Royalist on the Run

by Helen Dickson

  ‘Then we can only hope that now you are in Paris you can make up for lost time.’

  Without uttering another word, with trembling fingers Arabella placed her slender hand in his. As the music started for a pavane he led her on to the floor. The floor was crowded with slow-moving figures, pacing to the rhythmic cadence of the instruments. She was relieved it was a moderate tempo and not the previous spirited dance.

  When she had arrived in the company of Verity and Gregory and cast a glance over the scene, she had been unprepared for the colour and sparkle that greeted her. The English exiles gathered together might be impoverished, but they were still a sight to behold, and she thought how dull and how much poorer England would be without these aristocrats.

  Unfamiliar with such occasions, she had felt as if hundreds of eyes were turned to her, but she knew that was likely only her nerves. She had fixed a smile on her face and endured a series of introductions and partnered several of the gentlemen in a dance. Before she had been led on to the floor by her first partner, a sense of panic had welled up in her stomach. She was not used to this kind of event and fervently hoped she would not make a fool of herself on the dance floor by forgetting the steps she had learned as a girl. But she need not have worried. She did not discredit herself, and now, dancing with Edward with her gown flowing in shimmering waves about her long legs, her feet flew over the floor as if they had wings. She was mesmerised by him, the deep-blue eyes almost consuming her, and each time he touched her hand a strange kind of energy seemed to flow into her.

  At once her body began to react, to throb and burn as evocative memories of their loving came flooding back and a heat surged through her veins. Her composure was shaken by the various sensations that swept over her and the yearnings gnawing at her heart were nothing less than cravings that he had elicited when he had made love to her.

  The dance ended and, keeping hold of her hand, he took her back to Verity. Gregory had joined her and they decided to retire to an adjoining room for refreshment.

  As they left the dancing behind, experiencing a peculiar sensation of being watched and seeing a movement out of the corner of her eye, Arabella turned her head quickly, in time to see a figure disappear into the midst of people on the fringe of the dance floor.

  It was nothing, she told herself, but a cold shiver passed down her spine.

  With drinks in their hands, the four of them retired to a quiet table where they could talk undisturbed. Gregory held out his glass. ‘To your freedom, Edward. It’s good to have you back with us.’

  He nodded, holding up his own. ‘And to health and good fortune. Let it not be long before England realises her mistake in supporting Cromwell and the King comes to his own.’

  Arabella noted the hard gleam in his eyes and her heart plummeted. ‘Edward, do not tell me you are to continue the fight.’

  His eyes met hers and he shook his head. ‘No, Arabella. Rest assured the war is over. The Royalists are impoverished, their estates sequestered. There is no money to resume the fight and France is occupied fighting its own war. Besides, like every other European country she is eager to do business with the new order in England. We can only hope it does not last. With the austerity and dark piety imposed on the English people by Parliament, it will not be long before they begin to long for the return of the monarchy and the old way of life.’

  ‘Have you given any thought to where you will live, Edward?’ Verity asked, eager to turn the conversation away from the political situation. ‘Of course I would like you to stay with us—I know Dickon would love to have you with him, but the house is small—scarcely large enough for us all as it is.’

  He shrugged. ‘Do not worry about it, Verity. I shall find somewhere. Exiles appear to have taken over the Royal Palace. I have friends whose situation is no different from mine. I’m sure one of them will take pity on me and offer me lodging. If not, there is always Robert at St Germain. It will not be as close to you as I would like to be, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?’

  ‘You have seen Robert?’ Arabella asked.

  He nodded. ‘I stopped there before coming on to Paris. He is worried about Alice and the children.’

  ‘I know how desperate he is to see them again. He will return to England if Cromwell offers a pardon. Will you return, Edward?’

  A faraway look entered his eyes as his mind travelled on the scheming and planning of which she had no part.

  ‘Never. To do so would be to concede defeat. I will not do that while ever there is a prince left alive to sit on the throne. There is nothing for me in England at this present time. Everything I have is in Paris. Fortunately I am not entirely destitute.’

  ‘But what you have will not last for ever,’ Verity said quietly. ‘What will you do? Would you consider offering your sword to the French King?’

  He nodded, his face sombre. ‘If I have to, yes, I will.’

  * * *

  They were leaving. Despite the revelries Arabella felt a certain unease. Turning her head, she looked towards a curtained alcove, seeing the heavy fabric fall back into place as if someone had just passed through. Telling herself not to be silly, that she was imagining things, she turned away. But she could not put off the feeling that she was being watched. She frowned. Something wasn’t quite right. There was something strange going on and she trusted her intuition. Something simple, perhaps, but it could be significant.

  * * *

  The following morning when Edward came to the house, having found lodgings in the city with Lord Pettigrew, a close friend he had fought with in many a battle, Dickon was so excited to see his father again there was no pacifying him until Edward walked through the door. Dickon squealed with delight and threw himself at him. Edward laughed and swung him up into his arms.

  Arabella looked on fondly, wondering how he would react when she told him of the child—their child—she was carrying. But she would keep it to herself a while longer until things had settled down and she knew what he intended to do.

