by Anne O'Brien
‘Aunt Gilliver has given me these. Forgive me, my lady. I would feel guilt if I used them without your knowledge—or your permission.’
Kate sat once more in the sunny parlour at Winteringham Priory, having ridden over from Widemarsh Manor on a return of the spring-like weather.
Elizabeth had welcomed her with genuine pleasure and found various errands for Mistress Felicity, of a trivial but very necessary nature, to allow them some privacy for conversation. Now she regarded with interest the corroding bunch of keys that Kate had placed on the table between them. She picked them up with a ripple of satisfaction at Kate’s amended apology.
‘I suppose that Mistress Adams kept them when she left—a final gesture of defiance.’ She looked up at Kate with a wry smile and a shrewd expression in her clear grey eyes. ‘She does not like us very much, does she?’
‘No.’ There was no point in Kate hiding the truth. ‘She has no good to say about the Oxenden family, and has made it clear that she objects to my visiting you. But she does not care much for most of the Harleys either. Her comments on my mother are illuminating, if not complimentary.’
‘Then I am doubly pleased to see you again.’
There was no need to say more, and certainly not to discuss Gilliver’s vitriolic words on the forthcoming marriage between a Harley and an Oxenden. Kate had blushed with embarrassment but refused, for reasons that were not clear to her, to give Gilliver the satisfaction of agreeing with her.
‘Marcus has ridden to Glasbury, I believe,’ Elizabeth continued with an understanding smile. ‘I do not know when he intends to return. You are looking well—the bruising has vanished at last. Dare I say your hair appears to be growing a little?’
Kate laughed, unsure of whether she felt relief or disappointment at the Viscount’s absence. ‘Not as fast as I could wish it. Aunt Gilliver is far more forthright. She has given me some pungent concoction—she would not admit to its contents—which she says will encourage growth and strength. I dare not refuse to use it, despite its unpleasant aroma. If I fail to do so, Mason will surely report me and I dare not put myself further into her black books. Mason is a formidable lady in spite of her silence and small stature.’
They smiled, sharing their experience of managing female dependants.
‘But how are you, my lady? Are my potions still effective?’
‘Why, yes. I have taken up my needlework again. It is not easy, but I find great pleasure in it once more and my fingers are more nimble. I have also walked in the gardens a little.’
‘I have brought this.’ Kate rummaged in a leather satchel she had brought with her. ‘My aunt has considerable knowledge and a great stock of dried and preserved herbs and roots. You would not believe! They even hang in my bedchamber and rustle when the draughts blow through the window frame! She says that this will be more effective than the liniment I made. If Mistress Felicity will rub it into the sore spots twice a day, you will feel the benefit.’
‘How did you persuade her to send such a blessing to an Oxenden?’
‘It was not too difficult—if I could put up with the comments about females who were just as hard headed and managing as she was.’
‘I am indeed grateful. So what do you intend now?’
Kate’s hesitation was slight. She knew Elizabeth would understand and so decided on honesty. ‘My aunt says that my father may have hidden his will in this house before he left for the battle and was killed.’
‘And you wish to look for it. Well …’ Elizabeth sighed ‘… you are welcome to try.’ She pushed the keys back towards Kate. ‘I know of no rooms that are still locked and have no keys—but if you wish to satisfy yourself … And apart from that—’ she smiled with quick sympathy ‘—I think you would wish to explore your own home.’
‘You would not mind?’ Kate’s face lit with anticipation. ‘I would like it above all things.’
‘Of course I do not mind. As long as you come and see me again before you leave.’
So Kate found herself exploring the house which was hers by right of birth. As she had confessed, she had no childhood memory of it. She found it faintly unsettling to stand in rooms filled with furniture that had once been owned, used, polished and cherished by generations of her own family, and yet she herself had no sense of ownership. How should she, indeed? Her earliest memories were of her uncle’s cold and loveless home. Even so, as Kate moved from room to room she hoped for some lingering echo from the past. Her mother’s withdrawing room. The bedchamber where she was born. The Long Gallery where she had probably taken her first steps. But nothing. Her only memory of the Long Gallery was of learning to dance under Marlbrooke’s eagle eye and the terror of Isolde’s controlling power. And yet, despite the lack of any frisson, Kate still felt that she had come home.
