It was mighty in breadth, width and height, with chimneys of twisted brickwork like sculptures reaching for the stars. A hundred windows flickered with candle flames. There were turrets and towers five storeys high at each end of the main building which stood just a little lower with four levels of windows. Beyond and surrounding every angle were the breeze-blown whispers of a forest of trees with ash, spruce, oak, birch, willow, poplar, pine, beech, elm, alder and rowan. Their branches, their foliage and their shadows appeared to caress the house and shroud it in secrecy.
The heavy double doors opened. Light burst from within and glossed the entrance. The dark liveried steward stood waiting. He bowed. There was no sign of Richard Wolfdon.
Jemima Thripp and her nurse climbed from the litter with sighs and slow deliberation. The aches and bumps from their voyage gradually faded and, clutching their baggage, they approached the doorway. In a sudden rush, three girls swept past the steward, gathering up the two women’s baggage and cloaks, then immediately disappearing back into the house. Jemima followed, and Katherine hurried closely behind.
“Supper is served in the smaller hall,” the steward announced. “If you will come this way, mistress.” Almost blinded with the light from chandelier, sconce, candle, torch and lantern, the two women were led past the luxury of several chambers, tapestries and floors elaborately carpeted with Turkey rugs. Finally seated on a cushioned bench at a small trestle table, Jemima held her breath as the platters were carried in, piled with steaming pies, jugs of heated hippocras, sweetmeats and slices of roasted poultry stuffed with figs and cured ham.
“It is the best wine I have ever tasted in my entire life,” breathed Katherine.
“And the best pies.”
They were served attentively and their cups kept filled, but their host did not appear and there was no message of apology.
Less than one hour later, they stood in the bedchamber allotted to them. Their baggage had already been unpacked, their capes hung on pegs beside the gowns in a small garderobe, each brushed down, their creases steamed out, and their colours bright again. Jemima’s nurse had a truckle bed nearly as wide and comfortable as the posted mattress where Jemima now sat, and swung up her legs. Her own faded pink bedrobe had been laid ready, but she ignored such proof of poverty amongst the beauty. Above her the emerald silk tester bobbed with green silken tassels, and beneath her the mattress cocooned her in feather down and the faint perfume of sorrel and lavender. The four supporting posts were tall, imposing and carved, the open curtains were painted with flowers and scenes of pools, golden fish and swans, while the bedcover was thick purple velvet.
It was not a huge chamber, and the empty hearth was not large, but there was space for a padded window seat, an armed chair, two little coffers, and a small table to one side of the bed where a tall candle stood already lit, a tinder box beside. The single wide window was closed and heavily shuttered, but the candlelight hinted at the attractions of the bedchamber, its arras and rugs, the high vaulted ceiling and its painted beams, and the ultimate convenience of the garderobe with its wardrobe hooks, long mirror and narrow commode. Jemima’s combs and other possessions had already been placed there on a little wooden chest beside the jug and bowl of scented water.
The candle flame flickered as Jemima looked around, then lay back with a sigh of considerable pleasure.
She closed her eyes. “Now I can sleep and sleep and sleep forever.”
“And you didn’t want to come at all,” her nurse reminded her.
“The nightmare may start tomorrow,” Jemima murmured. “But first I shall dream better than ever before, or at the very least since poor Papa died.”
Chapter Four
A faint patter of rain on the window panes woke her, and Jemima sat up, pushing away the snuggled warmth of the blankets. The chamber was as dark as night and she had no idea what time it might be. The sounds of gentle whuffling and the occasional snore drifted from the truckle bed, and so it was on tiptoe that Jemima crept to the window shutters and quietly attempted to lift them down. She was unused to shutters that fitted so well and showed no cracks for the light to sneak past.
Accepting failure and naked from her bed, she shivered in the early morning chill and hurried back to the eiderdown. Katherine’s voice, unexpected in the blackness, said suddenly, “Must still be early, my love. Too early to be up.”
“I woke you, I’m sorry.”
“Then let’s find out what time it is.”
