Lovely Lying Lips

by Valerie Sherwood

  She fetched a deep sigh and the servants all looked uneasily over their pudding at one another, for they were to a man Dissenters. They had no desire to see Protestants brought to the stake and burned again as had been the case in the time of Bloody Mary!

  But by evening North Country humor had asserted itself and the scullery maids giggled when one of them reported that cook had burned the mutton to a crisp—made it black enough for mourning!

  Now that Dev was gone, Constance no longer slipped away from the forbidding Yorkshire mansion to run across the close-cropped pastures in her faded linen kirtle and bodice to Fountains. She had not been back to Fountains since Dev left. She would go there again, she promised herself. Someday ... with Dev. Fountains would still be there. It would always be there, like the moors, like the sky.

  But she could not face its heartrending beauty now. Her memories were too fresh, they would crush her. She might break down and weep and perhaps never stop weeping.

  Such are the pangs of first love.

  She had heard nothing from Dev—and nothing from Margaret Archer either. Constance, every day hoping to hear, had plunged into politics—the politics of Dissent. She listened avidly to kitchen gossip, she attended surreptitious meetings with the servants when itinerant dissenting preachers came by—and she felt with the others a tingling excitement at the discovery of the Rye House Plot. Although she did not condone murder, she had learnt in Claxton’s kitchens to be wary of the lords of the land. All her leanings were toward Dissent, for she had a deep and burning sense of injustice and her blood stirred easily to rebellion.

  Henriette, the governess, had another view:

  “La la la!” she cried when she heard about it. “Would it not have been a great joke, ma chère, if these insurgents had managed to butcher the King and his brother? Then”—she tittered—“England would have had to the throne a likely gentleman not even of the blood royal!”

  “What do you mean?” frowned Constance. “The Duke of Monmouth may not be legitimate but he is certainly of the blood royal—King Charles himself accepts him as his son! Oh, I cannot believe he was in the Plot in any way. For a man to scheme to murder his own father!” She shuddered.

  “Pish and tush!” cried Henriette, “Call him James Crofts! He was not born ‘Duke of Monmouth’—that only came later when King Charles was duped into believing the lad his son!”

  “He is his son—by Lucy Walter.”

  Henriette pounced on that. “Indeed he is Lucy Walter’s son—no one denies that. But not by Charles!”

  “Cook says the King actually married Lucy Walter while he was an exile living abroad—before he was restored to the throne. Married her secretly in Holland.”

  “What would cook know about it? Was she in Rotterdam when the child was born? No! She is a fat cow who will believe anything she is told.” Henriette’s gallic shrug dismissed cook. “Why, Charles himself denies they were ever married!”

  “Yes, but ’tis said that is because the King is a secret Catholic and he wants the throne to pass to his Catholic brother and not to his Protestant son—and by denying the marriage he can achieve that!”

  “I doubt me Charles cares enough about religion to go to such lengths,” sniffed Henriette.

  “Maybe not, but you’ll agree that he loves money enough to go to any lengths! And ’tis a Catholic king—your own Louis of France—who has bought him! You’ll have heard no doubt that is why Charles need not depend on Parliament for levies? Because he’s receiving all the money he needs from the King of France!”

  Henriette looked undecided. She was a woman of no religion. In France she had been a Catholic. Here in England she was Anglican. If Fortune took her to Spain she would become Catholic once again. Cynical, worldly Henriette changed her religion as she might change the color of her gown, shrugging it off as it suited her. It was not the politics of the Rye House Plot that interested her, but the personal gossipy side. Her mouth went stubborn. “I tell you Lucy Walter was Robert Sidney’s mistress and Monmouth is the spitting image of Sidney! I have seen them both and the resemblance is striking! And is it not interesting that this other Sidney—this Algernon—plots to place his blood relation—Monmouth—on the throne? Ah, can you not see it, ma chère? Where are your wits?”

