by Stella Riley
‘If the silly bitch had stayed put like she was told to, she’d be as safe as you or me,’ snapped Nancy. Arms akimbo, she raked them with a contemptuous stare. ‘And what do you think’s going to happen to you if you do get out? Smiles of welcome and a nice, cosy billet with some miserable poke-nose? Don’t think your wedding ring’ll save you, Madge Burke – because it won’t. Far as they’re concerned, you’re as big a whore as I am. And you, Katy Muldoon – hasn’t no one ever told you what they do to Irishers?’
‘Nancy – what the devil’s going on here?’
Nancy swung round to meet Captain Ambrose’s bright gaze.
‘Well, thank God for that! Perhaps you can persuade these daft little flowers they’re better off in here than they would be out there.’
With the blaze in the outer ward still uncontrolled, Justin had better things to do with his time but he checked his temper and produced a delicate blend of reassurance and charming appeal. It worked on all but five and these remained stubbornly unconvinced, leaving him with the unenviable task of laying the matter before the Governor. Twenty minutes later a message was on its way to the rebel lines, politely requesting a brief cessation and safe-conduct for those women wishing to leave.
Having sent it, Justin looked round to find Nancy at his elbow, her full mouth set tight and her brown gaze savagely acrimonious. He smiled a little and said, ‘Quite sure you don’t want to go too? It may be your last chance.’
‘A pox on that!’ came the forthright reply. ‘Me and my girls’d as soon set fire to ourselves.’
Colonel Fiennes’ reply, when it came, was an elegantly-worded refusal.
‘Snuffling, misbegotten pigs!’ spat Nancy. And then, looking shrewdly at Justin, ‘No more than you expected?’
‘No.’ He turned to get back to work and then paused, looking back at her. ‘It’s a pity there aren’t a few more like you, Nan. The war would have been over months ago.’
Her colour rose a little but she laughed and cast him a glance of roguish invitation. ‘Going to see something of you then, am I?’
‘With regret, no.’ His eyes met hers with both courtesy and understanding. ‘There’s no time even for sleep, you know – and I’d hate to prove a disappointment. But thank you, anyway.’
Smiling wryly, she watched him go. It was not the first time he had refused her – indeed, he had yet to accept. But though she was sorry, it was not a matter for offence. She liked him too well for that.
A cannon-ball crashed against the curtain wall and sent a shower of earth scattering over her.
‘Sod it,’ said Nancy, to no one in particular. Then strolled inside without even bothering to brush the dust from her skirts.
~ * ~
FIVE
Not far away, at the sign of the Ragged Staff in Shop Row, another lady thought occasionally of Captain Ambrose and wondered how he did. She would have been startled and perhaps a little reassured had she been able to see him, for her imagination showed him conducting his work in a state of flawless elegance. Other officers might end their day streaked with dirt and sweat – but not Captain Ambrose. Like Rachel and Colonel Fiennes, he was enshrined in Abigail’s mind as a paragon of perpetual neatness.
She herself was rarely neat these days but, with other things on his mind, Jonas carped less than usual and Rachel, of course, was no longer there to see. Left to hold the fort, Abigail had found it a relatively simple matter while there was only Samuel and Jonas to care for. But on August 27th, Colonel Fiennes had arrived in Banbury and Jonas, in his capacity as the town’s most senior remaining official, had volunteered his house as the Colonel’s billet. It was perfectly logical - for the house was large and conveniently situated; but for Abigail, who never knew how many to expect for dinner or when she would be free of visitors long enough to clean the floors, it was a source of constant domestic crisis.
Bred only four miles away at Broughton Castle and son of the district’s traditional overlord, Viscount Saye and Sele, John Fiennes was already distantly acquainted with Jonas. Dark as a gypsy, he was just thirty years old, of medium height and possessed of a quiet forcefulness that crushed opposition like a well-oiled millstone. Abigail went in awe and trepidation for three days before his unfailing courtesy disarmed her and she learned to appreciate the many small aggravations his presence spared her. Colonel Fiennes might be the cause of endless muddy feet and hasty culinary improvisations but he kept Jonas in check and the common soldiery at bay – and that was a lot to be grateful for.
