The Master of Winterbourne

by Louise Allen

  He broke off, as she swayed, feeling the colour leach from her face. ‘What’s the matter, Henrietta? Did you not realise what your King had unleashed on his suffering people?’

  ‘Newbury?’ In that sea of horrors it was the only word her mind could grasp. Her lips were stiff, but she had to ask the question. ‘Which battle? The first or the second?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ He flung away from her, the robe swirling around his ankles. ‘Each battle was as bad as the others for those who fought in it.’

  ‘I must know.’ She followed him across the room. ‘First or second?’

  ‘Second. The Second Battle of Newbury in the year of Our Lord 1644. What is it to you?’

  Henrietta felt the floor shift beneath her feet and caught hold of the bed-hangings for support. ‘That was the battle where my father died.’ The words came slowly, from between stiff lips. ‘I know you think me foolish, innocent, but until this moment I had no idea he died like that… in a bloody shambles. How could I know?’

  It was his turn to lose his colour. He made as if to reach her but she flinched away angrily. ‘Don't touch me! For all I know you were the one who killed him, cut him down to die in the mud.’

  It was Matthew now who flinched as if the accusation were a knife in her hands. ‘Henrietta, there were sixteen thousand men on that field.’

  ‘And James,’ Her voice shook and broke. ‘He rode away in his armour and plumes, so young and fine, thinking only of honour and glory. He too must have died like that, like a dog in a ditch.’

  The silence between them hung deep and heavy in the sunlit room. She was willing him to take back the words, tell her he was embroidering the truth through anger.

  ‘I wish I could lie to you, tell you it was not so, but I will not betray those who died on those battlefields. You are not a child now. You are a woman, Henrietta; I made you so last night and there are things you must face.’ All at once the anger had gone from his voice, replaced by a deep sorrow. ‘Why do you think I want peace for my country now, for our children? Do you want this senseless slaughter to go on and on?

  ‘Do you want young Marcus Willoughby butchered on a field somewhere in the middle of England? Because, Henrietta, make no bones about it, if you and your Royalist friends agitate, hope and plot for the return of the King, it will all happen again.’ She realised he had opened his heart to her, spoken of things he'd vowed never to utter. ‘I was a fool to think I could alter the strength of your sympathies by telling you the truth. It was too deeply ingrained in your upbringing, reinforced by the sacrifices of your father and brothers. Why should one night with me change that?’ Matthew strode to the door, wrenching it open.

  ‘Matthew, please come back.’

  ‘I think you need time for reflection, Henrietta. I find it illuminating that after our wedding night your first thoughts are still for your father and brother – and the King’s cause. Let me remind you, Lady Sheridan, from now on my loyalties are yours.’

  ‘Sir,’ she flared, all her love and compassion for him consumed in a flame of anger and guilt. ‘You cannot command my conscience, not now, nor in the future.’ She felt Matthew's furious gaze rake her figure from her dishevelled hair and flushed cheeks to her bare toes revealed by the disordered nightrobe.

  ‘Think again, madam, before I remind you tonight that I can command everything else.’ The door shut behind him with the finality of a hammer-blow.

  Henrietta sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the hangings on the opposite wall. The vivid hunting scenes swam in and out of focus as she blinked back tears. I will not be weak. I will not weep. How could all that warmth and tenderness and passion have turned into ugliness, violence, mistrust? And in the midst of all her misery there was a nagging burr of doubt. What if Matthew was right and she and everything she'd been brought up to believe was wrong?

  What if her father and James had died bloodily, not just in vain, but for the wrong cause?

  The door opened slowly. Henrietta was on her feet in an instant, hope surging that he had come back, that all would be well between them, then sank back drearily when Letty's cautious face appeared.

  ‘Here is your breakfast, Mistr…my lady…’ She sidled in with the tray, placing it on the table by the window without looking at Henrietta. Eyes averted, she began to pick up Matthew's velvet breeches, doublet and linen shirt from the oak chest on which they lay.

