by Stella Riley
Gabriel looked up, his expression unreadable.
‘It may also have something to do with the possibility of the Scots crossing the border.’
‘Yes. But the Parliament only has itself to blame for that. The King wouldn’t have turned to the Scots if the Commons wasn’t so entrenched in its views. My God – I should think he can recite their demands to music by now. Three years of Presbyterianism and control of the Militia for twenty … abolition of the episcopacy and fifty-eight of his friends to be prosecuted.’ She paused scornfully. ‘He rejected those terms at Uxbridge and again at Newcastle. So can the Parliament seriously have thought he’d like them any better last month at Carisbrooke?’
‘I don’t suppose they did think it – but neither do I consider the repetitive nature of the Four Bills a sufficient excuse for sanctioning an invasion,’ responded Gabriel dryly. ‘Also, if all the King wanted was a new set of terms, he could have taken the Heads of the Proposals.’
‘He might have done so if the Parliament had let him. You must be sorry they didn’t. After all, it would suit you and your friends down to the ground to have His Majesty fall into your laps like a ripe plum.’
His mouth curled and, in a tone Venetia was beginning to recognise but still could not interpret, he said, ‘Naturally. Why shouldn’t those who won the war dictate the peace?’
‘Because it’s not their place to do so.’
‘No? Then whose? The King’s been in check for two years but has failed to recognise it. And if he doesn’t concede the game soon, someone will be forced to make him.’
Since this came very close to what Francis Langley had said, Venetia was silent for a moment. Swiftly taking advantage of the temporary lull, Sophia said desperately, ‘Isn’t there any other news you can read to us, dear?’
‘Plenty.’ Venetia dropped the sheet she was holding and reached for another from the pile in her lap. ‘There were riots in Canterbury on Christmas Day when the Mayor tried to insist on shops opening as usual. It began with a game of football – forbidden, of course – and ended with cries of Up with King Charles and down with the Parliament!’ She paused to direct a mocking smile in Gabriel’s direction. ‘What else? Ah yes. The Army has pardoned its mutineers in what I can only assume to be a feeble-minded attempt to placate the Levellers; and Colonel Rainsborough is being made Vice-Admiral – presumably for the same reason.’
Gabriel reflected that a pardon for the mutineers ought to have made it simpler for Major Maxwell to get Sam Radford out of prison and that removing Rainsborough from the Army Council was undoubtedly a smart move in certain people’s view - but not one likely to placate the Levellers in the least. He also suspected that, despite the Colonel’s previous seafaring experience, his politics weren’t likely to find favour in the Navy.
Smiling blandly back at Venetia, he said, ‘Do go on. I’m riveted, I assure you.’
‘Are you?’ She disinterred a single broadsheet from the heap. ‘Then how about a little poetry?’
You shall have a King – but whom?
Was ever a King served so?
To make room for Oliver, oh brave Oliver,
Oh rare Oliver, oh gallant Oliver, oh!
Now Oliver must be he, now Oliver must be he
For Oliver’s nose is the Lancaster rose
And then comes his sovereignty …
She paused and then added brightly, ‘Just at present, the Lieutenant-General doesn’t seem terribly popular with anybody, does he?’
‘No. But then he never has been popular amongst the Cavaliers,’ came the totally unruffled reply. ‘He’s defeated them too often.’
Sophia took one look at Venetia’s face and rose hurriedly from her chair, spilling shawls in every direction.
‘I’ll ask Meg to bring some wine,’ she said. And fled.
Gabriel watched her go, a faint frown marking his brow. Then, turning back to Venetia, he said flatly, ‘Much as I hate to spoil your fun, this endless skirmishing has got to stop. It serves no purpose and is making life very uncomfortable for Sophy.’
A hint of colour stained Venetia’s cheeks and she said irritably, ‘I know. But I daresay she’d find silence equally uncomfortable. The only things you and I have in common are our differences – so what else do you suggest we talk about? What else is there?’
