by Anne O'Brien
‘Her ladyship has sent you this, mistress. To replace Elspeth’s bodice and skirt which you wore yesterday. She thinks it will be a little large, but the length should be good—if we lace it tightly it should do well enough. Her ladyship no longer wears it. And it is too pretty to be packed away for the moths.’
‘How kind everyone is. It is beautiful.’
She scrambled from the bed to don shift and petticoats and the gown that the maid held and laced for her.
‘There, now.’ Bessie tied and twitched with experienced fingers and she was dressed. The deep-blue damask bodice, boned and laced, fit, if not as if made for her, at least adequately, emphasising her small waist and the swell of her breasts. The full overskirt was of the same deep colour, looped up to show a delicate cream underskirt, embroidered with flowers and leaves around the hem. The low neckline, which might have made Viola blush, was made more suitable for day wear by a fine linen-and-lace collar that matched the lace falling from elbow-length sleeves. Viola sighed at the sheer delight of it against her skin.
She stood before the looking glass, letting her fingers smooth down the figured brocade of the skirts. The reflected image shocked her. The dress looked well—indeed, she had the faintest suspicion, hovering on the edge of memory, that she had never worn anything as fine in her life—but she had no recognition of the lady wearing it. It was as if she were looking at a stranger. Then she gasped as she took in the short hair, roughly cropped—hacked, rather!—and unflattering in the extreme to her critical eyes. It seemed to her that in the past she had had hair that curled in ringlets to her shoulders, not this stark crop which threw her face into cruel relief. For there was the matter of the large purpling bruise that disfigured her temple—and would for many days yet.
Her eyes met those of the maid and she flinched inwardly at the depth of pity she saw there. ‘I look terrible,’ Viola whispered.
‘That you don’t, mistress. You look so much better than yesterday—what with the colour in your cheeks an’ all. Your hair will soon grow. It is very pretty and, now that you have taken off your bandage, you look well.’
‘I suppose I do. At least it takes little time to run a comb through it.’ She grimaced as she did so, mindful of the tender wound on her skull. What terrible need had made her cut it so drastically? There was no point in idle speculation. She must be practical. Viola squared her shoulders and looked again at the maid.
‘Would you do something for me …?’
‘I am Bessie. Her ladyship says for me to take care of you. What would you wish for me to do for you, mistress?’
‘Thank you, Bessie. Would you trim my hair—to cut away the worst of the stray bits?’
‘My pleasure, miss. I will fetch the shears from Mistress Neale!’
* * *
Half an hour later Viola risked a second look in the mirror. Her hair now lay neatly against her neck and curled on to her cheeks and forehead in feathery wisps. She sighed. It was the best she could hope for. ‘Thank you, Bessie. I suppose it is some improvement!’ She smiled wryly as she swept herself a regal curtsy. ‘Do you suppose it will ever look passably attractive?’
‘That it will, Mistress Viola. And when the bruise fades you will feel more the thing.’
‘You are very good for my spirits, Bessie.’ They smiled at their achievements with the shears. ‘Now, where will I find Lady Elizabeth at this time in the morning? I must speak to her—thank her for all her kindness and this beautiful dress.’
‘She usually sits in the panelled parlour at the front of the house in the morning. The sun makes it warm and comfortable for her—with the pains in her limbs an’ all. I will take you there when you are ready.’
Lady Elizabeth sat in the wash of sunlight in the small parlour with a neglected piece of tapestry on her lap as Bessie ushered in Viola. Felicity sat beside her, head bent industriously over a similar pattern intended to cover a chair seat. Elizabeth’s face was solemn and pensive as she gazed out over the gardens, but brightened immediately with a welcoming smile as she stretched out her hand in greeting.
‘Well, Mistress Viola. You look charming this morning. I knew the dress would suit. Turn round for me.’
Viola did as she was bid, enjoying the swish of damask skirts against the polished oak boards.
‘I do not know what to say. You have given me more than I deserve.’
