‘He never fully recovered from a near fatal wound inflicted on him at Marston Moor—and he was wounded again at Preston. I do not believe he had changed—if anything his bitterness that the cause he fought for was lost was worse. War had changed him—as it has so many. Some have nothing left.’
‘Neither had Thomas. You must be prepared for what his lawyer will reveal. The truth is that Thomas agreed to marry me for my money. Yes, my father was generous with my dowry and Thomas believed there would be more. But once wed, he found he had no control over my money or the property left to me by my mother, the whole being in the power of trustees who act solely in my interest. When I refused to hand it over to Thomas, he—he used me ill.’
‘I’m sorry, Catherine. Why didn’t you give it to him? He was your husband. Many would say it was his right.’
‘It was not. He married me without love or consideration. I did not hold back out of pity or anger, but because I firmly believed it was the wisest thing to do. Had I not done so he would have poured it into the King’s coffers to fund the King’s war. I did not want that. I wanted no part in it.’
John stopped and looked down at her. ‘Where did your allegiance lie, Catherine? King or Parliament? I confess to being somewhat bewildered. I realise that being married to a man who bore such a strong allegiance to King Charles it would be both supportive and necessary for a wife to share her husband’s beliefs.’
‘I told you I am my own woman, John. As a matter of fact, I didn’t hold a candle for either side. For me it wasn’t about that, it was about survival, about getting through each new day without being fired upon and making sure people were safe, having enough to eat and taken care of. Now it is over I thank God that I kept hold of my mother’s legacy, which gives me my independence. I suppose my attitude to the war was somewhat cynical. Living at Carlton Bray, away from everything, I felt somewhat detached. Oh, we had a few skirmishes along the way, but we survived, if somewhat poorer.’
‘What you did went way beyond the bounds of courage. You are a very beautiful and desirable young woman. You did well.’
Catherine flushed, unused to such compliments. ‘I must have cut a sorry figure when you arrived at Carlton Bray.’
‘No. Quite the opposite, in fact,’ he said, turning her hands palm upwards, showing no surprise on seeing the startling evidence of the part she had played on helping to keep the castle safe. The soft pads beneath her fingers were marred with a few hard callouses.
Catherine grimaced. ‘They are hardly the hands of a well-bred lady.’
‘They are beautiful hands—hands to be proud of,’ he murmured, bending his head and kissing them softly, taking her completely by surprise. ‘Never be ashamed of your hands, Catherine.’
Only when he raised his head and released his hold on her hands did she step back, her cheeks flushed in bewilderment so that she did not know what to think.
John stayed where he was, smiling slowly as he watched her walk back to the house, knowing that his kiss had stirred an unknown part of her untouched by Thomas. Yes, it had stirred an unknown passion in her innocent heart. She was like a fragile flower, fragrant and sweet, and as ignorant of just how tantalising and sensual she was.
* * *
Catherine returned to her room, her mind in a whirl. John had awoken in her a need otherwise unknown to her, one she did not understand. She had struggled and fought invading forces over the years, enduring without complaint all the indignities, sufferings and hardships they imposed, but it had taken just one kiss from John Stratton to break down every barrier of her carefully held reserve. She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she thought she was imagining it when she heard the sudden cry of a child. She paused to listen. The cry came once more, fainter now, as if the child was being comforted. Realising that it must be James, she gave it no more thought and went to bed.
She lay sleepless, physically exhausted yet unable to still the confusion of thoughts in her head or quell the tempest of her emotions. The house was silent, but the noises of the sleeping countryside came to her through the half-open window—the shriek of an owl and the bark of a fox sounded somewhere deep in the woods.
* * *
She had tossed and turned until, in the early hours, she heard the crying again. Getting out of bed, she crossed to the door and listened. The child was still crying and seemed to be quite distressed. Shoving her feet into her slippers, she threw her robe about her shoulders.
Moving silently along the landing, she climbed the stairs to the second floor where she paused, straining her eyes in the dark. The house was just as ghostly at night as she remembered. The floorboards creaked and the clock in the hall ticked ponderously. A light showed beneath the nursery door. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open.
The unfamiliar scene in the candlelit room made her stop short and catch her breath. The sight of a maid she did not recognise seated before the fire with a young boy on her lap, cradling him while his sobs turned to gulps, touched her heart. She was clearly failing in her task to quieten him. Sensing her presence, the maid turned her head, startled when she saw her. Catherine stepped inside and closed the door.
‘What have we here?’ she asked. When the maid would have got up she held out her hand. Catherine noted how tired she looked, her young face strained with anxiety. ‘No—please don’t get up. I heard the child crying, so I came to see.’ Looking down at the boy, she smiled, crouching down so that she was on a level with him. A pair of dark eyes were looking back at her. He was a handsome boy with curly nut-brown hair. ‘Hello,’ she said softly. ‘You must be James.’
‘Yes,’ the maid confirmed when the child hiccupped and, overcome with shyness, buried his face in the maid’s shoulder, shoving two fat little fingers in his mouth.
‘And is he not well? Is that why he’s crying? He looks flushed.’
‘I think he has a tooth coming through. The mistress told me to wake her if he was poorly.’
