Garland of Straw (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 2)

by Stella Riley

  ‘And you don’t think you might have been a bit hasty?’

  ‘No.’ Venetia glanced from Phoebe to Elizabeth and back again. ‘What do you expect me to do? Bow my head meekly and give myself to a misbegotten bumpkin in an orange sash?’

  ‘No … not exactly. But I don’t suppose he likes the situation any better than you do. And it’s hardly his fault, after all.’

  ‘That,’ pronounced Venetia darkly, ‘is a matter of opinion. Oh – the marriage clause undoubtedly came as a shock. But I’d wager my gold locket that he’s put a lot of time and effort into getting Brandon Lacey.’ She smiled savagely. ‘It would serve him right if I did marry him.’

  There was a pause and then Phoebe said mildly, ‘Is he nice?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. He’s a Roundhead.’

  ‘So? They can’t all be monsters, can they?’

  ‘I neither know nor care. Anyway, this one is also illegitimate.’

  ‘Yes. Well, that is a problem, I grant you. But what’s he like as a person?’

  ‘Rude and callous and arrogant.’

  ‘Oh dear. But he was in rather an awkward position, wasn’t he? And I don’t suppose you were at your best yourself.’ This was said with a glint of mischief. ‘Perhaps we should give him the benefit of the doubt?’

  Her sister’s gaze was icy.

  ‘I haven’t the remotest intention of giving him anything. And if you’re about to observe that he might improve on acquaintance – I can only say that so, probably, do toads, grass-snakes and weevils. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I should grow to like them.’

  ‘Oh.’ Phoebe thought for a moment. ‘So he’s really impossible?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘And even if his birth and politics weren’t what they are,’ offered Elizabeth earnestly, ‘Venetia loves Ellis.’

  ‘Does she?’ asked Phoebe. And, to Venetia, ‘Do you?’

  ‘I should have thought that the answer to that was obvious.’

  ‘Not to me, it isn’t. You may have been betrothed to Ellis for five years but you can’t have laid eyes on him more than a handful of times in the last three. And I always did think it silly to let your engagement drag on so.’

  ‘What choice did we have? In the beginning, none of us expected the war to last beyond the first big battle – and, by the time everyone started to realise it wouldn’t be settled so easily, Ellis was dashing all over the country with George Goring.’

  ‘I accept that. But you must have seen a fair amount of him while you were in Oxford with the Queen in ’44 – so why didn’t you get married then?’ demanded Phoebe with relentless logic. ‘It’s what I would have done. And I can’t imagine Tom Knightley waiting six years for Elizabeth. Six months is too long for him!’

  A hint of colour stained Venetia’s cheekbones. Fortunately, however, Elizabeth held Phoebe’s attention by bending her head in maidenly modesty and murmuring something incomprehensible.

  ‘Come on, Bess – you know it’s true. And it’s the same for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘I – why – it’s really not —’

  ‘Stop behaving like Mother and be honest,’ said Phoebe severely. ‘You know you can’t wait for next spring – and that’s as it should be. I only wish it were me. Still, perhaps I’ll stand more chance once you and Venetia are married. It’s not easy being the plain one of the family.’

  Elizabeth stretched out a comforting hand.

  ‘You’re not plain, dearest.’

  ‘No,’ agreed the cynic on the window-seat. ‘But everything’s relative, isn’t it? And I haven’t exactly noticed a trail of eligible suitors beating a path to the door on my account. Not once they’ve seen you and Venetia, anyway.’

  An impartial observer might have conceded that Phoebe had a point, for the Fates which had given Venetia eyes of ever-changing amethyst and Elizabeth ones of deep, translucent blue had decreed that her own be an unremarkable grey. And while Venetia’s hair was silver-fair and Elizabeth’s guinea-gold, Phoebe’s unruly curls were that shade of honey-brown most commonly referred to as mouse. Seen without her sisters, her wide smile and lively expression rendered her extremely appealing; seen with them, she appeared commonplace.

  Smiling a little, Venetia said, ‘Hence your enthusiasm for Colonel Brandon, I suppose?’

