from her mouth and laid her linen damask napkin upon the white tablecloth. ‘It’s been done before, my dear,’ she said, philosophically, reaching for the lamb pie. She took the edge of the crust in her fingers and made a cut to each side, lifting the wedge on to her trencher. ‘A young lady tries to escape her guardian’s custody. Well, so what’s new? The only thing that does surprise me is that he came after you so fast. Few guardians of my experience have taken their responsibilities as seriously as that.’
To be truthful, it was not only that which had surprised her, though it would have been unhelpful to say so. Astonishment would have been closer to describing how she felt when the man portrayed as the overbearing, interfering, arrogant and thoroughly unpleasant surveyor turned out to be a courteous, charming, and extremely handsome man of some considerable style, all of which spoke volumes to explain Felice’s hostility. Hardly surprising was her convenient memory-lapse concerning the roles of guardianship and ward, which she obviously resented as much as he intended to enforce.
‘Not too surprising, if you think about it, my lady,’ Felice replied, dipping a piece of her manchet-bread into the sauce and watching it soak upwards. ‘He’s doing his best to please my stepfather, of course. He’ll find my inheritance more than useful when he comes to make an offer for my hand. That’s what it’s all about.’ She eyed the bowl of saffron-yellow frumenty but decided against it. ‘The insulting part is that I’m not supposed to be able to see through it.’
‘Felice, my dear…’ Lady West looked hard at the piece of lamb on its way to her mouth ‘…you cannot seriously believe it.’ She popped it in and chewed happily while she explained, defying table manners in her enthusiasm. ‘I’d not met Sir Leon until today, but I’ve seen his house, I know his men, and I know what he’s worth. I know,’ she said, licking her fingers, ‘what everybody’s worth in Winchester. He’s a man of substance known to the council as a subsidy-man, one of the top ten taxpayers. And I don’t for a moment believe that he needs to find himself a wealthy wife or he’d have found one by now.’ She waved a little finger to a waiting servant. ‘Help the ladies to the salad,’ she said. ‘Lettuce and cucumbers picked today. And apart from that,’ she went on, picking out a leaf of red cabbage as the bowl passed in front of her, ‘it’s hardly likely that Deventer will have discussed any details of your inheritance with Gascelin, even though he is your guardian.’
‘I doubt my stepfather knows the details himself.’
‘There you are, then. It’s not the money, my dear. You can take it from me.’
Fitting so neatly into Felice’s theory, it was hard to let go of the idea so, as if to help her, Lady West took her two guests in her carriage on a tour of the town during which the coachman had orders to go via the Staple Garden and Northgate. Being an extravagant lady in every respect, Lady West’s claim to know everyone’s worth was bound to be exaggerated, but Felice and Lydia soon found out that this was not so as snippets of information about owners, occupations, families, religion, misdemeanours and aspirations, wealth and social standing came leaking out, much of them keeping them in stitches of laughter.
‘Diverted all his sewage into next-door’s cellar,’ she went on, waving to an acquaintance. ‘They couldn’t make out where the smell was coming from for three months. Now he’s the town clerk, so it obviously didn’t hamper his movements.’
Up in the north-west corner of the city wall, most of the ground was taken up by gardens and orchards where once the wool-merchants had held their wool market, known as the staple. There were few houses here, but the largest one stood alone within tree-lined walls, allowing them only a glimpse through wrought-iron gates at the pink brickwork and silvered pepperpot domes capping hexagonal towers, and acres of shining glass that caught the sun.
South-facing, no d
oubt, Felice thought.
The coach slowed to a walking pace. ‘Built only a few years ago on the site of four houses,’ Lady West told them. ‘He owns several shops in the town, including the best goldsmith.’
‘And a tapestry merchant, by any chance?’
‘Yes. Jonn Skinner, last year’s mayor. How did you know that?’
‘I daresay he’ll be well represented at Wheatley Abbey,’ Felice replied, with a sigh. But by the time they had returned home via the great Norman castle, the Kingsgate, the boys’ college and the bishop’s palace, Felice was utterly convinced that no other house in Winchester compared for sheer beauty and size to the one owned and built by Sir Leon Gascelin.
Well satisfied with the impressions she had been able to change with such relative ease, Lady West began to understand something of her lovely young guest’s animosity towards her stepfather’s surveyor. Having set his own highly individual ideas so firmly around a new project, he would have had to be a saint not to be exasperated by a nineteen-year-old maid’s insistence on her mother’s preferences. Honoria’s conception of good taste had not improved during three marriages and a large brood of children. Heaven only knew how much of it her daughter had absorbed.
Accordingly, Lady West’s private predictions materialised when Sir Leon paid an unfashionably early visit to Cool Brook House the next morning as she was speaking to her chaplain after mass in her tiny chapel. The man hurried off at Sir Leon’s appearance, anxious not to be identified.
‘A difficult life,’ she whispered, loudly. ‘They have to be so courageous, these days, never being sure of their friends. Come on, Sir Leon. I’ve had wine and wafers sent into the garden. The wasps are already showing an interest.’
‘You were expecting guests, my lady?’
She raised her eyebrows and darted a look at him, sideways. ‘You, Sir Leon. Just yourself. I may be old, but I know a thing or two.’
A Most Unseemly Summer Page 13
