by Stella Riley
‘A supply train?’ Gabriel turned to glance out into the yard. ‘Please tell me you haven’t brought it with you?’
Eden laughed. ‘No. I’ve left Ned Moulton in charge of keeping it moving. At the rate we’re going, Monck will be lucky to see his supplies by mid-summer.’ He paused and then said, ‘It’s good to see you, Gabriel. You have no idea. And you look well.’
Actually, thought Eden, he looked exactly the same as when they’d last met … as if the five years between hadn’t existed. The near-black hair was untouched with silver, his face was lightly tanned and his body as lean and muscular as ever.
‘I am well. But you look in need of a decent breakfast. Come into the house and we’ll see what we can do.’
‘But you were going somewhere,’ protested Eden half-heartedly. ‘If you’re busy --’
‘Don’t be an idiot. I was only going to ride down to Scar Croft and that can wait. Do you honestly think that I’m going to waste the short time which I imagine is all you have? So come in and have something to eat – after which I’d guess you’d like a hot bath.’
‘Please! We’ve been on the road for five days and I think the dust is now ingrained.’
As they entered the hall, a small hurricane hurled itself at Gabriel’s legs, saying furiously, ‘Where did you go? I looked and looked and you weren’t anywhere!’
With a laugh, he swung the child up into his arms and said, ‘Well, I’m somewhere now. And I’ve brought you a visitor.’
Dark grey eyes, the image of her father’s, examined Eden briefly and with some suspicion.
‘Who is it?’ she demanded.
‘He’s Papa’s friend. And if you’re very good you can have him as an uncle. Eden … allow me to present Mistress Rosamond Sophia Brandon – generally known as Rosie.’
Eden grinned at the child and bowed slightly.
‘Delighted, Mistress Rosamond.’
‘Rosie,’ she corrected. And to Gabriel, ‘If he’s an uncle, has he brought presents? Uncle Tom always brings presents.’
Above her blonde curls, Gabriel exchanged a laughing glance with Eden but said, ‘He’s different sort of uncle and he’ll bring presents next time if you don’t tease him.’ Then, setting his daughter on her feet, ‘Go and find Mother. Tell her that Uncle Eden is here and ask her to confine the twins to barracks for an hour, if she can.’
‘Eden?’ Rosie examined her honorary uncle doubtfully. ‘Like in the Bible story?’
‘Exactly like the Bible story,’ he agreed gravely.
She nodded, then added, ‘Kit and Rob are only two and they’re boys so they’re noisy. Barracks means stay in the nursery.’ And she ran off.
‘God, Gabriel,’ remarked Eden, watching her go. ‘She’s beautiful. By the time she’s sixteen you’ll be beating them off with sticks.’
‘Yes. Well, I’m hoping her brothers will lend a hand with that.’ He led the way to the dining parlour, where bread, cheese and cold meat were still laid out on the dresser. ‘Help yourself. I’ll get the ale.’
When Eden was sitting in front of a heaped platter, Gabriel dropped into a chair on the other side of the table, saying, ‘So Lambert’s got you acting as quartermaster, has he?’
His mouth full of ham, Eden nodded.
‘An odd use for your talents, surely?’
‘Perhaps. But I’d have jumped at anything that got me out of Thurloe’s office. It was stifling me. And recently, we’ve done nothing but arrest people.’ He looked up from his plate. ‘I take it you’ve heard about the plot to kill Cromwell? The news-sheets have been full of it this past week.’
‘We’ve heard,’ remarked a voice from behind him, ‘about a plot to invent a plot. But that’s not quite the same thing, is it?’
‘Venetia.’ Eden rose to salute her hand and then her cheek. ‘As beautiful and direct as ever, I see.’
She smiled at him, shaking her head.
‘Not so much these days. But I wouldn’t put anything past Cromwell and that sneaky spymaster of his. Was there an assassination plot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which failed?’
‘Again, yes. But --’
Seeing his wife open her mouth to demand details, Gabriel said, ‘Let the man break his fast, Venetia. You can interrogate him later. Where’s Rosie?’
