by Stella Riley
‘Thank you,’ said Lydia. ‘You are the Colonel’s brother, aren’t you?’
‘Guilty,’ he grinned. And then, ‘Mistress Neville, perhaps you should go home and see if your brother has returned. Meanwhile, when either Nicholas or Eden gets back, I’ll tell them you need to speak with them.’
‘Yes. That probably would be best – but I can’t.’ She dipped a small curtsy and added, ‘I’m sorry to be so abrupt but I must go.’
Tobias watched her disappear amidst the crowds in the street and thought, Oh dear, Nick. What have you got yourself mixed up in?
Lydia arrived at Westminster just as the bells of St Margaret’s chimed ten. After fruitlessly pursuing two sets of misguided directions she finally arrived at Colonel Maxwell’s office to learn that he’d just left for an appointment at Whitehall.
Hot, dishevelled and tired, Mistress Neville sat down and dropped her head in her hands.
‘You won’t get into Whitehall, Miss,’ said Mr Hollins kindly. ‘Best let me get a chair to take you home.’
* * *
Freshly-shaved and dressed in his best coat and tawny silk sash, Eden got to St Matthew’s on Friday Street just in time for the wedding but far later then he should have done since Nicholas was on the point of escorting Deborah into the church.
‘Durand’s in Shoreditch – and you’re late,’ hissed Nicholas crossly. ‘Just get inside, will you?’
Eden nodded, smiled ruefully at Deborah and slid, as unobtrusively as possible, into one of the rear pews.
There were a handful of people present but not many. Near the front, Eden could see Tobias and, on the other side of the aisle, one row behind Mr Fisher and his groomsman, a soberly-dressed female sitting beside a pair of tow-headed youngsters who were presumably the vintner’s children. Then he turned to watch Deborah make her entrance.
She looked stunning. Even in the shadowy light of the church, her skin glowed white against the blood-red of her gown and her hair was arranged in an elaborate cascade of curls guaranteed to entice a man’s hands.
The vintner’s hands, thought Eden, still not comfortable with the notion.
Deborah didn’t look at him as she passed, but then he hadn’t expected her to. She was approaching her wedding in the same frame of mind that she intended to approach her marriage; a scenario in which Eden only existed as her former employer. He didn’t relish that notion either.
The ceremony was simple and mercifully brief.
As they left the church, Nicholas leaned towards Eden and muttered, ‘He’s safe enough and I sent Lydia a note saying so.’
With which Eden was forced, for the time being, to be satisfied.
After lengthy deliberations, verging at times on argument, Deborah had allowed Eden, Tobias and Nicholas to host a wedding breakfast at the Lamb and Flag so everyone set off on the short walk to Foster Lane in moods varying from Mr Fisher’s euphoria to Colonel Maxwell’s grim determination to acquit himself properly.
Sensing his brother’s unease, Tobias clapped him on the shoulder and murmured, ‘You should try a smile that at least looks as if you mean it. After all, Deborah seems happy enough.’
Eden grunted and said nothing but thought, Seems isn’t the same as is.
The soberly-dressed female turned out to be Mr Fisher’s sister. The tow-headed children – a boy of roughly nine and a girl perhaps two years older – gravitated towards Deborah and regarded her with expressions not dissimilar to the one worn by their father. As Eden watched, the girl touched the taffeta of Deborah’s gown with shy fingers and leaned up to whisper something. Deborah smiled, murmured a reply and held out the hand bearing the wedding ring. The girl looked from the ring to Tobias, eyes wide with something akin to awe. The boy, Eden noticed, stayed very close but said nothing.
The food was good and Nicholas ensured that wine and ale kept flowing.
When the time came – and only because it couldn’t be avoided – Eden preceded a toast to the happy couple with a few graceful remarks about his household’s loss being Mr Fisher’s gain. And then, feeling that he’d done all that was required of him, he pulled Tobias to one side and said, ‘Since your store of joie de vivre far exceeds my own and I’ve a lot to do if I’m to leave in the morning, you can take over now. But when they’ve finished with the syllabubs and tartlets, bring them back to Cheapside. I’d like to say goodbye there rather than here,’ replied Eden curtly.
