Puritan Bride

by Anne O'Brien

  She looked at him in shock. His eyes were hard, his face implacable, his fingers bruising her arms where they gripped. Doubtless he too thought she was responsible.

  ‘Kate!’ His fingers dug into her flesh with painful intensity. She pulled herself back from the brink of hysteria and out of his grasp.

  ‘Of course. I will do what I can.’ She drew herself upright, wiping the back of her hand over her dry lips and walked to the bed, trying to order her thoughts to draw on her limited experience and the skills her mother had instilled in her.

  With decision came calm. She noted with a strange remoteness that she was beginning to think and plan. If Marlbrooke truly believed that she had poisoned his mother, there was little she could do to remedy it. But she could do all in her power to offset the effects of whatever had been drunk.

  ‘Open the curtains and douse the candles—let the light in,’ she ordered, her voice gradually gaining strength, ‘and we will let the fire die a little. Open one of the windows, Elspeth. We need some air in here.’ She moved to the ravaged bed and sat on the edge to look at the stricken lady who continued to thrash on her pillows.

  The heavy drugged eyes opened. There was no recognition in her glazed stare.

  ‘Tell me what you know, Mistress Neale.’

  ‘Mistress Felicity sent for me,’ the housekeeper explained, hovering at her shoulder. ‘Her ladyship became very hot and flushed. And then she seemed to lose her wits, her words made no sense and were slurred. But she said her arms and legs hurt—I remember that. Not her joints like usual—but stiff. That’s why she fell, I think.’

  Kate nodded and bent to look more closely at Elizabeth. Her face was now pale but her lips were flushed and distinctly swollen. There were no other markings or rashes on her body. ‘What did she drink?’

  ‘This.’ Mistress Neale took the green glass phial in her hand and passed it to Kate, who took out the stopper and sniffed. No scent here that she could detect. She inserted a finger, wetted it and tasted it. Bitter! Fortunately, the bottle still held more than half the liquid—Elizabeth could have drunk much more.

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘In wine, I think, mistress. She said that her tongue felt swollen, and her eyes were staring from her head. And then she fell to the floor. That is when Mistress Felicity sent for me.’

  ‘What is it? Do you know?’ The Viscount’s query was brusque.

  Kate thought over all she had seen and heard. There seemed to be only one answer, however much she tried to close her mind against it. ‘I believe it is wolf’s bane,’ she replied simply.

  ‘Is it fatal?’

  ‘Yes.’ What was the advantage in telling lies in such a case? ‘It can be if enough is drunk. I have seen its effects. A small child at Downham Hall ate some of the plant—it is monkshood and is often grown in cottage gardens for its flowers. It can also be useful to make a potion to bathe bites by venomous creatures—it takes out the venom and soreness and is most soothing—but to drink it is poison.’

  ‘Did the child die?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Marlbrooke bent to smooth his mother’s disordered hair. ‘Can you do nothing?’ He could not hide the note of despair in his voice or the lines of strain around his mouth.

  Kate turned to Mistress Neale. ‘Fetch me pen and paper.’ And to Elspeth, ‘Send to see if Mr Hotham is still here. If not, I need someone to ride to Widemarsh Manor immediately.’

  There was an instant scurrying of activity. Kate scrawled a hasty note and it was dispatched, she presumed, with Richard. ‘Tell him to ride fast. It is imperative.’

  ‘What have you sent for?’ Marlbrooke looked up from his mother’s pain-racked body, brows drawn in a heavy frown.

  ‘Devil’s bit.’ For a long moment Kate’s eyes locked with Marlbrooke’s: then she turned away and with set face set about the task of ridding Lady Elizabeth’s body of a potentially fatal dose of wolf’s bane.

  Kate kept Elspeth with her, but banished Marlbrooke unceremoniously from the room.

  ‘This will not be pleasant and I think you must allow your mother to retain some dignity. When she recovers, she would prefer it.’

