The Accidental Bride b-2

by Jane Feather

  “Well, send word to the house if you’re uneasy. Unless…” Phoebe paused. “Unless you’d consider coming back with us now. No one will harass you under Lord Granville’s roof. And when it blows over, you can return.”

  Meg shook her head decisively. “No, indeed not. I thank you, but I’m not about to leave my home because of some ignorant mischief makers.”

  Phoebe had expected nothing else and didn’t press the matter.

  “I wonder what my father would say if we brought Meg home with us,” Olivia said thoughtfully as they made their way back down the path.

  “What could he possibly say?” Phoebe asked in genuine puzzlement.

  Olivia cast her a quick look. “He might not see things the way you do.”

  Phoebe frowned. She had noticed that Cato did not see the issues of the village and his tenants the way she did.

  “My father is a very just magistrate and very generous to his tenants,” Olivia said. “But he doesn’t like to g-get personally involved. He’s the lord of the manor; it’s not his business.”

  “Well, it’s my business,” Phoebe said after a minute’s thought. “I do like to get personally involved.”

  “Perhaps you c-can change his view,” Olivia offered but without much conviction.

  “Perhaps,” Phoebe said. They had reached the lane leading back to the manor. “You go on home. I’m going to make a detour in the village, ask some questions about Meg, and I’ll follow you.”

  “Should you go alone?” Olivia sounded doubtful.

  “They might not talk so freely if you’re there,” Phoebe said. “And no one’s going to molest me. These are my friends.”

  “Yes, you see, that’s the difference between you and my father,” Olivia pointed out. “He would never c-consider that his tenants were his friends.”

  Phoebe contemplated this insight as she hurried through the village. She had no doubt that Olivia was right, but how to reconcile that attitude of Cato’s with her own? Therein lay the puzzle. She was firmly convinced her own view was the only correct one, so if someone had to change, it would have to be Cato.

  Still frowning, she turned into the Bear Inn, where all gossip put down its roots.

  “Afternoon, Lady Phoebe.” The landlord greeted her as she entered the dark hallway. “What can I do for you?”

  Phoebe had decided on the direct approach to her errand. “I was wondering if you’d seen anything of Meg, Ben,” she said.

  The man’s face darkened and he turned and spat into a corner. “I’d not be wantin‘ to,” he muttered. “Saving your presence, Lady Phoebe, that one’s got the evil eye.”

  Phoebe clenched her gloved hands. “You know that’s nonsense, Ben. Don’t you remember how she cured your mother’s rheumatism? Singing her praises from the rooftops, you were then.”

  The landlord looked a little self-conscious and he avoided her eye. “Aye, but bad things’re ‘appenin’. First there was the child, and now there’s been a murrain out Shipley way.”

  “What’s that to do with Meg?” Phoebe demanded.

  Ben shrugged. “There’s those that saw ‘er in the dark o’ the moon, walkin‘ the field. The cows fell sick days after.”

  “Oh, you know better than to spout such fairy stories!”

  “Aye, well, ‘appen the witch finder’ll discover the truth,” Ben said.

  Phoebe felt the blood drain from her face. “He’s been sent for?”

  Ben shrugged. “Don’t know about that. But they say he’s over Banbury way.”

  Phoebe had heard enough. Banbury was but fifteen miles away. “We’ll see what Lord Granville has to say about this foolishness.”

  “Beggin‘ yer pardon, Lady Phoebe, but the vicar don’t answer to his lordship in matters of the church.” Ben’s tone was one of surly defiance, one that Phoebe had never heard before. It made her more uneasy than ever.

  “We’ll see about that,” she said and turned on her heel, making her way to Granny Spruel’s cottage, where she hoped to get a second opinion.

  When she left, it was already growing dark even though it was only just four o’clock, and the snow-charged sky was so low it was as if it w ere pressing upon the earth. She hurried down the lane towards the manor, jumping at every crack of a twig or rustle of a small animal in the hedgerows. The world seemed suddenly a very inhospitable place.

  It was almost full dark when she turned into the gates of home. Her visit to Granny Spruel had taken much longer than she’d realized and had brought no reassurance. She broke into a run as she made her way beneath the bare overarching branches of the oak trees that lined the long, curving drive.