Felicity’s curled lips suggested that she might agree, but said nothing and continued to ply her needle with little vicious stabs at the tapestry.
‘Nonsense, dear girl. Come and sit and entertain me a little.’
Viola did as she was bid and bent to admire Elizabeth’s embroidery. ‘Your tapestry is beautiful. The stitches are so even.’
‘I could do better.’ Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in self-disgust. ‘My fingers are so swollen and painful. Can you do tapestry work?’
‘Yes, of course. I remember …’ She stopped in some consternation.
‘There now. I knew your memory would return when you stopped trying so hard. I expect your mother taught you.’
‘Perhaps. I certainly know that I have worked tapestry—and needlework—and I remember patterns. One very similar to Mistress Felicity’s cover with flowers and leaves, but in darker greens. But I am not sure that I enjoyed it.’ Her lips were touched by a faint smile. ‘I feel that I applied myself reluctantly and only because I must.’
‘It is indeed amazing how your memory is beginning to return.’ The sour note in Felicity’s voice was unmistakable.
There was a silence in the room for a long moment. And then, ‘It is not a situation that I would wish on anyone, Mistress Felicity,’ Viola replied in a quiet voice.
So she has spirit. It pleased Elizabeth to hear her young guest stand up for herself against Felicity’s unkind sniping.
‘Perhaps you would fetch us some wine, Felicity?’
‘Of course, dear Elizabeth.’ Felicity simpered in Elizabeth’s direction, but with a scowl for Viola as she flounced through the door.
‘You said, my lady, that you had recently returned to live here.’ It seemed to Viola an innocuous subject that would not require any reminiscences on her part.
‘It is a complicated story,’ explained Elizabeth, willing enough to find a neutral topic. ‘We used to live at Glasbury Old Hall—you probably do not know it, but it is only a few miles from here. I went there as a young bride. But it was damaged beyond repair in the war—and then we came here.’
‘Do you never go back?’
‘Too sad. Too many memories of what might have been.’
‘But why did you come here in the first place—and then not remain here?’
‘I warned you it had its complications. The Priory became ours after a siege and the original family fled. So we moved here when our own house was destroyed. But then we were on the wrong side after 1649 and the King dead, so it was confiscated by Parliament and the rents used for their own policies. In effect, we lost both houses—I think it helped to bring about my husband’s intense melancholy and ultimate death. We went to a property in London, which I had brought to the marriage in my jointure—and this place stood more or less empty except for a strange lady from the original family who stayed on as a sort of guardian, with our steward, Master Verzons, and Mistress Neale. When King Charles was restored, my son petitioned for the return of the Priory—and the King granted it back to him. So we returned. Not an edifying story!’
‘And the lady—the guardian? What happened to her?’
‘She would not stay. I cannot blame her. She was very angry.’
Felicity returned, followed by Verzons bearing a tray. He poured the wine, handed the glasses to the ladies and arranged a small table conveniently beside Elizabeth. As he presented Viola with her wine, she looked up at him in thanks to surprise an intent look on his face as he studied her. He immediately dropped his gaze and became once again the self-effacing steward, but it left Viola uncomfortable. It was not a casual look at all.
As Elizabeth reached to put down the glass, she caught the stem with a clumsy hand and the glass fell to the floor, smashing the fragile vessel and spilling the wine in a spreading puddle. She cried out in distress as Felicity leaped to her feet to mop up the mess. ‘I am so clumsy,’ she fretted. ‘Some days it is insupportable.’
Viola was horrified to see tears gather in Lady Elizabeth’s eyes and only sheer effort of will prevent them from spilling over down her cheeks.
‘Is it …?’ She hesitated, unsure of such a personal enquiry. ‘Is it the rheumatic disease that causes your suffering, my lady?’
‘Yes. So painful! For some little time now—and the cold and damp aggravates it.’
‘I believe I can make things easier for you if you would allow me.’
