Reckless Angel

by Jane Feather

  She returned Betsy’s smile, letting the statement go by default, but her mind seized upon the possibility and held on with the grip of a drowning man. If she carried Daniel’s child, then all would have to be well.

  Once she was home again, the possibility began to take on the shape of probability. She sat in the courtyard under the orange tree and dreamed of a child, her clasped hands resting protectively on her stomach. Daniel would forgive her and they would put this dreadful time from them.

  But there were no signs of forgiveness over the next few days. Daniel tried to look at the event dispassionately, to see it simply as an act of childish defiance perpetrated out of pique, an act he could have dealt with in disagreeable but straightforward fashion. But this was an act that flouted every tenet of their marriage—of any marriage. Wives did not spy upon their husbands and take the fruits of their spying to the enemy. He had known her to be inexperienced and unsophisticated, but he had believed her honest, one who would recoil in horror from such a contemptible suggestion. Instead, his wife had violated his trust and his privacy in the most despicable fashion, demonstrating her utter rejection of his values of decency, honesty, and respect. He tried to find excuse in her childhood, but she had been perfectly aware of her wrongdoing. He could not get out of his mind’s eye the image of her, standing there holding his papers, the crimson tide of guilt and confusion flooding her cheeks. Shaken to the core, his implicit faith in her honor destroyed, he could not imagine how he could ever trust her again. And without trust of the most fundamental kind, how could they possibly live together in any degree of harmony?

  He behaved toward her with a distant courtesy and slept in a small room adjoining the bedchamber. Rarely looking at her, he failed to see the effects of this treatment as she struggled with despair and loneliness, becoming drawn and pale. Despite her earlier resolution, she retreated from the social round and hugged tightly to herself the hope, rapidly becoming conviction, that soon she would be able to give him news that would bring instant pardon.

  Absorbed by unhappiness, Henrietta ceased to plan, to attempt to alter anything in the drear life that had descended upon her, even to pay attention to what was going on around her, until one morning, when the marchioness of Aitona paid her a visit.

  “My dear Doña Drummond, we have missed you at court,” she said, examining her hostess with sharp eyes. “I trust you are not ailing. Her Majesty is most concerned to know that all is well with you.”

  “Her Majesty does me too much honor,” Henrietta replied, and surprised herself with a slight caustic note in her voice as she remembered that Her Catholic Majesty had been largely responsible for the present wretched state of affairs. “I am perfectly well, madam. May I offer you some refreshment?” She pulled the bellrope for the señora. “A cup of chocolate, perhaps?”

  “Thank you.” Her guest smiled with only her lips and arranged skirts and petticoats around her as she took a seat. “It has been very hot. I can well understand why you would prefer to remain at home in the cool. But I do trust you will attend the concert at the palace on the morrow. I bring Her Majesty’s most ardent invitation.”

  Refusal was impossible if she was not upon her deathbed, and Henrietta acquiesced as graciously as she could, pouring chocolate for her guest and offering a bowl of the sweetmeats so beloved of the ladies of the Spanish court. Then the idea hit her with the speed and illumination of a shooting star. Her happy plan to aid Daniel’s mission had gone devastatingly awry, but that did not mean she could not still pursue the original goal. In the second or two before Daniel caught her red-handed, she had read some portion of the king’s dispatch. The damage was already done, so what did she have to lose, and mayhap she could still do Daniel some good even if he would never lay the credit at her door.

  “I have been thinking about our little talk, marchioness,” she said carefully, and was rewarded by a swift flash of interest in the other woman’s eyes, a slight stiffening of her shoulders.

  “Indeed, Doña Drummond?”

  Now what had she read exactly? Something about the expected arrival of an envoy to the Spanish court from Parliament…would that be of interest? Why would it? Presumably it was news the king of Spain already possessed, so why would he need to hear it from Daniel? “It is a matter of some amazement to me how King Charles’s messengers manage to deliver His Majesty’s dispatches to such far-flung places,” she said cautiously, sipping her chocolate, finding that some life seemed to have returned to her body to energize her numbed brain.

