by Anne O'Brien
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Will you dance with me?’ He held out a hand, his request charmingly formal, but a demand none the less.
‘Dance? Now?’
‘Why not? You can dance the pavane—you have been well taught!’ She saw the unexpected flash of his grin, which instantly turned her knees to water. ‘We do not need music. Come.’
She obeyed, taking his hand, turning to face him to begin the stately measure.
It was one of the strangest experiences of her life. Caressed by soft shadows, enfolded in silence, except for the brush of their feet and her skirts against the oak boards, Marlbrooke led her through the steps and movements of the pavane. She curtsied, stepped, circled with grace and elegance as if to some unheard refrain. Their bodies touched and moved apart, their hands clasping and unclasping, palms meeting, a mere whisper of flesh against flesh, as they trod the length of the Gallery. She moved as in a dream, her senses completely submerged in the tone and texture of this heart-stirring courtship. Her heart beat rapidly, her skin felt flushed with an inner heat, but her mind was clear, her focus on Marlbrooke intense. As her hand touched his, the cool sliding of flesh against flesh, she felt the tingle of excitement spread in her veins. She could not have spoken, did not need to speak. Conscious of the soft whisper of her satin skirts, the evening light absorbed into his dark velvet coat, she abandoned herself to the glory of it all. Her awareness was centred on the silver glitter of his eyes as they caught the light, the soft touch of his breath on her cheek as they drew together, the unexpected emotions that filled her body and demanded a response. His eyes never left hers, so that she danced as if under an enchantment. It brought her close to tears from the sheer beauty of it.
By common consent, they drew the dance to a close. The Viscount kept possession of her fingers and raised them to his lips. She was so lovely. And she was his. And whether she realised it or not, she had begun to trust him—perhaps more than that. She looked at him now, her face bright and glowing with pleasure. He could see the glorious sapphire eyes, the wilful mouth, the elegantly arched brows. Blood surged through his veins, dispersing an elusive happiness into every cell of his body. He pulled her gently forward to take her into his arms, to kiss those eminently enticing lips, to wipe away the tear that clung to her lashes. When he smiled down at her, she returned it without hesitation.
And then froze. All her muscles tightened as the familiar chill settled on the nape of her neck, on her arms, around her shoulders. A shiver ran through her. And then the Viscount was startled to see tears gather in her eyes, to overflow and trace a slow, silvered pathway down her cheeks.
‘Kate, my love. What on earth is there to distress you here? I would not hurt you for the world. You know that.’ He took her shoulders in a gentle hold, astounded by her reaction.
‘It is not you, my lord. Can you not feel it? She is so sad. It breaks my heart.’
‘Isolde?’
‘Yes.’
The chilled air around them heralded Isolde’s presence as spectator at their dance. The atmosphere was thick with her grief. Even Marlbrooke felt the weight of it.
‘Don’t cry.’ He took out a handkerchief to catch Kate’s tears. ‘I thought it was my lack of skill at dancing that had reduced you to such misery.’
She smiled through the tears at the absurdity. ‘Never that. She has gone now. I am sorry I was so foolish.’
He wiped away a final tear with the pad of his thumb.
‘I do not understand why she is so anguished, so inconsolable,’ Kate said thoughtfully, ‘when I am so—’ She stopped abruptly.
‘So …?’
‘I don’t know.’ She turned her face away, suddenly shy.
‘Yes, you do. If you are not sad, dearest Viola, then what?’
Colour suffused her face. She shook her head. She would not admit to him the effect his nearness had on her treacherous heart.
But he knew. And it was enough. Smiling, Marlbrooke traced the outline of her lips with a finger. ‘Don’t look so unhappy, little one. It is enough for now. But some day, do not doubt it, I will demand more from you. And you will tell me exactly how you feel.’
She stepped back, to put space between them, embarrassed at the urge to tell him what was truly in her heart. Instead she became all practicality. ‘I must put the chairs back again. And the fire-screen.’ She turned and stooped to lift it. ‘I think I may have damaged the frame when it fell.’
