by Jane Feather
“Without doubt,” Meg said with a serene smile. “But I doubt that husband of yours will ever accept that.”
“But he must!” Phoebe wailed. “I don’t want to be left out of everything that matters to him . . . kept swaddled in some cocoon, told that I mustn’t bother my pretty head with male concerns. Not that I have a pretty head,” she amended.
“What you have is a deal more attractive than mere prettiness,” Meg said, her smile broadening.
“Oh?” Phoebe’s interest was piqued. “What’s that, then?”
“Character,” Meg replied.
“Oh.” Phoebe was disappointed. Character seemed like a very dull endowment when compared with beauty and elegance.
“And brains,” Meg continued.
“Well, much good they are if no one acknowledges them or lets me put them to good use,” Phoebe said, aggrieved.
“Why would you want to be involved in your husband’s self-important absorptions, anyway?” Meg said. “In my experience, men are always attaching too much importance to trivialities.”
“But the war isn’t trivial.”
Meg shook her head. “It’s about power, Phoebe. Wars are all about power and greed. Men’s obsessions. Women deal in life and death; birth, sickness, health. Those are the warp and woof of existence, not the posturing and pronouncing and proselytizing that make men believe they’re running the world as they kill each other for their own self-interest.”
As always, Meg made sense. Phoebe frowned. “Maybe you’re right, but I can’t make miracles. I have to deal with what’s at hand. Cato has to see that I have something to offer, that he can confide in me.” She thumped down on the edge of the bed.
“Well, if you must pursue such an object, you’ll have to prove your competence to your husband in some way . . . if you could rescue him from some dire peril, for instance . . .”
“Oh, now you’re making fun,” Phoebe accused. “Cato’s never in dire peril, anyway, except perhaps on the battlefield. And I can’t do much to help him there . . .. Now, who could that be?” She slid off the bed at the sound of a knock at the door. “Come in.”
Brian Morse entered the chamber, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Forgive the intrusion, but I’ve been looking all over for you, Phoebe. I wished to give you these.” He behaved as if the woman in the bed didn’t exist.
“Ah, my savior,” declared Meg. “The scourge of witch finders the length and breadth of the country.”
A flash of anger crossed Brian’s little brown eyes at this cool irony, but he ignored Meg and continued to speak directly to Phoebe. “Mistress Bisset told me where to find you. I’ve brought you the patterns for those gowns I promised you.” He held out the papers. “I need to show them to you and discuss the right fabrics to choose.”
“My, my. Is there no end to your talents, young man?” murmured Meg. “The nemesis of witch finders is also a couturier.”
Phoebe tried to hide her smile. She was well aware that Brian’s arrogant attitude had annoyed Meg. And she could quite understand why. He was treating her as if she was utterly beneath his notice.
“Let us look at them here. Meg will be interested to see them too. And I should be glad of her opinion.” Phoebe hitched herself onto the bed again and offered Brian a sunny smile that nonetheless held a grit of determination. She extended her hand for the drawings.
Brian looked comically astounded, as if the ground had been cut from beneath his feet when he wasn’t looking. He remembered that she’d snubbed him once before. Her spirit had intrigued rather than annoyed him then, but to be finessed by her in front of an insolent, disreputable village woman . . . for her to imply that this peasant’s opinion on his sketches would be of value to her . . . It was insupportable!
He held on to the drawings, saying coldly, “When you’re not so busy, perhaps.” He spun on his heel and left the bedchamber, closing the door gently, but not before a smothered chuckle reached him, making his ears burn.
“Oh dear,” Phoebe said, her eyes alight with laughter. “He’s so pompous, but he did rescue you. We must give him some credit.”
“A man of an overweening conceit,” Meg pronounced. Then her expression sobered. “I wouldn’t trust him an inch, Phoebe.”
“Why not? What do you know of him?” She was immediately intrigued.
“I know nothing of him, but I assure you he’s not trustworthy.”
