by Jane Feather
Mistress Meg pursed her lips. “Men,” she stated, as if the entire sex lay behind all the problems of the universe.
She was about ten years older than Phoebe, a tall, dark woman, brown as a berry from days in the woods gathering the herbs and simples of her trade. Laugh lines crinkled the skin around her clear gray eyes. Meg was surprised by nothing and regarded the world’s vagaries with wry humor. She dispensed advice and medicine in equal parts to all who came knocking at her door, and she was Phoebe’s confidante and most trusted advisor.
Phoebe waited for expansion and, when none came, inquired, “Yes, but what about them?”
Meg stirred the fragrant pot of herbs on its trivet over the fire. “The male of the species in general is an unfortunate creature,” she pronounced. “Generally the poor benighted soul can’t see further than his nose, but at least that saves him from knowing what he’s missing.”
“That’s so harsh,” Phoebe protested, chuckling. “And you’ve never even had a man in your life.”
“Precisely,” Meg said serenely. “I practice what I preach. No man is going to start telling me what I may or may not do, as if for some reason he has a God-given right to do so. Narrow-minded bigots, most of them. Hidebound, habit-ridden, conventional…”
“Oh, stop!” Phoebe cried, flinging up her hands in protest. “Cato’s not like that.”
“Oh, no?” Meg regarded her in disbelief. “He has an image of what a wife should be like and he won’t look outside it. You’ve just said as much.”
A one-eared black cat jumped onto Phoebe’s lap with a demanding cry, and she obeyed the command, digging her fingers into the deep groove at the back of the animal’s neck, then down his spine. The cat purred ecstatically and arched his back against Phoebe’s scratching fingers.
“Well, that’s true,” Phoebe conceded. “But he’s not stupid, Meg.”
“Oh, you think he can learn?” Meg scoffed. “Then he’s a rare case indeed. Take my word for it. Men are far too arrogant and self-satisfied to change their minds about anything. Why should they? They’ve arranged everything just the way they want it.”
“Oh, you’re impossibly prejudiced,” Phoebe said. Meg was never less than forthcoming with her robustly unflattering opinion of the male sex. Phoebe regarded her with curiosity. “Did some man offend you once… or something?”
Meg shook her head. “Never gave ‘em the chance.” She stood up and reached up to the rack of herbs drying above the fire. She selected several strands and dropped them into the pot before resuming her slow, rhythmic stirring.
Phoebe absently pulled at the cat’s single ear. She’d met Meg when she’d first arrived in Woodstock, after Cato had acquired the manor house. She was known to everyone simply as Mistress Meg, and she was very reticent about her background and parentage, but her diagnostic skills and great talent as a herbalist had quickly earned her a place in village life, despite the occasional mutterings about the oddity of a single woman flying in the face of convention, living totally independent of any man. There were those who called her a witch, but Meg just laughed at such superstitions and continued about her business, dispensing earthy advice with her potions.
Phoebe was fascinated by simples and the arts of the herbalist. She’d proved an apt apprentice, absorbing Meg’s blunt opinions and down-to-earth wisdom, including Meg’s advice on avoiding conception.
Now Phoebe watched Meg curiously, contemplating the puzzle of her friend’s antipathy towards the male sex.
“You never felt passion?” she inquired.
“For a man! My stars, no!” Meg shook her head with an expression of horror. Then as she stirred, she added calmly, “There was a woman once.”
Confounded, Phoebe could only gaze at Meg until she found her tongue. “A woman?”
Meg smiled to herself. “Not everyone’s the same, Phoebe. As we were just saying.”
“No… but…”
“No, but what?” There was a hint of mockery in Meg’s smile now.
“Well, what happened? Who was she? Where is she?”
“Oh, she succumbed to convention… yielded to the power of man,” Meg said with a twisted grin. “She went off to become a farmer’s wife with a brood of squalling brats.”
“I’m sorry.” Phoebe could think of nothing else to say.