  ‘What are you doing, girl?’ Henrietta demanded sharply. Surely her husband had not given orders that his things be moved to another chamber? Her cheeks burned with humiliation at what the servants must be thinking – and saying.

  ‘Master told me to bring his clothes to the Spanish chamber.’ Letty fumbled with the boots and pricked her finger on the spur. ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Take more care,’ Henrietta scolded her half-heartedly. So it was true. He was so angry with her he couldn't bear to share the same bed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Stop sniffing, it's only a scratch,’ Henrietta snapped. ‘What did the Master say?’

  ‘He said he wanted to leave you in peace to break your fast while he went down to see Master Weldon. He's very kind, the master, isn't he, Miss… er…my lady?’ The maid scurried out, her cheeks burning with her boldness in talking so, and almost collided in the doorway with Aunt Clifford.

  ‘What consideration your dear husband shows,’ Susan commented cosily, kissing her niece's flushed cheek without apparently noting anything amiss.

  ‘In what way?’ enquired Henrietta with dangerous calm. Her relief that he had not left her was overwhelmed by an emotion she could hardly recognise. Anger, fear, guilt and misery churned inside her so that she could hardly think straight.

  ‘Why, in sparing your blushes and allowing you to make your toilette alone.’ Susan heaved a sentimental sigh. ‘Ah, so much to ponder on in tranquillity…’

  ‘Indeed, the opportunity would be very welcome,’ Henrietta began with uncharacteristic sarcasm, then broke off as Alice tapped on the door. ‘Oh, come in, why don't you? Everyone else is here. It's like Aylesbury Midsummer Market.’

  Alice and Susan exchanged sharp glances, then the older woman sat and took Henrietta's hand in hers, patting it comfortingly. ‘Now, now, my dear. I know last night must have been a… shock for you. As indeed it would be for any innocent maiden,’ she added hastily. ‘But I am sure Matthew was considerate, and you will grow accustomed to it, might even grow to welcome your husband's nightly… visits.’

  Henrietta sat meekly, letting her aunt ramble on through thinly-veiled advice and old wives' lore, all the time conscious of Alice's silent gaze. She looked up and met the look, saw her friend take in the total disorder of the bed, her discarded nightgown, her dishevelled appearance. Alice raised one quizzical brow and a knowing smile touched the corner of her mouth. Henrietta felt the blush scald its way up from breast to temple.

  Her aunt saw too, but misinterpreted the cause. ‘We will talk of this no more, my love, if it distresses you. Believe me, these are but maidenly qualms born of inexperience, and as such very welcome to your husband. Your husband…’ Fortunately her words were curtailed by a loud crash from the foot of the stairs. ‘Those careless girls! If that was the best pewter I’ll – ’ She left the threat unsaid and bustled from the room, leaving Alice and Henrietta regarding each other in silence.

  Automatically Alice moved to the end of the bed and began to pour warm water from the ewer into the Delftware basin. She shook out clean towels, then unlaced Henrietta's nightrobe as though she were still her maid.

  Driven by habit, Henrietta washed while Alice found clean under-linen in the press. The unnatural silence stretched on while Alice helped her into her lavender-scented holland shift and smoothed down the lace trimmings. It wasn't until Henrietta was seated in front of her glass and Alice was dabbing orris root powder on her shoulders where Matthew's stubble had grazed that she found words.

  ‘Alice, tell me something.’ The other girl nodded enc
ouragingly. ‘Does Robert ever speak of the war, of the battles? How he was wounded? What it was like in the heat of the fighting?’

  ‘Never,’ Alice replied, surprised into frankness. ‘But at night he dreams. Terrible dreams. He screams and shouts and when he wakes he is drenched with sweat. And he shakes… Oh, how he shakes. But he would never speak of it to me, even when I asked direct. He grew angry with me and said I would not understand.’ She picked up the hairbrush and busied herself removing the tangles from Henrietta's curls. ‘Does the master dream?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘No. No matter, Alice, it was something I had meant to ask you before. Nothing you have said to me will be spoken of again.’