The servant girl who had been waiting patiently outside in the corridor, heard voices and peeped into the chamber.
“Tis well nigh eleven of the clock, mistress, and I bin sent to help you dress and bring you to the hall for breaking fast. But I were told not to wake you, so waited. But ‘tis almost afternoon and breakfast is long gone. Would you be wanting dinner now then?”
Jemima stared at the girl in amazement.
“Eleven o’clock tomorrow?”
She dressed with far more care than usual. Discovering, although not admitting, that she was nervous of meeting the owner of the house now that she was his guest and owed him particular civility, Jemima insisted on wearing a gown more suitable to a court visit, with a neckline higher and less fashionable than was normal. She hitched up the satin, pushed away the suggestion of rouge, tucked her curls well hidden within the small severe headdress, and followed the servant girl and her nurse downstairs.
The great hall was a vast and vaulted chamber of echoes. Two minstrel’s galleries closed either end and in the centre, facing the huge marble hearth and its carved pillars, was a table of polished oak large enough to seat fifty for a feast that never seemed to come. But it was to the smaller hall that Jemima and Katherine had been led, and seated. Here the hearth blazed, chairs grouped in cushioned comfort to watch the flames, A vaulted ceiling, its beams carved and painted, looked down from their unreachable dust, but the space below was warm and welcoming. What was said in the larger hall could not be heard in the smaller for they were separated by a corridor and two antechambers, but any man entering those antechambers would hear exactly what was spoken of in the smaller hall.
The house rambled. Corridors turned abruptly, sunlight from windows suddenly gilding the floorboards, steps up and steps down with a dozen closed doors to left and right. The towers were locked, their windows blind, but other staircases found other aims and wound upwards into even thicker shadow. Jemima had not realised the night before just how enormous the palace was. Now she found it intimidating. It was a house to be lost in, to search in circles and never to find the same chamber again. And, perhaps, to walk unaware of who was watching from one of those shaded alcoves.
But it was not Richard Wolfdon waiting for her at the bottom of the stairway. It was a woman who seemed somewhat familiar, and behind her, squeaking in excited greeting, was another. Jemima stared.
“By St. Olaf and sweet heavenly Christendom,” she whispered. “I don’t understand. Alba. It is – isn’t it? And – Ruth.” Which was when another silken clad figure hurled herself into Jemima’s arms, hugging her with inelegant abandon. “Oh, it’s impossible,” Jemima mumbled, half squashed. “You cannot possibly be here.”
“A figment – a fantasy – a ghost,” the other woman giggled. “No my precious dove, it’s truly me. And Alba and Ruth. We’ve been summoned. And come most willingly.” she beamed around, “Already, we are getting to know each other. We meet each other for the first time, yet we have so much in common and so much to talk about.”
Although the table was set, the linen spread and the salt-cellar imposing upon the central space, none of the women made any attempt to sit. One twirled, holding out the side of her skirts to point one toe, mimicking dance steps. “My dearest,” she said softly, “you were no more than a child when I saw you last.”
“And you are still as beautiful as I remember you. My father called you his princess. His swan.”
But everyone was talking at the same moment, each voice raised to sur
mount the others, introductions, vows of loyalty and promises of unwavering friendship, the whisper of silks and the brush of jewelled fingers, tickles of lace and trembling fur fringes, hairpins, and very wide smiles. Only Nurse Katherine said very little at first. She recognised every visitor just as Jemima did, but had not the slightest idea why they were all there.
She interrupted eventually. “Dinner,” she said, “is about to be served. But before the serving boys make private conversation somewhat more difficult, I should dearly like to ask, if I may, exactly why in the name of all that’s holy, are any of you here. Don’t tell me, please don’t tell me, that each and every one of you is now the special friend of the owner of this house. That you all – live here?”
“Oh, gracious no.” The woman who had hugged Jemima patted Katherine’s hand. “It was this morning. A messenger and a fine litter came from the notorious Richard Wolfdon, asking if I would accompany him to the gentleman’s house, where my most beloved little friend from the past was already waiting. Well, how could I resist?”
