Marrying the Mistress

by Juliet Landon

  ‘What I need, my lord, is control of my life, for once. Control of Jamie’s life, too. And that is still being denied me.’

  ‘Then try being realistic. Sons remain in the control of their fathers or guardians and there’s nothing you can do about that. You must have known as much. So, if you want to stay with him, you will have to accept the same constraints and try to regard them as benefits. Which they are. Linas knew that, and his will reflects it.’

  ‘Is that so? Even to a ban on my marriage.’

  ‘What marriage?’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, to a future husband, of course. Who else?’

  ‘Do you have a candidate in mind for the position?’

  ‘It would make no difference if I did. I stand to lose my son if I do.’

  ‘Nonsense. You wouldn’t lose him. He’d be with me.’

  ‘That’s the same thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. You know full well it isn’t.’

  There was something in his voice which I could not identify, but which I preferred not to enquire into too closely. Far from simplifying matters, our discussion had taken me further into obligations I would rather not have had, for while the crisis over costs appeared to have a solution, the acceptance of it for little Jamie’s sake was not at all to my liking.

  ‘Just the same,’ I said, ‘it’s a risk I’m not prepared to take.’

  ‘A risk? Is that how you see it? As risk? What on earth do you think I might do to the little chap?’

  The risk, of course, was not about what he might do but what he might not do, namely to protect my son from the kind of racy lifestyle enjoyed by the Abbots Mere set, the foolish irresponsible blades and the Lady Slatterlys of society. She, for one, would enjoy finding my Achilles’ heel in Jamie and, having found it, would twist the dart till it hurt. I was certain of it.

  ‘The kind of life you lead is quite different from the one he’s been used to with Linas and me,’ I said, turning away. ‘And you are not used to children.’

  ‘I’m willing to learn. And he has a nurse. Anyway, you take him to see Medworth’s family and to play with the animals there. He can do the same at Abbots Mere, and more. He’ll have his own room, a pony to ride…’

  ‘He’s too young for that,’ I objected, weakly.

  ‘Of course he’s not!’ he scoffed. ‘I learned to ride at three.’

  ‘The question doesn’t arise. Jamie will stay with me. A child of three needs his mother.’ I hoped he would hear the finality in my tone.

  ‘Nevertheless, Miss Follet, I think you will have to accept that Jamie will want to visit me, and that I shall want to see him. Often.’

  ‘I have to, don’t I? Perhaps one day a week, or alternate—’

  ‘No. My work doesn’t run like clockwork. I have a large estate, and I do things as and when they need doing. When I send for Jamie I shall expect him to come, and that will vary from week to week. I shall also expect him to stay, sometimes. You too, if you wish. I shall have rooms put aside for your personal use.’

  Alarm bells rang. ‘For my personal use. How thoughtful. So tell me, my lord, what kind of signal that will send to family and friends? Will your current mistress vacate her rooms for my benefit? Shall I be seen as the newest member of the harem? It could get quite cosy.’

  He didn’t react, this time, as he’d done before, but looked down his straight nose at me with his eyes narrowed, his mouth beginning to lift at the corners. ‘So…o, that’s what’s bothering you, is it? Ah, I see.’

  Suddenly I was having to defend myself to him in a way I’d never had to do for years. Linas seemed so very far away, which was good, for I did not want him to hear this conversation. ‘Yes,’ I snapped, heading for the door, ‘that is what’s bothering me. How could you be so insensitive as to think I would ever agree to stay there after…’ My cheeks flamed. Why had I brought that up now, of all times?

  I stalked off into the room next door that I had always used, scarcely more inviting than Linas’s, especially in the cold blue light of winter. ‘You must know,’ I mumbled, ‘that for me to be seen as one of the Abbots Mere crowd is the last thing I ever wanted, even when Linas was with me.’ I started to rummage. ‘I have a few things to look for. Treddle said he’d send them on, but if you’d rather I left them, I shall quite understand.’