  So, Matthew told me true, Henrietta mused. He had not been deliberately callous when I was most vulnerable to him. If Robert, stolid, dependable, easy-going Robert, has nightmares, snapped at Alice when she tried to speak of them, then that was how it must have been. She drew a determined breath. She would think no more of it now or the horror would fill her mind. She had guests and duties and a husband to find and pacify. Surely he would forgive her, they were too newly married for quarrels. Last night in his arms he must have sensed something of what she felt for him. She would find him quickly, build on those moments of tenderness and intimacy, banish the morning's misunderstandings.

  Henrietta caught Alice's eye in the glass, and spoke without thinking. ‘Alice, is it proper for me to find such pleasure in my husband's arms? My aunt seems to think I would dislike it, but nothing could be further from the truth.’

  ‘Oh! So that is what worries you,’ Alice exclaimed. ‘It is just as it should be, and far better for the making of children.’

  ‘As you found out,’ Henrietta commented drily, her equilibrium almost restored to normal. ‘Remind me, when is your child due?’

  ‘In mid-November, according to Mistress Perrott, and I have never known the wisewoman wrong.’ She laid a hand on the swell of her belly and smiled proudly.

  ‘Take care! Do not use that word while Matthew's clerk is in the household. His sort see witchcraft in every country way, and wisewomen and their potions will smack of the Devil to him.’ Both glanced instinctively at the closed door, then without another word turned back to the dressing-table.

  *

  Gowned once more in the primrose silk, Henrietta entered the long gallery, not knowing what reception to expect. Her mind was still filled with confusions and the tension of her parting with Matthew, but her training in deportment allowed none of this to show outwardly as she stepped out of the shadows.

  It was mostly the male guests who lingered in the cool room, talking of politics and county affairs to the new master of Winterbourne while their wives walked in the pleasure gardens or gossiped in Aunt Susan's parlour.

  However, Lady Willoughby was, as usual, where the talk of politics was, engaged in vigorous disparagement of a newly appointed local Justice. She broke off when she saw Henrietta hesitating on the threshold. She stepped forward then, when she saw Matthew, stayed where she was.

  Expecting cool formality at best, Henrietta watched Matthew stride swiftly across the room to her side, nothing but warmth in his face. She held out her hand to him in formal greeting, but he took possession of both and before she knew it stooped to kiss her full on the lips.

  There was a murmur of approving laughter and quite open admiration, but Henrietta was oblivious to it. This was no formal salute, his kiss was insidious and deep, intimate and knowing. And her newly tutored body responded, her hands clenching the linen at his chest, her eyes closed in languorous surrender.

  When he released her lips they were both breathless and Henrietta coloured as she became aware once more of their audience.

  Matthew smiled down into her face before offering her his arm and conducting her to stand with him below the great carved fireplace.

  ‘Matthew,’ she whispered. ‘I'm sorry about this morning.’

  ‘We will not speak of it now,’ he replied, low-voiced, and, despite the lingering warmth of his kiss, she felt a slight chill. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven. This was no boy like Marcus Willoughby to be placated with a pretty apology, or a pretty kiss. She told herself Matthew was a complex man, and his mind and emotions worked on many levels. And on one of those levels he didn't trust her, however much he might admire and desire her. The thought of those papers, of the message still hidden in the glove, was like a canker in the centre of a rose.

  ‘Sir Walter was asking me if we have had as much trouble with foot-rot in the flocks as the rest of the Vale, and I had to tell him I have no idea.’

  Henrietta forced all her attention on to her neighbour's enquiries. Sir Walter was a keen, if tedious, agriculturalist and rapidly exhausted Henrietta's limited knowledge. Eventually she said, ‘I really think you need to speak to Robert Weldon, our steward. He should be about somewhere.’ She heaved a sigh of relief as Sir Walter set off in pursuit of the unfortunate Robert, but was soon claimed by another guest, this time with more entertaining talk of London.

  All the time as she chatted Henrietta was acutely aware of Matthew by her side, of the ease with which he had slipped into the role of master of the estate. That in itself was a relief; she could admit it to herself now. After all, he was a lawyer, not a farmer and he made no pretence to be a countryman, bred to this life, these responsibilities, as she was.