And, having murmured a few words of excuse and apology in the bridegroom’s ear, he left.
* * *
Walking into the shop, he narrowly avoided colliding with Lydia Neville who, after a startled gasp, rounded on him, saying, ‘At last! Where is my brother?’
Eden hesitated, glancing at Mr Turner.
‘He doesn’t know,’ she snapped, misreading his lack of response. ‘If he did, I wouldn’t still be here.’
‘Perhaps we can discuss this in private,’ said Eden, taking in her flushed face and the fact that her hair was making a creditable attempt to free itself from her cap. ‘This way, if you please.’
Lydia didn’t please. She just wanted answers. But since she plainly wasn’t going to get them unless she did as he asked, she loosed an irritated breath and let him lead her upstairs.
As soon as the parlour door closed behind them, Colonel Maxwell said, ‘I thought Nicholas sent you a note.’
‘Oh yes. He did.’ She eyed him witheringly over folded arms. ‘He sent a note saying that Aubrey is quite safe and I’m not to worry. Oddly enough, I didn’t find that helpful.’
‘No,’ began Eden, realising that Nicholas would have been wary about committing too much paper, ‘but --’
‘I’m aware that whatever Nick has done is something you told him to do … but safe from what exactly?’
‘Arrest. Surely you guessed as much?’
‘No! Why should I? He hasn’t done anything.’
‘You mean,’ remarked Eden aridly, ‘that he hasn’t done anything you know about.’
Lydia opened her mouth and then closed it again.
‘Your brother’s name appeared among half a dozen others on a list I was handed at a little after six o’clock this morning. The rest of them will have been rounded up by now. Indeed, I’m surprised you haven’t had any troopers on the doorstep yet. But they’ll come – make no mistake about that.’
‘And when they do, the fact that Aubrey has vanished will make him look guilty.’
‘He already is guilty – by association, if nothing else.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it. It’s a mistake.’
‘No. It isn’t. Aubrey’s name was supplied by one of the prisoners already in custody for complicity in the current plot,’ replied Eden, his patience dwindling by the second. ‘How do you think that happened if he had nothing to do with it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Some of the colour drained from her face but she said stubbornly, ‘It’s a mistake or – or someone is lying. I don’t know. But Aubrey wouldn’t … he can’t have … not after last time.’
‘Unfortunately, the fact remains that he both would and did. And it’s more serious this time. This time, they weren’t planning a few riots. They were planning to kill Cromwell.’
‘That’s nonsense!’ Pulling herself together, Lydia sniffed disparagingly and narrowly avoided stamping her foot. ‘Haven’t you heard what people are saying? There wasn’t any assassination plot. It’s all an excuse to allow the Protector to arrest anybody he likes. The only conspiracy was the one dreamed up in Whitehall.’ She waited and when he didn’t reply, added vehemently, ‘There was no plot!’
Colonel Maxwell remained silent and it was that, rather than anything he might have said which suddenly filled her with dread. She said uncertainly, ‘There wasn’t, was there?’
‘Yes.’
‘To – to murder Cromwell?’
‘Amongst other things. And by now, Secretary Thurloe has chapter and verse.’
‘Oh.’ Everything insid
e her seemed to collapse. ‘And do you think that Aubrey …?’
‘I imagine he knew of it, yes. For the rest, not having spoken to him, I couldn’t say.’ Trying to moderate his tone a little, Eden said, ‘You’ll appreciate that I can’t be seen to have a hand in this? It’s enough that I delayed matters this morning to give Nick time to get your brother out of harm’s way.’ He paused and then added, ‘He’s in Shoreditch, by the way, at the home of a good friend of mine. Nick knows where – but if you want Aubrey to stay safe, I’d suggest you don’t visit. At least not until the dust settles which, on present showing, could take some time.’
‘Will you go yourself? To question him?’
‘No. By noon tomorrow I’ll be on my way to Scotland.’