  Like the others, Constance wanted to see Monmouth on the throne, rather than fanatical James. Why, Monmouth was a moderate—look at the clemency he’d given the Scottish Covenanters when he’d defeated them at Bothwell Bridge in ’79! And besides he was young, a romantic figure.

  “You are wrong, Mademoiselle,” she said curtly and left Henriette blinking at this rebuff.

  They made it up, of course—they always did. For who else was there to talk to? Dev was gone, Sir John ignored them, Henriette held herself above the servants—who were wary of friendship with Constance—and Felicity was no more communicative than ever. She had become so expert at making lace that none could excel her.

  “Have you seen what Felicity is working on now?” Henriette’s striped tabby skirts fell into step companionably with Constance’s faded lavender ones later that afternoon. “It is lace so fine and delicate that I told her she should save it for her wedding night—and do you know what she told me? She said ‘I will never marry. I will throw myself from the roof first and die upon the stones.’ ” She shuddered. “Mon Dieu!”

  “Perhaps she will not receive any offers,” countered Constance. “For she never goes out and now that Sir John is so ill, hardly anyone comes here.”

  “True,” agreed Henriette, rolling her black eyes. “You knew, of course, that Hugh has been sent for?”

  Constance came to an abrupt halt. “No, I didn’t know,” she said slowly. “When was that?”

  “Oh, last week, I think—I am not sure. I heard the doctor mention it as he brushed by me this morning but this talk of the Rye House Plot pushed it out of my mind. He was muttering that he hoped young Hugh would arrive in time.”

  “Then he’s sure? Sir John is dying?”

  Henriette nodded. “There can be no doubt, I am afraid.” She sighed. “And horrible Hugh will be master here and you and I will have to endure it.”

  Endure it... but she could not endure it. She could only hope that Sir John, relenting on his deathbed from his perennial disdain of her, would leave her some pittance—enough that she could get away. She tried to see him, but the frowning nurse would not allow it.

  And then, arriving much sooner than expected, Hugh came home. He had, it seemed, received no message. He had just decided to return and here he was.

  Constance could see no change in him except that he was heavier, older, better dressed—for he had learnt much about clothes on the Continent. He took snuff with studied elegance but he still eyed people with the same contemptuous gaze from his little pig eyes.

  Hugh had arrived in time. Sir John died that night.

  The house was draped in black. Strict mourning was being observed—but Hugh, returning from the funeral, strode forward to detain Constance.

  “I suppose ye’ve bedded half the county since I’ve been gone,” he said, giving her a bored look.

  Constance recoiled and glared at him. She was looking pale and aristocratic in her black mourning attire, so striking against her white skin and violet eyes.

  He laughed, taking her silence as an admission. “Well, I’ve a mind to try my luck with you too,” he said casually. “You can share my bed tonight.”

  Constance was white to the lips. “I will not do it!” she cried.

  “I am lord of this manor now,” Hugh reminded her in a low brutal tone. “I am Sir Hugh Dacey, Baronet—and I will do as I please with my servants and chattels. Come to think of it, I suppose you are become my ward!” He laughed. “Convenient, isn’t it?”

  She had somehow not expected such an immediate attack. She had expected Hugh to wait a decent interval, to observe some period of mourning, however short. Which would have given her time to plan.

  But it was
plain he had no intention of waiting. The new baronet intended to exercise all his powers—and at once. She little doubted that he had raped his way across Europe, leaving a trail of weeping scullery maids and chambermaids behind him. And he was bent on having her tonight.

  She had but one alternative—to run away.

  Frowning, biting her lips, she paced about the empty library thinking how that could be done.

  She could steal a horse—but she was no great rider, indeed she had not ridden since her London days. She could well be thrown, lamed and brought back in that condition. Her face paled at what that would mean, for Hugh would consider a broken leg no obstacle. Indeed to him it would be an advantage. She could easily imagine him twisting that leg, trusting excruciating pain to win her compliance.

  She could make her way to Ripon easily, but she knew no one there and the Wakeman would find her if she tried to sleep in some alleyway or loft. If she tried the moors, she was certain to lose her way—and Hugh would have no difficulty following her with dogs tracking her scent. He would find her and bring her back.

