What did he make of her? And did he wonder about her loyalties—King or Parliament? It didn’t worry her that he might regard her as having the same faults and allegiances as Thomas—and, she thought on a sigh, there were times when she had to question them herself.
* * *
The morning of Thomas Stratton’s funeral dawned dank and grey. After a night with little sleep, Catherine woke early. She rose and crossed to the window to look out. The rain had ceased and a grey mist swathed the top of the hills and drifted down into the valley bottoms. As she looked down into the courtyard a form, probably one of the grooms, moved towards the stables. Suddenly, a ride out into the surrounding hills before breakfast was too tempting for her to resist. She often rode out early morning and, she thought, this could well be the last time she would do so at Carlton Bray.
Pulling on her clothes and riding boots and carrying her hat, she silently slipped down the stairs and left the castle. As she’d crossed the hall, she imagined she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves clattering over the drawbridge, but on entering the yard and seeing no one, she thought she had been mistaken. The stables were quiet, the horses shifting restlessly in their stalls. Hurriedly saddling her mount, she breathed deeply of the scent of hay and the warm bodies of the horses which she always found familiar and comforting.
Leaving the castle behind, she rode towards the hills. The paths were familiar to her and she rode her horse hard, revelling in the exercise. Yet she had a heavy heart, for this might be the last time she rode these hills which were so much a part of her life. When her beloved mother had died and since marrying Thomas, followed by his rejection of her and long absence, she had at first floundered in uncertainty with no confidante, no one to hear her complaints and give her succour. Carlton Bray had become the centre of her existence, her beating heart. When she realised that this was her life from now on, she had moved in a carefully constructed calm efficiency, directing the household and supervising what had to be done in times of strife, of which there were many. She had come to love every ancient and battle-pitted stone of the old castle and would miss it terribly, but life had to go on.
* * *
After half an hour and having ridden some distance from the castle, she toyed with the notion of turning back, then dismissed the idea. Thomas’s funeral loomed like a dark cloud over the day ahead of her and she wanted to enjoy her ride a bit longer. Taking a path that would lead her up into the hills, she decided to ride as far as the lake, which was a thin ribbon of water in a thickly wooded valley. Taking a downward path, which was thickly choked with briars, deftly her horse picked its way along. Catherine knew that when she broke through the trees the view would be well worth it. She was not mistaken. It was a view she had seen many times and revelled in its beauty in all the changing seasons.
Abruptly the foliage parted. From where she stopped a stretch of clear ground cut a swathe some twelve feet in width. To her left, further along the lake, large rocks protruded out of deep water. Dismounting, she took the reins and quietly made her way along the edge of the trees, her gaze fixed on the rocks ahead of her, certain she had heard the soft whicker of a horse. About to step around the rocks forming a sequestered cove screened by a tangle of willows, she quickly stepped back, having seen a horse nibbling the grass and a pile of clothes on the rocks. Moments later there was a splash, followed by the lesser sound and sight of a body, like a dark, sleek blade, cutting its way just below the surface of the water with slow, controlled strokes.
Catherine took a wary step out of the covering willow tree to watch as the swimmer ploughed his way into the centre of the lake, his strokes powerful and sure. She shuddered, thinking that whoever it was would surely freeze to death in the cold November waters of the lake. A thin mist floated just above the surface. She drew back when he turned and swam back to the rocks, then rose ghostlike from the water. His dark hair hung in wet strands about his head and neck. Without even seeing his face Catherine knew he was John Stratton. The water level dropped from his chest to his waist, to his thighs and—she wanted to turn and run, but did not, held in place by the sight of the primeval, glistening form, naked and powerful.
Spellbound, Catherine let her gaze rove over the firm muscled chest and legs, lingering on the patch of dark hair and his manhood protruding there. Despite the coldness of the morning her body became heated, her face red, yet she could not tear her eyes away. Unaware that he was being watched, he began to dress. Rooted to the spot. Catherine continued to watch, her breath ragged and her heart beating loud in her ears. She was careful not to make a sound lest he heard, having no idea how she would explain her presence. How she managed to keep herself hidden until he’d mounted his horse and ridden off she couldn’t say, but she was relieved when the sound of his horse’s hooves could no longer by heard.
Only then did she leave the lake and ride back to Carlton Bray. When she rode into the courtyard she didn’t see the figure standing watching her, no more than a silhouette in the shadows—tall, physically imposing, arrogant even, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
Chapter Two
The small community of Carlton village made the effort to attend Lord Stratton’s funeral to pay their respects. Along with a few gentlemen and their wives from neighbouring manors and tenant farmers from surrounding farms, they made their solemn progress through the heavy doors of the small Saxon church—although more had come to take a look at the new lord than to remember the old. When the widow of Lord Stratton entered in heavy black mourning, along with Lord Thomas’s heir, the congregation nodded their collective heads in solemn respect. Lady Stratton had never put on airs, but her breeding was written all over her. She was every inch a lady, in her speech, in her manners, in the way she moved, no matter what she wore, be it plain gowns or breeches.
