The Master of Winterbourne

by Louise Allen

  ‘No, Letty.’ Henrietta took a deep breath and told herself to be patient. Letty was pathetically eager to please, but she wasn't Alice, who had been Mistress Weldon the past week and was now assisting Aunt Susan in preparations for Henrietta's wedding. ‘There is no need to tell anyone where I am unless it's important. Do you understand? I want a little time to myself in peace and quiet.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’ As Henrietta crossed the gravel towards the fruit trees she head the plaintive question, ‘How do I know if it's important?’

  She fervently hoped Letty would never find the answer to her own question. What with the preparations for the wedding, the presence of three maiden cousins of her father's from Aylesbury who never stopped chattering and now the arrival of Lady Willoughby, come to add matronly support to Aunt Susan, her head was aching and she longed to be alone to think.

  The wedding was only a day away. Matthew would arrive early tomorrow morning, so Cobham informed her. Letters had come by messenger for Cobham from his master two or three times each week, but he rarely passed on news to Henrietta, and she was too proud to ask. Matthew had not addressed a line to her and his silence left a small, empty ache in her heart. However coldly they had parted she'd expected at least a formal note to acknowledge that they were betrothed and soon to be married. Aunt Susan had noted the omission and commented on it, despite the excuses Henrietta found herself making for her betrothed.

  ‘I do not understand it. Why should he not write? He seemed so fond. It is beyond my comprehension,’ she kept saying until it became a litany that grated on Henrietta's nerves. ‘Manners have declined of late, but I cannot believe he has not sent you a gift at least. Some gloves perhaps, the latest book of verse from the London booksellers…’

  ‘I'm sure he is busy, Aunt,’ Henrietta kept soothing. ‘He has to put his affairs in such order that he can stay at Winterbourne a while. He cannot leave his legal clerks for weeks on end without guidance, and his practice is large, with many important clients.’

  ‘Well, I repeat I cannot understand it. You are to be married shortly…’ It was at this point after dinner that Henrietta made her excuses to Lady Willoughby and fled the parlour.

  The sky was leaden with the threat of thunder and the air filled with swarms of irritating small flies. Under the low-growing trees the atmosphere was stifling and oppressive and Henrietta wanted nothing more than to ride her horse to the top of Beacon Hill, breathe the fresh breeze, escape the whole hot, heaving household, forget marriage and duty, casket and secrets.

  But it would be extremely discourteous to abandon her guests for such a length of time, and besides, all the grooms were occupied in clearing out the long barn before setting up the trestles for the servants' wedding feast. And, however rebellious she was feeling, it was unthinkable for a well-bred young woman to ride out unescorted.

  Casting round for escape, Henrietta saw the bulk of the old Tudor gatehouse rising above the trees, a clear forty feet above the dusty ground, the flag on top flapping gently from its pole. A gentle push sent the door creaking open and without hesitation she gathered up her skirts and whisked up the cobwebby spiral staircase to the roof.

  Halfway up the stairs she heard the sound of hoof beats under the arch but took no notice. Servants had been coming and going all week with food, presents and messages, and they were expecting no more guests today.

  She reached the leads breathless, dampness sheening her brow, but it was worth it. Up here the air was immediately fresher and the slight breeze that stirred the family banner over her head lifted the hair at her temples. A figure, unmistakably Aunt Susan, a voluminous white apron pinned over her gown, came out of the front door, a shallow trug on her arm. She would be bound for the herb garden, Henrietta surmised, guiltily remembering she should have gathered fresh supplies that morning when the dew had dried. The large company of guests had depleted the stillroom supplies of cooking herbs, and there were no more than two bunches of strewing lavender left.

  Surely her aunt would not begrudge her an hour's peace on the eve of her wedding? Resolved to make up for her neglect later by helping with preparations for the evening meal, Henrietta remained in her eyrie.

  Dabbing her damp throat with a lace kerchief, she turned her back on the house and leaned her elbows on the crenelated parapet. Like a tapestry the rolling park and fields spread out their quilt of green and gold squares before her, punctuated by the darker green of coverts and the ribbon of trees that grew thickly along the sinuous course of the Bourne that gave the house its name. Here and there single figures and small groups worked in the fields or moved along the headlands, unaware that they were being watched by their mistress.