Phoebe had great respect for Meg’s intuitions. “That seems to be everyone else’s opinion also,” she conceded. “But I had thought maybe to use him . . . to pick his brains, perhaps, to find out more about the politics and the tactics of the war . . . all the things Cato won’t tell me. Then I could surprise Cato with what I know. What do you think?”
“I think,” Meg said consideringly, “that if you play with fire, you’ll burn your fingers.”
“I’ll be careful,” Phoebe assured her, sliding off the bed. “I’d better go and placate him. I’m sure he knew we were laughing at him.”
“Have a care,” Meg said somberly. “He’ll be a bad enemy.”
“I’ll bring you an infusion when I come back,” Phoebe promised cheerfully as she left the room.
In the corridor she hesitated, wondering where Brian might have gone. She decided to try the library and hurried towards the stairs. But she didn’t have to go very far. Brian Morse was coming up the stairs as she reached the head.
“Dare I hope you could spare me a few minutes?” he inquired, his face still dark, his eyes hooded. “I worked many hours on those drawings.”
“I ask your pardon if I offended you,” Phoebe said frankly. “But Meg is my friend and you insulted her by ignoring her.”
“It is not my custom to engage in social intercourse with villagers,” he stated. “But I have some things I wish to discuss with you, so we’ll put it behind us.”
Pompous was hardly an adequate description, Phoebe decided. But she merely offered a vague smile as she said, “Please do show me the drawings. I’m most eager to see them.”
Brian handed them to her, saying as he did so, “There is another matter . . . one of great delicacy. I fear all is not well with your husband.”
“What do you mean?” Phoebe demanded sharply, looking up from her perusal of Brian’s sketches. All interest in playing games with the man had vanished. “What has happened? Has he returned from headquarters?”
“No, not as yet.” Brian laid a hand on her arm. “But I’ve heard some disturbing information.”
“What?” Phoebe looked at him in alarm.
Brian looked around, up and down the passage. “As I said, it’s a matter of great delicacy. Where can we talk in strict privacy?”
“I was going to the stillroom to mix an infusion for Meg. No one will disturb us there.” Phoebe hurried down the corridor, Brian on her heels.
In the aromatic quiet of the stillroom, where the late morning sun fell in a great golden swath from a round window high up in the wall over the orderly shelves of lavender-strewn linens, Phoebe said without preamble, “So, what is it? What have you to tell me?”
Brian looked concerned. “I’ve heard that Lord Granville is facing difficulties among the high command . . . there are serious questions of his loyalty.”
“Oh, what nonsense!” Phoebe exclaimed, her eyes flaring with indignation. “Who could have told you such a thing?”
“I have many sources of information,” Brian told her gravely. “Believe me, I know much that goes on in both headquarters.”
“You mean spying?” Phoebe’s nose wrinkled unconsciously. “How could you possibly have spies in Parliament’s camp? You’re a Royalist.”
“Was,” Brian reminded her gently. “But believe me, Phoebe, my work has always been one of digging for information. Distasteful, you may think it, but it’s a vital part of warfare. But then, a woman couldn’t possibly be expected to understand,” he added with a smile that was meant to be kind but that appeared as flagrantly patronizing.
&nb
sp; “Oh, pah!” Phoebe said. “You sound just like Cato. I fail to see the male mystery involved in killing and being killed.”
“Well, perhaps we men like to think of it as our preserve,” Brian said pacifically. “Historically it always has been.”
Phoebe’s expression seemed to indicate that she was unimpressed with historical precedent.
He continued. “But in truth, Phoebe, Cato is in difficulties and I would like to help him, to prove my loyalty to him.”
“Why don’t you talk to him about it, then?”
“Because he won’t listen to me! God knows, I’ve tried, but he’s as stubborn as a mule. And he still doesn’t trust me, I’m certain of it, despite all the information I’ve given him.”
“What is it exactly that you’ve heard?” Phoebe turned from him and began to select jars from the shelf behind her. She was trying to hide the keenness of her interest. Perhaps this was her opportunity to prove herself to Cato.