‘The mistress?’
‘His mother.’
‘Then—then I think you should go and get her. I’ll stay with James if you like.’
‘Oh—thank you, only—well—he clings to me and...’
Seeing how firmly the child was holding on to the maid, Catherine stood up. ‘Don’t worry. Stay here with James. I’ll go and fetch her.’
With her thoughts running riot inside her head Catherine knocked softly on Blanche’s door, waiting for it to be opened. Having been woken from sleep, attired in a flowing nightdress and with her hair unbound, Blanche eventually opened the door. She looked surprised to find Catherine standing there.
‘Catherine! It’s late. What is it you want?’
‘Your son is crying, Blanche. According to his nurse he wants his mother.’
Without a word Blanche went and got her robe, wrapping it about her. ‘I’ll go and see him.’
‘Your son, Blanche. I have a brother—a half-brother.’ Catherine fixed Blanche with a hard stare. ‘Why did no one write to inform me?’
‘If you really want to know, then ask your father. He will tell you. Now you must excuse me. I must tend to James or he’ll keep us all awake with his crying.’
* * *
Following a night with little sleep, the morning found Catherine bolstering her nerve to enter her father’s room. The curtains were pulled halfway across the window—apparently he didn’t like too much light—and a vast canopied bed dominated the room. She had prepared herself to take him to task over the child. Fortunately Blanche was occupied elsewhere. He was in bed. The maid had taken away his breakfast tray, the food only pecked at. Catherine went to the bed and looked down at him.
‘How are you feeling this morning, Father?’
‘Tired. I sleep all night and still I’m tired.’ He glanced at her. ‘You have seen him?’
‘Who?’
‘The boy.’
&nbs
p; ‘Yes, I have. Last night. I heard a child crying and went to the old nursery to see him. He’s a delightful child. Why was I not told I have a brother? Why was it kept from me?’
‘Because he is not my son—and has nothing to do with you. I do not want him near me. I have no plans to let him inherit anything of mine.’
Catherine stared at him, astounded. ‘Not your son? But—then who...?’
Edward’s eyes were so sharp that they almost penetrated her skull. ‘Do I need to tell you that—you of all people?’
Catherine turned away, her hands balled into fists hidden in the folds of her skirt. ‘Thomas,’ she uttered. ‘He is Thomas’s son?’ She turned back to her father, her face hard. ‘But how can that be, when Thomas went missing after Marston Moor?’
‘Use your head, girl. Nothing was heard of him when the Royalists were routed back in forty-four. Nothing was heard of him because he was holed up in York at Murton House, hardly a stone’s throw from Marston Moor. Do you forget that Blanche is from York? She was there with her parents at that time. ’Tis not a coincidence he found himself beneath her roof. He had wounds from the battle, but still he managed to find his way to her. She was there with him. She had him secreted away for six months before he fled over the border to collude with the Scots and she came back to Oakdene.’
‘But her parents...’
‘Are old. And her father was knocked on the head at Naseby and he’s been mad ever since. His wife is no better. They wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if the King himself had taken up residence at Murton House. That boy isn’t mine—however determined Blanche is to make everyone believe it—but I know the truth.’
‘I’m sorry, Father. I know how much you wanted a son.’
‘Aye—well... I want her out of this house. Her and that boy. When I am gone not one penny will go her way. I want you to see to it.’
‘But—she is your wife and entitled to—’
‘She is entitled to nothing,’ he flared, his face becoming flushed with the exertion. His hands tightened on the bedclothes. ‘I have every right to do as I think fit. She lied, deceived and cheated on me—with my own son-in-law. Your husband.’ He eyed her steadily. ‘You know, don’t you, that she and Thomas were lovers?’
‘No—although I always suspected it. Blanche confirmed my suspicion when I arrived yesterday.’
‘The woman is shameless. I cannot forgive her—nor can I accept the boy as mine, which is what she wants. My body is weak, but my mind is as sharp as it has always been and I will not be made a fool of. How can he be mine when I wasn’t around at his conception? She has pushed my tolerance beyond all bearing with her faithlessness and her duplicity. She’ll get nothing from me for that boy.’
His anger brought on a fit of coughing that left him weak when it subsided. Catherine helped him to some water before sitting on the bed and facing him.
‘Try not to upset yourself. It will weaken you more.’
He looked at her with more understanding than she had given him credit for and when he next spoke his voice was soft. ‘I know that I have a good advocate in you and it is an onerous task I have set you. You are my best hope to see that my wishes are carried out when I’m gone. Will you do that?’
Catherine nodded. ‘Yes,’ she answered quietly. ‘I promise you that I will do my very best.’
‘That is all I ask. I have never met a woman more capable of carrying out the responsibility. Pity you weren’t born a boy. You’ve shown more mettle than most men I know. You’ve not had a happy time of it, have you, Catherine?’
‘No. Far from it.’ Looking back on those six years she had been married to Thomas, she saw them as dark, miserable years, blackened by disappointment and humiliation, with no gaiety, no companionship.