  To her left the land rose steeply into sheep-cropped pasture land, to her right as she leaned out over the parapet she could just discern the thatched roofs of the village beyond the knapped flint tower of St Swithun's church where tomorrow she would be married.

  Everything would change when she became Lady Sheridan, yet how much would her life remain the same? Winterbourne would still be her home, its people would still be around her. At least their future was assured by this alliance. Henrietta bit her lip in speculation. The more she came to know of Matthew, the more she realised he would never have carried out his threat to dispossess her workers if she had refused to marry him. It had simply been a lever to force her to accept the realities.

  By this time tomorrow she would be his wife, but yet a maiden. She shivered with a delicious apprehension at the thought of being in his arms later, of understanding the mystery people hinted of but would never talk of openly. Even Alice, when she ventured a tentative question, would only smile and say, ‘Wait and see.’

  A dust cloud hanging heavy in the air marked the approach of another horse, a welcome diversion from her thoughts. She leaned out dangerously to see whose servant was riding so hard on this hot day.

  As he drew nearer Henrietta recognised the rider as Marcus Willoughby by the florid plumes in his hat. She drew back, dislodging a fragment of mortar from the crumbling crenelations. Marcus looked up in surprise, saw her and reined in at the foot of the tower.

  ‘Mistress Wynter – Henrietta! What are you doing up there?’ He swept off his hat in an extravagant bow, marred only by the uncooperative cavorting of his horse which nearly unseated him.

  ‘Marcus, do be quiet. Stop shouting,’ she urged. ‘I don't want anybody to know I'm up here. I just want to be by myself for half an hour.’

  ‘Can't I come up too?’ He was already kicking his feet from the stirrups.

  Henrietta sighed, then shrugged. ‘All right, I suppose so.’ Marcus's conversation could hardly be more wearing than that of Cousins Katherine and Deborah with their endless prattling. And now she was betrothed, about to be married, Marcus would surely revert to the easy childhood friendship they had enjoyed before he'd become such a determined suitor. At least she could rely on him not to rattle on about domestic matters. He might even have some news from London, which would make a pleasant change.

  Marcus's progress up the spiral staircase was marked by the sound of his spurs clinking on the stone and the bang of the heavy wooden doors on each landing. He emerged into the sunshine with traces of whitewash on his doublet where his elbows had brushed the walls and a cobweb in his blond curls, looking absurdly young.

  ‘This is a good place! With a brace of cannon we could have held out against the Parliamentarian dogs for weeks.’ He began pacing across the leads from side to side, training imaginary firearms with sweeping gestures.

  ‘Really, Marcus, do stop that. I came up here for a little peace and quiet, not to talk about sieges and guns. And Winterbourne was never in any danger of being attacked, as you well know.’ But despite her repressive words she couldn't help smiling at him. At times like this it was only too obvious Marcus was but a boy of seventeen. For all that she was just one year older he made her feel a grown woman by comparison.

  ‘It might come to it yet,’ he said darkl
y, fingering the hilt of the slim sword that hung by his side. ‘If the King returns – and they say he will. My father came back from Aylesbury yesterday and I heard him telling my mother that the coastal levies are arming – ’ He broke off, eyes shining, ‘But that isn't why I wanted to speak to you, Henrietta.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Henrietta had stopped listening properly some minutes since and was once again looking out over the soothing, familiar landscape.

  ‘Henrietta! Madam! You must not despair. I will not let that Puritan take you. I have come to tell you it is not too late – marry me!’ He had fallen to one knee at her side and seized her hand, carrying it ardently to his lips. ‘You only have to fly with me and I will save you from that Puritan usurper. I cannot give you Winterbourne, but I will give you everything in my power.’

  ‘Marcus. Have you taken leave of your senses? Are you in a fever with the heat?’ Despite his words she still couldn't take him seriously or be alarmed at his extravagant words. In her eyes he would always be the boy she'd played hide-and-seek with as a child. ‘Stop this play-acting and stand up.’ She tugged at his hand and he sprang to his feet, throwing his arms around her.