  ‘No!’ said Phoebe indignantly. And then, with a gurgle of laughter, ‘Well, perhaps. But can you blame me? You’re four-and-twenty, after all – and if you don’t marry soon, you never will. And I’ll spend the rest of my life being known as Venetia Clifford’s sister.’

  ‘A fate worse than death!’

  ‘Well, it is.’ Phoebe eyed her sister thoughtfully and entirely without rancour for a moment and then said, ‘So what does this colonel look like?’

  Venetia’s smile faded.

  ‘Oh heavens – I don’t know.’

  ‘You must do. You spent over an hour in his company yesterday and all you’ve said so far is that he wore an orange sash. You must have noticed more than that. Is he tall?’

  ‘Yes. And dark. But before you get carried away with some notion of a handsome hero, allow me to tell you that he must be at least thirty-five and – as far as I’m concerned – distinctly unmemorable.’

  Phoebe was not discouraged.

  ‘Well at least that proves he can’t be horribly ugly.’

  Venetia came abruptly to her feet.

  ‘Here’s an idea. Why don’t you marry him?’

  ‘There’d be no point to it. You’re the one who’s been offered Ford Edge as a bride-price.’

  ‘A fact of which I am thoroughly aware.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t ask you – or you refuse him and Harry doesn’t come back either,’ said Elizabeth slowly, ‘what will happen?’

  ‘We’ll all be dependent on his goodwill,’ admitted Venetia reluctantly, ‘As much as if we were his tenants. More, probably.’

  ‘Oh.’ The blue eyes grew anxious. ‘I don’t think Tom’s father will like that.’

  ‘Do you suppose that any of us will?’ snapped Venetia.

  ‘N-no.’ Tears gathered on Elizabeth’s lashes. ‘But I shan’t be able to bear it if I’m not allowed to marry Tom after all.’

  Venetia stared at her, a sensation of sick helplessness welling up inside her. Finally she said tonelessly, ‘Don’t cry. Your contract of betrothal is already drawn up and the dowry agreed. I shouldn’t think the bastard can alter that. It will be all right. And, in the meantime, I’ll see what can be done about contacting Harry.’

  ‘How?’ asked Phoebe. ‘We don’t know where he is. And even if we did, it wouldn’t do any good. He won’t take the Oath. Not after Kit.’

  The name of their dead brother hung on the air, paralysing them all. Then Venetia drew a long breath and said, ‘We’ll see. It’s stupid to worry ourselves yet. Harry may come … or the Parliament may grant him a pardon, or —’

  ‘Or the horse may talk,’ muttered the eternal optimist in the window. ‘And you and the Colonel may come to like each other.’

  This, however, was too much for Venetia and, crossing to the door, she said distantly, ‘Don’t count on it. You’ll excuse me if I leave you – but one more word on this subject and I’m likely to throw a fit. I’m going for a walk.’

  *

  Venetia did not go straight outside but retired first to her bedchamber where, after wasting a good deal of paper, she finally wrote two short and rather brusque letters. Then she pushed both them and Sir Robert’s unhelpful, posthumous epistle up her sleeve and slipped quietly out into the garden.

  The sky was overcast and the air hot and heavy, as though a storm was brewing. Venetia frowned anxiously and hoped that it wasn’t. A small but promising harvest stood out in the fields and, after the disastrous one of last year, they could ill-afford to lose it. Ford Edge had problems enough – broken fences, leaking roofs, war-crippled workers, widows and orphans – without facing a winter of near starvation. And things were little b
etter at Brandon Lacey; indeed, she doubted they were better anywhere in England. The only advantages some families had were uncomplicated ownership of their home and lands and the presence of their menfolk.

  Without conscious thought, her feet carried her across the paddock to the vine-tangled spinney which lay between Ford Edge and the tiny village of Brearton. It was gloomy beneath the trees but, well-accustomed to this particular path and dwelling once more on the aggravating matter of Ellis’s prolonged absence, she did not notice it.

  It was over a year since Ellis had paid his last fleeting visit – when, following the fall of Oxford in June of ’46, he had come with Harry to announce their joint departure for France. Since then, Venetia had received only one letter from her betrothed and none at all from her brother. She did not even know precisely where they were. Yet somehow – unless they made a swift, miraculous appearance – she was going to have to fight for their respective inheritances against the lunacy of Sir Robert’s will. And though she knew it was her duty and would do it willingly, she could not help wishing that the burden wasn’t hers alone.