  Reluctantly he accepted the truth of it, and noted the optimistic wording, whether she believed it or not. He spent the day pacing the corridors, paying an unnecessary visit to the stables and pretending to look at accounts in the library. Finally he gave up and simply sat and brooded. He sent in wine and food to Kate and Elspeth at regular intervals, but otherwise stayed out of their way, until anxiety got the better of him, and he prowled outside the bedchamber until Kate sent him away again.

  Kate used her own infusion of white willow to try to curtail the severe vomiting and purging that soon struck. Boiled and strained to a clear liquid, they forced their patient to drink it at regular intervals. She did not seem to respond, her body constantly attacked by shivers and spasms, but Kate did not expect an immediate miracle. Kate and Elspeth worked silently, but their anxiety was evident as their eyes met when holding Elizabeth’s shoulders as once more the poison sent convulsions through her.

  ‘Oh, Mistress Harley, it gets no better, the poor lady.’

  ‘I need to hear from Aunt Gilliver. How long does it take to ride from Widemarsh? The longer it takes, the stronger the poison’s hold.’ Kate paced the room restlessly, feeling helpless.

  ‘Not long now, I expect, mistress. I reckon you are doing all you can. Perhaps she is a little easier already.’

  ‘Thank you, Elspeth.’ Kate’s smile was weary but genuine for this show of confidence, even if she questioned the truth of Elspeth’s observation. ‘Go to Mistress Neale. Fetch some pot-pourri, lavender, anything sweet smelling. And bring some wine.’

  The reply from Mistress Adams arrived—a scrawled note in her distinctive neat handwriting, and a small linen bag. Kate thanked the breathless stable lad who had ridden at speed and hurried back into Elizabeth’s bedchamber. She was still unconscious, delirious, and they found it increasingly difficult to force liquid between her swollen lips. Kate set the contents of the bag—an unpretentious knobbly root—to boil in the fireplace in a pot of wine. She drew off some liquid quickly, as soon as steam began to rise, and cooled it with water to make it drinkable. The rest would be more potent when boiled longer and allowed to cool naturally, but Kate thought it necessary to introduce some of the liquid into Elizabeth’s exhausted body as quickly as possible before she lost all her strength to fight against the deadly wolf’s bane.

  ‘Now, Elspeth.’ Kate approached the bed with Aunt Gilliver’s remedy.

  Elspeth tried to raise Elizabeth in her arms but it was clear that she had not the strength. She pushed the hair back from her face in despair. ‘I cannot hold her still, Mistress Kate. She is too restless. Do I get help?’

  Kate sighed ‘Perhaps you should send for Mistress Neale. No … wait. Fetch the Viscount. He may be in the library.’

  Minutes hardly passed before Marlbrooke entered, appalled at the scene before him. It seemed far worse, far more degrading, than wounds or death on a battlefield. And Lady Elizabeth, his gentle, courageous mother, looked so frail, so far beyond their help. Kate saw the shock on his face: without giving him time to think, she issued instructions.

  ‘We need to get your mother to drink this. You must hold her—she is very restless and Elspeth can not manage alone.’

  Marlbrooke sat at the head of the bed and lifted his mother to rest against his shoulder, her flailing arms pinioned at her sides. He held her firmly, as gently as was possible, one hand to keep her head still so that she might drink. Kate tilted the cup and between them they managed to pour most of the warm liquid down her throat.

  ‘There. Now we must simply wait.’ She glanced towards Marlbrooke, lifting her shoulders in quiet despair. ‘Thank you. I think we can manage now and it should become easier to administer the draught as she grows quieter.’

  ‘Do you wish me to stay? Surely there is something I can do to relieve you of the bu
rden.’

  ‘No. There is no need. Elspeth and I will do very well now.’

  ‘But you must be so tired …’

  ‘I think your mother would prefer it if you were not here,’ she said gently.

  There was no arguing with her, but he beckoned her outside the door before he left. ‘Tell me what you are attempting.’

