by Jane Feather
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 were 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 shado
w 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.
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 irresistible 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 by 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.
“You can’t imagine what?” he demanded.
“What they did,” Phoebe said simply and when he merely stared at her, expanded, “how?”
Suddenly it was too much. Cato threw back his head and laughed.
“Get off that linen shelf and come here,” he commanded.
Phoebe did so somewhat hesitantly. He took her shoulders in a firm grasp. “I will answer your question. Don’t interrupt, and when I’m finished I want no further questions. Just hear it, accept it, and then it would very much please me if you would forget it. Understand?”
Phoebe nodded, her eyes wide. They grew wider as she listened to the explanation delivered in measured tones.
“Oh,” she said when he fell silent. “How uncomfortable it sounds.”
Cato’s lips twitched. “Each to his own,” he said.
Phoebe looked up at him and now the familiar little shiver of pleasure ran down her spine. He was dressed in leather britches and doublet, with a plain linen shirt and stock, sword and dagger at his belt. It was a gusty day and his hair was ruf
fled by the wind, and she noticed how even his strong dark eyebrows were askew, as if the wind had caught them too. She had the urge to lick her finger and smooth them down. He’d been to a horse fair in Bicester and had risen well before dawn, so she hadn’t seen him since the previous night. It was too long. All his absences were too long.
“Did you want me for something, my lord?” she asked as her thoughts took her along a pleasant road.
“Oh, yes, I did.” Cato remembered what he’d come for. “I’d like you to accompany me to the stables.”
“The stables!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Why would I wish to go there?”
“Because I have bought you a horse. A very quiet, docile little mare.” Cato was pleased with his purchase and it showed. Phoebe, however, was horrified.
“I don’t wish for a horse.”
“I am going to teach you to ride, Phoebe.”
Phoebe shook her head and said firmly, “No thank you. Indeed, I’m sure it’s very kind of you, but no thank you, I really don’t wish to do any such thing.”
Cato sighed. “I promise you that the mare is as well mannered and as gentle as a horse could be. You will enjoy riding her.”
“No,” Phoebe said. “No, I will not. I know I will not.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Cato grew impatient. “It’s absurd to be afeared. How can you get about without being able to ride?”
“I walk,” Phoebe said simply. “I like to walk.”
Cato surveyed her in some frustration. “You’ve never been taught properly . . . if at all,” he said. “I assure you that when you know how, you’ll find it as easy as writing your poetry.”
Phoebe’s eyes flashed. “Writing poetry is not easy, my lord,” she stated. “I am no mere rhymester.”
“Your pardon,” Cato apologized with a careless gesture. “But you have nothing to fear, Phoebe. I’ll not let you come to harm. And it’s a beautiful day,” he added.
“I have no clothes for riding,” Phoebe pointed out with an air of finality, as if that would put an end to the matter.
“The dressmaker in Witney could perhaps be persuaded to make up a riding habit . . . a fashionable riding habit,” he added deliberately. “I believe such a garment might suit you well.”