“Much the same happened to me,” exclaimed Alba, the oldest of the women. “The messenger knocked on my door, bowed with great elegance, and informed me that Mistress Jemima Thripp was waiting to speak with me at the house of Richard Wolfdon in Holborn. I was delighted and came at once. It is years since I saw you, little dove. I was surprised but most pleased.”
“And I,” said Ruth, “was approached in the same way. It seems that this Richard the Bastard knows where we all live and exactly who we once were. But,” and she spread her hands, “I’ve yet to meet the man himself.”
Katherine sighed. “So you’ve had no explanation of why you’re here?”
“It’s hardly a puzzle, my dear Kat,” Alba said, sitting down on the bench at the table, and regarding the salt cellar, which was large scrolled silver and shaped as a swan. “We’ve heard the rumour. Who hasn’t? It’s a story that’s speeding around London, up every lane and into every corner as we speak. They know in the bakers and the butchers. They know in the tanneries and the markets. No one speaks of the king’s tantrums anymore. They speak only of the old pirate who murdered his mistresses. Some say three women’s corpses were found, some say six and some say ten. Well, what a ridiculously large attic that would require.” She banged the salt cellar on the table. “I was his very first mistress after his wife died, your dearest Maman, my love, although I never met her. And he certainly never murdered me. He never slapped nor beat me, and treated me always with such generous kindness and respectful passion. It was love, and I love his memory still. So I have come to clear his reputation and swear to his innocence.”
“As,” nodded Ruth as she sat beside Jemima, “have I. Edward was a great lover and never a killer. Not a gentleman of high Christian standards, perhaps. But that simply made him more exciting. He might have killed wicked pirates at sea, but never women at home.”
“He wasn’t a pirate,” muttered Jemima, staring at them all. “He was a trader.”
“And,” said the third woman, “we all loved you, Jemima. Little dove, dearest Edward called you, the true meaning of your name. Our little jewel, gem of our hearts when you were just a sweet little child. How dare the fools out there accuse our dearest Edward of slaughtering the women he adored?”
“They make wagers,” Ruth glared, stamping her foot. “Who was killed and who killed them. The favourite is poor Edward, and they say he killed his bastard daughters, children of his whores.”
“How vile.”
“How stupid.”
“Oh how wretched,” sniffed Jemima, “is that what they’re saying? That my poor Papa was a murderer?”
“They don’t dare say it in my hearing. But yes, my love. And it appears that the grand Richard Wolfdon wishes to clear his name as much as we do. Otherwise why would he go to the trouble of discovering the names and whereabouts of Edward’s past mistresses, and send them invitations to discuss the matter in the privacy of his glorious home?”
“Unless,” said Jemima, suddenly crossing her arms and glaring around, “he thinks he will prove Papa’s guilt.”
“Dinner,” said the steward, whom no one had heard entering, “is served.”
Roast duck and quail, salad leaves sprinkled in black pepper and coriander, carrots and green beans cooked in honey and walnuts, stuffed kidneys in a cream sauce, strawberry syllabubs and raisin cakes with crusts of real sugar. Ysabel rubbed her hands together in delight. “It smells wonderful. It looks wonderful. I haven’t eaten since this morning. A whole three hours ago at least and I’m starving. I think I shall stay here forever.”
“I doubt if Richard Woldfon is on the lookout for a mistress,” said Katherine, frowning. “He hardly seems like a gentleman interested in pleasure or abandon.”
“But he hasn’t met me yet,’ said Ysabel with her mouth full. “Pass me the wine jug.”
“All men are easily seduced,” Alba insisted, leaning forwards. “Although I now consider myself far too old for such dalliance. But unless this gentleman of yours is impotent or pitifully diseased – ”
The boy refilled her cup and pretended not to be listening. Katherine was still frowning. “Hush, my dear. Not in front of the servants, please, Mistress Alba.”
“They will know their master better than we do.”
“We don’t know him at all.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Jemima. “This is going to be so terribly strange. Just seeing you all is a little daunting. After so long. And all together. A pleasure of course. I loved you all just as Papa did. But I was just a little girl and you never came at the same time.”