‘Local affairs … domestic matters … the estate? Things that Sophy knows about too and that we ought to be able to discuss without quarrelling. Besides which, when I leave here in the spring, you’ll be the one making day-to-day decisions with Dick Carter, so it’s important that you know Brandon Lacey as well as you do Ford Edge.’
She stared at him.
‘You really mean to stay in the Army?’
‘Of course. What’s the matter? Didn’t you believe I would?’ he asked. ‘But no. Of course you didn’t. You thought I had ideas above my station.’
Venetia did not bother to reply and instead tried to decide whether this declaration made things better or worse. If Gabriel resigned his command, there might be some chance of people eventually forgetting his unfortunate background. But if he didn’t, the Army would keep him away from Yorkshire for months at a time and she would be free, not just of his unwelcome presence, but to pursue her own activities.
Her face was not an especially easy one to read but Gabriel had no difficulty in following the basic drift of her thoughts. He said, ‘Obviously I should have made a point of reassuring you before. But now that you know, it may make it easier for us to co-exist over the next couple of months. And – who knows? – if the Scots invade, you may even find yourself a widow. How’s that for a cheering thought?’
‘I could reconcile myself to it,’ she snapped.
‘I thought you could. And, having given you a ray of hope to cling to, at least I can stop worrying about you dropping something nasty in the cherry cordial.’ He paused and then, rather less flippantly, said, ‘Which reminds me. Does the stillroom contain any Peruvian bark?’
‘Of course. Why?’
‘Jane Skilbeck has a fever and no money to spare for an apothecary. I thought you might have some sent over to her. Or better still,’ finished Gabriel gently, ‘you might consider taking it yourself.’
*
That night, after her maid had finished preparing her for bed, Venetia sat by the fire, fathoms deep in thought. It was fast becoming clear that her initial reading of the Colonel had been an over-simplification. Indeed, the only thing she was still sure of was that his dislike of her equalled hers of him – and that, having allowed her to occupy a chamber half the house away from his own, he had no designs on her body. Naturally, this was a relief. On the other hand, if he’d tried to share her bed, she’d have had the satisfaction of telling him that it would be a cold day in hell before she let him lay a finger on her.
Sighing, she reached for the poker and idly stirred the fire. He was going back to his regiment and leaving her to care for Brandon Lacey. That, too, surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to trust her … and wasn’t sure she wanted him to. She didn’t know how she was going to cope with responsibility for two estates – or whether she was even willing to try.
The papers making Ford Edge hers had been given to her on the day after the wedding and, each morning since then, she had held them in her hands and told herself that they made everything worthwhile. It wasn’t entirely true; but it was important to try to believe it. What she had not done, however, was decide what to do with them.
Unless she was prepared to allow the whole fiasco to begin again, it would be stupid to hold on to Ford Edge herself for the law gave a man rights of disposal over his wife’s property. But to whom would she safely entrust it? Mother had no interest in estate-management; Elizabeth was soon to wed Tom Knightley; and, at not quite eighteen, Phoebe was surely too young for such a responsibility. Also there was no saying who she might marry.
A familiar, blistering resentment settled over Venetia. There were times when she felt she could ha
ve murdered Harry for putting them all in this position. As for Ellis … all she knew was that his careless defection hurt more than all the rest put together and that her feelings towards him defied description – except in one particular, which she preferred not to contemplate.
Rising reluctantly, she moved about the room putting out candles and forced herself to think of something else. She would take the Peruvian bark to Mistress Skilbeck, she decided. It would be as good a way as any of finding out how hard the Colonel was having to work at making his people accept him. A small, grim smile touched her mouth and then was gone. Yes. Perhaps it was time to start enlivening her days by taking an observer’s interest in Brandon Lacey. It was certainly time she rode over to see how things were going at Ford Edge. As for the evenings, they could be mended equally simply. She would invite Phoebe to stay.
*
The fact that the Skilbeck family wholeheartedly sang the Colonel’s praises was no especial surprise but that they also apparently adored the Colonel’s dreadful friend was. Venetia gritted her teeth, pinned a smile on her face and heroically refrained from comment. Then she went off in search of less impressionable prey.