With him came efficient, serious-minded Major Lytcot and insouciant Robert Woodley, whose duties as a Trumpet meant that he had always to be within call. Of the Major, Abigail saw very little; of Rob Woodley, she saw more than enough for he seemed to have a marked predilection for the kitchen and was constantly underfoot.
On the morning of Thursday September 5th, deafened by the roar of cannon and unnerved by spasmodic explosions which set every dish rattling on its shelf, Abigail was wrestling with her preserves when an arm slid familiarly around her waist. A jar of apricots shattered on the red-brick floor and she wheeled round, flushed and furious, to meet Mr Woodley’s unabashed smile.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Then keep your hands to yourself,’ she snapped, too irritable to be shy. ‘And stop creeping up on me if you don’t want to starve.’
‘I didn’t creep. I’ve been calling out to you ever since I came in. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me.’
Abigail stared at him, speechless. An explosion tore at the air and a plate toppled off the dresser.
‘Hear you?’ she shouted. ‘Of course I didn’t hear you! I’m amazed I can still hear anything. What’s going on out there? It sounds as if the whole town is being demolished.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Woodley soothingly. ‘Just a few cannon and mortars over at North Bar. Nothing you haven’t heard before.’
‘But those explosions?’
‘Grenadoes. We’ve fired over thirty this morning – big ones, too. Hundred and twelve pounders.’
‘Then I’m surprised the Castle is still standing,’ said Abigail acidly. ‘It ought to be no more than heap of rubble if the noise is anything to go by. Or do your gunners miss a lot?’
Mr Woodley folded his blue, trailing-sleeved arms and grinned at her.
‘You are in a bad mood today. But it suits you. You should do it more often.’
‘That,’ said Abigail, ‘is not at all unlikely. I suppose you came for the Colonel’s meal?’
He nodded, saying with winsome boyishness, ‘Are you really angry with me? I’m truly sorry about the apricots. May I help you clear them up?’
‘No you may not.’ Her voice trembled on the brink of laughter. ‘You may pick up your basket and go – before Jonas comes in and finds you here.’
‘At once, madam!’ He saluted smartly and seized the basket from the dresser. ‘But I wish you’d smile. I shall worry all afternoon if you don’t.’
‘Oh – go away!’ Betrayed into an involuntary gurgle, she grabbed a stray apricot from the table and threw it. ‘Now!’
Rob laughed, ducked, blew her a kiss and went. Abigail was left with a sticky floor and a sense of wonderment mingled with regret.
By the time Samuel drifted into the kitchen half-way through the afternoon, the noise had abated not at all and her head was throbbing.
‘Those guns!’ she groaned. ‘Don’t they ever stop?’
‘Not today, apparently,’ said Samuel, reaching for an apple and retiring with it to the settle. ‘But think of poor mother at Grimsbury and count your blessings.’
‘Oh I do – believe me.’ Abigail sighed and collapsed beside him. ‘Is Jonas in the shop?’
‘Mm. He’s brooding over the empty pages of his sales ledger.’
‘We’ve had no custom again, then?’
‘Well, of course not. Who’s going to buy cloth while the town’s being blown to bits? And who is there left who can af
ford it anyway? Virtually all the families of any substance have decamped – except for old Atkins, that is. And he’s having a wonderful time buying up bits of plundered jewellery and pretending he’s never seen it before.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Listen. Do you hear that?’
‘What? All I can hear is gunfire.’
‘Yes but it’s changed. And the mortars have stopped.’ He paused, head tilted to one side. Over the roar of the cannon came a sharp rattling sound, like stones flung hard against a wall. ‘There! That’s musket-fire. The garrison must be making a sally.’ He got up and limped quickly to the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Abigail arose, full of suspicion. ‘You can’t go out there. Jonas will have a fit.’
‘Let him,’ said Samuel. And was gone.
*
The evening meal of mutton pie, roasted vegetables and stewed apricots was less well-cooked than usual but Samuel returned for it safe and sound and without Jonas being any the wiser. He took his seat just as Abigail placed the last dish on the table and, after giving her a conspiratorial wink, assumed an expression of unnatural and provoking gravity.