“I know that Cato has come under suspicion by his party’s high command. Cromwell has questioned his commitment. It’s a very dangerous situation and the king’s escape yesterday has only made it worse. It looks as if he might have allowed him to slip away.”
“How do you know this?” Phoebe realized she was holding her breath.
“There was a skirmish several weeks ago and the king’s men took several prisoners. They became quite voluble . . .” Brian shrugged and left Phoebe to come to her own conclusions as to the means by which they became so.
“It’s also been reliably said that Lord Granville has questioned Cromwell’s motives in waging this war. That’s not an accusation to make lightly.”
That was a master stroke, Brian reckoned. He’d heard two troopers discussing the rumor the previous evening, when tongues were running loose over jugs of ale around the brazier in the stable yard. It might or might not be true, but it was still powerful fuel to the fire he was building here.
Phoebe measured herbs into the mortar and took up the pestle. She said nothing as she worked, and the rich aroma of crushed juniper, thyme, and lovage filled the stillroom. Brian’s words had the ring of truth, but she was mindful of Meg’s warning and determined to tread lightly.
“Do you think your husband would listen to you?” Brian asked into the fragrant silence.
“No. He considers his affairs to be solely his preserve.”
Brian nodded in silent satisfaction as he heard the disgruntled note. He was on the right track. “Perhaps there’s a way around that,” he mused, watching her profile from beneath lowered lids.
“What way?”
“Well, if Lord Granville refuses to see any need to convince his own party of his loyalty, perhaps his true friends should convince them for him.”
Phoebe turned slowly, the pestle still in her hand. “What do you mean?”
Brian appeared to ponder the question for a minute, then he said consideringly, “I’m thinking that if someone sent a document to Parliament under the Granville seal . . . something that proves Cato’s loyalty conclusively. That would be one way. But one would need access to his seal, of course . . .”
Phoebe frowned. “What kind of a document?”
“A piece of information from the king’s camp,” Brian said promptly.
“And where would we get that?”
“I would supply it.” Brian pursed his lips. “The king is going to seek help from the Scots. But to get it, he must make certain promises. I have conclusive proof that he’ll not keep those promises. If the Scots knew that, then they’d hand the king over to Parliament. If Cato provides Parliament with that information, his loyalty and commitment would go unquestioned.”
Phoebe shook her head. This was too much to take in. She felt utterly out of her depth. She knew that Brian had been supplying Parliament with information from the king’s camp, but how could he know so much about Parliament’s affairs? But then, he was right. What did she know of the devious workings of a spy?
One issue, however, seemed simple enough. “But why don’t you give this information to Cato yourself? Then he can put to rest any suspicions himself.”
“You really aren’t much of a conspirator, are you?” Brian’s smile was almost pitying. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Let us be a little more devious here, Phoebe. I had thought to kill two birds with one stone. You feel excluded from his life, don’t you?” His little eyes gazed intently into her own.
“I know how difficult that is, because I know how he holds himself apart from those who love him. He did it with my mother, and he’s always done it with me. I would help you change that. If he once sees how capable you are, and how ready and willing to help him, to partner him, then he might change the habits that hurt so many people. Think about it.”
Every word he spoke was true. It was what Meg had said too. She had to show Cato what she could do.
“You have this document? This proof of the king’s intentions?” she asked slowly.
Brian nodded. “Of course, I could simply take it to Parliament myself and thus prove my own loyalty beyond question, but it hurts that Cato won’t trust me. I’m his heir, after all.”
He looked closely at her as he said this, and noticed the faint color blooming on her cheekbones, a slight quiver of her full mouth.
“Until, of course, you give him a son,” he added with a tiny smile. “Forgive the indelicacy, but it is a matter of some interest to me.”
“Yes,” Phoebe agreed. “I suppose it is.”
Brian waited a heartbeat to see if she would say anything else, give him some clue as to whether she was carrying a child already, but she did not and he continued as if the previous exchange had never occurred. “So from my own point of view, this rather more devious approach might give him a reason to be grateful to me as well as to you.”