She didn’t find it. After four days of random visiting, the only dissenting voice was that of Jeremiah Barton and, since that was plainly because the Colonel had ordered him to return Mistress Skilbeck’s escaped sheep, it had to be discounted. Everyone else, it seemed, had formed a very favourable impression and, in their typically laconic way, did not mind saying so.
‘Colonel’s got a good head on his shoulders,’ said one.
‘No flummery about him,’ said another. ‘Knows he’s got a lot to learn and isn’t too proud to ask.’
‘Don’t mind dirtying his hands, neither,’ volunteered a third.
And so it went on. Venetia progressed from astonishment, through mild resentment, to a sort of grim respect. In a far shorter time than she would have considered possible, Gabriel Brandon had somehow managed to overcome both the disadvantage of his birth and the natural mistrust local people had of strangers. The question now was whether he would follow this up with sensible management or ruin it with a series of radical changes designed to make a quick profit. A month ago, she’d have been sure which of the two it would be. Now she wasn’t – but would have bled to death sooner than let Gabriel suspect it.
She visited Ford Edge, consulted with her bailiff and bore with her mother as best she could but put off visiting Lawyer Crisp. Then, at the beginning of February and just before the snow began to fall in earnest, Phoebe arrived at Brandon Lacey full of her usual zest and bubbling with plans for finding the Lacey Garland. Sophia greeted her with thankful pleasure, Gabriel with amused affection and Venetia [who had hoped her sister might have lost her enthusiasm for dismantling the house] with resignation.
‘I can’t decide where to begin,’ confessed Phoebe over a dish of pigeon with braised livers. ‘Should I start with the obvious places like the attics and cellars – or should I hunt for priests’ holes and secret places in the panelling?’
‘I hate to dampen your ardour,’ remarked Venetia, ‘but I doubt there’s even one priest’s hole. The Brandons have been Protestant to a man ever since Lieutenant-General Cromwell’s unpleasant great-great-uncle dissolved the monasteries. And the wainscot can’t have been put in much above seventy years ago. Sophy?’
‘Quite true, I’m afraid.’ Sophia absently handed a titbit to Trixie who, despite all Venetia’s attempts to keep her out, always managed to join them at meal times.
Phoebe looked slightly daunted for a moment before the solution occurred to her.
‘All right. Perhaps the panelling is too new to hold the actual hiding place … but we don’t know what’s behind it, do we?’
There was an instant of acute silence during which Gabriel hid in his wine-glass and even Sophia looked a trifle stunned. Then Venetia said calmly, ‘No. We don’t. And we’re not going to destroy it in order to find out.’
‘Of course not. But couldn’t I just —’
‘No, Phoebe. Sophy and the Colonel said you could look – not that you could bring the house down around our ears.’
Catching a gleam of entirely new speculation in his sister-in-law’s eye, Gabriel took immediate action to ward off the inevitable question.
‘It seems to me that a task of this magnitude requires a certain amount of organisation,’ he remarked gravely. ‘So perhaps you should make a list of all the parts of the house unchanged since Hugh and Philippa’s time. After all, if the Garland had been hidden in rooms that have been structurally altered in any way, it’s likely it would have been found when the work was done.’
She regarded him approvingly.
‘That’s a very good idea.’
‘I know.’ The provocation of his tone was blunted by an unexpectedly charming smile. ‘I occasionally have my uses.’
Phoebe began systematically touring the house early next morning but still found time to ask her sister the question Gabriel had so adroitly prevented her voicing over supper.
‘You’ve been married a month and you’re still not calling your husband by his given name. Why?’
Venetia continued to frown down at a recipe for whitening lace, meticulously if semi-illegibly written in Sophia’s mother’s crabbed hand.
‘Why do you think?’
Phoebe sighed.