Abigail, who had formed the habit of seeing to the gentlemen’s needs and then retiring to eat in the kitchen with Betty, took a last look at the table and was about to withdraw when the Colonel stopped her.
‘Mistress Abigail?’ He rose from his seat and regarded her with his usual unsmiling courtesy. ‘It is churlish of us to banish you from your own board. Won’t you join us?’
She coloured a little and glanced nervously at Jonas. ‘It – I – you are very kind, sir but —’
‘My sister is honoured, sir,’ cut in Jonas smoothly. ‘But she has no wish to intrude and will do very well in the kitchen.’
John Fiennes eyed him steadily for a moment. Then he said, ‘Possibly. And when we have additional company, such discretion is admirable. But when we do not, there is no question of intrusion and it would please me to have her join us. Major Lytcot – a stool, if you would be so good.’
Flatteringly placed between the Major and the Colonel, unable for different reasons to look at either of her brothers and uneasily aware of approaching indigestion, Abigail struggled mechanically through her dinner and thought nostalgically of the kitchen. Then, thankfully, the talk turned to things military and she was able to relax and listen.
‘They lifted seventeen of our men on that last sortie and sent them back minus their weapons, helmets and boots,’ Major Lytcot was saying bitterly. ‘One has to admit that that they are very well led.’
‘Quite.’ The Colonel gazed thoughtfully at his stewed apricots. ‘Anthony Greene, of course. We know all about him; sacrilegious, stubborn and wily. Take him, gentlemen, and we have taken Banbury.’
‘I wondered if they might not be running short of powder,’ mused the Major. ‘The two messengers we caught slipping out last Saturday said nothing of it and nor did the letter they were carrying … but it might bear further investigation.’
John Fiennes expression darkened.
‘We’ll be short of it ourselves if we have to repeat today’s performance too often. Eighty grenadoes and twice that in cannon-shot and we are still not inside – nor even close. I do not find it satisfactory.’
‘We might try an assault,’ suggested Rob Woodley diffidently.
‘We might try flying over the wall, Mr Woodley,’ came the blighting reply. ‘But at the present time I do not think it likely that we will.’
‘No, sir.’ Rob buried his round face in his ale mug and managed to send Abigail a glance of comic gloom.
‘The Lord will provide a way,’ stated Jonas ponderously. ‘He will not suffer us to come so far only to be defeated. The Castle must fall and when it does —’
‘When it does,’ interposed Colonel Fiennes, rising from his seat, ‘we shall all give thanks. In the meantime, however, the Committee of Both Kingdoms grows impatient and looks, not to the Lord, but to me. Mistress Abigail – the dinner, as always, was excellent and I thank you for doing us the honour of sharing it with us. Major – a word with you in my room, if you please.’
‘And me, sir?’ Rob rose and fixed his superior with a wide, blue stare. ‘Will you be requiring me at all?’
‘I think not.’ A hint of humour showed for the first time in the Colonel’s eyes. ‘You may therefore devote your surplus energy to helping Mistress Abigail. If, that is, she can find a use for you. Goodnight.’
*
‘Well, if you won’t go for me, won’t you at least go with me?’ asked Abigail pleadingly. It was Saturday morning and there was not a vegetable in the house. ‘You know I hate going there. Mr Barnes looks at me in such a strange way.’
‘He looks at everyone in a strange way,’ retorted Samuel. ‘You make too much of it. And, since you know I can’t leave the shop while Jonas is at Grimsbury, you might as well make up your mind to collecting the vegetables yourself. Goodness knows why you should be scared, anyway. His mother’s always there, isn’t she?’
This was true but Abigail found it no comfort as she drove the small cart slowly to nearby Bodicote where Thankful Barnes ran his forge and small-holding. It was a poor place, scrupulously clean but cheerless and bare of all save the most basic essentials – a reflection, Abigail knew, not of financial straits but of Puritan fervour. Even in religiously independent Banbury, the Barnes family was known for the radical nature of its views. But it was not this that caused Abigail’s reluctance nor even her dislike of the smith’s sour-faced mother – though that was great enough, having often witnessed the old lady’s treatment of her grandchildren. It was something that came from Barnes himself … a creeping, insidious fear that made no sense at all but made her wonder, shuddering, what kind of life his late wife must have led.