‘I doubt anyone can,’ Felicity intervened, still on her knees where she dealt with the spilled wine and glass. ‘Lady Elizabeth has suffered from such pains for many years and nothing helps. We must pray for deliverance.’
‘But I know how to ease the pain.’
‘Do you really?’ The spark of hope in Elizabeth’s eyes and voice touched Viola’s heart.
Yes, because …’ She hesitated, frowning, as if the reason had slipped away from her grasp. ‘I do not know why I know,’ she continued, ‘but I know that I have the skill and knowledge to ease the pain and reduce the swelling. Someone must have taught me. I remember a number of potions and balms, and a pain-relieving draught, that would be of use.’ Viola took a deep breath, eyes closed in frustration. ‘Why can I remember such trivial details and yet not know my own name?’
‘I know not. But you could make such a potion for me? You could make the pain go away?’
‘I believe I can ease it. Do you wish for me to try?’
‘If only you would.’ Hope illuminated Elizabeth’s face. ‘What would you use?’
‘Herbs and hedgerow plants. Dried leaves mostly at this time of the year when little is growing. It is not difficult to prepare something that should give you relief.’
‘But what if her memory is wrong, dear Elizabeth?’ Felicity came to stand protectively beside her cousin, one hand on her shoulder as if in warning. ‘Her so-called remedies could have disastrous consequences. You could be poisoned and we would not know what to do for you. I advise very strongly against it.’ Her eyes, fixed on Viola, were cold and full of implacable hatred.
‘Felicity—’ Elizabeth’s voice was weary in the extreme, but she recognised the jealousy that afflicted her companion and understood it even as she would have condemned it ‘—I appreciate your concern—and your motives—but some days I would accept a remedy from the devil himself if I thought there was only the smallest chance of success.’
‘I never thought to hear such blasphemy from you, dearest cousin!’
‘It is not blasphemy.’ Elizabeth remained calm, although her eyes snapped with temper. ‘It is desperation. Nothing else has any effect. Perhaps Viola is an answer to our prayers.’
‘As to that, I know not. But I will use the skill I have. Do you have a still-room?’ Viola enquired, rising to her feet. ‘And I presume there is a herb garden.’
‘Yes. Sadly unkempt, but I make you free of it.’ Lady Elizabeth looked at her hands with swollen joints and ugly reddened knuckles, and clenched them in her skirts to hide them from view, even from herself. ‘If you could take away only a little of the pain I would be everlastingly grateful. And vanity would hope that you could improve this unsightliness.’ Her smile was a little twisted. ‘I used to have fine hands once.’
Some time later, Viscount Marlbrooke followed directions from his mother to find Viola ensconced in the dust-shrouded still-room, her slight figure with its fashionable gown wrapped in one of Mrs Neale’s large white aprons to protect the delicate material. The streaked glass in the small window was pushed wide to allow in as much light as possible and a fire burned on the hearth. Various pots, spoons and dishes, borrowed from the kitchen, littered the bench and a pot bubbled over the fire. Viola wielded a pestle and mortar clumsily with her bound wrist, the small dish clasped by her arm against her body, but none the less effectively.
He stood in the open doorway to watch her concentration and neat movements. She was unaware of his presence, but hummed softly, almost under her breath. It made a pleasant domestic scene if it were not for the disfiguring bruise. His memory of his first knowledge of her swept back, surprising him with its intensity. He remembered her fragility, her total vulnerability, aware of the tightening of the muscles in his gut and thighs in response. And yet here she was, wielding pestle and mortar, unconcerned with the painful sprain, in his still-room. His mouth curled a little in admiration of her, content to stand and watch.
He knew the moment she became aware of him. She stiffened slightly, halted in her ministrations and turned her head to glance nervously in his direction. The flash of tension in her face vanished almost immediately when she recognised him.
‘I’m sorry, my lord. I was only—’
‘Why should you apologise? I had not intended to distress you.’ He strolled forward into the room.
‘No. I had thought there was someone behind me. On a few occasions I have felt … But perhaps it is simply the close confines of the room. That is why I had left the door ajar.’