Something lurched in Lydia’s stomach. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. I see. And will you be gone long?’
‘As long as is humanly possible,’ he said with a sudden smile. ‘But don’t worry. Nicholas will still be here so --’ He stopped, hearing sounds of arrival below. ‘Ah. The wedding party. But please don’t feel you have to leave. If you stay you’ll be able to speak with Nick and receive whatever reassurances you need.’
Quickly and rather disjointedly, she said, ‘I should … I haven’t thanked you.’
‘And you need not.’ He sensed that she was about to ask why he’d interfered and wasn’t sure what the answer was. Fortunately, the sound of footsteps on the stairs enabled him to curtail the conversation. ‘Enough, now. Stay and meet Deb – Mistress Fisher.’
Lydia noticed the slip; that and one look at the bride, with her masses of dark hair and enticing curves, inexplicably caused her spirits to sink even lower. Straightening her spine and pinning a smile on her face, she told herself not to be an idiot. Then she met the bride’s eyes and had the awful feeling that the woman somehow knew.
During the course of the introductions and inevitable good wishes, Eden also thought he glimpsed an odd expression on Deborah’s face but his mind was busy with the problem of how to achieve a few minutes in private with her without spoiling Fisher’s day. Ten minutes later, when she excused herself to ensure that those of her belongings which hadn’t already been sent to Southwark were ready for the carrier, he realised that, as usual, she had recognised his need and was taking care of it.
As soon as they were alone, he said, ‘If you’ll wait just a moment, I have something for you.’ And ran smartly up to his chamber before she could reply. Then, returning with the carved box, ‘This is neither inappropriate nor extravagant – though you must know I’d have liked to be both.’
Deborah’s dark eyes looked down at the gift and then up into Eden’s hazel ones.
‘It’s beautiful and I shall treasure it. Thank you.’ She paused briefly. ‘You’ll take care of yourself in Scotland?’
‘I always do. And you … you’ll remember your promise?’
‘I’ll remember. And of course, I’ll call here from time to time.’
She didn’t say, It will be easier once you’re gone … but he heard the words anyway.
‘Of course. Two pies a week, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Her smile was a trifle unsteady. ‘You should re-join the others. The host shouldn’t absent himself from his own party … and Mistress Neville seems upset.’
‘She’s worried about her brother.’
‘Oh?’ She is. But there’s more to it than that. Only you don’t see it, do you? ‘Why?’
‘He should have been arrested this morning but I had Nicholas hide him in Shoreditch with the Morrells. I’m still trying to work out why.’ And, shrugging it aside, ‘But I don’t want to waste these last minutes talking of that.’
‘No.’ Why did I mention her? Knowing is one thing. Seeing – and on this of all days – is something else entirely. ‘I shall be all right, Eden. Go to Scotland and find yourself again. By the time you come back, everything will look different.’
‘Will it? I don’t know.’ He took her hands, dropped a light kiss on each one and a third, slightly less chaste, on her lips. ‘Be happy, Deborah. I shall pray that you are.’
* * *
When the wedding party had taken its leave, Eden bade another private but more business-like goodbye to Lydia Neville.
‘I trust Nick has set your mind at rest?’
‘He’s done his best. And he says he’ll take a letter to Aubrey.’
‘That’s fine. Just be careful what you put in it and destroy your brother’s replies if they’re not discreet. And now I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me. I’ve a number of things to attend to before the morning.’
‘Of course.’ Lydia hesitated, knowing she wanted to say something but not sure what it was. In the end, she said, ‘Will there be fighting in Scotland?’
‘Perhaps.’ A slow smile dawned. ‘One can but hope.’
That smile and the effect it had destroyed her usual caution.
‘How can you say that? You could be killed.’
Eden looked at her, part surprised and part thoughtful.
‘I’m a soldier. I could have been killed a good many times. But your concern is appreciated. And before you ask – yes, I shall be careful.’
* * *
His departure on the following morning was accomplished with the usual male sangfroid that hid some very real feeling.