  Edward had no hold over her. She was not his mistress. No promises had been made and there had certainly been no talk of marriage. She had not asked him for anything. But what if she did ask him for more? No, she could not do that. She would not want him to marry her out of obligation.

  * * *

  That evening they had been invited to dine with friends. In the early days of her pregnancy, Arabella was feeling slightly under the weather and would have preferred to have remained at home, but when Verity promised they would not be late leaving the party, she was persuaded. She might have been more enthusiastic had Edward been able to accompany them, but he was otherwise engaged at St Germain.

  It was a large gathering, mostly exiles with several French noblemen and their wives. At the conclusion of the meal, the atmosphere became relaxed as more liquor was imbibed, the conversation louder and more animated, the favourite topic among the exiles about battles fought, won and lost.

  Arabella was about to find a seat when her attention was drawn to a florid-faced gentleman in a long curling black wig, describing his escape from Worcester and before that Dunbar and St Fagans. Gregory told her that the gentleman’s name was Captain George Fanshaw and he had indeed fought at all three battles. Unable to conceal her curiosity, Arabella approached him.

  ‘Captain Fanshaw,’ she said, standing directly in front of him. ‘My name is Lady Arabella Fairburn. Pardon me for interrupting, but you were there—at St Fagans?’

  A jovial sort with lively dark eyes, he looked down at her. ‘I was indeed. Is the battle of interest to you, Lady Fairburn?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Was there a particular aspect that you are interested in?’

  ‘My husband was killed during the battle.’

  ‘I see. I am sorry. His name? Perhaps he was familiar to me.’

  ‘
Sir John Fairburn of South Glamorgan.’

  The gentleman frowned. ‘A Welshman?’

  ‘Yes. Did—you know him?’

  Thinking hard, he nodded. ‘I knew of him and I believe we did meet on occasion. If my memory serves me correctly, I seem to think the John Fairburn I know is well and truly alive. In fact, I think he came to France.’

  Arabella stared at him with something akin to horror in her eyes. ‘You—you must be mistaken. My husband is dead...’

  ‘Not unless there are two men with the same name. The John Fairburn I know was wounded—that I do remember. Quite badly as it happens. He came to France to enrol in the French war, but he did not recover well and still suffers from the wounds inflicted on him at St Fagans. I have neither seen nor had reason to think of him since. If he had returned to Paris, I am sure I would have encountered him—but I seem to think he is somewhere in the south of the country.’ He smiled. ‘He probably prefers the warmer climes of the Mediterranean.’ He looked at her with his deep-set eyes, noting her sudden pallor. ‘I see I shock you.’

  She nodded. ‘Since he was reported killed and his body returned to his family home, then, yes. I have believed him dead these three years. Now you tell me he is alive.’

  ‘You—saw the body?’

  ‘No—no. I was told he was so badly wounded as to be unrecognisable.’

  ‘Then unless I am mistaken and there are two men with the same name, you will be happy that I can confirm that your husband is alive—although who the man was that you buried is a mystery.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Arabella turned away, unable to believe what she had been told. This frightful thing could not be happening to her. She wanted to scream, to try to overcome the horror which was taking possession of her. She felt as though she were in a nightmare and that she would never wake up.

  John was dead—he had to be dead. She couldn’t bear it if he wasn’t. And until he showed himself then that was how he would remain.

  She frowned, thinking hard. But why would he have feigned his death? Why had he not come home? And why come to France and fight for the French king? Had he wanted her to think he was dead? It just didn’t make sense.

  And what did it mean for her?

  She had been unfaithful. She was carrying another man’s child.

  There would be no forgiveness in him.

  * * *

  As the days passed Arabella became more and more certain that someone was watching her. Something didn’t seem right. It was nothing she could put her finger on, just something she couldn’t ignore. When she attended events with Verity she sensed invisible eyes watching her, and on turning she would see a figure disappearing into a crowd, a door closing or a curtain move. Common sense told her these events were not necessarily related, but her instinct was telling her to ignore common sense.

  Anxious and increasingly restless since she had spoken to Captain Fanshaw, she made excuses not to go out, but after a while she could feel the walls of the house closing in. She felt like a caged bird struggling to be free, to stretch its wings. When Edward came to the house their eyes would seek each other out. The signals flashed, one to the other, and the silent, invisible cord stretched between them, and as the days passed the tighter it became.

  When Edward was leaving the house after spending an afternoon with Dickon, he asked Arabella to accompany him to the door.

  With the sound of children’s laughter ringing in their ears, they stood and gazed at each other, both of them aware that their reunion was not to their satisfaction.

  Edward’s longing to take Arabella in his arms was so great that he knew he would have to devise something. She was like a diamond shining on the perimeter of his sight and he was aware of her flitting in and out of his mind. Whenever they were together they were never alone. Always Verity was present and the children. At these times there had been a need to keep their expressions closed, neutral.

  Keeping his voice low, he said, ‘I cannot stand this a moment longer. I seem to recall you were fond of riding as a girl.’