  It was a sinister corridor at this dark and lonely hour, and the lights of the house were still hidden from her by the bend at the head of the carriageway.

  She was a dark figure huddled in her cloak, blending so perfectly into the shadows that Cato, Brian, and Giles nearly ran her down as they cantered up the drive. They came up so fast that Phoebe wasn’t aware of them until the drumming of hooves made her jump sideways with a cry of alarm.

  “Holy Mother!” Cato reined in his horse. “Who the hell is that?” He stared down from atop the bay charger. “Who has business at Granville House at such an hour, on such a filthy night?”

  “It’s me,” Phoebe said, stepping out of the shadows. “You nearly ran me over.”

  “What in the devil’s name are you doing out here?” Cato demanded. “You’re nearly invisible in the shadows.”

  “I didn’t realize it was so late,” Phoebe explained. “The night seemed to come on much faster than usual.”

  “Aye, it’s black as pitch and barely five of the clock,” Giles agreed. He looked up into the darkness and sniffed the wind. “More snow, I reckon.”

  Cato leaned down, extending his hand to Phoebe. “Come,” he commanded.

  Phoebe didn’t argue. Her husband seemed less than pleased to see her at the moment. She took the hand and struggled to get her foot on his boot in the stirrup. He hauled her up onto the saddle in front of him and encircled her lightly with his arm as he nudged the horse into motion.

  Phoebe leaned back against him, unable to resist the opportunity to feel the beat of his heart beneath his cloak and doublet, to inhale his mingled scents of horseflesh and leather, the almost lemony tang of his skin and hair. She turned her head and gave him a sunny smile, reaching up a hand to caress his cheek in a gesture of delightfully unconscious intimacy.

  There was something irresistibly sensual about that smile, about the touch. Sensual and still surprising. Cato cast a sideways glance at Brian Morse, riding beside him. There was only one surprise he wanted from his wife, he thought a little grimly. One that would take his stepson out of the picture.

  Welcoming light poured from the front door as they drew rein. The ever attentive Bisset stood in the doorway to greet them. Cato dismounted, handing his reins to Giles, before lifting Phoebe from the saddle.

  “To go out without an escort at this time of day, Phoebe, is foolish beyond permission,” he chided as he urged her into the house with a hand on the small of her back.

  “It was the middle of the afternoon when we left,” she protested. “But in truth, I didn’t intend to be out so late. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

  Cato frowned at her for a minute. Then he said shortly, “Come, then,” and turned aside towards his study.

  He closed the door behind them and said, “Well?” He took up a decanter and filled a goblet with wine.

  “I went to see a friend,” Phoebe told him, adding somewhat irrelevantly, “I had to help her draw a tooth.”

  “Draw a tooth?” Cato paused, the goblet halfway to his lips. “Talk sense, Phoebe.”

  “She had a toothache. I had to draw the tooth for her,” Phoebe said, articulating each word with exaggerated care. “Is it so hard to understand, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Cato said forcefully. “I find it impossible to understand why lady Granville should be
going about the countryside performing the tasks of a barber! Who is this friend?”

  “I believe,” Phoebe began slowly, “that Meg, my friend, was the subject of the vicar’s sermon. She wasn’t in church this morning, so I went to see if she was all right, and to warn her. There’s much talk in the village and now Ben at the Bear said there’s talk of sending for the witch finder from Banbury.” She looked up into her dumbfounded husband’s face and said simply, “We have to help Meg, sir.”

  “You are associating with a witch?” Cato demanded when he could find his tongue.

  Phoebe shook her head. “No… no, Meg isn’t a witch. Of course she isn’t. It’s just that the rumors have started and they’re taking hold. We have to help her. I tried to persuade her to take shelter here, but she’s too stubborn and proud.”

  “You offered my roof to a woman accused of witchcraft?” Cato could barely believe his ears. “Phoebe, this is beyond anything.”

  Olivia had been right. “Why would you not offer her shelter?” Phoebe demanded. “You’re a Justice of the Peace. You’re the law here.”