  ‘No, I love you, Henrietta.’ He kissed her passionately, clumsily, on the mouth, catching the lace at her shoulder in his eagerness, crushing her against the stonework.

  Henrietta, acutely aware of the spectacle they would present to anyone passing by the tower, struggled to free herself, but to no avail.

  Seconds later Marcus was seized from behind and sent spinning across the leads to sprawl ignominiously in a dusty gutter. Matthew's voice cut through the overheated atmosphere like a sword through silk. ‘You insolent puppy, save your clumsy pawing for some kitchen maid.’

  He turned his back contemptuously on the shaken boy and addressed Henrietta with icy politeness. ‘I warned you, madam, what would happen if I found you with another man. I suggest you leave us now because what must follow now is not for the eyes of a lady.’ The heavy irony of the last word cut like a whip. ‘Go to your chamber; I will speak to you later.’

  With one long glance he raked her flushed cheeks, the torn lace at the bosom, her tousled hair, and turned back to the youth who was scrambling to his feet. ‘I see you are armed as a gentleman, sir. Can you fight as one?’

  Henrietta knew that Marcus’s courtship a young man’s fantasy, half serious, half make-believe. There was no make-believe now, only death in the cold green eyes fixing him so contemptuously. Marcus was white with fear under the smears of dirt on his face, but he found the courage to respond with dignity. ‘To the death, sir, in defence of the lady I love.’

  There was a rasping whisper as two swords were swept from their scabbards and the scuffle of booted feet on the leads as the two assumed a duelling stance, then Henrietta found both her voice and the use of her legs.

  ‘Stop this nonsense.’ She stood between the two of them, facing Matthew, chin up, hands on hips. ‘Are you mad? Do you believe for one minute I was about to give myself to this boy? He's young and impetuous, his head stuffed full of foolish notions of chivalry and love. Would you kill him for that? It would be murder.’

  Matthew slammed his sword back into the scabbard, his mouth a thin line of disgust. ‘No, I'll not kill him, but I'll give him the beating he so richly deserves for his impertinence. And as for you, madam…’

  ‘You shall not speak to her like that!’ She could hear Marcus hopping from foot to foot behind her, trying to get past and use his sword.

  ‘Oh, I lose all patience with you, Marcus.’ Henrietta turned on him in a swirl of plum-coloured silk. ‘Put up that rapier and get up to the house at once. I ought to let Sir Matthew beat you as you deserve for your foolishness, but your mother is both my guest and my dear friend, and I would not have her hurt with the knowledge of your folly for the world. Now go.’

  She turned to Matthew as the youth disappeared down the stairs, ears scarlet with shame. ‘How could you suspect me of taking him as a lover? Just look at him. Yet he has courage enough to fight you. He is only a boy,’ she added softly, almost pleading. All she could see of Matthew was his rigid back, the leather riding jerkin taut across his shoulders as he stood, hands braced on the parapet.

  ‘Matthew?’ Henrietta touched his shoulder, then dropped her hand as he spurned her touch with a shrug. ‘What are you doing here today? I had not expected you until tomorrow.’

  ‘That much is obvious.’ He turned slowly to face her, his features set, his eyes hard.

  ‘Oh, give me patience.’ Henrietta stamped her foot with exasperation, raising a little puff of dust. ‘You're no better than Marcus. In truth you are worse, for you are ten years his senior and should know better. Or have you forgotten how stupid youths are? Marcus Willoughby is nothing to me but a childhood friend. You are my betrothed…’ She saw his eyes narrow and abandoned that argument. ‘And if I did wish to dally with him then give me credit for the sense not to do it in broad daylight, on top of this tower with his horse at the door.’

  To her utter astonishment Matthew burst out laughing, his dark head thrown back. When the laughter died away the smile was still in his eyes, and something else, as he said, ‘My horse is in the stables.’

  Henrietta felt herself turn pink. ‘Matthew…you are not suggesting that we..? Here? We cannot…’

  ‘Cannot what?’ He moved closer, his expression disingenuous. ‘What is it we cannot do?’

  ‘I…er, whatever you were suggesting. We ought to go in.’

