The Least Likely Bride

by Jane Feather

  Twenty-eight years ago, Anthony’s father, Sir Edward Caxton, had set sail from Dover in the company of a group of eager, like-minded ideological young men to volunteer for King Frederick of Bohemia’s Protestant army in its struggle against the Catholic Emperor Ferdinand. Adam had accompanied Sir Edward as his body-servant. Their ideals had died a bloody death in the massacre of White Mountain.

  Anthony’s father had escaped the battlefield, but he hadn’t escaped the vengeance of the emperor. Ferdinand’s agents had found him and had slaughtered him as he defended the door to his bedchamber, where his mistress was laboring to deliver their child.

  They had watched her labor, watched her give birth, before they had cut her throat and left her and the blood-streaked child lying between her legs, the cord that attached him to his mother still pulsing. They had not expected the child to live.

  But then they hadn’t known that Adam was there, hidden behind the window curtains. There was no way he could have been of help to either Sir Edward or the lady Elizabeth, but he took the child, cleansed his mouth and nostrils and breathed life into him. And he succored him and carried him back to London to his grandparents.

  His grandparents had repudiated him. His father’s rejection of family duty in pursuit of ideals, and the child’s illegitimate birth, were cause enough. They had turned Adam and the child from their door, threatening to set the dogs upon them. Adam had gone to the only person he knew who might take in Edward Caxton’s bastard.

  Ellen Leyland, the daughter of a country squire, had loved Edward Caxton. He had loved her after his fashion, but had left her to follow the bugle call of religious zeal. And in the glories of war he had forgotten her, turned instead to the illicit pleasures to be found in the bed of Lady Elizabeth of Bohemia.

  Ellen had taken her late lover’s child as her own. In the tiny Hampshire fishing hamlet of Keyhaven, she had ruthlessly taught Anthony his letters, mathematics, introduced him to the philosophers; set him on his own path of learning. And with Adam’s help she had encouraged him to find his way among the smugglers, the fishermen, the men who made their living from the sea however it was to be made.

  Anthony had always known his history, known that he was rejected by his father’s family, known that he had no legitimate place in the world, and he had learned the bitter lessons of survival. Just as he had learned what it was to be loved by Adam and by Ellen, whom he called aunt to all who might ask.

  He had proved competent at survival, Adam reflected as he stood up, wincing at the creak in his knees. Competent but unorthodox. There were many who loved Anthony Caxton, and there were those who would gladly see him hang.

  Six

  THE CART WITH A STURDY COB between the traces was waiting at the head of the path. A lad of about twelve held the reins and jumped down from his perch as Olivia, following Mike, climbed the last steep stretch of the path to emerge on the clifftop.

  “All well, Billy?” Mike called softly, crossing the springy turf towards him.

  “Aye. Pa says as ’ow yer to come ’ome tonight and drink wi’ him.” The lad regarded Olivia curiously from beneath an unruly thatch of black hair. “If ’tis all right wi’ the master.”

  “Oh, aye. He’ll not be lookin’ fer me back till the morning’,” Mike responded easily. He turned to Olivia, offering her his hand. “Let me ’elp ye up, miss. ’Tis probably a mite dirty,” he added with an apologetic smile. “Cart was used to take the chickens to market this mornin’.”

  “I don’t mind a few chicken feathers,” Olivia said, taking the proffered hand and climbing into the cart. It was fortunate she didn’t mind, since the floor was thick with feathers and there was a strong odor of livestock. “Smells more like pig to me,” she observed.

  “Oh, aye. Ma’s piglets went off t’ market this mornin’,” the lad said, brushing at the seat with his sleeve. “Got a good price she did fer ’em, an’ all.”

  Mike swung himself into the cart beside Olivia. “ ’Tis not far, miss,” he offered.

  “You’re taking me home?”

  “Aye. Master says we’re to deliver ye to the door. He says we’re to say nowt. Ye’ll do the talkin’.” He gave her a rather anxious look as he said this.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Olivia reassured him. “I know just what to say.”

  “That’s good, then. I’m not much fer words meself.” His relief was clear.