Meg shrugged. “It wasn’t really Libby’s fault. It’s hard to be strong enough to withstand the whip of convention when it’s wielded by those who have the power of compulsion.”
“But you haven’t yielded.”
“No. I haven’t.”
A loud knock at the door broke the moment of silence.
Phoebe, relieved at the interruption, jumped to her feet. The black cat leaped from her lap in the same instant, needing catlike to prove that the decision to leave his perch was only his. His back claws scored her thighs as he took off.
Phoebe opened the door and a shaft of morning sunlight lit the dim, smoky interior of the little cottage.
An elderly man in rough homespuns stood on the threshold. He looked worried as he asked, “Is Mistress Meg within?”
“Yes, indeed.” Phoebe stepped aside to allow the man entrance.
“Good day, Grandpa.” Meg looked up from her stirring. “How’s the little one?”
“That’s what I come about.” He twisted the cap between his hands. “He’s wheezin‘ summat chronic. Think you’d better come an’ take a look. His mother’s at ‘er wit’s end.”
“I’ll come at once.” Meg rose and reached for her basket of simples that she kept ready packed beside the door. “I’ll see you later, Phoebe.” She hurried past Phoebe and strode off down the path, the elderly man half trotting to keep up with her.
Phoebe closed up the cottage, leaving a window ajar for the cat, then she left the small clearing in the woods.
Ordinarily she would have noticed the young man standing in the doorway of the Bear Inn as she hurried past along the main village street. Strangers were few and far between, particularly those dressed with such obvious finery, but she was too preoccupied with the afternoon’s intriguing revelations.
Brian Morse watched her turn the corner into the lane running alongside the churchyard. “That’s Lady Granville?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Aye, sir.” The man behind the counter in the taproom didn’t look up from the keg he was tapping. “Like I said ‘afore.”
Brian scratched his chin in thought. The barman had pointed her out to him on her way through the village an hour earlier, and he’d been watching for her return. How could that shabby, dumpy little creature be the stately Diana’s sister? How could Cato have taken such an unprepossessing girl to wife?
But of course she was still a Carlton, and came with all that family’s advantages of wealth and lineage. That’s all that would interest Cato. That and getting an heir.
Brian’s little brown eyes grew speculative. This visit to Woodstock was intended as a reconnaissance. He wanted to gauge the lie of the land and decide on the best approach to Cato and his wife. Perhaps the girl’s lack of obvious attraction could work to his advantage. She might well be susceptible to flattery, since it was hard to imagine much came her way.
Once ensconced beneath Cato’s roof, he would try an appeal to her sympathy. Involve her in a clandestine little enterprise that would excite her, make her feel special. Women were so easy to manage.
Except for Jack Worth’s bastard, Portia. The familiar worm of mortification squirmed in his gut, and he turned back to the taproom, demanding curtly, “Ale!”
He took the leather pitch-coated pot and drained it in one long swallow before tossing a coin on the bar counter and calling for his horse. He would return to Oxford and make his preparations to enter his stepfather’s household.
Phoebe was about to climb the stile leading to the home farm and the back entrance to the house when the deep thunder of hooves, the chink of bridles, reached her on the crisp air. It sounded like a large cavalcade cantering
down the ice-ridged ruts of the Oxford road. Curious, she sat atop the stile and waited for whoever it was to come around the corner. A party of Parliament’s militia, she guessed. Such troop movements were constant in the Thames valley.
The standard snapping in the wind caught her attention first. It flew above the hedge as the horsemen drew close to the corner. It was the eagle of Rothbury. Rufus Decatur had come back to collect his wife and children.
Phoebe forgot all about the events of the morning. She half fell off the stile in her eagerness to conceal herself before Rufus caught sight of her. She knew exactly how she intended to greet the earl of Rothbury, and it was not in her present guise.
She scrambled across the field, tugging her cloak loose when the hem caught on a thornbush. There was a harsh rending sound but Phoebe ignored it. She raced through the orchard and darted into the house through the kitchen.