  He caught up with me and perched on my delicate stool with the petit-point cushion, his greatcoat swamping it, his long booted legs looking very out of place in a lady’s bedroom. I glared at him, bristling with hostility.

  He held my glare with those supercilious brown eyes. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You wish me to hell. But some matters have to be tackled head on, and we’re going to have this out whether it embarrasses you or not. You must have learned by now that you’ve met your match, Miss Follet.’

  What I had learned was that Linas and his brother were even less alike than I thought, one refusing point-blank to discuss the future, even mine or his son’s, the other one impatient to settle every detail. One, a prevaricator with no future to see into, the other with bountiful years ahead. Linas must have thought my future would take care of itself. I was not his wife. Why should he bother?

  ‘Shall we postpone the debate about whether or not I have met my match, my lord? If you’re asking whether I ever felt a certain imbalance in my relationship with your brother, then, yes, I cannot deny that. It could hardly be otherwise, could it, with Linas unable to see far ahead. Happily, I can see far enough for myself, so I shall not go hungry. You must tell me how to apply for Jamie’s allowance each month, and perhaps arrange for Mr Brierley to make it available. I shall keep every receipt, naturally. I pride myself on being able to keep my own accounts.’ It was immodest of me, but I thought he may as well know.

  ‘Mother. Mistress. Businesswoman. Is there anything at which you are not proficient, Miss Follet?’

  ‘Yes, I am not a good liar, my lord. The other day you were kind enough to remind me that your high-minded act of self-sacrifice was entirely for Linas’s benefit, not mine. So I would be lying if I failed to point out, in case you should misunderstand, that I thought only of him too. I wonder you did not hear me call out his name, once or twice.’

  ‘We spoke no words, as you well know.’

  ‘Which only goes to show the limitations of your memory, my lord.’

  ‘I’m flattered to know that yours is still sharp, Miss Follet.’ He stood up, damn him, as if to claim the last word on the subject. ‘And since you were also kind enough to point out the undesirable nature of what you call the Abbots Mere crowd, perhaps I may be allowed to voice similar concerns about your dubious connections. Not quite the kind of thing Jamie ought to know about. You entertained young Solway for a few months, I believe, as well as Standish’s middle son. What’s his name? Bertrand, is it?’

  ‘For money, my lord,’ I snapped. ‘I was obliged to sell myself.’

  ‘Ah, of course. For money. Well then, you need hardly be too concerned about visiting Abbots Mere with my ward, since none of the women who stay there are ever paid a penny. They do it voluntarily.’

  ‘In which case, then, one would expect to see the place swarming with your other little wards. That part must cost you a small fortune.’

  ‘No!’ he said, picking up a porcelain plate from the mantelshelf and looking at the back. ‘You and Jamie are the only ones to cost me anything.’

  ‘How sad. That’s something I can easily fix, my lord.’ Boiling, churning, seething with anger at being outmanoeuvred, I gulped down the rest of my venom in a pointless threat that meant nothing at all, since there was no way in which I could fix it, except permanently.

  Looking back on it later, I suppose that’s what he thought I meant, for when I moved towards the door again, thinking only to get away from the haunting place, he slammed it shut before I could reach it, catching me like a silly sheep against the wall.

  ‘Admit it or not, lady, as you please,’ he said, but no more than that before he pushed my h
ead on to his shoulder and brought his mouth down to cover mine, making me forget what it was I was not admitting, and a lot more besides.

  He must have known…oh, yes…he must have known how much of that night I remembered. He must have known too how desperately I needed comfort instead of conflict and how much I would have preferred matters to go my way, for a change. He must have known, with Linas no longer to care or be cared for, that I felt both free and guilty, grieved and confused and not as well organised as I pretended to be. So I half-expected his kiss to taste of revenge after our session of deliberate wounding, our first close contact in all those difficult years. I thought he was about to put me, finally, in my place.