  “It is precisely for that reason that I could not possibly offer an accused individual my personal support. I have to be an impartial judge. Surely you understand that?”

  “Meg is unjustly accused, sir.”

  “If the woman is accused, then she should face her accusers,” Cato said shortly. “If the accusations are unjust, they will be proved to be so.”

  “How can you say that?” Phoebe cried. “You know justice doesn’t always prevail. You said yourself this morning how the vicar was trying to rouse a rabble.”

  He had, of course. The reminder didn’t please him but it caused him to moderate his tone.

  “I commend your generosity, Phoebe, but it won’t do. I will ensure that there is no miscarriage of justice. From here on, you must let matters take their course.”

  “You are asking me to abandon my friend?” Phoebe shook her head. “Indeed, I cannot, sir.”

  Cato’s lips thinned. “Even you… even you must see how inappropriate it is for my wife to consort with someone of such unsavory reputation.”

  Phoebe’s jaw dropped. “Unsavory!” she said. “Meg is a healer. She has done so much good in the countryside. It is not her fault that the child died, or the cows at Shipley have the murrain.”

  “Child… cows?” Cato was for a minute mystified. He drank down the contents of his goblet and enlightenment came. “The evil eye! So that’s what this is all about.”

  “Yes, but Meg wasn’t walking in the field in the dark of the moon. And she certainly didn’t put a curse on the child.”

  “Such nonsense!” Cato exclaimed. “I have no time for such ignorant stupidity. You will keep away from all such talk, if you please.”

  “You will excuse me, sir,” Phoebe said through compressed lips. “I must get ready for supper.” She offered him a stiff curtsy and marched from the room.

  She closed the door at her back and stood fiercely frowning in the passage. Her thick fair eyebrows almost met across the bridge of her snub nose as she chewed her bottom lip. Obviously nothing would be gained by further protest. Her husband, for all his many wonderful qualities, was clearly very stubborn even when he was wrong. She had no choice but to ignore him on such occasions.

  “Stubborn, pompous man!” she said aloud.

  “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” A soft voice spoke from the shadow of the stairs. Brian Morse stepped into the golden glow of the candles sconced on either side of Cato’s study door. “Trouble, Lady Granville?” He raised an eyebrow with an air of complicity.

  “Oh, call me Phoebe,” she said with a touch of impatience. “Everyone does and I usually forget to answer to anything more formal.”

  “Then, Phoebe…” Brian bowed. “Forgive the impertinence, but I know well what it is to run up against Lord Granville. However just and reasonable one’s arguments, if he doesn’t agree, nothing will move him.”

  Phoebe’s chin lifted. “In general he’s right in his views,” she stated.

  “In general, yes,” Brian said with a slight smile. “But in the particular…?” He left the question mark in the air.

  “Not always,” Phoebe admitted. She twisted a lock of hair around her finger, still frowning. Then she shrugged. “I have to get ready for supper. Excuse me.”

  Brian followed her into the brighter light of the hall. She was wearing the gown he’d first seen on her. Too small, straining across her deep bosom, the sleeves too short, the hem dipping, and an ugly color to boot. And yet when he looked at her closely, to his surprise he could see the potential. It gave him an idea.

  “Have you thought of coiling your hair over your ears?” he asked suddenly. “I believe such a style would frame your face very prettily.”

  Phoebe spun round to look at him in some astonishment. “I always wear it like this.” She put her hands to the loose knot on top of her head. “Of course, it’s always coming down,” she added.

  “If you’ll permit…” Brian put his hands on her head, deftly unpinning the knot. He divided it into two and then took two swatches and twisted them around her ears. “Yes, I’m right,” he said nodding. “You should try it.”

  “Do you know much about fashion and such?” Phoebe asked with a surge of interest. It seemed likely, judging by his clothes.

  “I used to advise your sister,” he responded. “I have frequented the court for close on five years, and I believe I’m considered something of an arbiter. Many women ask my opinion on such matters.” He offered a deprecating smile that concealed the flash of calculation in his hard eyes.

  “I’m something of a lost cause,” Phoebe said dubiously. “I try but it often doesn’t work out right.”