  She sat down on a fallen log and tried to assess the situation logically but her only clear thought was the depressing knowledge that, if there was a way out, it would be up to her to find it. Mother was both selfish and impractical and Elizabeth, sweetly helpless. Uncle James inevitably withdrew at the first sign of unpleasantness and Phoebe was little more than a child. All of them needed looking after and there was only Venetia herself to do it.

  The last years had changed her. She knew that – and saw it daily reflected in the eyes of other people. Somewhere between Kit’s death and Father’s, and the fight to keep Ford Edge solvent, the bright, carefree girl who had danced at Whitehall had grown hard and bitter and a little too sharp. As yet, it was only a shell. But now, with this new and terrifying obstacle to face, there was little chance of her ever shedding it.

  Harry, of course, would not come back – or, if he did, it wouldn’t be to take the Oath. They all knew it; even Mother, though she preferred not to acknowledge it. When Kit’s life had been snuffed out by a Roundhead bullet at Lichfield, something in Harry had died too. For Kit had been his twin … the laughing, extrovert side of his own more sombre nature. And Harry had never been the same since.

  Venetia pulled out Sir Robert’s letter and scanned it anew until the phrases burned into her brain.

  ‘I know well that, as you read this, you will be angry … I ask not for forgiveness but for an open mind. War alters us all and Ellis is no longer a fit mate for you. He will lean on your strength rather than learn from it. I do not exclude him for his politics but for that irresponsibility in his nature which I had hoped to see him shed.’ And then, towards the end, ‘Gabriel will find this no easier than you and he will need your help. Teach him how best to tend the land, work with him … he is an honourable man and I believe you have much to offer each other. Do not waste what remains of your youth. You know I have always loved you as a daughter.’

  A bitter smile touched her mouth and she crumpled the letter in her hand. His daughter? Yes, she too had wanted to be that – but not by wedding his rebel bastard and thus making herself a laughing-stock throughout the county. It was unthinkable … impossible … and for reasons which she could explain to nobody.

  In all innocence, Phoebe had referred to the summer of 1644 – but Venetia had not needed her little sister to remind her. It had been the summer that the Queen fled abroad and the last one she herself had spent in Oxford before returning to Yorkshire. And for a single, cataclysmic week, Ellis had been there too.

  Most people would have called what followed a foregone conclusion and certainly, in an Oxford gripped by war-fever, it wasn’t at all unusual. Perhaps if Venetia’s circle had been composed of more mature ladies things might have been different; but her closest friends had been Kate d’Aubigny, tragically widowed at Edgehill and involving herself in wild plots, and Margot Deveril, a young matron with a small son and a whole string of lovers – both of whom had learned to live only for the moment. And then there had been Ellis, applying constant pressure amidst attempts at seduction and convincing her that – since they had already been betrothed for two years - there was no harm in anticipating their marriage vows.

  Venetia’s throat tightened painfully. She’d eventually allowed herself to be persuaded and bitterly regretted it ever since. The result was that she couldn’t marry Gabriel Brandon – or, indeed, anyone at all except Ellis. Not after that. But what was the alternative? That her family become virtual tenants in their own home and Harry lose his inheritance? That Philip Knightley cancel his son’s betrothal contract with Elizabeth and Phoebe be forced to look for a husband amongst the ranks of the New Model Army? And for all of them, an endlessly uncertain future, waiting for the day that might never come … for it had to be admitted that His Majesty’s prospects of regaining his throne looked far from promising. Since the Parliament had paid the Scots for possession of his person and brought him south, King Charles had been held in honourable captivity at Holdenby – until last month when the Army had seized him. And if France or Ireland or the Netherlands were planning to help him, they were being remarkably slow about it.

  Deep in thought, she missed the tell-tale crack of a twig behind her. Then her breath stopped as a firm, masculine hand clamped itself over her mouth and a threatening voice growled, ‘Well, well my pretty pigeon. And what might you be doing here all alone?’