  But it was not like that, not bitter, but meant, I think, to remind me of the magical beauty of that night without words, passionate but tender too, wanting, taking and giving. Predictable was not the way to describe Burl Winterson, yet I could taste the hunger in his kisses that roamed slowly across my lips, and I felt the desire in his hard arm across my shoulders, the soft hand holding my face. Feel, taste, scent…ah, yes…the scent was there too. Moorland. Fresh linen. Trees after rain. How could I not be reminded?

  He must have heard the moan, faintly, in my throat.

  ‘You’re right,’ he whispered, ‘about not being a good liar. I think we’d both better stick to the truth in future. And let us get another thing straight before we leave. You and Jamie will continue to live under my protection on Blake Street without any more argument. You will bring him to visit me and you will both accept my authority as you did with Linas. I do not need to remind you again whose son he is.’

  ‘And I suppose the next thing will be that you’ll expect him to call you Papa, will it?’ I said, trying to stiffen in his embrace, and failing.

  ‘That’ll come too. One thing at a time.’

  Squirming out of his arms, I steadied myself against the blue-flocked wallpaper. ‘I was being sarcastic,’ I said, pettishly. ‘I have no intention of giving you that satisfaction. And what is it I’m to admit, or not, as I please?’

  ‘That you’ve met your match, at last. Now, where are these other things of yours? Come and show me.’

  Chapter Four

  No expectations, I had said, choosing not to hear the unreality of such a boast. But it was not true. I had expected, and yet again had failed to take into account the uncanny affinity between the twin brothers who, although unlike in many ways, had shared the same birth and the same life.

  To hear that Linas had never owned my home on Blake Street had shocked me. To discover that he had not personally been responsible for its running costs, and mine too, had left me totally bewildered and very angry, making me revise my assumptions about why he had wanted an heir so much when he had so little to leave. A trust fund, yes, but no property. Linas had owned the Stonegate house, but Winterson had lent his property on Blake Street to Linas for my use, and Jamie’s. And now, he was adamant that we should stay there while he made use of the larger one, as well as Abbots Mere. It was going to be difficult for me to escape him or to avoid his promised interference in our lives, our freedom being the one thing to which I had most looked forwards.

  And the kiss? Well, no more than a reminder, a clever way of exposing my pathetic lie that had been intended to hurt him as he had hurt me. He said we should both start telling the truth, but I had no wish to tell him anything. To do that would be dangerous for a woman in my position. All the same, it was his kiss that kept me sleepless for most of the night.

  Long before dawn, I had reached the decision not to delay any longer my visit to Foss Beck Common. My family’s food situation must now be getting desperate, I thought, though there were other reasons for me to go too. They would not have heard of Linas’s death, and I had to speak to them about the future. Mama would be suffering from the extreme cold, and I also needed to collect whatever Pierre had managed to acquire for my business. There was also money to be taken to him from the sales of my last consignment which, even when shared between us, was almost always a considerable amount. He never told me exactly how much it cost him to pay for these goods in the first place, or even whether he paid in kind and, if so, what kind. But I had recently felt that whatever he paid was nothing like as much as the returns we were getting.

  * * *

  So I had my horse saddled at daybreak, loading the packhorse with gifts and supplies and, wrapping myself thickly with extra shawls, set off along the snow-packed Roman road towards Bridlington. Jamie had not been pleased to be left behind: so unpleased, in fact, that his screaming tantrum was the last sound I heard as Goody hauled him away with both threats and promises. I knew what Jamie needed most, but my firmness was sometimes not enough, and nor was Mrs Goode’s. Did he really need to see more of me, or less?

  There had been no new falls during the night and, although the wind was still biting hard, the sky was blue and cloudless, the sun’s rays bouncing off the dazzling white of moor and valley. I went alone, sure of the way, expecting to meet very few travellers, and certainly no coaches. Only a mile or so out of York, however, I realised what a big risk I was taking, for the road was treacherous with ice, the snow blown into drifts by the north-easterly against which the poor horses had to battle with heads down.