Mistress Bisset gave her a startled look as she ran past the linen room, then shrugged and returned to her inventory of sheets. Lady Granville was still Lady Phoebe as far as the household was concerned.
In the bedchamber, Phoebe tore off her old gown, tossing it into a corner. There was water in the ewer and she splashed her face and hands. How long did she have before they arrived? She’d come cross-country, but they were a good mile away along the road, and then another half up the drive. And then there would be all the flurry of dismounting. She had twenty minutes.
She opened the linen press and took out the dark red silk. Cato had not seen this one. She had been going to spring it upon him at dinner, but how much better to show it off as she greeted her first real guests as lady of the manor. Not that Rufus Decatur would notice particularly. A man who preferred his wife in britches was not likely to appreciate the glories of the dark red silk. But then, Phoebe was not seeking to impress the earl of Rothbury.
She dropped the gown over her head and struggled desperately with the hooks at the back. Her arms ached as she twisted and turned, trying to see over her shoulder in the mirror as she fiddled with the tiny fastenings, but at last she had them done.
She smoothed the rich folds of silk. They felt wonderful, soft and caressing. Her hair was already in a thick plait hanging down her back. She twisted it against the nape of her neck and stuck some pins in it, hoping that the coil would hold rather more effectively than it had done the previous evening.
Her image in the mirror was most satisfactory. She patted the lace collar, making sure it lay flat, then hurried to the door. She could hear the sounds of commotion from the hall below, and at the head of the curving sweep of stair she paused to look down on the scene, gauging the moment for her entrance.
Rufus Decatur stood on the threshold. Cato Granville came forward to greet him. The two men were of much the same height and build, but Rufus’s red hair and beard, his plain jerkin and britches, the serviceable but dull leather of his boots and gloves were in startling contrast to the other man’s darkly aquiline looks, the elegant cut of his black velvet doublet, the fall of lace at his throat. But the same controlled power emanated from both men, and they both held themselves and moved with the sinuous assurance of those who were accustomed to command.
“I bid you welcome, Rothbury.” Cato extended his hand.
Rufus pulled off his glove and took the hand in a brief clasp. “I’ve come to relieve you of my brood, Granville. Not a moment too soon, I’ll be bound.”
Cato’s polite disclaimer was lost in a wild shriek as Luke and Toby tumbled through the front door. “We heard you… we knew you was here.” They grabbed for their father’s knees.
He ruffled their bright heads, but his eyes had found Portia, who came out of the parlor, Alex in her arms, Eve’s hand in hers.
Eve followed her brothers’ example, tugging her hand free of her mother’s and flinging herself upon Rufus, who caught her up and swung her through the air as she shrieked joyously.
“I give you good day, gosling,” Rufus said to his wife, as he settled his daughter on his hip and caught Portia’s chin on the tip of a finger, tilting her face for his kiss. He moved his mouth from her lips to the baby’s cheek in one smooth movement.
Cato watched the scene with a strange tug that he identified reluctantly as envy. His own small daughters, Diana’s babies, never greeted him with such unbridled joy as Decatur's children greeted their father. And the emotion that flowed between Portia and Rufus was a palpable current.
“I hope you’ll break your journey with us overnight, Rothbury.” Cato issued the invitation even though he was sure it would be declined.
“My thanks, Granville, but we’ll be on our way,” Rufus responded. “As soon as this gypsy caravan of mine can be assembled.”
He raised an eyebrow at Portia, who said swiftly, “Not more than an hour. I’ve been expecting you these last two days.”
Rufus nodded.
“Lord Rothbury.” Phoebe came slowly down the stairs. “I bid you welcome.”
“Ah, Phoebe.” The surprised flash in his eye was unmistakable, as was the instant of swift and approving appraisal. “Lady Granville,” he said, and bowed with grave deliberation.
Phoebe’s head lifted. She glanced at Portia, who was grinning wickedly. Olivia gave her an infinitesimal nod of encouragement even as her dark eyes shone with curiosity as she waited for her father’s reaction to Phoebe’s stunning entrance.