Lord Fitzroy and Lady Stratton took their seats in the ornately carved pew kept for the Stratton family—although there had been few of late to fill it. The members of the household sat behind them. Many knew of the new landowner and owner of Carlton Bray Castle, that he was Earl Fitzroy of the Sussex branch of the Stratton family and a staunch Parliamentarian who would, without doubt, have great influence in county politics.
Reverend Armstrong, in a suit of black with an austere collar as white as his shock of hair, read from the new prayer book approved by Parliament from the lectern. There were no words spoken in Latin, no vestments, ornate candlesticks or candles now Parliament ruled. The prayers were long, as was the eulogy, outlining the life and deeds of Thomas Stratton in the cold church.
Catherine’s face was grim as the service went on around her, her mouth pressed in a hard line as she looked straight ahead, giving no indication of her thoughts or emotions. She had been brought up in a house that had taught her it was not done to show one’s feelings in public, not even grief for the death of a loved one—not that she had loved Thomas and had little respect for the man who had virtually ignored her for all of their married life.
From the pulpit, the minister eloquently launched into the many attributes of her husband, of which she heard not a word. She bent her head and uttered the words of the prayers, conscious of the man beside her, his head bent in prayer.
The memory of what she had seen on her early morning ride she found impossible to banish from her mind, or the image of how he had looked when he had risen from the waters of the lake. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric of her clothes as the picture of him standing there, legs partially spread, hands on hips as he stared straight ahead made her body tremble. She tried to imagine how it might have been if she had stepped out of the undergrowth and stripped off her clothes—how his eyes would flash with lust and stare at her unconcealed breasts. Her mind travelled down the imaginary path his hands would take, touching lightly here and there, with fingers inscribing small circles around the taut, distended nipples before brushing lightly over her aching thighs.
Suddenly the minister’s
voice intruded, scattering her impious thoughts, but they hovered and played on the perimeter of her mind and a little rebellious smile curved her lips. As if sensing a change in her, her companion glanced at her. Their gazes held for a moment in quiet perusal and then she lowered her head as a knowing flush mantled her cheeks and she forced herself to behave as a recently widowed woman should.
Then it was over and they watched as Thomas’s earthly remains were interred with his ancestors in the Stratton family vault that a forebear had built close to the altar in the church. It was neither vanity nor morbidity, just confidence that life would be followed by death and the Manor would continue in the hands of the Strattons of the Sussex line. Lord Fitzroy left the pew and stood aside for Catherine to pass. From the moment they had come together to journey to the church in the coach, he was nothing but courtesy itself. He was thoughtful and charming, and Catherine displayed an attitude that told him she was grateful and glad of his support.
The congregation rose and filed out. Passing through into the churchyard, Catherine saw that the sun was out in a sky streaked with the last remnants of cloud. It gave her no pleasure. It seemed that it had come out to mock her, for she knew she had no power, no weaponry, against her father’s hold on her. The future no longer seemed appealing or safe. Now everything was changed and she was no longer sure of anything. She was adrift.
John kept to her side as she graciously accepted the condolences of those who came to pay their respects, some clearly moved that she was leaving Carlton Bray after so many years.
Standing apart from the rest, a woman with two young children clinging to her skirts drew her attention. A smile appeared on Catherine’s face and she went to have a word with her, John standing within hearing.
‘Mrs Jenkins! It’s good to see you. How are things at home? Better, I hope.’
‘Yes, thank you, my lady. I wanted to come and bid you farewell and to thank you for what you did for me and the children.’
‘Not at all. I was glad to help. How is young Jimmy?’
‘Better. The doctor assures me there will be no lasting effects.’
‘That’s good to hear. And your husband?’
‘Home at last, thank the Lord.’
Mrs Jenkins moved off when others came to speak to Lady Stratton.
After thanking Reverend Armitage for the service, they climbed into the coach that was to take them back to the castle, where a light repast had been prepared for the guests.
‘That woman—Mrs Jenkins,’ Lord Fitzroy said. ‘She lives in the village?’
‘No—half a mile away. She has four children. Her eldest, Jimmy, was picked on by some boys in the village because of his father’s loyalty to Cromwell. He was beaten quite badly—thank goodness he will make a full recovery. His mother was afraid and vulnerable so, along with her children, I brought her into the castle until the hostility against the family died down.’
‘That was noble of you.’
‘Noble? No. I was doing my Christian duty. That was the way I saw it. Her husband has returned from the war so now she has someone to protect her.’
‘And I have no doubt she will be eternally grateful to you. You are well-liked and respected in these parts. I could see that. I imagine you will be greatly missed.’
‘Yes,’ she replied softly, averting her eyes. ‘I will miss them, also. We have shared some difficult times. I pray for a brighter future for them all.’