  Venetia sat absolutely still and waited for the hand to be removed. Then, without turning her head, she said, ‘Try that again, Captain Peverell, and I’ll bite your impudent fingers off.’

  Grinning unrepentantly, Ashley Peverell strolled around the log and dropped carelessly down beside her.

  ‘Keep awake, then. If you’d been paying attention, I wouldn’t have got so close.’

  ‘That is hardly the point.’

  ‘Yes it is. For all you know, this place could be crawling with poke-noses. And I’ve no wish to decorate a rope’s end on account of your carelessness.’

  She flushed a little and met his eyes for the first time. Dark green and flecked with gold, there was a look in them that reminded her why, in certain clandestine quarters, the Captain was known as the Falcon.

  ‘You’re right, of course. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I forgive you.’ He inspected her shrewdly. ‘Problems, darling?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘Ah. Would you like to tell your Uncle Ash all about it?’

  Venetia smiled wryly. Lean, tanned, outrageously good-looking and every inch the adventurer, Ashley Peverell was more likely to steal a girl’s heart than cherish her secrets. She said, ‘I hope you never meet my little sister. You’re just the kind of rogue to appeal to her.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he shrugged, accepting the rebuff with unimpaired good-humour. ‘Let’s get down to business, then. Have you any messages for me?’

  ‘Yes – two. Rob Hart’s fallen under suspicion at home and thinks it best to miss the next meeting in case he’s followed. And Geoffrey Carnforth’s back. He escaped from the Gatehouse a month ago and is lying low at Scotton. He didn’t trust me enough to write a letter.’

  ‘Are you surprised? The poor devil’s been caught that way before when his mistress filched some papers of his and sold them to the local Committee. You can’t trust anyone these days.’ He rose and straightened his sash. ‘I’ll go and see him. I’ve got to go to Scotland and from there I’ll be taking ship for France. Carnforth had better come with me. He can’t skulk here for long without being picked up again.’

  ‘Scotland and France?’ Venetia came slowly to her feet. ‘Does that mean that something is happening at last?’

  ‘Soon, I hope – while Parliament and the Army are still too busy squabbling amongst themselves to pay us much attention. I suppose you heard that the Army has driven eleven Presbyterian members – Denzil Holles and William Waller among them – out of the House on a charge of st
arting another war by inviting the Scots back?’

  ‘Yes. And I couldn’t help wondering, since it was reputedly the work of Cromwell’s son-in-law, if it didn’t have more to do with the rumours that Holles was hoping to have Cromwell arrested. After all, I doubt if Henry Ireton’s the man to sit idly by while his wife’s father goes to the Tower. And there’s been bad blood between himself and Holles for months now.’

  Captain Peverell lifted one amused brow.

  ‘Something about a duel, wasn’t it? Being out of the country at the time, I heard rumours but missed the details.’

  ‘It was ludicrous,’ said Venetia flatly. ‘The Agitators presented a petition for arrears of pay and the Commons condemned it, so Ireton spoke in support. At that point, for God knows what reason, Denzil Holles challenged him across the floor of the House. Ireton pointed out that he wasn’t wearing a sword and Holles replied with words to the effect that all Independents were spineless cowards. The two of them then set about each other like a pair of children and had to be separated by William Waller. But not, so rumour has it, before Mr Holles pulled Commissary-General Ireton’s nose.’

  ‘And these are our great and illustrious leaders,’ grinned the Captain. Then, ‘Of course, what Henry Ireton would really like is a whole fresh House of Commons – presumably one that will pay him instead of trying to put him out of a job. But, in the meantime, getting rid of the Presbyterians so as to leave himself and his fellow Independents with a majority is a smart move.’ He shrugged. ‘Encouragingly for us, the whole thing is fast turning into a dog-fight – lots of snarling and baring of teeth.’

  ‘So I’ve gathered. But what are our plans for taking advantage of it?’

  ‘Ah. Well, as to that, it’s best you don’t know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Venetia frostily. ‘I’m constantly amazed that you let me help you at all.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You know very well that you fill the role of liaison officer in these parts to perfection.’ He draped a casual arm about her waist. ‘And speaking for myself, sweetheart, I couldn’t manage without you.’