It seemed to make sense. Phoebe had seen the constraint between Cato and his stepson, although Cato never referred directly to it. And the idea that Brian had his own motives for helping her was somehow reassuring. Total lack of self-interest, she thought, would have been suspicious.
“How do we do this, then?” Now she made no attempt to disguise her eagerness.
“We have to be able to use Cato’s seal, as I said. The document must bear his seal, otherwise there’ll be no proof that it comes from him.”
“He seals things with his ring sometimes,” Phoebe said slowly. “But he never takes it off.”
“True, but he also has the big Granville seal. He keeps it locked in the drawer of the table in his study.” Brian watched her through narrowed eyes. He had her now. The unwitting architect of her husband’s downfall.
“If it’s locked away, I can’t see it’s much use to us,” Phoebe pointed out.
Dear God, the innocent! “We have to get it,” he said patiently. “We have to get the key and borrow the seal. Affix it to the document, send the document to Cromwell.”
Phoebe just looked at him in blank amazement. “That would be stealing,” she said.
“Borrowing,” Brian corrected as patiently as before. “Not stealing, but borrowing. And just for a very few minutes. He’ll never know, or at least not until all the good has been done and you can explain it all to him.”
“You don’t think he’d be angry at my borrowing his seal?” Phoebe demanded incredulously.
“Perhaps a little,” Brian conceded. “But the end justifies the means. He’ll see that. He’s a reasonable man, just rather stubborn about certain things.” His expression became very grave again.
“I don’t know how to convince you of how serious the situation is, Phoebe. If the high command decide Cato has betrayed them by letting the king slip, he’ll be destroyed.” He thumped a fist into the palm of his other hand. “It’s so frustrating, because he refuses to acknowledge the seriousness of it. He can’t see why anyone would question his loyalty.”
“Well, neither can I,” Phoebe said tartly. “But they are questioning it.”
Phoebe bit her lip. She
knew it was true. However absurd it was. And Cato’s careless dismissal was not helping matters. She’d heard the unspoken criticism in Giles Crampton’s responses yesterday.
“Cato keeps his keys on his belt.” Brian pressed his advantage as he saw her hesitation. “At night you could borrow them. Press them into a ball of wax, and I can have copies made very easily. Then we unlock the drawer and borrow the seal . . . just for a minute.”
“Where’s this document?” Phoebe asked. She was still unsure. It was all so smooth and convincing and sounded so easy. But it was also wrong! She couldn’t imagine stealing Cato’s keys while he slept. It was so . . . so impossibly wrong.
“Among my private papers.”
“Well, I’d have to see it before I agreed to anything,” Phoebe stated. “Maybe, as you say, the end justifies the means, but I want to see what that end is.”
Every time he thought he’d got her, she wriggled away again. Every time he thought he understood how to manipulate her, she suddenly threw an obstacle in the way. Naive one minute and infuriatingly down-to-earth the next. He had to learn never to take her responses for granted. She was unpredictable and definitely not the easy mark she appeared.
He wanted this business over and done with. He wanted to see Cato in the dust. He wanted to see him dead. He wanted to see himself the legal owner of title and possessions. And then he would find some way to deal with this odd, troublesome creature. She was an untidy, ramshackle apology for a woman, and yet she had this peculiar potential. Every time he looked at her, he saw it. He couldn’t understand where it came from.
Now he’d have to produce a document that didn’t exist, and produce it in a convincing form. It was a painstaking task that would take him hours even once he’d laid hands on the right materials.
“May I see it now?” she pressed.
“My private papers are not here. They’re in safekeeping elsewhere,” he said. “I’ll fetch them and you’ll see it in the morning.”
“I would have thought they’d be safest under your eye,” Phoebe said with her customary bluntness. “It seems strange to hide them elsewhere. You have no other shelter but your stepfather’s roof, or so you’ve always said, now that you’ve been discredited with the king. Where would you put private papers? In a tree, or under a stone? Or are they with some friend? Although I didn’t think you had any left after you switched sides.”