‘It is of no consequence.’
‘Yes, it is! Felicity embroidered it!’
‘And incredibly ugly it is, too. Her choice of embroidery is not complimentary.’
She choked back a laugh. It was true. The intricate petit point leaves, wrought in dark greens and browns, did nothing to enhance the overly ornate carving of the walnut surround with its pillars and finials. But that was irrelevant!
‘It is easy for you to say, my lord! If she discovers that I caused the damage, she will hate me even more.’
‘Then I will tell her that I kicked the screen in a fit of pique and temper when you refused to listen to my fervent declaration of love.’ He hesitated and then added, a trifle pensively, ‘She would probably believe it too. I fear that her devotion to my mother does not always extend to me. She considers me to be far too shallow, worldly and lacking in any moral values to be worthy of her consideration.’
‘Ha! Perhaps she has the truth of it.’ Kate used all her will power not to smile. ‘Are your shoulders broad enough to bear the weight of her displeasure?’
‘For you, Katherine, they will take on any burden. You should know and accept that by now.’ For a moment his flippancy was gone, his handsome face unusually stern and set as he lifted her to her feet, to stand before him.
‘Marcus …’
They remained caught in each other’s gaze, flies in amber. She drowned in the clear intensity of his eyes, and he in the beauty of hers.
‘I must go,’ she managed at last, but made no effort to move.
‘My lord.’ A voice and light at the end of the Gallery broke the spell and announced the arrival of Verzons. ‘Perhaps you need some light in here. Dusk has fallen quickly.’ He carried a branch of candles high in his hand.
‘Thank you, Verzons.’ Reluctantly, with a wry smile, the Viscount gave his attention to his approaching steward. ‘The corner of this fire-screen has been inadvertently damaged. Perhaps you could see to its repair? I believe it is a favourite of Mistress Felicity.’
‘Of course, my lord.’ The steward lifted the frame from Marlbrooke’s hands and leaned it against the wall. ‘I will see to its removal. Should I also see to the repair of the panelling, my lord?’
‘Panelling?’
Verzons indicated with his hand the place where a section of the linen fold had collapsed inward when struck by the heavy screen, leaving a dark blank cavity.
Marlbrooke turned to look at Kate, an unreadable expression in his eyes.
‘Well, Mistress Harley. You hoped for a secret cache. And here it is.’
The cavity, revealed by Kate’s fall and now illuminated by Verzons’s candles, contained a wooden box, which fitted snugly against the stonework of the house. Marlbrooke knelt and lifted it out, covered with dust and cobwebs. There was engraving on the lid on a silver plaque, but it was black from long enclosure and disuse.
‘Documents?’ His brows rose.
Kate nodded at the miraculous possibility.
Marlbrooke’s face was impassive as he gave his orders to Verzons. ‘If you would be so good as to arrange for this box to be taken to Mistress Harley’s bedchamber. And organise a fire there—and some candles.’
Verzons departed, leaving them alone with the box on the floor between them. The Viscount looked down at it with an expressionless face.
‘You hoped to find a will, Mistress Viola. Perhaps your hopes are to be realised after all.’
When Marlbrooke entered Kate’s bedchamber some hours later, it was to find her seated on the
floor before the fire, candles on the mantel and at her elbow. The wooden box stood open and empty, the contents spread around her. Some had been arranged in neat piles; others still lay scattered in haphazard fashion. She looked up briefly as he entered, smiled vaguely, obviously preoccupied, and returned to a perusal of the document in her hand. Marlbrooke poured wine for them both, setting her goblet beside her, and stretched himself at ease in the high-backed chair beside the fire. He stretched out his legs and took a sip, watching her.
She made a charming picture of intense concentration as she sifted from one yellowed document to another, dismissing some quickly, lingering long over others. He studied her face, realising that for the first time since she had come to the Priory, her skin was clear and without blemish. No bruising now, no lingering scratches from Felicity’s nails. Her dark hair was beginning to curl on to her neck and would eventually allow her to arrange it in becoming curls, if not exactly fashionable ringlets. She had buried her teeth in her bottom lip as she concentrated, a line between her dark brows. She seemed oblivious to his presence, for which he was sorry, but he enjoyed the luxury of watching her without her being conscious of his scrutiny.