‘Upstairs. I left her explaining to Rob and Kit that they have a new uncle but he’s not a proper one like Tom so they aren’t to expect presents.’ Her voice quivered slightly. ‘She thinks this lack might be something to do with the not-a-real-uncle being out of the Bible.’
Gabriel gave a crack of laughter and waved Eden back into his seat.
‘You can make up some ground next time. Speaking of which, how long can you stay?’
‘Two nights – if you’ll have me.’
‘Do you need to ask?’ Venetia turned to go. ‘I’ll have a chamber prepared. And a bath. After which you can tell me what’s really been happening.’
When the door closed behind her, Gabriel said, ‘How serious was it?’
‘In the end, not very – though it might have been.’ Eden explained briefly and then added, ‘Cromwell’s never been as unpopular as he is right now and death threats abound – so much so that he’s taken to going about with a loaded pistol in his pocket.’
‘Ah.’ Gabriel grinned lazily. ‘Now there’s an accident waiting to happen.’
‘I know. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’ returned Eden cheerfully, once more attending to his plate. Then, as if struck by a random thought, ‘Oh – you’ll be interested to learn that I tripped across your half-brother back in February regarding what’s commonly referred to as the Ship Tavern Plot. Cocksure sod, isn’t he?’
‘That’s putting it mildly. I take it you arrested him?’
‘Arrested him, questioned him and held him a lot longer than was strictly necessary just for the hell of it. His name hasn’t come up in connection with the current fracas – or, at least, it hadn’t when I left.’ He paused and glanced around the room. ‘And speaking of your relatives – I notice there aren’t any animals. Doesn’t Mistress Sophy live here any longer?’
‘No. She married Venetia’s Uncle Henry and they have a property near Boroughbridge. Venetia’s sister, Elizabeth, and her husband, Tom Knightley also live nearby and have three boys. Phoebe, despite owning the family home and having her hand sought by half the county as a result, remains unmarried.’ Gabriel leaned back in his chair. ‘That was a nice try at turning the subject, by the way. But now, suppose you tell me why you’re really here.’
Eden had been hoping to work up to that gradually so he said, ‘The road brought me close by so I seized the opportunity. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No. Lambert chose you for nurse-maiding duty knowing it would bring you virtually to my gate. Do you want to tell me why – or shall I guess?’
Sighing, Eden laid down his knife and said, ‘He wants you to stand for Parliament. I’ve a letter for you somewhere.’
‘Of course you do. And no doubt you’re supposed to persuade me.’
‘That’s the general idea.’
‘You think you can?’
‘No. I think you’ll make up your own mind. But for what it’s worth, I think Lambert’s right in wanting you.’
‘I’ll let you justify that remark later.’ Gabriel came to his feet. ‘For now, finish your food, have some more ale and then go and get cleaned up. I’m going down to Scar Croft – thus leaving you to Venetia’s tender mercies and Rosie’s conviction that you’ve come here from Paradise. Enjoy yourself.’
* * *
By the time Venetia had finished with him Eden knew how the men he questioned felt. Oddly enough, giving her the facts about Colonel Gerard’s plot to murder the Protector was the least difficult part of their conversation. Trickier to answer were the personal questions … and then there were the references to her youngest sister and the subtle inference that he might like to renew their acquaintance.
Eden was dimly aware that Phoebe Clifford had developed an adolescent passion for him when she was seventeen years old. Had he thought about it, he’d have assumed that she’d grown out of that a long time ago. Something in the tenor of Venetia’s conversation suggested that perhaps she hadn’t. Either that or – if Phoebe had indeed rejected numerous proposals – Venetia was harbouring the notion that he might succeed where others had failed. Eden hoped that neither was true because, if Venetia was disposed towards matchmaking, he might end up pointing out that if he’d wanted another wife he’d have married his mistress. All in all, a meeting with Phoebe Clifford was best avoided and shouldn’t, in the space of a mere two days, be too difficult to manage. He didn’t, of course, know that Venetia had taken the matter out of his hands by sending a note to her sister.
Eden Maxwell is here with us briefly. His wife died some eighteen months ago. If you want to meet him again, sup with us tomorrow.