  He stopped just in front of her, so close that she could smell the Spanish leather of his jerkin, the warmth of his skin. The teasing smile played around his lips as he raised one hand and gently traced the line of her jaw. ‘Why? No one knows we are here, the parapet is high, the air warm.’ He gestured at the dusty leads. ‘I can spread my cloak for you.’ His voice caressed her, as insidious as the heat of the sunshine on her bare shoulders. ‘You have aroused my jealousy, madam, now you must assuage it.’

  To lie with him here, under the open sky, to learn his body in the sunlight with the larks spiralling above them. The thought was as seductive as it was sinful. ‘Matthew…’ Her voice was almost a whisper, she was drowning in his gaze, then she saw the spark of devilment and her voice changed to indignation. ‘Matthew! You are teasing me.’

  ‘Did you think me humourless?’ The long fingers continued to caress her face, mapping every contour. ‘A dry, dusty, Puritan lawyer?’

  Henrietta's heart was thudding, her lips parted, her brain a whirl with emotions, sensations. She struggled to cope with his verbal fencing while all the time the nearness of him was driving every rational thought from her head. ‘You said you were jealous,’ she managed to say, breathless against the lacing of her bodice which suddenly seemed constricting, over-tight. This was a dangerous, delicious game.

  ‘Jealous?’ he queried, stooping to brush his lips over her damp throat. ‘Of that puppy? He made me angry for a moment, that is all.’ His breath was stirring the fine hair behind her ear as his lips traced upwards. ‘But you, Henrietta, you have roused my blood.’

  Henrietta stood quivering, transfixed as he caressed her with his mouth, anticipating with every nerve the clasp of his hands on her shoulders, the kiss that would follow.

  Matthew was in no hurry and his very gentleness began to unnerve her. She wanted him to sweep her with him on a tide of passion so she didn't have to think, only feel. Inside she felt her desire, her attraction to him now touched by another feeling, a growing apprehension, a frisson of fear she couldn't understand.

  He was no longer nuzzling her neck, but looking at her, brows drawn together in the beginning of a frown. ‘Henrietta? What is it? There's no need to be afraid of me, or is it marriage that frightens you? I know you are a maiden, that you must fear our wedding night. But I understand. Sarah – ’ A fleeting shadow touched his eyes. ‘Sarah was as young, as innocent as you when I took her to wife.’

  That name, the name of his dead wife that had hung uns
poken between them every time they had met, was the charm breaking the spell that kept her fixed to the spot. How could he think a description of his first wedding night could be anything but painful to her?

  Unless he needed to talk of it, relive it because he could not bear to let it go, to let the precious memory of that first time with Sarah be blurred by his lovemaking with her.

  But she was not Sarah. Henrietta gathered up her skirts and ran pell-mell down the winding stairs, away from him, away from the woman she couldn't hope to replace in his heart.

  She didn't know whether he tried to follow her or whether he watched her flight from the tower. All Henrietta wanted was the sanctuary of her room. Heedless of decorum, she fled up the driveway, skirts tangling in her legs, her hair coming loose from its pins.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Henrietta!’ Her aunt's scandalised voice caught her as she dodged round a knot of serving maids to reach the stairs. ‘Child, come back this minute.’ She pushed the pile of linen in her hands into Martha's arms and hurried to her niece.

  ‘Come, my love. Up to your room.’ Aunt Susan took her arm and bustled her, unresisting, upstairs and along the cool, dark corridor. ‘Now, what's all this about?’ She shut the bedroom door and regarded Henrietta's disarray with alarm. ‘Your lace is torn, your hair come down, and your face – ’ Without waiting for a reply she tipped water into the basin from the ewer and dipped in a corner of linen cloth. ‘Let me clean this dust off. Where have you been, child, to get so begrimed?

  ‘Up the old tower.’ Henrietta sat quietly while her aunt wiped her face, just as she had when she was a child.

  ‘Whatever possessed you to go up the tower? No one goes there now and I am sure it is not safe. What if you had fallen on those stairs? We would never have thought to look for you there. Foolishness.’ She scolded on, still dabbing gently. ‘Matthew was looking for you. What a miracle he did not find you looking like this.’