He sipped again at the wine, contemplating the delight of carrying her to the shadowed bed, removing that pretty satin dress, kissing those slender limbs until she grew warm and supple and would shiver beneath him. He grew hard at the thought and grimaced, amused at his intense reaction to her—and to the fact that she was totally unaware of her effect on him.
He loved her. By God, he loved her.
At last, Kate put down the final document and sighed heavily.
‘No wills?’ he asked gently.
‘No.’ She looked directly into his eyes, hers surprisingly dark with a swirl of emotion. ‘No. But there are some letters here that you should read.’
‘If you wish it.’ He held out his hand. ‘But why? Surely they are family documents—Harley documents.’
‘Yes, they are. But I have discovered that they touch on your family too. And they explain much. Things that even Gilliver did not know of.’ She picked up a small pile of curled and stained parchments and shuffled through them.
‘Read this one.’
Marlbrooke took it and angled it to the light to pick out the faded words. The opening of the letter caused him to look up at Kate sharply. She simply nodded and so he continued.
To My Lord Marlbrooke
Following our discussion of last week, I have had conversation with my wife. We have come to an agreement that a marriage between my daughter Isolde and your son and heir, John Oxenden, would be of advantage to both families. The future running of the two estates in tandem would bring wealth and security. I suggest that we meet next week to discuss terms and settlements and draw up contracts for the forthcoming marriage.
I know that the outcome will be as much to your liking as it is to ours.
Your servant
Francis Harley
‘I see.’ Marlbrooke frowned over the document. ‘And this was when? Some time last century?’
‘Yes. There are dates on some of the letters … here it is—it was in 1563. Now read this.’
He took the next document she offered.
To My Lord Marlbrooke
The situation over the completed contracts has now become very difficult. My daughter has refused to consider marriage with your son, even though it has come to our attention that she carries his child. She claims that she was forced by your son against her will and now holds him in abhorrence. She will not willingly enter into the agreement. I have counselled her on the advantages of this marriage, but she is stubborn. I believe that it will be the best for all parties if the marriage goes ahead. Ultimately, of course, Isolde will obey her father. We should rejoice that an heir has already been conceived to ensure the future inheritance.
Your servant
Francis Harley
The next letter was brief.
To Sir Francis Harley
I agree that the situation is unfortunate, but happily not without redemption. My son claims that your daughter was willing. I agree that the marriage should go forward as quickly as might be.
Your respectful servant
Edward Oxenden
‘And this one,’ Kate selected a final page, ‘explains the tragic outcome.’
To My Lord Marlbrooke
It is with regret and great sorrow that I must inform you of the death of my daughter Isolde. The circumstances are most delicate and I know that I can rely on your keeping the matter close. Last night she fell from the roof walk of the Priory and was found on the stones of the terrace. I believe that her mind was disturbed by her condition. There can be no other explanation. I trust your compliance in preventing the spread of scandal in this matter—something that would be of advantage to both our families.
Your servant
Francis Harley
‘Poor lady.’ Marlbrooke returned the document thoughtfully. ‘So this is our revenant. It explains her refusal to be at rest. She is certainly not a comfortable presence.’
‘No, she is not at rest. Her heart is torn and has yet to be healed. Perhaps it is torn beyond redemption.’ He saw the grief mirrored in Kate’s face. ‘Did you know that she is buried in a glade on the edge of the estate? I have seen the monument. And it seems that she has always been something of a problem. This note explains in part what happened when she died.’
Kate hesitated a moment, aware of a sudden shadow that darkened Marlbrooke’s eyes. ‘What are you thinking?’
He frowned down at the letter in his hand and then turned to Kate with a clear, candid gaze. ‘I am thinking that I almost forced you against your will. It does not sit well with me and touches my conscience. Particularly when I read of the effect on Isolde.’