Seated across from her companion, her face pale and unable to conceal the tension inside her, she sensed that he must be contemplating the immensity Thomas’s passing would inflict on her, aware that she had already suffered so much. But she was strong and resilient and one thing she would not do was allow her will and her strength to desert her.
‘The funeral is over,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Take as long as you think is necessary to come to terms with what has happened. You are tired and hurting and it will take time.’
Catherine stared at him. Never had a man’s nearness, the sound of his voice, been so welcome. She saw compassion in his eyes. His gaze was heavy, giving her sympathy, assuring her without words of protection. She felt lost, as if all feeling had frozen inside her. Never had she felt so alone and she did not like it. She had nothing to sustain her, nothing from her marriage to Thomas but misery and toil, no happy memories. Tears would not avail her, as she knew now, beyond the mercy of a doubt, for this one terrible hurt, this loneliness, there was no cure at all.
‘This is my worst nightmare come true,’ she said, feeling that the excruciating day’s events seemed to have eaten into the deepest crannies of her mind. ‘There is nothing left for me here—and God knows I have tried. And now my father has summoned me back to London—to Oakdene. Why should I go there now? There is nothing for me there, either. I seem to have been drifting aimlessly in the shadows for so long that I’ve forgotten there’s another world beyond Carlton Bray.’
‘Whether you want to go to your father or not is beside the point. Think about it. He was very ill when we parted at Newcastle, the journey south will have weakened him further. If he should die, you will never forgive yourself for not going to him. Listen to him, to what he has to say, while showing him that you are capable of running your own life.’
‘It is easy for you to say that,’ she retorted, her anxieties written in deep lines on her face. ‘You don’t understand. How can you? I imagine you have a loving family waiting for you. I have no one. I must reconcile myself to a life of desolation and learn to fend for myself.’ She thought she saw a darkening to his eyes when she mentioned his family, but it was soon gone and she dismissed it from her mind.
‘All the more reason for you to come with me when I leave here. Do not pity yourself. You are above that. The way I see it you have no alternative. When today is over you must prepare to leave.’
‘Must?’ she uttered sharply. ‘There is nothing I must do.’
‘This time you will,’ he said coldly.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly. His strong, handsome face had become stern and uncompromising. She was beginning to know that look. Its power was not to be underestimated. He was angry with her and his words brought a pain to her heart that was sharper than a blade. But she kept it at bay—there would be time to feel later. Her own ire under his bright blue stare diminished and, lowering her eyes, she continued on a calmer note.
‘I told you I would think about it and I will. Just how well do you know my father?’
‘We have seen much of each other since the war began, at one battle or another—we even fought side by side on occasion. At Edgehill, back in forty-two, he was wounded and knocked from his horse. He truly believed it was the end. I saw what happened and, despite suffering a minor wound myself, we managed to get off the field together. I got to know him well. He is a man with a deep sense of integrity and courage. Fighting in battle hurts a man’s mind as well as his body. Tragedy touches all of us. Your father gave me his support when I was going through a difficult time.’
‘And you were hurting?’
‘I was, but I didn’t realise how much. Your father helped me deal with that. I knew what I had to do, but it was hard for me to take another human life. I couldn’t stomach it.’
‘But you had to do it.’
He nodded. ‘Our time in the war was hard, but our special relationship made us close. I suppose you could say that he saved me from myself. I have been a guest at Oakdene House many times when I’ve been in London. You have already told me that the two of you are at odds with each other.’
‘Yes—and for many reasons. I do not know the man you speak of. You have seen a side to him that is unknown to me. My mother was not cold in the ground before he found himself another wife—Blanche, the beautiful and ambitious daughter of Lord Aniston of Murton House in York.’
‘We do not choose our families. My own...’ He p
aused, seeming to recollect himself. ‘It might help you to realise that, to some degree or other, we all have difficult families.’
His words had Catherine wondering what he could mean, but he said no more and she did not ask. But she was curious.
‘And—do you not see eye to eye with Blanche either?’ he enquired.
‘Far from it, but I have learned to cope with my stepmother in my own way, which is largely to avoid her whenever possible. That isn’t difficult with half the country between us. I thought this would be simple when I married Thomas and being so far away from London, but they made a point of coming here before Thomas went off to fight the King’s cause. Father hoped he would change his allegiance and failed.’
‘Was that the last time you saw your father?’
‘Yes—almost six years ago. Blanche is a schemer, a woman who knows what she wants and does everything within her power to get it—although I do not think it was of any help when her parents married her to my father, though I believe they were happy for a time.’ She noted how John was looking at her, his brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown. He must wonder at the underlying bitterness she had expressed earlier when she had spoken of Thomas. He was probably surprised that she would speak of something so personal, so intimate. Her sudden burst of anger had brought a flush to her cheeks.
‘Please don’t upset yourself. It doesn’t matter now.’
Resisting Her Enemy Lord Page 3