“Well, naturally, your father entertained us exclusively and was never unfaithful.”
There was a swish of white linen as all the women patted their mouths with their napkins, pushed away their platters, and raised their cups. “I drink to my dearest Edward,” exclaimed Ysabel, and she did, draining the last of the wine.
Alba nodded to the nearest serving boy. “More wine, if you please, young man.”
“And of the same quality, I trust,” added Ruth. “This is truly the most exquisite Burgundy. Our host is most obliging.”
“The great Richard Wolfdon – he no doubt has nothing inferior in the entire cellar.” Alba leaned back and smiled. “So what is he like – this notorious bastard?”
“Handsome,” said the nurse. She had drunk very little wine of any quality whatsoever since leaving Edward Thripp’s employ. “As tall as the king, and nearly as imposing. But slim, dark-dressed, and has a long straight nose which he looks down, since you inevitably stand so much lower than he, and he probably considers you lower still.”
Katherine had her back to the doorway, as did Jemima beside her. The other three women faced them, and at the same moment appeared to freeze, and although their mouths were all open in a row of attentive surprise, they said nothing.
It was a man’s voice that answered. “Good afternoon,” he said. “It appears that all my guests are present and enjoying my hospitality. But I must apologise for arriving late. I have been busy.” He was shrugging off hat, cape and gloves, a swirl of flying raindrops, and he handed his wet outer clothes to the steward who stood at his elbow.
Jemima stood in a flurry, nearly knocking over her cup, while Katherine shrank back against the table. It was Alba who came forwards.
“My dear sir,” she held out one very white hand. “We have much enjoyed your dinner and have now finished, but will you join us? I presume you have eaten nothing.”
“Being offered a place at my own table is generous indeed, madam,” he answered her, brushing water from his hair and velvet arms. “But I have eaten already with a friend, while making further enquiries. It is speech that interests me, madam, not pleasantries.”
Alba refused to appear insulted. “Then let us speak, sir. And share our stories. We are here, I presume, to answer questions?”
“Most certainly, madam.” He stood looking at them all, standing with his back to the
empty hearth, his hands clasped behind him. “But first I await three other guests, who may be known to some of you.”
Jemima whispered into the sudden silence, “Penelope Elister? Elisabeth Dottle? Philippa Barry?”
“Most astute,” he agreed with a slightly patronising nod. “And since there is an infernal storm building outside, I shall do my own waiting while changing my clothes. Please continue your meal.” And he turned abruptly and left the hall, striding into the shadows. His quick steps could be heard up the stairs. The five women sat very still for a moment looking at each other.
Eventually Ysabel said, “Yes indeed, my dear. Exceedingly handsome. Exceedingly tall. Exceedingly arrogant.”
“I rather like the nose,” said Ruth.
“I can’t stand anything about him,” muttered Jemima.
“But,” said Alba, “he’s certainly interesting. She had once again taken up the salt cellar and was tapping it in emphasis on the table cloth. “We are the three previous mistresses of poor darling Edward Thripp, the man now on the edge of being accused of murdering three young women and hiding them in his attic. And now the other three principal mistresses have also been invited and will arrive soon I imagine. Six of us together. What a reunion.”
“But we don’t even all know each other.”
“We soon will.”
“And I do,” Jemima said softly. “You, dear Alba, when I was four and a little motherless waif. I hardly knew my Maman and it was you who kissed me and tucked me up in bed each night. But when – well, I never knew why papa changed from one to another – but then came Philippa when I was nearly eight years old. She was sweet although rather silly. She lasted a year. When I was nine, there was you Ruth dear, for nearly two years. And my dearest Ysabel when I was eleven, until I was about fourteen.”
“Was it so long? It seemed like a few months of absolute joy and laughter.”
“Then there was Penelope and I called her Penny because she gave me one every week on Sunday. Though Papa often took them back again when trade wasn’t going so well.” Jemima was bleary eyed and sniffing loudly.
The Deception of Consequences Page 4