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t been on the back of a horse for longer than I can remember. The horses at Bircot Hall were taken by the soldiers.’

  ‘Then tomorrow I will hire horses and we will ride out of the city. Does that appeal to you?’

  Before Arabella could reply, Verity appeared, having overheard Edward’s suggestion.

  ‘Arabella has been looking a little pale of late, Edward. Perhaps some fresh air would be good for her. It is time she saw something of Paris,’ she said, smiling her approval.

  Immediately Edward’s eyes were drawn to Arabella. Verity had voiced his own thoughts. Arabella had not seemed herself of late, and, intuitively, he knew that something was troubling her, which made him all the more determined to get her alone.

  ‘But—would it not be best to hire a carriage?’ Verity suggested. ‘What I mean is—perhaps you should take Pauline with you.’

  Arabella laughed at Verity’s concern for her reputation. ‘Pauline? Oh, Verity, that is exactly what Alice would have said. I hardly think a chaperon is necessary. I am almost twenty-three years old and a widow. As such, my status is rather different to that of an unmarried young woman. Besides, I love to ride and the activity and fresh air will do me the world of good.’ What she said was true. The exercise would draw her out of the mire of uncertainty and vague disquiet in which she had wallowed since her brief conversation with Captain Fanshaw.

  Verity looked from one to the other, then, with a knowing smile and a slight shrug of her shoulders, she turned away. ‘Oh, well, I am sure you know best.’

  Pulling on his gloves, Edward chuckled softly. ‘As much as I adore my sister, Arabella, it is you I want to spend some time with. Alone. There is so much I want to say to you.’ He frowned, suddenly concerned. ‘Verity is right. You do look pale. Are you suffering some ailment?’

  Arabella laughed. ‘I am perfectly all right, Edward—and, as Verity said, it is nothing that fresh air won’t cure.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  Raising her hand, he pressed the backs of her fingers to his mouth and, parting his lips, touched them with the tip of his tongue, his eyes holding hers. Arabella felt that familiar, melting sensation spread throughout her body and she shivered.

  He smiled as he lowered her hand, knowing exactly the effect he was having on her. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  * * *

  True to his word, Edward arrived the following morning. It was a cool, overcast day, but neither of them would allow it to detract from their pleasure. It took no time at all for Arabella, gracefully perched side-saddle, to get used to being on horseback again and begin to enjoy the freedom it brought and to being away from the house. They rode through the outer environs of the city into the open countryside.

  ‘We will stop for refreshment shortly,’ Edward told Arabella as they rode towards a village in the distance, his face relaxed beneath his wide-brimmed plumed hat.

  ‘I would like that,’ she replied.

  They had been riding for some time and already her stomach was beginning to rumble with hunger. Glancing across at Edward, she noted the jewelled buttons on his crimson tunic flash in the sun as he rode. She could not believe she was alone with him at last. Her heartbeat quickened when her gaze settled on his darkly handsome features and she fervently hoped he was in no hurry to return to Paris.

  After partaking of a light meal at a small wayside inn, they rode on.

  Edward turned and smiled at his companion, and she returned his smile. He liked it when she smiled. It transformed her face. Her large amber eyes sparkled and her mouth softened, smoothing away the frown that creased her brow all too frequently of late, the cause of which puzzled and worried him.

  After a while, longing to stretch their legs, they strolled through a wooded area, climbing a sligh
t rise, from which they had a splendid view of the city in the distance, beneath a pale blanket of cloud. But neither of them were interested in the view as they stood and looked at each other.

  Reaching out Edward slowly removed the hood of Arabella’s cloak from her head and he watched, fascinated as her heavy curls spread about her shoulders, the burnished tresses gleaming beneath a shaft of sunlight slanting through the trees.

  ‘That’s better. I like to see your hair.’

  She laughed lightly. ‘If you do not think I resemble a gypsy with my hair down, then I’m sure I don’t care.’

  ‘In my opinion it is better to look like a gypsy wench than one of those long-faced puritan women who inhabit Cromwell’s world.’

  ‘I have no puritan leanings, Edward.’ Her mouth was slightly parted and she nipped the flesh of her bottom lip with her small perfect teeth in an innocently sensual gesture.

  Edward felt the heat flame in his belly. Removing his gloves, he flung them to the ground and, taking her hand, drew her closer. Slowly he untied the cord at the neck of her cloak and let it fall in a pool at her feet, his eyes holding hers all the while. She did not move or speak, but her eyes darkened with desire.

  Edward took her into his arms. He placed his lips on hers, kissing her with deepening hunger, and Arabella was happy to find there was no lessening of the passion he had felt when he had made love to her the night before he was captured. The sweet scent of her hair and skin and the touch of her body as he kissed her ignited his desire.

  Leaving the tethered horses to munch grass to their hearts’ content, they went a little deeper into the wood where they were hidden from the world.

  ‘I think we have much catching up to do,’ Edward murmured, removing his jacket. His strong hands drew her close to a hard, warm chest.

  ‘I agree. We have been too long apart from one another.’ She looked at him askance, mock-serious. ‘But that does not mean I can be won over so easily, my lord.’