by Louise Allen
‘What happened?’ Henrietta managed to ask, wincing even under the delicate touch. ‘I can remember Cobham telling me of the battle, then all else is blank. How did I get here?’
‘A nasty bump but nothing broken, which is more than I can say for that insensitive clod Cobham when I get my hands on him.’ Mistress Clifford waved the gawping servants from the room. ‘Out, back to your harvest supper. You too, Robert, tell the people their mistress is in no danger. She needs peace and quiet. Well, go on!’ Meekly Robert followed the servants out, leaving his wife and Letty to assist Aunt Susan.
‘Letty, soak a pad in witch-hazel for her head. Alice, find a nightgown. She will sleep here, I do not want her moved until I am sure there is no danger of brain fever.’
‘Aunt, I cannot stay, it is Alice's bedchamber.’ Henrietta could see the room clearly now in the candlelight, the blurring of her vision and the confusion in her mind both gone.
‘Letty and I will make up the spare bedchamber for Robert and myself.’ Alice was firm. ‘Your aunt is right; to move too soon would be foolish. Sir Matthew would never forgive us if anything were to happen to you while he is away.’
*
The apple-pickers were singing as they moved among the laden trees in the orchard. From where she sat in the herb garden, propped up in a pile of goose-feather pillows, Henrietta could hear them clearly, follow their progress as they gathered in the store of eating apples. It was her favourite harvest. The work was less back-breaking than bringing in the corn so all the families of the estate joined in-the men moving ladders and scaling them to reach the topmost fruit, the women filling the baskets with care so as not to bruise the crop. Children scavenged the windfalls, eating as many as they picked, tossing the damaged fruit into barrels for pressing later.
Henrietta sighed and laid her book of poetry aside. Reading was making her head ache again. Since she had been brought up by cart from the Home Farm after her fall two days since she had been confined to bed by her aunt, but this morning she had finally cajoled her way outside.
Even so, she was not permitted to dress. Instead she wore a loose robe over her nightgown, a blanket tucked round her legs as she sat in a deep armed chair, her feet on a stool. Every half hour her aunt descended with two male servants to carry her chair further into the shade in case sunlight burned her skin into an unladylike tan or fevered her brain.
The scent of warm brick and stone mingled with the aromatic pungency of herbs and flowers. Bees droned, and, unalarmed by Henrietta's still presence, a thrush was beating a snail against the corner of a stone. Occasionally she caught a glimpse of the apple pickers through the open gate, or heard the creak of wagon wheels as the driver moved it to keep abreast of the pickers and their laden baskets.
Part of her wished she was in the orchard with them, sitting under a tree, munching the crisp sweetness of an early apple. But her mind felt detached, abstracted from the familiar ritual of the fruit harvest, the day-to-day affairs of Winterbourne.
Cobham's news of the battle at Worcester had crystallised the nagging doubts that had been at the back of her mind since Matthew had described to her the realities of war. The King had the right to rule; of that she had no doubt, it was his God-given duty. But did that mean he was always right in his actions? He was only human, after all. And if men like Matthew, honest, pragmatic, intelligent men, believed the rule of Parliament represented the rule of law, must there not be some truth in it?
If only her head would not ache so, perhaps she could find out what in truth she did believe. Henrietta closed her eyes and rubbed her fingers up and down the centre of her brow as though it would help clear the confusion.
Gravel crunched under booted feet, no doubt one of the grooms sent to move her chair again. She opened her eyes, and her mouth, then froze. Matthew stood looking down at her, his face tired, his clothes covered with dust from the road. With a cry she started from the chair, forgetting the hampering blanket around her legs. Matthew caught her as she stumbled, held her for a long moment without speaking, then pressed her gently back into the chair.
‘Matthew! You are unhurt?’
‘As you see. But the same cannot be said for you.’ He dropped to the stool at her. ‘Your aunt has told me what happened, that you slipped on the cobbles of the stable-yard and hit your head. She assures me you are all but recovered, but looking at you I am not so convinced you should be out of bed. You have dark purple smudges under your eyes. Here, let me look at your head, perhaps we should call the surgeon after all.’
He went down on one knee beside her chair, tipping her gently against his shoulder while his fingers explored the now diminished lump on the back of her skull. Henrietta closed her eyes, overwhelmed to be in his arms again. He smelled of warm leather and beneath her ear his heart beat strongly, his fingers were warm and sure in her hair. The gentle examination subtly became a caress as he held her. ‘What made you fall?’ he asked.
‘Cobham.’ The hateful name broke the moment as nothing else could have. Henrietta pulled back from his embrace to look him in the face.
‘Cobham? What are you saying?’