‘I am sorry that it had to be like this,’ he said, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. ‘I haven’t long left on this earth. I know that. One of my greatest sorrows is that I married you to Thomas—but he got what he deserved in the end,’ he said softly. ‘I speak sincerely when I say that my intention of bringing you here was to make amends for what I did—what I put you through.’
Looking into her father’s eyes, Catherine saw that he spoke the truth. For the first time in her life she took his frail hand from the coverlet.
‘You will stay with me, will you, until...?’
Catherine nodded and smiled. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Father. Now get some rest.’
* * *
Catherine waited until her father slept and then she left him, more angry, confused and emotional than she had ever been. What had he meant when he said that Thomas had got what he deserved? Was there something being kept from her? For the first time in many years she gave way to scalding tears. They ran unheeded down her cheeks. Never had she felt so worthless, so unimportant, so neglected, so humiliated. After a moment she dashed her tears away. With all this going round in her head she refused to be looked on as a victim, but... Oh, God, how it hurt.
Going outside with the intention of putting as much distance as she possibly could from the house and its inhabitants, she encountered John having just stabled his horse after his visit to Windsor Castle. Her hair was dishevelled and tears coursed their way down her cheeks. He was the last person she wanted to see just then.
John stared at her in alarm, falling in step beside her as she walked. Not until they had traversed the gardens and entered the trees beyond did he take her arm and bring her to a halt. ‘Catherine? For heaven’s sake, tell me what is wrong—what has happened to upset you so?’
‘Did you know? Did you know that James is Thomas’s son and not my father’s—that he bears no relationship to me whatsoever?’ She glanced about, unable to settle her misting gaze on a single object while her mind went round in circles.
John reached out and took her arm, turning her to face him. ‘Catherine—don’t do this. Don’t torture yourself.’
She raised her tear-filled eyes to his. ‘Torture? Yes, I’ve tortured myself for the past six years—but this—this is something I never envisaged—that Blanche would bear him a child.’
‘Believe me when I tell you that I did not know James was Thomas’s son. Your father never spoke of it and I had no reason to suspect. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.’
‘He’s such a lovely little boy—he really is adorable. How I wish my father had sired him—that he really was my half-brother. How much more is being kept from me?’
‘Your father told you about James—what more is there?’
‘I don’t know, but there is more—I feel it.’ She swept away the wetness from her cheeks, annoyed with herself for showing such weakness. Analysing her feelings, she was desperately hurt. But she was honest enough to admit to herself that it was mainly her pride that had been wounded. ‘All the time my husband was in York being entertained by Blanche, there was I, not knowing if I was still a wife or a widow. Oh, how I wish I’d never come to Oakdene. I should have gone to Wilsden instead.’
John looked her over with a brazen stare and cocked a dubious brow. ‘What? And deprived me of the pleasure of your company?’ He chuckled. ‘Shame on you, Catherine Stratton,’ he teased softly. ‘Spare a thought for the disappointment I would have felt had you done so. Besides, you had to come to London to see Thomas’s lawyer about the will.’
‘Not necessarily. I would have made him come to me,’ she replied, somewhat petulantly. Tilting her head, she looked at him quizzically. ‘Did you really enjoy my company? Did it not occur to you that I might be behaving like a trollop when I let you kiss me?’
‘I never thought you were anything other than what you are. I wanted to kiss you and, had you been devoted to Thomas and genuinely grieving his loss, then I would not have done that. I should have known what would happen when I agreed to let you ride to London with me. You’re not a woman a man can ignore. I want you, Catherine. I’ve had
many women—I cannot deny that, or that I enjoyed each one—but none of them meant anything to me. I was constantly involved in war. They were a diversion. Would that you were a diversion, too. So don’t cheapen what we did. Yes, you are Thomas’s widow. But when were you ever a wife?’
The words hung in the air between them. Catherine stared at him, unable to contradict his statement, for she knew he spoke the truth. The warmly mellow tones of his voice were imbued with a rich quality that seemed to vibrate through her womanly being. To her amazement, the sound evoked a strangely pleasurable disturbance in areas far too private for her to consider just them. As evocative as the sensations were, she didn’t quite know what to make of them. All she was conscious of just then was a sense of complication and confusion. Everything had suddenly changed. John’s powerful, animal-like masculinity was an assault on her senses. Moistening her lips, she could almost feel her body offer itself to this man and, in that instant, both acknowledged the flame that ignited between them.
‘I was not aware of your situation, Catherine. I had no contact with Thomas after Marston Moor. At that time I was dealing with my own loss—my father and my elder brother. With my two younger brothers taking care of their families, I had to ensure that my mother and sister were safe and to offer them what comfort I could.’
Catherine was suddenly mortified. Compassion swelled in her heart as she realised that although he always appeared in control and unemotional, John’s loss was great indeed. She had lost her husband, but she did not mourn him.
‘Of course you were,’ she said, her expression one of regret. ‘How thoughtless of me. You told me—I should have known better. I am sorry for your tragic loss. It must have been hard for you—especially for your mother.’
‘Yes, it was—it is. It’s not something one gets over easily—if ever.’
‘No, is isn’t. I was close to my mother. She died nine years ago. I still feel her loss, but my memories of her help.’
Resisting Her Enemy Lord Page 10