Nicholas shook his hand, saying, ‘Enjoy yourself but don’t forget to come back.’
And, with a massive buffet on the shoulder, Tobias said, ‘The poor Scots aren’t going to know what’s hit them. Then again, neither will General Monck. So give ’em all hell, Colonel … and then go and see Mother.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
WINDS OF CHANGE
May to October, 1654
Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate wreath; yet much remains
To conquer still: peace hath her victories
No less renown'd than war. New foes arise …
John Milton
ONE
Although due to the carts and wagons loaded down with supplies, the journey north was grindingly slow, Eden’s spirits rose with every mile. The weather was changeable, alternating between bursts of brilliant sunshine and sudden downpours that left everyone sodden. Eden, feeling the weight of the last year gradually melting away, was as content when rain was dripping off his hat as when the sun warmed his skin. He simply took each day as it came and led his lengthy convoy onwards. By the time they reached Peterborough, he discovered that he was actually happy.
In many senses, this was fortunate because every day brought problems of one sort or another. A cart stuck in the mud or one with a broken wheel which always seemed to happen near the front of the column, thus bringing the entire train to a halt; horses going lame or needing to be re-shod which meant that one of the farriers had to get out his tools and set to work in less-than-ideal conditions; and difficulties with accommodation, fresh provisions and even, until Colonel Maxwell made it plain that his tolerance had a well-defined limit, discipline.
Then there was the endless grumbling of the civilians, none of whom were used to life on the march. The surgeons were the surliest and objected to every possible discomfort – particularly the frequent necessity of sleeping under canvas. The saddlers and farriers formed a little clique of their own and ignored everyone else as much as possible. And the armourers looked down on just about everybody.
As for General Monck’s missing officers … Eden swiftly found out what Lambert had meant when he’d declined to give any of them command of the supply train. Lieutenant Brady drank; Major West was both sly and slovenly; and Captains Foster and Beckett were just bone idle. Eden presumed that, to Monck, these men were merely names on a roster-sheet; if they weren’t, God alone knew why he wanted them back.
‘Do you think we can turn them into something resembling soldiers by the time we get to Scotland?’ he asked Ned Moulton within twenty-four hours of leaving Londo
n.
‘Not even if we were marching to Russia,’ came the dour reply. ‘But I don’t mind knocking some of the cockiness out of them.’
‘By all means,’ grinned Eden. ‘I’m all for making one’s own entertainment.’
Three days later and approaching Wetherby, Monck’s lost officers – though still far below the Major’s exacting standards – had all progressed to a surly knowledge of how not to draw unwelcome attention to themselves.
‘You see?’ said Eden cheerfully. ‘They’ve already acquired the in-born knowledge of every common trooper. In another couple of days, Foster and Beckett may even do a hand’s turn once in a while. I’m sorry I’m going to miss it.’
‘No you’re not. You’re delighted Lambert gave you an official reason to visit Colonel Brandon, rather than just having to simply absent yourself,’ retorted Ned. Then, ‘How long do you expect to be away?’
‘Two nights at most. I’ll leave early tomorrow and should be back the day after next. Meanwhile, you can carry on by easy marches. I’ll catch up with you at Catterick, if not before. And don’t worry – I’ll give your regards to Gabriel.’
* * *
Colonel Maxwell rode to Brandon Lacey through intermittent drizzle and arrived to find his friend and former commanding officer in the stable, just about to saddle his horse.
After a second or two of frozen shock, Gabriel raised one quizzical brow and said, ‘Nearly five years with scarcely a word and suddenly you’re here? I must be hallucinating.’
‘Oh – come now.’ Eden dropped from the saddle. ‘It’s not that bad. I’ve written from time to time.’
‘True. A grand total of half a dozen notes, each one less than three sentences long.’
‘I didn’t want to bore you.’ And as their hands finally met and gripped, ‘You shouldn’t be too hard on me, you know. I’ve been trying to get here for the last year – and wouldn’t be here now if Lambert hadn’t picked me to command a supply train going north to Monck.’