‘But you did not.’
‘No, but—’
‘I am nothing like Isolde,’ Kate insisted, determined to erase the lingering guilt and repair the balance between herself and the Viscount. ‘She cared nothing for the Oxenden heir. Whereas I …’
‘Whereas you?’
Her answering smile and the gleam in her expressive eyes were deliberately full of flirtatious mischief. ‘Why, nothing, my lord. Finish the letters—and then I may explain!’
It had the desired effect. The harsh lines around Marlbrooke’s mouth relaxed and he picked up the next piece of correspondence with a wry smile of understanding. His betrothed, he was discovering, had a well-developed skill for manipulation to get her own way.
My dear Wife,
I have arranged, as we agreed, that his Grace the Bishop will take steps to limit Isolde’s presence and confine her tormented spirit in some way. God’s servant is the only authority that might achieve a resumption of peace both for our poor daughter and for our family. My suggestion of reburial in consecrated ground was not met with any degree of support, so we must put ourselves in his Grace’s hands and his suggestion of a confining ceremony. I hope this will relieve your mind and restore much-needed tranquillity to your thoughts.
Your loving husband
Francis Harley
‘Which would explain,’ Marlbrooke commented, ‘why she has not been seen since 1563. But does not explain how or why she has returned.’
‘I know the reason for her return.’ Kate shuffled the documents together in an efficient manner and replaced them in the box, closing the lid, then proceeded to tell the Viscount of her conversation with Elizabeth.
‘Do you truly believe that Isolde’s spirit was contained in that abandoned pot in the still-room?’
‘Yes. I think I do. It fits with Gilliver’s folk tales and rumours.’
‘So she was released by my mother’s hands.’ Marlbrooke leaned forward with the ghost of a laugh, arms resting on his thighs. ‘It is ironic, is it not?’
Kate nodded. She ran her fingers thoughtfully over the tarnished escutcheon. Then looked up at him. ‘I would like Gilliver to read these letters. Would it trouble you?’
‘Of course not. They are your family documents. And since it is unlikely that Mistress Gilliver will set foot here, unless it is over my dead body, I will arrange for them to be carried to Widemarsh for you.’
‘Thank you. How strange it all is.’
‘Mmm?’
‘History repeating itself. You know, a marriage between Harleys and Oxendens.’ Her voice was a little pensive as she frowned into the remnants of the fire.
‘I trust it will not repeat itself.’ There was humour in his voice, which made her glance up at him. ‘You must inform me if you feel any desire to throw yourself from the roof. I have to say that I will do all in my power to stop you.’
Kate smiled. ‘Poor Isolde. No, I will not follow her example.’ She dropped her eyes, a little embarrassed, more than a little aware of the Viscount beside her.
Marlbrooke leaned forward and reached out a hand to pull her to her knees beside his chair. ‘Besides, I do not believe that I forced you.’
‘No!’ she agreed with some asperity. ‘I remember you gave me wine so that I was not totally aware of my actions!’ But he saw the glint in her eye. His lips curved.
‘And I would wager that you did not dislike it as much as Isolde appears to have?’
She shook her head shyly. ‘No. I did not dislike it.’
He stood at that and drew her to her feet. ‘You are quite lovely.’ He framed her face with his hands and bent to brush her lips with his, a mere whisper of a caress.
‘I should go. It is late.’ Her instinct was to pull back, to escape a flood of emotions that threatened to engulf her.
‘Too late,’ he murmured the words against the pulse in her throat. ‘Far too late for both of us.’
He lifted her and carried her to the bed, to lay her back on the soft pillows. ‘I believe it may be too late for both of us to claim that this marriage is merely for political expediency.
‘What do you mean?’ Kate frowned at him, shivering at his touch.
‘Have you not realised yet? His voice was gentle, his hands stroking down her arms from shoulder to wrist. ‘I love you, dearest Kate. And I find it impossible to believe that you are indifferent to me’