  The lad clicked his tongue and the cob moved off slowly across the cliff and onto a narrow lane. Olivia had no idea where they’d landed or in what direction they were headed. The blindfold had disoriented her, and after five days of the gentle motion of the sea, the land felt hard, unyielding to her body as the cart jolted along the lane. She looked for the North Star but the clouds had come in from the sea and the sky was dark.

  It wasn’t long, however, before they began to pass cottages along the way. “There’s the inn, miss.” Mike pointed ahead to the faint glimmer of a light some half mile away.

  “The coaching inn in Chale?”

  “Aye, miss. Reckon we’ll find Lord Granville’s place just past on the left.”

  “You turn left at the crossroads,” Olivia said. Now she was so close to home, she couldn’t seem to think straight. Would her father be there? It would be so much easier if she had time to collect her thoughts, talk with Phoebe, before she had to face him.

  She would have to tell Phoebe the truth, Olivia knew that now. It was not something she could keep to herself. But she would not, could not, tell Phoebe of what she had remembered.

  Gales of laughter erupted from the open door of the coaching inn as they passed, and Mike glanced longingly towards the convivial light. Then they had passed and the lane was dark once more. At the crossroads, Billy turned the cob to the left. The hedgerows were high, the lane very narrow, but they reached the stone gateway leading to Lord Granville’s house in a very few minutes. The gates were locked for the night and Mike jumped down and pulled the bell.

  The gatekeeper appeared at the door of his cottage, holding his lantern high. “Who goes there?”

  “It’s me, Peter.” Olivia leaned over the side of the cart so that he could see her clearly. “Open the gate.”

  “Well, I’ll be blowed,” the man muttered at the unmistakable voice. He raised his lantern higher, illuminating the speaker. “Well, I’ll be blowed,” he said again, louder this time, and ran to unlock the gates. He swung them open and Billy trotted the cob smartly through, giving the man a cheeky wave as he did so.

  “Should us go to the front door, then?” Billy inquired as the lights of the house came into view.

  “Of course, you dolt!” Mike said, cuffing him lightly. “Who d’ye think we got ’ere?”

  “Dunno. No one told me,” Billy muttered. “Jest ‘miss’ is all I ’eard.”

  “Yeah, well that’s all ye need to know,” Mike stated, heedless of the contradiction.

  “The front door is fine,” Olivia said hastily, although in her present state of stockingless dishabille she thought the kitchen door might be a more suitable point of entrance.

  Billy halted the cob at the front door. There were lights in the windows but the thatch-roofed mansion had a rather desolate air, as if everyday life had been suspended. Mike jumped down and politely offered Olivia his hand.

  She stepped to the gravel and stood for a second, hesitating. The prodigal returned was not an easy part to play. Then she lifted her chin and marched to the door. She raised the knocker and banged it with imperious firmness.

  There were footsteps, the sound of the bolts being drawn back, then the door swung open. Bisset, the butler, stood outlined by the lamplight from the hall behind him. He stared at Olivia as if at some spirit.

  “Yes, Bisset, it’s me.” Olivia stepped past him into the hall. “Where is Lady Granville?”

  But she had no need to ask the question; Phoebe was coming down the stairs, her step impetuous, as she called, “Who is it? Who’s there, Bisset?”

  “
It’s me,” Olivia said, running to the stairs, needing now only the comfort of her friend’s arms, the security of home.

  “Oh, Olivia! Where have you been? I’ve been frantic!” Phoebe wrapped her in her arms, tears of relief pouring down her cheeks. “What happened to you?”

  Olivia clung to her. “Is my father back?”

  “No, not yet.” Phoebe drew back slightly to look into Olivia’s eyes. “Where on earth have you been?”

  Olivia remembered Mike and Billy. She remembered bitterly the pirate’s injunction that she reward them for their trouble, as if she didn’t know how to behave to those who served her.

  “I’ll explain later, Phoebe, but I must show my gratitude to these people. They’ve been so kind to me.” She gestured to Mike, who had withdrawn from the doorway and stood hesitating in the shadows just beyond the shaft of lamplight.