  “It is certainly amazing,” concurred her visitor. “It’s to be assumed that His Majesty King Charles must have a most efficient information network. I am sure he would know, for instance, about the diplomatic activities of his father’s murderers…of where they might be sending envoys, perhaps.”

  So there it was. The Spanish court wanted to know how much King Charles knew. Daniel would be as completely impervious to the question direct as to gentle hints, and for as long as he withheld this information, so the king’s audience would be withheld from him. King Charles had enjoined Daniel’s silence, so presumably His Majesty preferred to keep the nature and extent of his own spying activities a secret from all but those of whose loyalty and support he was assured. King Philip IV had not yet made overt and unconditional offer of either.

  “It’s to be assumed Parliament would wish to gain acceptance in the courts of Europe,” Henrietta said noncommittally.

  “Yes,” murmured the marchioness. “One would assume so. How is your husband’s mission progressing, Doña Drummond?”

  Henrietta smiled blandly. “Unfortunately, not as speedily as he had hoped, madam. His Catholic Majesty appears monstrous busy these days and has little time to receive visitors.”

  “Her Majesty, like all clever wives, has her husband’s ear, my dear,” spoke the marchioness deliberately. “And like all such wives, uses her influence with great care. I am certain she could be persuaded to advance Don Drummond’s cause.”

  “That would be most kind in Her Majesty,” responded Henrietta. “I understand from my husband that King Charles is greatly concerned about Parliament’s diplomatic activities. He would be less so, I think, if he had some idea of how extensive they were.” She picked at a loose thread in the lace of her sleeve. “In the isolation of The Hague, ’tis proving difficult to hear who has been approached by Parliament’s envoys extraordinary…or so my husband says.” She looked up and smiled innocently, before adding the sauce to the dainty dish of her mixing. “I understand our king has charged my husband with the additional task of discovering whether His Catholic Majesty has been approached, or can expect such an approach. I do not suppose you would know, would you, madam? If I could pass such information on to my husband, it would certainly impress him with my acumen, and I daresay he would confide in me to an even greater extent in the future.”

  And that should be thoroughly convincing, Henrietta thought with the first flash of contentment in days. If King Charles did not wish the Spaniards to know what he knew, then she had done her bit to ensure that they were completely at sea. Her visitor was murmuring that it was not the sort of information she was privy to, but Doña Drummond should keep her wits about her and her eyes and ears open. Thus would she surely learn much that would assist her husband.

  “I trust I have already done so in some small measure,” Henrietta said directly, rising as her guest began to take her leave.

  The marchioness merely smiled and nodded. “You have much wisdom, my dear, for one so young.”

  “I have been most fortunate in my teachers,” Henrietta replied pointedly.

  But Harry’s elation did not last long once her guest had left and the hot, stifling silence of the house settled around her again. She heard Daniel come in, and her heart sank with the now-familiar unhappiness at the way she knew he would greet her.

  He came into the small parlor. “You have had a visitor?”

  “The marchioness of Aitona,” she agreed dully
. “I am bidden to a concert at the palace on the morrow.”

  He stood looking at her for a minute and her heart yearned toward him, begged for a smile, just the hint of affection in the black eyes, just a touch of the old humor. But there was no change in his expression as he went over to the side table and took up the sherry decanter, filling a goblet to the brim with the rich golden wine. “I understand that the Troughtons are leaving Madrid. They are journeying overland to San Sebastián and taking ship for France.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Do you know when?”

  He shrugged. “At the end of the week, so I heard. ’Tis a little sudden, but they were brought news of the ship sailing from San Sebastian and decided to take it, not knowing when there would be another. You should visit Mistress Troughton and bid her farewell.”

  “’Tis too hot for visiting,” she said listlessly.

  “Nevertheless, you cannot remain immured in the house indefinitely,” he returned. Strangely, Henrietta had not realized he had been aware of her retreat from the outside world. “Besides,” he continued with an edge of sharpness, “you cannot be backward in the courtesies. Mistress Troughton befriended you when you arrived. You owe her a farewell visit.”