  One of the crofters might take her in and let her sleep in a barn loft while she decided what to do. But dogs would follow her there too and she would have brought ruin upon whoever befriended her as well as on herself.

  No—she needed a way out that could not be tracked, that would not be noticed until too late. As she pondered the problem, it was resolved for her by a great commotion outside the library windows.

  Hearing angry voices raised, she ran to the window and peered out. There before her on the lawn was Henriette—and Hugh. Henriette had her arm raised dramatically as if to strike him and Hugh was leaning toward her menacingly with his jaw jutting out.

  “Mon Dieu, that you could break the news to me so! And with your grandfather not yet cold in his grave! ’Twas he who hired me—how dare you give me no notice? I don’t care if you have ordered the cart sent round, I’ll not leave here today!”

  “You will!” thundered Hugh, his face turning a mottled red. “Girls need no education. Constance has had too much already and Felicity cannot absorb it. You are dismissed, Henriette!”

  With a sob, the French governess broke and ran for the house.

  Constance dashed to Felicity’s room. She found Felicity bent over her lace but the girl looked up with a smile as she entered, for she liked Constance.

  “Felicity, Hugh has dismissed Henriette!”

  Felicity nodded tranquilly. “I knew he would, when he came home.”

  “But you must stop him! He must give her proper notice and a good reference. Felicity!”

  Felicity’s pale face looked up at her. There was that vacant look in her eyes again that always appeared under stress. “Hugh is a baronet now,” she sighed. “He will do what he likes. I cannot stop him.”

  Constance was brought up short by the sudden realization that that was true. As the new baronet, Hugh held all their futures in the palm of his hand. All but hers! She would not be cowed by that monster!

  “You will leave now, I suppose?” Felicity said it with tragic conviction.

  “You could not expect me to stay! Hugh has promised to rape me—tonight.”

  Felicity nodded as if that too were to be expected. From her crushed demeanor, Constance knew she would put up no resistance to anything Hugh proposed—short of marriage—so long as he did not take her precious lace away from her. “I have a gift for you,” Felicity said suddenly, and drew from her basket a gossamer-sheer length of Venetian rose point and offered it to Constance. “Wear it at your wedding.”

  Constance was touched. Never had she owned anything so nice. “I’ve no wedding plans, Felicity,” she said sadly, thinking of Dev.

  “You will have.” Felicity nodded her head firmly. “I think even Hugh would offer for you—if you could hold him back long enough.” She peeked through her lashes at Constance hopefully, as if trying to plant a suggestion in the other girl’s head.

  Constance was not sure which would be worse—to be raped by Hugh or bound to him in marriage. On the whole she thought to be married to him would be infinitely worse. It would last longer.

  “Thank you. Felicity,” she said softly, folding the lace and pushing it down her bodice. At the door she turned. “Come with me,” she urged. “Get away from here. Anything would be better than life with Hugh at the helm!”

  But Felicity shook her head. “I’m not like you, Constance, eager for new experiences. As long as I have my lace, I will be all right and Hugh would never dream of taking that away from me, for he regards it as valuable, something that could be sold.”

  Constance had never realized how much shy, silent Felicity understood of those about her, or how deeply cynical she was. Her pity deepened, but with it her impatience. “It may be your only chance, Felicity. If you do not come now, you may never get away.”

  “I would never get away anyway. I would be found and brought back—and Hugh might punish me then by taking away my lace. I would go mad and they would hurl me in a pit among the snakes.”

  So she knew about that, she had envisioned it. Constance felt herself shrink away from the thought. “Felicity...” she pleaded.

  But the girl was adamant. “I will lock my door after you go,” she promised. “I will make them break it down. And then I will tell them that I saw you run away westward into the moors.” She gave Constance an anxious look. “You will not go that way, will you?” And when Constance shook her head, “You are going with Henriette, I suppose. I am sure she will be glad to take you with her, for she hates Hugh—she hates us all.”