  She told him, briefly and explicitly, with none of the fear that was almost paralysing her showing above the surface. ‘It is wolf’s bane poisoning as I thought. My aunt agreed and has sent the root of devil’s bit. Most still-rooms keep it as a root—it is not yet in flower until high summer. Aunt Gilliver says to give it boiled in wine—it is very powerful against all poisons and fevers.’

  ‘Will it work?’

  ‘It will make her sweat. This will bring the poison out through the skin and will also reduce her temperature. Aunt Gilliver swears by it and I know my mother used it. Master Culpeper recommended its use in all such cases.’

  ‘Then all we can do is wait.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was nothing more to say between them. She turned on her heel and re-entered the bedchamber before she could read the accusation in his eyes.

  * * *

  Day passed slowly, crawling through the hours, and turned into night. Marlbrooke left them alone, knowing that Kate would send word when there was any change, for good or ill. If there was any change. Elspeth and Mistress Neale came and went from the bedchamber, but Kate did not. The Viscount fell into an uncomfortable doze in the library.

  As dawn approached, a mere lightening of the sky in the east, he was awakened by a cool hand on his.

  ‘What is it?’ The only light in the library was from a dying fire, but instantly he knew who stood beside him.

  Kate looked down at him, her face solemn, and he could not read it.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We have done it. She is sleeping naturally. She is weak and will need care, but there will be no lasting ill effects.’

  He breathed deeply, savouring the relief that poured through him and threatened his composure, but his control held firm. As he made to rise, she gripped his arm to stop him.

  ‘Allow us half an hour. Lady Elizabeth is awake, but we need a little time. You understand?’

  ‘Of course.’ He rubbed his hands over his eyes, then looked up at Kate. ‘She did not deserve this. I should never have brought her here. She would rather have stayed in London.’

  Kate shook her head, but did not question his implication. She turned silently and left him.

  When he entered Lady Elizabeth’s chamber some time later, the horrors of the past twenty-four hours had been mostly put to rights. The room was pleasantly cool, dimly lit, with the scents of lavender and summer pot-pourri uppermost in the still air. The signs of sickness had been cleared and tidied away and Elizabeth, washed and clad in a fresh chemise, lay between clean linen. Kate had brushed her hair. She was startlingly pale, her eyes dark with remembered pain and fatigue, deep shadows below, deep lines engraved around her mouth. But she was awake and lucid, a faint smile on her ashen lips when her son walked through the door.

  ‘Marcus. I am so sorry.’ Her voice lacked its usual light timbre, but was clear enough.

  He sat beside her and took her hand. ‘And so you should be. You have given us all a fright.’

  ‘You look tired.’ She raised her hand to touch his cheek in maternal concern.

  ‘We are all tired—but you are better now.’ He captured her wrist and pressed his lips to where the pulse beat, slow but steady, refusing to consider the hours when he had feared that it would beat no more. ‘You have been well nursed.’

  ‘I know it. It would not have been pleasant …’ Her voice died away as exhaustion took its toll. ‘They have been so good. And Kate …’

  But Kate had already moved slowly, unobtrusively out of the room, closing the door silently behind her. There was now no place for her there. And the repercussions of the day had still to come.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sky had just begun to pearl with the promise of a late spring dawn, faint streaks of pink appearing where the sun would eventually rise. Marlbrooke left his mother sleeping under the watchful eye of one of the kitchen maids with the sole purpose of finding Kate. He followed the sound of voices in soft-toned conversation, which led him to the top of the main staircase into the hall. There she stood, below him, with Verzons in attendance, fastening her cloak and pulling on her gloves.

  ‘Katherine!’ His voice from the stairs stopped her and she turned to face him.

  Even from this distance she was almost transparent with tiredness, her face pale, the fragile skin below her eyes bruised with violet shadows. He had had little sleep, but he knew that she had managed even less and had worked tirelessly. As he drew close he could see the angry scorings on her cheek from Felicity’s vengeful nails. She had never looked so desirable to him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She looked up, startled, her eyes wide with apprehension. ‘I must go back to Widemarsh Manor. It is almost light now.’

  ‘Hardly. It is not fit that you should leave.’