She knew the history of the house of course. Sir Henry had ensured that she be word perfect in her knowledge of her inheritance. Some parts of the house were very old, remnants of an Augustinian priory that had stood on that spot from medieval times. For the rest, it had been built by an ancestor, Sir Francis Harley, a courtier in the days of old King Henry who had been rewarded for serving his master well. He had received his patronage and the granting of the estate, Winteringham Priory, now in the King’s gift after the dissolution of the monasteries. In his old age, Sir Francis had taken himself and his family from Court to the Priory and proceeded to build a house that would reflect the increased wealth and his status as an elder statesman.
This was Kate’s home. An Elizabethan mansion of some presence. She explored it eagerly. As she climbed to bedrooms and attics, she realised how neglected the house was. In these distant reaches dust and mice competed and so did the damp and mildew. The structure was sound enough, it merely needed to be loved and lived in. The Oxendens had commandeered the house after the siege in 1643, laying claim to it as one of the fruits of conquest, but had spent only a few short years in residence. With the death of the King and the supremacy of Parliament, they had returned to London, leaving the Priory, its rooms closed up, its furniture shrouded in holland covers. The Harley retainers had stayed put, with Mistress Adams moving in to keep as tight a hold as she was able in the name of the Harleys. Kate now realised that Master Verzons had played a major role in holding the estate together. In 1643 he had been a young, inexperienced indoor servant. When his predecessor died in the siege, he had the initiative and ambition to take over the stewardship. And the estate had prospered since old Viscount Marlbrooke had not chosen to bleed the estate dry in the name of the King. During the Interregnum, Verzons had exercised careful husbandry, steering cautiously between all disputing local factions and keeping a firm hand on the purse strings so that Kate, on her personal tour of inspection, quickly saw that she had inherited a smoothly run operation. Why had Lady Philippa not returned? Kate shook her head in disbelief that her mother should not have insisted on returning to her home, but perhaps the more ordered, secure life at Downham Hall with her brother to take on all responsibilities was more to her taste. But not for her daughter. She stood at the top of the oak staircase with mythical beasts carved into the newel posts and vowed that she would open up the house again and banish its chill neglected air. And if King Charles saw fit to gift the house to Viscount Oxenden, then Kate would do all in her power to thwart him! With such treacherous thoughts in her mind Kate came across Verzons in the Great Hall. He bowed, his face as usual stern, expressing no emotion.
‘Good morning, Mistress Harley. It is good to see you returned to the Priory.’
‘Thank you, Verzons.’ She smiled shyly before this austere figure. ‘It feels strange to be here. You must remember my father and mother well.’
‘Indeed.’ His eyes met hers directly. ‘May I say, mistress, that you can have every confidence in my desire to be of service to the Harley family, now and in the future. At any time.’
‘Surely you mean the Oxendens, Master Verzons?’ Kate frowned a little, unsure of the purpose of this affirmation
of loyalty.
‘But of course. How could it be otherwise?’ The steward remained solemn and respectful and his voice held nothing but calm and reassurance.
‘My aunt, Mistress Adams, has told me of your assistance to her in the Interregnum years.’
‘I kept faith. If you have an interest, Mistress Harley, the portraits in the Long Gallery are all of your ancestors. The Oxendens never moved them—having none of their own to hang there in their stead, of course. You might care to study them.’