  “Aye,” she agreed in the same flat tone. “I will wait upon her in a day or so.” She thought she would choke in this deadly atmosphere with this complete stranger in her husband’s body and hastily rose to her feet and made for the door, her fingertips pressed to her lips as she concentrated on keeping back the tears.

  Daniel sighed as the door closed behind her, and he massaged his temples wearily. Would he ever be able to put this behind him? He could not punish her in this fashion indefinitely, yet neither could he help himself. His anger and hurt seemed not to have diminished in the least. Perhaps, when they could leave this city that seemed to have become an airless prison, he would feel differently. But the futility and mortification of his present anomalous position at the Spanish court merely exacerbated his deep sense of disappointment in one whom he had believed to be utterly straight and honest, for all the rashness of her impulses.

  Two days later, however, he was informed by the king’s chancellor that His Catholic Majesty would grant King Charles II’s unofficial ambassador an audience on the following forenoon. Wondering what could have brought about this unheralded change of heart, Daniel returned home in a more cheerful frame of mind, only to be informed by the señora that Doña Drummond had not left her bed that day. Frowning, he strode up the stairs and into the bedchamber, where the shutters were pulled tight, allowing only thin bars of sunlight to filter dimly through the cracks. It was close in the room, yet Henrietta lay behind the drawn bedcurtains, in airless darkness, smothered by the quilt.

  “What ails you, Henrietta?” He pulled back the bedcurtains and peered down at the small, curled mound. “’Tis as hot and stuffy as Hades in here!”

  “I have the headache,” she mumbled. “The light makes it worse.”

  His frown deepened. “Can I fetch ye something to ease it?”

  A sniff was the only response, and he placed his hand on her brow. Her skin was warm and damp, but that was hardly surprising in the overheated room. “Y’are not feverish, I think.”

  “’Tis just the flowers,” she said in a tiny voice, curling up more tightly.

  “Then ’twill not last long,” he said matter-of-factly, straightening up. Her monthly terms rarely caused her significant indisposition. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

  Tears squeezed under her closed lids as the bedcurtains fell back, enclosing her once again in darkness, and she heard the chamber door close softly. He had not even remembered that this month she might have conceived. It meant nothing to him that she had not, and he had not considered for one instant whether it might have mattered to her. He had known that she hoped for it and he had forgotten. He did not know, of course, how very important the possibility had become, how it was to heal this gaping wound in their marriage. But now, as her body shed the hope, she was filled with a great emptiness…a void that grew from utter helplessness. There was nothing she could do. Her husband despised her; she had no useful part to play in his life, no possible claims upon the love that she had destroyed. The years of her growing had been spent in the thin, dry soil of dutiful caretaking. No love had informed the duty and she had fled the barren ground as soon as she could, searching for warmth, for affection, for someone who would want her. She had chosen Will, and had been chosen by Daniel. But he no longer wanted her. And she would not again stay where she was unloved and unwelcomed.

  It was a decision born from utter misery, but at least it was a decision and alleviated the paralysis of helplessness. With the decision came the planning. Betsy Troughton was leaving Madrid for France. She could not refuse to provide escort and companionship for Henrietta, who would tell her she needed to return to The Hague in advance of Daniel because of some ill news they had received of family matters. It was not in the least an unusual occurrence. She could pay for her passage on the ship, and for her hospitality on the road, but she could not travel alone. The Troughtons would understand that. The major difficulty would be the timing. She must present her request with great urgency and at the last possible moment, so that there would be no time for the gossipy piece of news to spread, as it inevitably would, before she was well away. Daniel would not permit her to leave, regardless of how little he wanted her. He was far too honorable a man to cast off even a dishonorable wife. So she must go in stealth.