  ‘I tried to dissuade her, my lord.’ Verzons bowed and melted into the shadows as the Viscount descended the staircase.

  ‘There is nothing more I can do now.’ She held herself well, shoulders braced, a touch of defiance in the proud carriage of her head.

  ‘Stay.’ His voice was low, but held a note of command.

  ‘Indeed, my lord, your mother will recover without me.’ She felt as if her lips could hardly form the words, but she needed to remain strong before him and make her escape from the Priory—from the condemnation that she expected to see in his eyes. She would not show him the desolation that threatened to engulf her when she considered that he might actually believe Felicity’s venomous words. She took refuge in cold formality. ‘I have spoken with Mistress Neale. Lady Elizabeth is quite comfortable and Mistress Neale knows what needs to be done.’

  ‘I would prefer that you stay.’ She might be calm and withdrawn, to erect a barrier between them, but he was equally determined that she should not. He stood before her now, his emotions—what they were she could not guess—rigidly contained. His face was stern, brows drawn into a black line above stormy grey eyes.

  ‘No. I will not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because …’

  ‘Would you rather return to Richard? Is that how it is?’ The harshness in his tone jolted her from her trance-like state.

  ‘Richard?’ Kate frowned. She had to concentrate, on his words, his meaning. Exhaustion seemed to be robbing her of all power to think rationally. She had not given Richard a thought since that terrible moment in the stable yard. ‘Why, no. I had not thought …’

  Her confused denial eased the spark of jealousy that burned in his gut, which he would not acknowledge, even to himself, but which had been there since the moment he had seen them together in the stable yard. His voice gentled with the lessening of tension.

  ‘Why will you not stay?’

  She could repress it no longer, the words spilling out in a torrent. ‘Mistress Felicity accused me of poisoning Lady Elizabeth. I am sure that you have considered that it could very well be true. I certainly have had every opportunity to do so. You probably believe it. After all, can you really expect honesty from one of those damned Puritan families?’

  ‘I have never said that I believe her accusations.’ He strove to keep his voice cool and flat, but he watched her intently to judge her reactions.

  She laughed. A little harsh, definitely without humour. ‘You did not have to say it. I saw it in your face. I am obviously devious enough to hide my sins if I am in danger of being discovered! What a pity that Lady Elizabeth did not drink all the potion before she was discovered. That would have been a triumph indeed for me!’ The desolation swept through her but she faced him squarely, meeting his eyes, a denial in her own.

  He knew he must handle this c
arefully. So much room for misunderstanding and misinterpretation here. Tired she might be—indeed, her eyes were almost blurred from it—but nervous tension held her in thrall so that she constantly drew her leather gauntlets through her fingers. He knew that if he touched her he would feel the hectic pulse of her blood through her veins. She was hurt, and thus beyond sense and logic.

  He stepped closer, stretched out a hand to run gentle fingers down her damaged cheek. She flinched, but he persisted, then surprised her by stepping even closer still. Instead of cursing her he drew her forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. He felt her sigh beneath his hands. His eyes captured hers, fierce, vital, making his next words a command rather than a request.

  ‘You are not fit to ride to Widemarsh Manor—and certainly not alone. I want you to stay. With me. Do I have to beg?’

  There was a heartbeat of silence between them. To him it lasted a lifetime.

  ‘No.’ He recognised her weary resignation to a stronger force and would take advantage of it.

  ‘I think we need each other.’

  Without another word he took her hand and turned to lead her back up the staircase. Slowly. She followed as if the trance had settled on her again. When she stumbled from fatigue at the bottom step he simply swept her into his arms and carried her up as he had on that first night. She lay passively against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand clutching his shirt. He passed the room that she had then occupied and had become her own and strode on down the corridor to his own room, setting her down in the middle of the floor as he closed the door and lit a candle, choosing to leave the heavy curtains drawn against the growing light. She simply stood immobile, impassive, unable to summon the energy to make a decision for herself. He removed the gloves from her unresisting fingers, untied the cloak and laid them on a chair.