So Kate walked the Long Gallery to peruse the stiff figures and unfamiliar faces of her Harley ancestors. If she wondered why there were no Oxendens, it was a mere fleeting thought and of no matter. Most of the portraits were Elizabethan figures, stern and solemn in farthingales and ruffs, velvets and pearls. There were fewer from the recent past. Most of them held little interest, even the names were unfamiliar. But Kate was drawn back to look again at two. One was a large portrait, a family group of Sir Francis Harley, his wife and children, painted a century ago. They stared down at her in unblinking scrutiny. The children were for the most part small, the boys still clad in the petticoats of their infancy, playing with a small monkey and a goldfinch. But beside them stood an older child, a girl. Kate knew immediately, without doubt, that this was Isolde. She was dressed in a deep blue gown, square necked, tightly waisted and with a farthingale. Around her neck was a string of pearls. Her face was a clear oval, her eyes a deep blue, which reflected her gown, and her hair was long and dark. For so young a girl, her expression was most solemn, no hint of a smile or pleasure, but perhaps that was the whim of the artist. Her slender-fingered hands were loosely clasped before her and she held a small sprig of apple blossom. A charming portrait. And what, Kate asked silently, made you take your own life and return to walk these corridors in such wretched misery? The painted eyes and unsmiling mouth kept their own secrets. Other than this picture, Kate could detect no hint of Isolde in the Priory on this sunny morning.
The second portrait before which Kate returned to stand in profound thought was that of her father and mother, painted to celebrate their marriage. Sir Thomas had her own dark hair and deep blue eyes. She also recognised the hint of determination in his straight nose and firm chin. Perhaps she had inherited that too! His mouth looked as if he would laugh easily. Lady Philippa was simply a young and pretty girl with none of the querulous nature that was to develop through loneliness and loss and dissatisfaction. They stood hand in hand, ignorant of the pain and separation of the future, in a knot garden with the Priory dominating the background, dwarfing the two figures. Kate stretched up to caress the painted face of the father she had never known.
Shrugging off the faint shadow of melancholy, Kate turned from the portrait to see and acknowledge the one new addition to the Long Gallery. It was dominant, making a statement, as it was intended to do. Above the main fireplace had been set a hatchment of the Oxenden coat of arms. Its fresh colour, set against the sombre portraits, blazed in the room. The silver falcons, fierce and predatory, caught the light as they soared majestically, their wings confidently spread. There was no doubting who was master here. She stood before it, contemplating that the falcons were very like their owner.
It was here that the Viscount found her. She heard him first and turned to see him stride down the gallery towards her. He was dressed for riding in a plain coat and breeches, a leather jerkin over all, gloves and hat in hand, the glossy waves of his hair tied back with a black ribbon. She felt her heart pick up a beat and admitted to herself that she had missed him. But she would not show it.
He swept her a bow, as elegant and composed as ever. ‘Verzons told me I would find you in the Gallery. How did you come here?’ His glance was sharp.
‘I rode, of course. You left the horse at Widemarsh when you escorted me there.’
‘Did you ride alone?’
‘Yes. It is no great distance. And within the bounds of the estate.’ Her brows rose at his implied criticism. ‘Do you disapprove?’ Those dark, expressive brows dared him to do so.
Marlbrooke looked at her as if he intended to say more, then shook his head slightly, thinking better of it. Any expression in his eyes was instantly veiled. ‘It is no matter.’ He turned to study the portrait beside them. ‘Your parents?’
She nodded.
‘You have the look of your father.’
‘Yes. So I believe. Aunt Gilliver will be here somewhere in the portraits, but I do not recognise her.’
‘If you find the portrait, tell me—and I will burn it to rid us of a malign influence.’
She could not resist a smile at the dry comment. ‘Come and look at this, my lord.’ She led him to the family portrait of Sir Francis. ‘That is Isolde. She, according to my aunt, is the uncomfortable presence in the house.’
‘Do we know why?’ He studied the image of the young girl with some interest as Kate had done.
‘No, other than that she took her own life. She fell from the roof of the house here.’
‘And is not at rest. Unless Gilliver has specifically sent her to stir up the spirits at the Priory to force us to leave.’
‘No. But I would not put it past her—she hates the Oxendens beyond anything else in life. She thinks I should marry Richard.’ She did not know what moved her to say that. Unless she was at heart as devious and mischief-making as her aunt.
‘Does she, now? And what do you think?’ She could not mistake the cooling in his tone, nor the set of his jaw.