  “Oh, but you have so much potential,” he said warmly. “If you’d permit me to advise you on your wardrobe… that gown, for instance…”

  “It’s a very old one,” Phoebe said, a mite defensively. “I didn’t wish to wear one of my best gowns out in the snow.”

  “Quite so,” he agreed with a smooth smile. “But must you wear something so very old? Could you not have the seamstress make up some gowns for everyday? More hard-wearing materials than silks and velvets, but with a more fashionable cut?”

  Phoebe looked rueful. “I suppose I could. This one is really too small, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” He smiled again. “I hope you don’t consider me impertinent.”

  “No,” Phoebe said after a second’s hesitation. “I need all the help I can get.”

  “I will draw some sketches for you to give the seamstress, if you’ll permit. Styles that will look well in wool and linen.”

  “Yes… yes, thank you.” Phoebe shook down her loosened hair again, feeling somewhat stunned. She hurried away, leaving Brian looking after her.

  Chapter 11

  “ Ah, there you are, Phoebe. I’ve been looking all over for you. I assumed you’d be in the parlor, but Olivia said you’d be in here for some reason.”

  Startled, Phoebe looked up from her perch on the linen shelf in the stillroom. She’d been so absorbed in her writing that the sound of a voice, even Cato’s voice, was for a moment almost an unpleasant surprise.

  “Sometimes I like to write in the stillroom, my lord,” she explained, nibbling the tip of her quill pen. “It’s very quiet and the scent of the herbs seems to aid the muse. At the moment the meter keeps escaping from me. It’s not exactly classical to change meter in the middle, but iambic pentameter feels awkward…” She stopped. “But why should that interest you?”

  “I certainly know little of poetry,” Cato agreed. It was fragrant and very warm in the stillroom, and tendrils of hair clung damply to Phoebe’s forehead. Cato was suddenly vividly aware of how desirable she was looking. She’d done something different with her hair, and her breasts were soft creamy mounds, bared almost to the nipples in that outrageously sensual blue gown. Pure seductive sophistication and her youthful innocence offered an irresistib
le paradox.

  “It doesn’t go with soldiering, I suppose,” Phoebe said. Her gaze drifted back to the vellum. “I wonder if maybe hexameter or perhaps sapphic would work here,” she mused, scratching out a line and scribbling rapidly.

  It seemed she had little time for her husband while in the throes of composition. The light in her round blue eyes, the light of pure desire and promise that he was growing accustomed to seeing whenever she looked at him, was conspicuous in its absence. Cato missed it.

  “I would think it must be a more than daunting subject,” he suggested, leaning casually against the closed door. “A pageant of such scope.”

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” Phoebe said with a sigh. She looked up. “I’m just beginning to think about costumes. Can you imagine what a headache they’re going to be?”

  She shook her head mournfully. “I don’t know why I didn’t come up with something simpler. Something with the Greeks and the Romans… togas and laurel wreaths would be so much easier to contrive than ruffs and farthingales, don’t you think?”

  “Without a doubt,” he agreed.

  “Maybe Caesar and Pompey… or Tiberius, perhaps… but then he was such an unpleasant man; and of course if you do Rome you’d have to find lions from somewhere because you couldn’t ignore the Games, could you?”

  “I suppose not.” Cato regarded her with fascination as she pursued her train of thought, a little frown drawing her eyebrows together over her smidgeon of a nose.

  “And then, of course, you’d have the problem with the minnows, wouldn’t you?”

  “Minnows?” He stared at her.

  “Yes, Olivia and I were reading about it just the other day. Tiberius had these little boys trained to swim in the pool and pretend to be minnows. They had to nibble – ” Phoebe stopped short in confusion as she saw his astounded expression. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “Dear God!” Cato exclaimed. “You and Olivia have been reading about the depravities of the Roman empire!”

  “Well, they’re hard to miss if you’re reading the classics,” Phoebe offered. “But there’s a lot more of it in Greek. They didn’t seem to think it was depraved, just part of normal life. But, I was wondering… what exactly did they do, sir? I can’t quite imagine how they…” She paused and shrugged, searching his expression for enlightenment.