‘Perhaps.’ He picked up a bunch of herbs from the bench and sniffed the pungent aroma. ‘Do you realise that you are giving my mother hope for the first time in months—years, even? Will it work?’
‘Yes.’
‘It would be a relief, for her and for myself.’ He frowned unseeingly at the empty dust-covered shelves before him. ‘She believes that she is a burden to me, you see. And I cannot make her accept otherwise. If she were free from pain, could rest well at night and take up her previous interests, she would regain her old spirits. Nor does she enjoy being dependent on Felicity.’
‘I can assure you the relief from pain will be effective.’ Viola smiled a little nervously, flustered by his close proximity in the small room. But Marlbrooke did not appear to be aware, for which she was grateful.
‘You are very confident. What is it?’
‘Willow bark. It was easy to collect from the grounds—Mistress Neale sent one of the lads from the stables. If you make an infusion with boiling water, strain it and drink … but I doubt you want to know all the details,’ she finished as she caught the guarded expression on his face. She laughed. He was instantly transfixed by the sparkle in her violet eyes and the faint flush the heat in the still-room had brought to her fair skin. And a lightening of mood from the fact that, for a short time, she had forgotten the weight of uncertainty surrounding her existence in this house. He would have liked to touch her short hair where it curled on to her cheek in front of her ear.
He pushed his hands firmly into his pockets.
‘There. This is done.’ She lifted the pot from the flames with a cloth in her good hand. ‘Would you like to take it to her, my lord? If she would drink a little now, it will begin to give relief.’
‘Yes. With pleasure. What are you doing now?’
‘Making a liniment to rub into sore joints. I cannot make the most effective—it is not the season for many of the best plants, such as angelica or meadowsweet—but thyme is an excellent remedy, readily obtainable. Your herb garden is in a dreadful state and much overgrown, but it contains all the most useful and sweet-scented herbs.’
He accepted her innocent criticism of the state of the gardens with an amused smile and a shake of his head. He picked up a jar and sniffed, investigated the contents of a bowl and frowned down into them.
‘If you can make her life worth living again, I will be completely in your debt.’
Suddenly she put down the dish and the sprigs of thyme and grasped the edge of the bench with tensed fingers, fixing the Viscount with a direct gaze.
‘Well?’
‘Do you suppose that I worked in a kitchen somewhere? I seem to be very good at this. And I know m
y way round a still-room.’
‘Not a chance!’
‘Why not? How can you be so sure?’
He took possession of both her hands in his, and before she could pull away, he turned them over, palm up.
‘This is how I know.’ He smoothed his thumbs over the slender fingers, the soft palms. ‘You have not worked in a kitchen. No burns, no abrasions, no calluses. Does it worry you?’
‘Yes … I don’t know … If I were a servant in a kitchen, it might explain why no one has enquired about my whereabouts. But the blankness fills me with dread,’ she admitted with sudden candour. ‘Do you know what it is like to look in a mirror and not recognise the face that looks back at you?’
The anxiety that he read in her violet eyes moved him unutterably and he could say nothing to ease it. He kept possession of her hands and raised them to his lips. He felt an urge to do more than kiss her fingers and so acted on the impulse. He turned one hand in his and pressed his mouth to the palm and then to the wrist that was bound against the sprain.
‘Perhaps you are indeed a godsend, Mistress Viola.’
She shook her head, the pulse leaping where his mouth had rested, the glow in her cheeks deepening. ‘I do not know. But it would please me to be able to repay Lady Elizabeth for her generosity and her kindness.’ She tried to pull her hands free, and failed.
‘She has an unfathomable depth of compassion,’ he agreed gently. And then, brows meeting fiercely in a sudden frown, ‘Do you realise that such skills as you wield here could be misconstrued as witchcraft? In the present climate that could be dangerous.’ He did not release her hands. ‘In the circumstances you deserve more than my thanks.’ He watched her carefully as he awaited her reply.