  An hour later, she was on her way to wait upon Betsy, ostensibly to pay her a farewell visit and wish her godspeed and good health and fortune upon her journey. She found the merchant’s house in an uproar and Betsy distracted as she tried to direct the packing, soothe a fretful baby, and control a rambunctious toddler.

  “Oh, Henrietta, how good of you to call,” she said breathlessly, dabbing her forehead with her handkerchief. “Is it not insufferably hot? No, John, you may not have that!” She lunged sideways to snatch a crystal jar from her son, who instantly began to bawl. “Oh, I do not know what to do, Henrietta. The nursemaid has the toothache, baby must have the colic, and John will not be good! And how we are to be away from here by the morning, I do not know.”

  “Y’are leaving so soon?” Henrietta wiped the toddler’s running nose. “I had not realized.”

  “My husband is anxious that we do not miss the ship’s sailing from San Sebastián. And, indeed, I’ll not be sorry to be away from this heat. ’Tis greatly tedious in my condition.” She patted her rounded belly and Henrietta winced under a sharp pang of envy. “Oh, no, Maria, those platters must be wrapped in cloths. They cannot go into the cases like that.”

  “Give me the baby,” Henrietta said, taking the keening infant from her friend’s arms. “Come, John, let us go into the garden and see what we can find. I will entertain these two for you so you may deal with the packing, Betsy.”

  “Oh, y’are too kind, Henrietta.” Betsy yielded up her children with a sigh of relief, and Henrietta took them out into the garden, where the afternoon heat lay like a heavy quilt. The baby stopped wailing as if it were too great an effort suddenly, and little John began to scrabble in a flower bed, a pursuit that his present guardian decided was both quiet and relatively innocuous.

  Walking slowly along the paths, she worked out her plan, her mind amazingly clear. She would come here in haste and apparent distress at dawn tomorrow, just as they were about to set off on their journey. She would beg a seat in the carriage, saying that her husband had received bad news from The Hague, and as he could not yet leave Spain himself, he had sent her on ahead of him. No one would question her story. It was a far too common one in these unsettled times. Betsy would welcome her company and her help on the journey, and once they reached France, she would leave the Troughtons and fend for herself. Daniel was as generous with money as he could afford to be, and she had a fair sum left over from this quarter’s allowance. If it should prove insufficient, she must sell the pear
ls. They had been a gift, not a loan, and were hers to dispose of as she pleased.

  Of course, if Daniel still slept in the conjugal bed she would be unable to steal away in the dawn; but if he still shared her bed she would not have the need to do so. The doleful truth simply strengthened her purpose.

  She left Betsy in her chaos and went home to the seclusion of her bedchamber, where she selected what she would take with her. The smaller her bundle, the better…a portmanteau would be far too cumbersome and she must be able to carry it herself. She chose a light wicker hamper with strong handles and carefully packed clean linen, her brushes and combs, sturdy boots, a cloak for climes less mellow than the Spanish heartland, and two of her simplest gowns. The elegant court wardrobe with which Daniel had furnished her would have no place in the life she must construct for herself.

  She hid the packed hamper beneath the bed, then undressed and got underneath the covers. She was not in the least sleepy, but bed seemed the safest place at the moment. Daniel would assume she was still feeling indisposed and would not disturb her during the evening. In fact, she might not even see him before the morning…and in the morning, she would not see him.

  Henrietta turned her head into the pillow and wept, grieving for the loss of a love that had become indispensible for happiness. Without that love, it ceased to matter what became of her.

  Daniel spent a quiet evening in the parlor, preparing for his audience with King Philip on the morrow. He knew he would have only the one chance to present his king’s request, and he must somehow convince the Spanish monarch that financial assistance in raising an army would not be wasted. He had to paint an optimistic picture of the support King Charles already had, of the Scots so eagerly awaiting his arrival at the head of an army, of the dispersal of Cromwell’s disciplined New Model in the chaotic aftermath of the war and Charles Stuart’s execution. Unfortunately, Daniel was not entirely certain how correct such an optimistic picture was. It was hard to be convincing if one was not totally convinced oneself.