Cato turned slowly. Briefly he closed his eyes and his fingers fleetingly brushed his mouth, before he said, “I trust we can persuade Lord Rothbury to break bread with us before he resumes his journey, Phoebe.”
“Yes, indeed.” Phoebe, with regal grace, swept past Cato to curtsy to her guest.
Cato gazed at his wife’s back with astonishment. The hooks at the back of Phoebe’s latest revelation were missing several connections, and those they had made were not all correctly paired.
Cato slipped a casual arm around her. “If you’d excuse us for a minute, Rothbury…” He moved Phoebe away, his hand sliding to the small of her back as he steered her towards the library, concealing the middle of her back view from the occupants of the hall.
Phoebe shivered at the easy intimacy of his touch. She had no idea what he was about, but she was not complaining.
In the library, out of direct sight of the hall, Cato put his hands on her shoulders, keeping her back to him. “Why didn’t you get your maid to help you with these hooks?”
“Why? What’s the matter?” Phoebe peered over her shoulder.
“It’s more a question of what’s right,” he said, beginning to unhook the gown from the top.
Phoebe felt the air stir the thin cotton of her shift. “Oh dear, are they done up wrong?”
She stood on tiptoe as she continued to peer over her shoulder as if the extra height would enable her to see better. “I was afraid they might be,” she added dolefully. “It’s very difficult if you don’t have arms like an octopus.”
“Which is why you have a maid,” Cato pointed out.
“I was trying to hurry. I knew Lord Rothbury was coming; I saw him on the road when I was coming back from the village, and I wanted to be able to greet him dressed properly.”
“As against dressed for digging up cabbages,” Cato said sharply. “For God’s sake, girl, why can’t you find a happy medium? This gown is as inappropriate as the blue vel-that other one.”
“But it’s very elegant,” Phoebe pointed out.
“It depends who’s wearing it,” Cato said with a hint of savagery. He finished fastening the hooks and placed his hands on her hips as he checked that he hadn’t missed one.
Phoebe felt the imprint of his hands on her skin beneath the silk. Each finger seemed to burn against her flesh. She stood very still.
Cato’s hands dropped from her hips. “So,” he inquired, “how many more of these sartorial surprises am I to expect?” The sardonic edge was again in his voice.
“I don’t have any more money,” Phoebe said simply.
“On which subje
ct.” Cato reached into the pocket of his britches and drew out the three rings. “If you ever visit a pawnbroker again, madam wife, you will rue the day.”
“You redeemed them?”
“Of course I did. You think I would permit some thief of a pawnbroker to hold my property?”
“I thought they were mine,” Phoebe said softly. “They belonged to my mother.”
“And neither will I permit a pawnbroker to hold your property,” Cato said acidly, tossing the three gem-studded silver circlets onto a sidetable. “If you let them out of your possession again, you will forfeit that possession. Understand that.”
He left the library and after a minute Phoebe scooped up the rings and dropped them into her bosom. It seemed she had her currency returned.
The Rothbury clan was ready to leave within the hour as Portia had promised. The countess of Rothbury was accustomed to military maneuvers and could marshal a brood of children and nursemaids as efficiently as she could a troop of soldiers.
Phoebe held her in a tight embrace and whispered urgently in her ear. It was her last chance for concrete advice.
Portia murmured, “If you can’t tell him what you want, duckie, you’re going to have to show him.”
“How?” Phoebe whispered with the same urgency as before.
“Use your poetic imagination,” Portia responded, her green eyes alight with mischief.
“Easier said than done.” Phoebe gave her one more convulsive hug, before stepping back to give Olivia room for her own farewells.
Chapter 8
“ Are you working on your play, Phoebe?” Olivia looked up from her books at the table in the square parlor. She realized that Phoebe hadn’t spoken a word in a very long time, which was unusual.
The house seemed very flat in the wake of the Rothbury party’s departure. Ordinarily Phoebe, who had little patience with moping, would have made an effort to lighten things, but she was so absorbed in her work that she’d barely raised her eyes from the page for several hours.