  Phoebe understood what was required immediately. She didn’t need reminders any more than Olivia of the lady of the manor’s obligations. She controlled her impatience with difficulty and went to the door. “Please, do come in for a minute.”

  Bisset had the air of one whose breath had been knocked from his body, but he stepped aside to allow the reluctant Mike entrance to the hall.

  Mike made a jerky bow. “Mike Barker, madam.”

  Phoebe gave him a friendly welcoming nod and turned back to Olivia. She took the key to Cato’s strongbox from her pocket as she made for her husband’s study, Olivia on her heels.

  “What should they have?” Phoebe asked as she opened the strongbox. “Since I don’t know what’s going on, how can I—”

  “Five guineas.” Olivia interrupted Phoebe. She could hear the impatience rising in her friend’s voice and knew that Phoebe would not be able to restrain herself for much longer.

  Phoebe handed five gold coins to Olivia, who took them without a word and returned to the hall.

  “Mike, please thank your family for everything they’ve done for me. I know my father will be so grateful when he returns. But please give this to your mother. It will help pay for the medicines.”

  “Oh, aye,” Mike muttered, staring at the winking riches on his palm. It seemed a generous sum for telling a tale and the loan of a cart. However, the master always paid for the favors he asked, and there were a great many mouths to feed at the family hearth. Mike slipped the coins into his pocket.

  The lad Billy had ventured to the open door and now gazed wide-eyed at the square hall with its oak floor and gleaming brass and pewter. A massive fireplace stood in one wall, the grate filled with a jug of fragrant stocks and marigolds instead of winter logs. A wide staircase with an elaborately carved banister curved upward at the rear. Billy saw that the newel posts were carved into the shape of lions’ heads. His family’s entire farmhouse could fit into this one apartment, and yet there was no sign that this room, if such it could be called, served any useful domestic purpose. It was just wasted space. What it was to be rich, he thought with some disapproval mingled with envy.

  He caught the eagle-eyed stare from the black-clad figure of the man who’d opened the door. Did the man think he was looking for something to steal? Billy put his thumb to his nose and grinned at the man’s thunderstruck expression.

  “That’ll do, our Billy!” Mike turned sharply. He hadn’t seen the exchange but he knew his little brother. “We’ll be off now, miss.” He gave Olivia a nod, touched his forelock to Phoebe, and hastened away, sweeping Billy before him.

  Phoebe turned to Olivia. For a moment concern took precedence over her desperate need to know what had happened. “You look exhausted,” she said.

  “That’s hardly surprising.” Olivia offered a tired smile.

  Phoebe spoke briskly to the butler. “Bisset, ask Mistress Bisset to prepare a sack posset and have it brought to Lady Olivia’s bedchamber. And then send someone to find Sergeant Crampton. He will need to know that Lady Olivia is returned safely.”

  Bisset contented himself with a bow and turned to the kitchen regions, his step for once a little less measured. He was most anxious to get Mistress Bisset’s impression of this extraordinary business. Lady Olivia had looked like a scarecrow, half dressed it had seemed to the scandalized butler. And yet apart from looking rather heavy eyed, she showed no obvious ill effects from whatever had happened to her.

  As Bisset departed, Phoebe took Olivia’s hand and almost dragged her abovestairs.

  In Olivia’s bedchamber she closed the door and stood with her back to it, regarding her friend gravely. “Now, for God’s sake, Olivia, tell me what happened!”

  Olivia sat on the bed and looked with a degree of surprise at her bare legs and stockingless feet. She’d forgotten in the flurry of return to this ordinary environment how disreputable she must look. “I was hurt. I fell off the c-cliff and for some time I didn’t know who I was. I hurt my head.” She touched the back of her head where there was still a residual tenderness. “Mike’s father found me and took me to his farm, and his wife nursed me until I remembered who I was … am.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?” Phoebe demanded.

  Olivia sighed. “Because it’s not all true.” She met her friend’s somewhat outraged gaze with an almost apologetic smile.