‘I did not fall. I fainted. Your clerk took great pleasure in telling me how you had ridden out to war, that the countryside was up in arms again. In my mind I could see you wounded, dying on the battlefield in the mire and the blood…’ Her voice broke and she could not go on, turning her head away on the pillow as she fought the sudden urge to weep.
‘Damn the man!’ Matthew exploded, taking two hasty strides down the path as if to seek out his clerk and chastise him. ‘He knew I had not gone to fight. He sees everything in black and white. His religious views allow him to see no shades of grey. I am sure he did not mean to frighten you, Henrietta.’
Despite her tears Henrietta snorted in disbelief.
‘His loyalty to me makes him extreme on my behalf. And he is an old man; he served my father before me.’
‘In other words you seek to excuse him?’
‘No, but he was not solely to blame. I should not have left you as I did.’ He raked his hand through dark hair which badly needed trimming. ‘I shall be open with you, Henrietta. When the messenger came and told me of the battle I was angry. Angry that it was all starting again just when the country was recovering. And I was here, away from the centre of things, relying on rumour. Your King and all of those misguided enough to support him brought this down upon us.’
‘He is your King too,’ Henrietta protested. ‘Under God.’
‘Under God and the law, wife. His father would be King still had he acknowledged this truth and been willing to rule in peace.’
‘But perhaps this King would be willing to accept the rule of law?’ Henrietta groped through her own muddled thoughts. ‘But he was forced from his country before he could show how he would rule. Parliament will not talk with him so what other choice was before him but to fight?’
‘And the thousands of men and boys he dragged with him on to the field at Worcester? What of the widows and fatherless children this day? Do they have a choice of anything but grief and penury?’
‘In that he was wrong.’ He had wrung the admission from her. ‘Yet I cannot understand what other course he could have taken.’
‘He could have waited in exile until the time was right for negotiation.’ Matthew regarded her thoughtfully. ‘This nation cannot be leaderless for long, we need our figurehead. But not one who unleashes foreign troops on his people. He will not be easily forgiven for bringing the Scots with him, even by his closest supporters.’
‘Your quarrel is with the King, not with me. You knew the battle was over, there was nothing you could do. So why leave in such haste for London? And I felt you were angry with me when you left. Why?’ she asked softly. ‘In the hayfield you were… not angry with me.’ And you called me love, she thought, but dared not voice it aloud.
‘I blamed all supporters of the King, and you were there. And I was frightened for you, for our people, for the
future of Winterbourne.’ He smiled at her ruefully. ‘It was like my mother, the times I was a small boy and came home long after dark. She would be frantic with worry, but when she saw me she would box my ears and shout at me in her relief. I never understood how the one could lead from the other. I do now.’
She held out her arms to him and he came into them, holding her tight against his chest, his mouth in her hair. There was nothing said between them, nothing needed to be voiced aloud.
Chapter Twenty
Eventually Matthew disentangled himself. ‘Much as I would like to stay here in your arms…’
‘You are right.' Henrietta was remorseful. ‘You must be tired and hungry. You need to bathe and shave. Has your man seen to that? I am sure Aunt Susan will have ordered food for you…’
‘Henrietta.’ He broke into the flow. ‘I keep trying to tell you, we have a guest.’
‘A guest? Oh.’
‘That is not very hospitable, Wife,’ Matthew teased. ‘And in any case, I was not expecting you to entertain him in your nightgown.’
‘But I wanted… I thought we would be alone.’ Henrietta blushed.
‘Much as I am flattered by your desire to talk to me alone,’ Matthew's teasing tone deepened her blush, ‘you should be in bed resting. I can entertain our guest myself, with your aunt's able assistance. She has already shown him to his chamber.’
‘Who is he?’ Henrietta asked, then shivered as the sun went behind a cloud, casting the garden into shade.
‘Never mind that now, you should be in bed. What can your aunt be thinking of?’ he demanded in uncharacteristic exasperation. Before Henrietta could protest he swept her into his arms, rugs trailing.
As he carried her up the wide staircase Henrietta gave up all semblance of protest, snuggling against the soft leather of his jerkin, breathing in the scent of him. To be held close in the arms of the man she loved, the man she hoped was near to loving her, was overwhelming.
In their chamber he laid her gently on the bed, brushing her hair back from her forehead. ‘Now rest, Henrietta.’
He straightened up, but stopped as she caught at his hand. ‘You'll go again, I know you will.’
‘I am home and here I intend to stay. I shall not leave you again, sweetheart.’ Matthew smiled at her. ‘And if you continue looking at me like that, Wife, I shall be guilty of seriously neglecting our guest.’
‘Neglect him for a few minutes, Matthew.’ She held out her arms.