  The sky was beginning to darken under a full moon by the time I reached Fridaythorpe and found the turnoff southwards to Foss Beck, another three miles of deep drifts and hidden tracks. Then, the land spread out before me like a laundered sheet stained with the dark shadows of trees, and I cursed myself for my impetuosity and foolhardiness while thinking of how I needed to see my family, and how they needed the food. It was quite dark before I made out the squared shapes of buildings ahead, before I rode, exhausted and chilled to the bone into the rambling desolate place, after a journey of less than twenty miles usually accomplished in three hours. Four, at the most.

  The dogs picked up my shouts, baying with excitement when they heard my voice, yelping as the torches waved. My brothers ran out to take my bridle, catching me as I fell into their arms. Finch was nineteen, Greg seventeen, and as strong as young oxen. ‘Sister! Are you mad to come here in this weather? Here, hold on to me. Can you stand? Shall we carry you?’

  ‘I’ll carry her,’ called a deeper voice. ‘Unload the horses, lads.’

  ‘No one shall carry me,’ I protested, hearing the authority in Pierre’s command. Five years older than me, he had assumed the position as head of the house since my father’s demise, which did not go down well with anyone except my mother. Careful not to add my approval to hers on that vexed question, I greeted Pierre as I had done my brothers, with a hug and a frozen smile that hurt my face. ‘Yes, unload the horses and tend them. I’ll go on up to Mama.’ I staggered like a drunk towards the stone steps.

  High waves of snow broke over the outbuildings in the courtyard where deep passages had been cut to the doorways, the paths marked out with straw. Now half-ruined, the large house had been built in the thirteenth century for the lord of the manor, with walls three feet thick and living quarters, as usual, on the floor above the undercroft. The place had been derelict until my family took possession of it, believing like everyone else that the abandoned village belonged to no one and that the land had reverted to common useage.

  Carrying what I could manage up the flight of steps, I almost fell into the vast space that had once been the great hall. This had been my home too, though still a far cry from our grand house on the coast, as well as the one I used in York filled with polished wood, glass and fine paintings. Here, the massive beams under the thatch were thick with cobwebs, the bare walls flaking with centuries-old limewash.

  ‘Helen! It cannot be…my lassie…my little Helen.’ My mother’s wail, squeaking like an untuned spinet, sounded to me like an angel choir. It might, I thought, have been the real reason why I had to make that dreadful journey, to hear her voice and find the warm, eager, clinging welcome of her arms, her hands, her lovely smile, her tear-filled eyes. We sobbe
d, laughed, and sobbed again, rocking and cooing in wordless mothering sounds.

  Anxiously looking over my shoulder, she croaked, ‘Ye’ve not brought the little one, have ye? Not in this weather?’

  ‘No, Mama. But he wanted to come to see Nana Damzell.’

  ‘Then what’s wrong, lassie? Is it your man? He’s worsened?’

  ‘Gone, Mama,’ I sobbed. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Aah! Gone.’ The words were merely breaths of sound as she studied me. ‘Gone. Oh, my poor wee lass. Tch! Oh, lassie. After all that you did.’

  With our typical northern philosophy that sympathy was best expressed in practicalities, she began to bustle about, removing my frozen layers, drawing me to the roaring log fire to seat me with a blanket round my shoulders and a cushion beneath my numbed feet. Croaking, she called to the two elderly family servants to fetch bowls of broth, which they were already doing. ‘Gone,’ she kept whispering as her fingers wrapped and tucked. ‘Tch! Gone at last. So sad. Here, eat it up, lassie. You’re home now.’

  That kind of care, and the exhaustion, was all it took to release the flood, and for some time I could neither hide my grief nor tell her about the events that had changed my life once more. Though I tasted nothing much, the warming broth began to send my blood back into my aching limbs, thawing my brain. Then, like a runaway child returned to the fold, I was quizzed about my eating, sleeping, monthly periods, keeping warm, exercise and rest, overwork, moods, mine and Jamie’s. None of this did I resent. It was one thing to laugh at the banality of such an inquisition, but quite another to weep at the loving intent behind it. And if it was intrusive, it was the kind of intrusion I had missed and longed for.