  “I was trying it out on you,” Olivia continued. “It has to satisfy my father and Giles. You need to help me perfect the details.”

  “Were you hurt?” First things first, Phoebe thought.

  “Yes, that’s all true about falling off the cliff and losing consciousness and being ill. Except that I always knew who I was, just not what was happening. It was the drink … it made me c-confused …”

  “Drink? A drug? Someone drugged you?” Horrified, Phoebe pressed her hands to her mouth.

  “It was purely medicinal,” Olivia said slowly. “It made me very confused, though, and most of the time I didn’t know whether I was asleep or awake. But once he decided I didn’t need it anymore, he stopped giving it to me.”

  “He? Who?” Phoebe flung her hands in the air in utter frustration. “Olivia, would you please start from the beginning before I go crazy.” She pushed herself away from the door and came over to the bed. She stood looking down at Olivia and felt a stab of fear, as strong as any she had felt during the dreadful days of Olivia’s disappearance. There was something badly wrong. It was as if the Olivia she knew had returned only in body. The spirit, the person, had been changed in some as yet indefinable way.

  “What happened to you?” It was an anguished whisper.

  Olivia looked up. “I’m not entirely sure myself. I feel like a changeling.”

  “You seem like one,” Phoebe returned. “And you aren’t answering me.”

  “Do you believe in enchantment, Phoebe?”

  “No, I believe in medicines and physic, birth and death, sunrise and sunset,” Phoebe said bluntly. “There’s no room there for enchantment, superstition … don’t you remember what happened to Meg?”

  Meg, the healer, their friend from the years they had spent in Oxford, had been taken up for a witch after the death of a child she had physicked. The memory of that dreadful day was indelible for both Olivia and Phoebe.

  “I’m not talking about witchcraft,” Olivia said. “But you do believe in … in passion, in … in … attraction, the mystery of attraction?”

  Phoebe did not immediately reply. She sat on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. How could she not believe in those things? She herself had been conquered by love and lust, that devastating, unpredictable, mortifying pair. Against all reason, all logic, totally out of the blue, she had fallen in love and lust one winter morning with the marquis of Granville. And her life had been governed by them ever since.

  “You met someone?” she asked, resigned now to hearing this story in a roundabout fashion. “Someone who attracted you … someone who… ? Oh, Olivia, for pity’s sake, what are we talking about here? Just get to the point.”

  “I’m trying,” Olivia said. For some reason she was finding it d
ifficult to talk directly about Anthony. She had the feeling that anything she said would come out wrong, would either not do him justice or would make her seem like a passion-crazed loon. She wasn’t at all sure why she needed to do him justice, but … but it seemed that she did.

  “I don’t know his surname. He wouldn’t give it to me.”

  “Why not?” Phoebe asked sharply.

  “Because he … well, he doesn’t live within the law,” Olivia replied. Then she shook her head dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again.”

  “It most certainly does matter!” Phoebe exclaimed. “You haven’t told me anything that makes sense yet.”

  Of the three of them—herself, Portia, and Olivia— Olivia had always seemed the one least likely to succumb to the sensual temptations of the human condition. Those temptations had felled Olivia’s two friends while Olivia herself had found all she sought in scholarship.

  Until now, it would seem, Phoebe thought—always assuming she was somehow grasping the right end of the stick.

  Olivia kicked off her sandals and flexed her bare feet. She couldn’t blame Phoebe for being irritable. She wasn’t making much sense to herself. The reason why she would never see Anthony again had nothing whatsoever to do with his illegal activities. But maybe that was the issue she could focus on to explain things to Phoebe.

  “Rufus was an outlaw when he and Portia first met,” Phoebe pointed out. “That didn’t stop either of them.”

  It was true that Rufus Decatur, Earl of Rothbury, hadn’t always been a pillar of respectability.

  “Portia wasn’t my father’s daughter,” Olivia said quietly. Portia and her wastrel father had always lived outside the rigid confines of society. It wasn’t until his death that she had come under Lord Granville’s protection.

  Phoebe took Olivia’s point but she brushed it aside, demanding, “Tell me the whole, now!”