‘I have no choice in the matter.’ She sniffed disdainfully and raised her brows and chin, neatly evading the question. Indeed, she did not truthfully know what answer she would make.
‘No, you do not.’
She stiffened at the flat statement and the accompanying chill and turned away. As she did so, the keys that she had been carelessly holding clashed together in her hand. Marlbrooke’s eyes sharpened as he caught the faint chink of metal on metal.
‘What are those?’
‘Nothing that need concern you, my lord.’
‘Keys?’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘Would I be correct in thinking they are keys to rooms in this house?’
Her chin went up again. ‘Yes. Aunt Gilliver gave them to me.’
‘If they belong to the Priory, they are mine. I do not like the thought of them being in the hands of someone else. And certainly not Mistress Adams.’ He held out his hand with an imperative gesture. ‘Give them to me.’
Whereas she had willingly handed them to Lady Elizabeth, this was a different matter. ‘No. I will not.’
‘Give them up, Kate.’ His voice was soft, but she could not mistake the implied threat.
‘No.’ She shook her head and hid her hands—and the keys—behind her back.
He advanced. She retreated.
‘Kate. I shall have no mercy if you force me to take them from you.’
‘They are mine!’ With which she turned and fled down the length of the gallery, her heels clattering on the wooden floor.
‘Damn you!’ Torn between frustration and amusement, he flung aside his hat and gloves and launched himself in pursuit. She beat him to the end of the Gallery but there the chase came to a precipitate end when she found herself with no escape. She turned at bay, her eyes sparkling with anger as she silently dared him to take the keys from her. With a grin he picked up the challenge immediately, advanced with deliberate intent and pushed her back against the panelling, his hands easily capturing and pinioning her wrists behind her back, the weight of his body holding her in submission.
‘That was not wise, Viola!’
She kicked his shin smartly, enough to cause him to flinch and draw in a sharp breath. She saw anger and frustration—jealousy, even—in his eyes, but only fleetingly, to be replaced by a far more intense emotion that she could not identify. He scanned her face intently, the flush in her cheeks, the angry glint in her eyes that turned them dark and lustrous, her parted lips as she gasped for breath. His heart picked up it
s beat and the tightening in his groin made him take a deep breath and pray for control.
‘Little Kat. What penalty shall I demand for that unwarranted attack on my shin!’
Her eyes flashed their defiance at his intimate misuse of her name.
He removed the keys from her resisting fingers and tossed them to the floor where they fell with an ominous clatter. Then he did not release her, but held her firmly against the wood, her soft breast crushed against his jacket, his hard thighs holding her still.
‘Well, little Kat?’
‘If my father’s will is hidden here, then I have a right to search for it,’ she spat at him, refusing to acknowledge the effect of his nearness, the spread of heat in her blood, the trembling throughout her body that owed nothing to her previous anger.
‘You have no rights other than those I allow you.’ His voice was gentle, against all her expectations—but without warning he bent his head and kissed her. It took her by surprise. She had expected him to take his revenge, all flash and fire, searing possession. Instead he touched her mouth with the utmost tenderness, his lips sliding gently, persuasively over hers, encouraging them to open to allow his tongue access. Her mind might resist him, but her body and heart betrayed her. She could not resist such gentleness and found herself sinking helplessly, treacherously into his embrace. He lifted his head and she blinked at him in shocked uncertainty.
‘Katherine,’ he murmured and smiled down into her face. ‘That was not so unpleasant, was it? From a Royalist and an Oxenden!’
Then the heat and passion in his fiercely narrowed eyes took her breath away. He released her hands, changed the angle of his head, holding her face exactly as he wished, his fingers, callused from reins and sword, rasping on her soft skin so that she shivered in anticipation, and took possession of her mouth once more, his tongue hard and deep in its invasion. When her hands were free, against all her intentions Kate found herself sliding her arms around his neck, pushing her fingers into his hair to glory in its silken strength, pulling him closer. She was aware of him as she had never been before, the hard firmness of his chest and belly, the strength in his well-toned muscles. It was so unfair of him to take advantage of her in this way—and for her own responses to be guilty of such betrayal.