* * *
That evening while Venetia was reading Rosie her nightly story, Gabriel poured Eden a glass of wine and said, ‘So tell me. Why should I consider standing for Parliament?’
‘In the interests of creating some stability. You read the news-sheets so you must know as well as I do that nothing has gone right since we cut off the King’s head. We’ve had a long, pointless and expensive war with the Dutch and, at home, new factions are springing up every day. It’s not just the Levellers any more. Now we’ve got Ranters and Diggers and Fifth Monarchists all shouting from the pulpits. As for Worcester … it was one of the bloodiest days I’ve ever seen.’ Eden paused and took a large swallow of wine. Then, when Gabriel remained silent, he said, ‘For the rest, Cromwell ejected the Rump at sword-point and replaced it with the so-called Barebones Parliament. Unsurprisingly, that didn’t work – and mercifully, thanks to Lambert’s discreet machinations, it didn’t last either. So now Cromwell has become Lord Protector and is ostensibly governing jointly with the Council of State – except that, in reality, the Council is a mere cipher and Cromwell over-rides it at every turn, which means that, to all intents and purposes, what we have is a military dictatorship when what we need is a balance of power.’
‘And you think Parliament can achieve that?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I have doubts,’ returned Gabriel. ‘I’ve read the Instrument of Government – which I assume will form the basis for whatever happens next. It says the Protector must call Parliament at least once every three years and that it should sit for a minimum of five months. From what you say and what I suspect, Cromwell can dissolve it at the first opportunity, if it’s not dancing to his tune.’ He smiled a little and added trenchantly, ‘Where, exactly, does that differ from the late King’s reign?’
‘It doesn’t. But what do you suggest? That next time we learn of an assassination plot, we shut our eyes and ears to it? Or we should depose Cromwell and invite Charles Stuart back?’
‘At the end of the day, that might be the best thing you can do … assuming Lambert hasn’t either the support or the will to stage a counter-coup and take over himself. But I suppose you have to begin by giving Cromwell the benefit of the doubt and waiting to see how matters go with his first Parliament. Personally, I don’t hold out much hope. And even if I did, I hardly see my presence at Westminster making a shred of difference one way or the other.’
‘If it was just you, neither do I,’ agreed Eden. ‘But Lambert is trying to pack the benches with as many men of experience and good sense as he can muster in order to give the House the best possible chance of reining Cromwell in.’
‘And I wish him luck with it.’ Gabriel’s tone said that this particular topic was at an end and, for a few moments, there was silence. Then, reaching for his glass, he said, ‘Enough of that. How is your family? In particular, your lovely mother and your children?’
‘As far as I’m aware, everyone is well.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘As I think I told you, I’ve been busy.’
‘That,’ said Gabriel scathingly ‘is just an excuse. I thought you overcame that problem some time ago.’
‘I did,’ replied Eden stiffly. ‘And I’ll visit Thorne Ash on my way south.’
‘Do.’ There was a brief silence. Then, ‘Venetia told me about Celia but withheld the details.’
‘I didn’t give her any.’
‘Ah. Then we’ll change the subject.’
‘Again?’ asked Eden. And, on a small explosion of breath, ‘She fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Francis wasn’t convinced that it was an accident but couldn’t prove that it wasn’t. Since it happened in Paris, I’ve no idea either way.’
Gabriel nodded. ‘And how is Francis?’
‘Well enough, as far as I know. He married a French actress and is busy writing plays for some theatre or other.’ Eden grinned suddenly. ‘I imagine he’s in his element.’
‘Very likely. And what about you?’
‘Me? I’m just happy to be away from London and free from paperwork. And if General Monck can use an extra sword for a few weeks, I’ll be bloody ecstatic.’
* * *
On the following morning Eden accompanied Gabriel around the estate. They visited the cottages where the spinning and weaving was done, the fields planted with this year’s flax and the sheds where the last of the lambing was still in progress. At the end of it, Gabriel said simply, ‘This is my life now and, along with Venetia and the children, it keeps me extremely busy. The changes I put in place back in ’48 are bearing fruit and we’re finally – not merely solvent – but financially secure. Consequently, I have to ask myself why I’d want to leave it in order to spend five months sitting on my arse in Westminster … and so far I haven’t come up with a good answer.’