‘But isn’t that rather silly? The way I see it, you wanted Ford Edge and he gave it to you the only way he could. He’s a Parliamentarian but he doesn’t ram it down our throats and his illegitimacy doesn’t appear to make him any less a gentleman than any other we know. So what’s he done that’s so wrong? Or are you going to spend the rest of your life blaming him because he’s not Ellis?’
Venetia drew a sharp breath and her fingers clenched around the binding of the recipe-book. ‘I’m not.’
‘Aren’t you? Then what are you doing?’
‘Stop it, Phoebe. It’s not your business.’
‘I know. But no one else dares talk to you,’ came the stubborn reply. And, coaxingly, ‘I’m only asking you to give him a chance. And it’s not just me that likes him, you know. There’s Sophy and Tom as well.’
‘God in heaven!’ breathed Venetia, finally wheeling round to face her persecutor. ‘As far as I’m concerned the whole world could look upon him as a latter-day saint – but that still wouldn’t make him the husband I wanted. And, in case you haven’t noticed, he feels exactly the same about me. In short, we automatically bring out the worst in each other – and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.’
*
Having made her list, Phoebe began her search in the attics and, though she got horribly dirty and didn’t find anything to lead her to the Garland, she felt herself amply compensated by the discovery of chests full of outmoded finery. The Brandons, it appeared, never threw anything away. At the end of a week, she was enjoying herself so much she had almost forgotten what she had set out to do.
Naturally, she could not resist trying some of these monstrosities on – or, in having mischievously arrayed herself as an Elizabethan youth, slipping down to try the effect on Sophia. The only trouble was that she picked the wrong time for it and came swaggering down the stairs to find herself face to face with two completely unknown Roundhead officers.
One of them – tall, dark and square of face – simply stared at her as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. The other – more compactly-built and red-haired – inspected her from head to foot and smiled.
It was a slow, tantalisingly sweet smile and it had the oddest effect on Phoebe. She blushed furiously and all of her usual cheerful nonchalance drained abruptly away into her little calf-length boots. Then the parlour door opened and Venetia appeared. For a moment, Phoebe assumed that the change of expression on the younger man’s face was the usual response to her sister’s beauty, until he said blankly, ‘My God. Venetia Clifford.’
Having already been told who her visitors we
re, Venetia would have responded with suitable composure had not Phoebe attracted her attention by embarking on a stealthy retreat. Eyes widening in disbelief, Venetia took in the agonised, dust-smeared face beneath the feathered moth-eaten cap, the dingy ruff, grotesquely-padded purple doublet and all-too-revealing trunk hose. Finally, against all expectation, she started to laugh.
Phoebe gave up subtlety and took to her heels.
Hilarity still lingering in her eyes, Venetia was left looking at Major-General Lambert and Major Maxwell. She said pleasantly, ‘You’ll have to forgive my sister. The show was presumably meant to be private but her timing is lamentable.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ murmured Eden.
‘Behave, Major.’ Lambert crossed to make a formal bow over Venetia’s hand. ‘I don’t know if you recall, Mistress Clifford, but you and I have met before – under the auspices of my friend, Tom Knightley.’
The laughter evaporated from her face leaving it rather tense.
‘I remember it perfectly – as, indeed, I remember Major Maxwell. But you are both labouring under a misapprehension. I am Venetia Brandon now … and I rather think that you must be here to see my husband.’
Eden opened his mouth on an unwary remark and then shut it again. There was something very odd here … something which went far beyond Gabriel’s sudden marriage but which he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Therefore, since his own position was already a little awkward, it was best to stay silent and leave the talking to Lambert.
The Major-General was already making all the right congratulatory noises. Venetia listened politely and then ushered them both into the parlour, saying coolly, ‘I’m not sure where the Colonel is or how long he’ll be.’
‘There’s no hurry.’ Lambert accepted the chair she indicated and smiled. ‘We were in Knaresborough inspecting the Castle – and, being so close, we couldn’t resist paying Gabriel a visit. If we’d known he was but recently married, however, we might have been a little more circumspect.’