  She excused herself after a while and crossed the room to Lady Willoughby. The older woman was in full flow, recounting a scandalous piece of gossip about a recently-pregnant noblewoman of her acquaintance, and Henrietta listened with half an ear while watching Matthew.

  He was standing easily, one booted foot on the hearth-stone of the unlit fire, his arm resting on the mantelshelf. Over his head hung the portraits of Henrietta's parents. One day, perhaps, their children's portraits bearing a mix of Matthew’s and her features would hang in this shadowy room.

  ‘My dear child.’ Lady Willoughby's penetrating voice cut through these strangely reassuring musings. ‘Let me kiss you. You look radiant today, as every bride should, but does not always, the morning after her wedding. Mind you,’ she continued in a voice audible in every corner, ‘you're a lucky girl to have such a fine figure of a man as your husband. He'll make your duties a pleasure, give you lots of fine sons, ensure the future of Winterbourne…’

  Henrietta caught Matthew's eye across the room, suppressed a giggle at his expression and turned quickly back, composing her face. He was amused, thank goodness, not offended by the earthy Lady Willoughby's comments on him, more suited to the stud farm than polite company.

  ‘While on the subject of children, my dear,’ Matthew's voice said suddenly beside her, making her jump, ‘we must see about getting your likeness taken, to hang here, alongside those of your parents.’

  ‘And you too must be painted,’ Henrietta insisted, delighted at the thought.

  Matthew waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, I've had mine done.’

  Lawyer Stone broke into the conversation. ‘It was a very fine portrait of Sarah, I always thought; it caught her sweet nature so well, although I never felt Paget had succeeded as well with you.’

  Sarah again, Henrietta thought with a fierce, painful stab of jealousy at the thought of the paired portraits of Matthew and his first wife. Where did they hang? she wondered. In the house in Highgate? Or did he keep them closer, in his chambers in London?

  ‘I want us to be painted together, to celebrate our marriage,’ she asserted.

  ‘I am flattered.’ Matthew raised a brow at her fervour. ‘But it may be difficult for us both to find time. Perhaps I can have mine done while I am in London, then the artist can travel here afterwards.’

  ‘In London? Matthew…’

  ‘Dinner, my friends,’ Aunt Susan called from the doorway. ‘Your wives have been waiting below these five minutes past, and you must all be sharp-set.’

  As the guests surged in a happy, hungry, crowd to the door Henrietta caught Matthew's sleev
e. ‘When do you go back to London?’ Only a few days before her heart had sunk at the thought of his return, now she was devastated at the thought of parting from him.

  ‘Later, my dear. We have our guests to attend to.’ He seemed amused, flattered by her clinging, conducting her to her seat at one end of the long table with almost exaggerated ceremony, before taking his at the opposite end. He said grace and the guests fell to with enthusiasm.

  Aunt Susan had produced another sumptuous meal, making up in few short days for all the dreary months of mourning and plain fare. There were dishes of chicken with fruits, fat carp that had kept young Sim busy since dawn at the pond, lark pie, fricassee of rabbit with cream, duck with peas… The long sideboard groaned under the weight of sweet dishes to follow: pastries and jellies, curds and cream, honey-rich syllabubs and tansies. Lawyer Stone was already eyeing them with a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

  Henrietta turned conscientiously from one guest to another, ensuring that this cup was filled, that plate was passed, that all their guests had the roast or pie or sallet of their choosing. At the other end of the table Matthew did the same. At last the first rush to fill plates was over and the guests fell to.

  Catching Martha by the arm as she hurried past, Henrietta reminded her to refill the flagons of cider and ale then turned at last to her own plate. She seemed to have very little appetite, despite leaving her breakfast bread and small ale almost untouched. She had helped herself to stewed carp and the fragrance of fennel and onions curled up to meet her nostrils temptingly. Henrietta spooned up a morsel, raised it to her lips then put the spoon down with a hand suddenly unsteady. Matthew was watching her down the length of the table, a smile curving his lips, one long-fingered hand toying with a flagon of ale.