He was standing outside the forge when she arrived, a big ox-like man in his middle thirties but looking older, with whitish hair and narrow pale eyes that settled on her and lingered.
‘Good morning,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ve come for our order. Is it ready?’
The smith crossed slowly to stand beside the cart.
‘The boy’s doing it now. Won’t take no more than a minute. Meantime, perhaps you’ll come in and pass the time of day with my old mother?’ He held out his hand to help her down.
Intent on avoiding his oddly mesmeric gaze, Abigail fidgeted with the reins and made a stammering excuse of having little time.
‘But you have to wait for the vegetables, don’t you? And my mother would be that pleased to see you, Mistress.’
The words were innocuous but something in the broad, country voice was not. Before she could answer, the reins were taken from her grasp and twisted about the bar.
‘Come, Mistress. Let me help you down.’ His hands were on her waist, lifting her like a wisp of straw, burning through gown, corset and shift to her skin and then hesitating before finally releasing her.
The kitchen was dark and smelled of the onions that hung on strings from the oaken beams. Mistress Barnes was scouring her oven and, in a corner, eight-year-old Charity was silently cutting rags for a rug. She looked up as Abigail entered and smiled faintly before turning back to her task.
‘See who’s here, Mother? It’s Mistress Abigail, come for the vegetables.’
‘I see her.’ Zelah Barnes offered no greeting but stared at her visitor rather as though she were a dirty cooking-pot.
Something stirred in Abigail and, lifting her chin, she said, ‘I am so sorry, Mistress Barnes. You are busy and I’ve come at a bad time. Please don’t let me disturb you. I can easily wait in the —’ She was half-way to the door when the smith stopped her.
‘Now where’s the hurry, Mistress? Endurance is only just starting to load the cart. And Mother’s never too busy for you. It’s just her way. Isn’t it, Mother?’
‘If you say so.’ The voice remained harsh with disapproval. ‘You’d best sit down, Mistress, and take some ale.’
‘Oh no – no, thank you.’ Barnes’ hand was
still on her arm and Abigail subsided hurriedly on to a stool. ‘It’s very kind of you b-but really I must not stay. I’m expected back and …’ Her words trailed off helplessly as mother and son seemed to close in on her.
‘I hear as you’ve got his lordship’s son in the house,’ said Zelah.
‘Colonel Fiennes? Yes.’
‘And two other young officers. And your mother and sister away at Grimsbury.’
‘Yes.’ Unable to comprehend Zelah’s interrogation, Abigail looked from mother to son and then wished she hadn’t. The pale eyes were fixed on her as if they would break into her mind and crack it open; as if – and she recognised the fact with a sense of sick shock – they could see through her clothes to her body. New fear rippled cold down her spine and she stood up, shaking. ‘I have to go.’
‘Of course.’ Thankful Barnes towered over her … huge, muscular and apparently respectful. ‘You have heavy responsibilities. We understand. Don’t we, Mother?’
‘I understand,’ came the cryptic reply. ‘The serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God hath made. Do you pray, Mistress?’
The question made Abigail jump.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘With a clean heart, made pure and open to the Lord?’
‘I th-think so.’
‘Temptation is in your path, Mistress. You should make sure of it.’
The oppressive gloom of the kitchen enclosed Abigail like a fist. Her palms grew damp with sweat and the smith’s face wavered before her eyes.
‘He knows I’m afraid,’ she thought hazily. ‘He knows – and he’s glad.’
‘Smith! Hey there! Smith, I say!’
The call checked Abigail’s wandering senses and she blinked.
‘Mr Woodley?’
A dark figure appeared against the sunlight of the doorway.
‘Smith? What on earth do you think you’re playing at, man? I’ve been calling myself hoarse out here!’ And then, differently, ‘Why, Mistress Abigail. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that you were there.’