‘Are you saying you won’t even consider it?’
‘I’ll consider it. I’ll even listen to any further persuasions you may wish to offer – but I’m making no promises. And in the meantime, I should probably drop a word of warning in your ear.’
‘About what?’
‘Venetia has invited Phoebe to supper.’
* * *
Colonel Maxwell bowed over Mistress Clifford’s hand, his demeanour perfectly correct but faintly cautious. He noticed that, on the surface at least, she had changed very little from the girl she had been six years ago. To the best of his recollection, her figure was perhaps a little more rounded and her expression less easy to read … but the light brown hair and grey eyes were the same. On the other hand, she returned his greeting smoothly and without any of the obvious signs of delight she might once have shown. Eden was relieved.
Meanwhile, Phoebe conducted her own discreet appraisal and decided that he was still attractive – perhaps even more so than when she’d first met him. The mahogany hair, the hazel eyes, the easy way he carried himself … even the thin white line of the scar on his left cheek, now scarcely visible. Then there was that slow, bewitching smile which she remembered only too well but which hadn’t so far made an appearance. Phoebe wondered how she’d feel if it did. Actually, wondering how she would feel was the only reason she’d accepted Venetia’s invitation. Although her sister chose not to believe it, she hadn’t rejected half a dozen suitors because she still hankered after Eden Maxwell. She’d rejected them because she suspected they all wanted her land more than they wanted her and because not one of them had made her pulse quicken. However, it would be comforting to know that Colonel Maxwell no longer had that power either … and so here she was, in her best blue taffeta, waiting to find out.
The talk throughout the meal hovered largely around the doings of the Gerard faction, the rumours that, due to Mazarin’s desire to forge a military alliance with Cromwell, the king-in-exile was no longer welcome on French soil and Colonel Robert Lilburne’s unsuccessful attempts to tame the Scots – all of which made it easy for Eden and Phoebe to avoid conversing directly with each other. But by the time the sweetmeats were being placed on the table
and everyone seemed to be running out of suitably impersonal topics, Venetia said the first thing that came into her head in order to avoid an uncomfortable silence.
‘Are you still living in Luciano’s shop on Cheapside, Eden? Kate wrote that your younger brother was intending to set up his own sign there.’
‘And he’s done so – much to the delight of half the young women in the City. But yes, I still lodge with him. I’ve never got around to finding a house of my own – though I keep telling myself that I should. And the three of us rub along tolerably well.’
‘Three?’ asked Gabriel idly. ‘Who’s the third?’
Eden hesitated briefly and then said, ‘Sir Nicholas Austin. He’s a friend of Francis, though I didn’t know that when I first met him. You might say that I … acquired … him after Worcester.’
Gabriel’s amused, ‘Acquired?’ clashed with Venetia’s immediate, ‘He’s a Royalist?’
‘Yes. He was badly wounded in the battle. To be honest, I thought he’d die. But he didn’t so I gave him house-room … and now the arrangement seems to have become permanent.’ For no apparent reason, he suddenly found himself thinking about Lydia Neville and wondering whether he’d return to London to find her betrothed to Nick. Then, shrugging aside the peculiar feeling the notion produced, added, ‘He’s the same age as Toby and has also struck up a friendship with Samuel Radford – which has its awkward moments.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Gabriel dryly.
‘How are Sam and Bryony?’ asked Phoebe. ‘I haven’t heard anything since she wrote to tell me about the baby.’
‘I haven’t seen a great deal of Samuel recently but Nick assures me that all three of them are well.’ Forgetting the need for caution, Eden grinned at her across the table. ‘Inevitably, they named the little boy John.’
Phoebe met that smile head-on and waited for the coup de foudre. It didn’t come. All she saw was an attractive man with a spectacular smile. Dizzy with relief, she smiled back and said, ‘I know. I’m only surprised they didn’t go the whole way and call him John Free-born Radford.’