  “Oh, you must not say that, Felicity! Henriette doesn’t hate you!”

  “She does,” said Felicity stubbornly. “I saw it in her eyes that first day—and I have heard her call me a dolt when she thought I could not hear! Oh, Constance,” she wailed suddenly. “I will miss you so. You are the only person who has ever liked me! I was a great disappointment to my grandparents—and I never knew my mother and father. There’s only been you who’s ever cared two pence about me!”

  As upset as Felicity, Constance threw her arms about the other girl, noted how her thin shoulder bones protruded through the handsome fabric of her dress. Poor frail Felicity, Hugh would be the death of her! But nothing would shake Felicity in her determination to remain. She was afraid of the outside world. She would stay with the known evil—and her lace.

  “I will write to you,” Constance told Felicity huskily. “When I get to—wherever I am going.”

  “No,” said Felicity in a mournful voice. “Do not do that. For Hugh will be sure to get my mail and he will tear the letter open and find out where you are.”

  “You have thought of everything!” cried Constance, amazed.

  Felicity looked up at her with great solemn eyes. “Yes, I have thought it all out because I knew this day would come. You have befriended me, Constance, and I am going to help you to escape my brother. It is”—she said simply—“my going-away gift to you.”

  Constance felt her throat closer up. She could not speak. All this from shy little Felicity, who had shown so little interest in her!

  “Go now,” said Felicity. “I will remember you.” She seemed to withdraw into herself even as Constance gave her a last impulsive hug, and as she left the room she saw that Felicity was already bending in rapt concentration over her lace.

  Henriette looked up from her packing as Constance entered. Angry tears sparkled in the Frenchwoman’s eyes and she was muttering “Sauvages!” She raised a silencing hand before Constance could speak. “Do not ask me to take you with me for I have no money to carry you to London with me—and that is where I am going! I will shake this English soil from my feet!” She slammed down a trunk lid. “I will take ship to France!”

  “Hugh would not let me leave openly,” sighed Constance. “He has reminded me that I am now his ward—and has told me that tonight I will sleep in his bed.”

  Henriette gave her a measuring look. “You could find H
ugh’s strongbox and take what you need.” She gave one of her hatboxes a vicious tug. “Surely no one could blame you for using his money to save yourself!”

  But if she were caught, she would be a thief—and thieves were hanged. Even for stealing so small a thing as a pin or a loaf of bread. She could imagine a triumphant Hugh promising not to bring charges if she would let him have his way with her. She repressed a shudder.

  Suddenly her eyes lit on a wicker trunk in one corner. “Oh, Henriette, do take me with you!” she entreated. “Let me travel in that wicker trunk! There would be air for me to breathe, for the trunk could be tied to the top of the coach.”

  “Surely you are mad! You could not travel to London cooped up in there like a trussed-up chicken!”

  “But you could say the trunk contained your ‘necessaries’ and have it set off with you whenever we stop.”

  “One shares a room at most inns,” Henriette warned, but her black eyes gleamed at the thought of balking Hugh of his quarry. “Still, I suppose we could manage.”

  So Constance, who had arrived at Claxton House in a farm cart, left it stuffed into a wicker basket.

  Henriette had warned she would be miserable. Even with the bottom and sides of the wicker trunk padded with quilts to keep her from being bruised too badly as the coach’s big wheels lumbered over the rutted roads, the journey quickly became a nightmare. Luckily their first day’s travel was short and Henriette managed to get a private room and had her supper sent in. Constance was still fairly fresh and game to try it again next day.

  That day was a long one and she was stiff and groaning when she managed—with Henriette’s help—to get out of the box.

  When they reached York, Henriette said sensibly, “You cannot go on like this. Look at you.” For Constance, with her hair disheveled, barely able to straighten up so long had she been crouched in a cramped position, did look woebegone.

  “I have no choice,” said Constance. “Hugh may look for me as far as York. Oh, Henriette, do take me as far as you can!”