It was enough. He bent and took her in his arms, his mouth warm and possessive on hers. Henrietta twined her arms around him, holding him even closer, pressing her body against him in a silent incitement to him to stay, shed his clothes, join her in the big bed.
She deepened the kiss, putting all her yearning, all her fears for him into the embrace. Her fingers insinuated themselves into the curling crispness of the hair at his nape and she felt him stiffen and draw back as her fingertips brushed the skin there.
Matthew's eyes were dark pools of desire, and his voice when he spoke husky. ‘My wanton wife, I am saddle-sore and weary, and you are unwell. Rest now, regain your strength, and I will take myself well away from your lures. For now.’
Warm, happy, reassured, Henrietta snuggled down under the goose-feather guilt and drifted off to sleep.
When she woke Letty was moving quietly round the room, drawing the hangings and making up the fire.
‘What time is it?’ She sat up, rubbing her eyes.
‘Nearly suppertime, Mistress.’ Letty plumped up the pillows behind Henrietta's shoulders. ‘What will I bring you? A bowl of broth and some chicken?’
‘No, I shall get up. Fetch me warm water and the grey gown.’ As she was being laced into her petticoats she asked idly, ‘Have you seen our guest, Letty? I quite forgot to ask Sir Matthew his name.’
Surprisingly Letty giggled. ‘Oh, we've all had a look at him, Mistress.’
‘What can you mean, girl?’ Henrietta demanded, bending to tie a garter above her knee.
‘Why, in the kitchen they reckon he's the finest looking gentleman ever to come into these parts. So tall, and blond and well dressed…’
‘Really, Letty,’ Henrietta scolded, intrigued despite herself. ‘However, since we have such a fine, well-dressed guest, perhaps I too should have a little finery. Bring the amethyst silk and my silver lace instead.’
Half an hour later she paused in the shadow of the hall screens, watching the two men as they stood before the fire, wine glasses in hand. Her kid slippers had made no sound on the boards and she was able to watch unobserved as they talked while the servants finished laying the table.
Letty was right, the stranger was a startlingly good-looking young man, almost as tall as Matthew. Thick blond hair curled on his wide lace collar and the firelight danced on his burnished boots. Yet still he looked insubstantial against Matthew's lean, confident figure.
She stepped into the light and both men looked up. Matthew started forward, but the stranger reached her side first, taking her hand in elegantly beringed fingers.
He swept a low bow then looked into her face in open admiration. 'Madam. Your most devoted servant. Sheridan, now I see why you linger at Winterbourne. How could you hide such a pearl from London society?’
‘To keep her from the attention of such gallants.as yourself,’ Matthew riposted, not entirely humorously. ‘Lady Sheridan, may I present our guest, Sir Edmund Ransome?’
‘Sir Edmund.’ Henrietta curtsied low.
Matthew took her hand and led her to a high-backed chair by the fireside. ‘We did not expect to see you down. You are in great beauty, my dear, but are you well enough to sup with us?’
It was quite obvious his friend thought her beautiful too: Henrietta was well aware of Sir Edmund's admiring glance.
She saw the guarded look in her husband's face and smiled inwardly, enjoying the first signs of jealousy he had ever shown her. She had no intention of so much as flirting with her guest, but his open admiration warmed her and she was intrigued by Matthew's reaction.
Matthew seated her at the foot of the table with a solicitude tinged with possession. After the men had taken their places she turned to Sir Edmund. ‘You have come from London today, sir?’
‘Indeed, madam. I undertake a commission for my patron, Lord Hargrave, in Oxford. Your husband gave me his company upon the road and offered me your hospitality for the night.’ He took the bread she offered him and added, ‘But had I known you were indisposed, Lady Sheridan, I should have gone to an inn.’
‘Sir, my husband exaggerates out of concern for me. It was a bump on the head, nothing more. And I would not have missed your company for the world.’
Sir Edmund raised his glass in acknowledgement of the compliment. Matthew's brows rose slightly, but he said nothing. Henrietta caught his eye and smiled demurely. They both knew the game she was playing, and both knew why she was playing it.
Over the chicken talk inevitably turned to politics and the state of the nation. Henrietta realised the two men must have worked together before, as she should have known from Sir Edmund's reference to Lord Hargrave.
‘Is there anything else I can tell you of my lord's business before you resume your journey to Oxford on the morrow?’ Matthew asked.
‘I think not, we had so much time to talk upon the road that we have covered it all, I believe.’
Henrietta looked enquiringly from one man to the other. Matthew dismissed the servant from the room with a wave of his hand and lowered his voice slightly. ‘You recollect I told you how I served Lord Hargrave during the late conflict?’
‘You acted as secretary to his lordship, gathering and sifting intelligence for him.’
‘Yes. Now, with this latest disturbance in the country, he has need of such service again and has asked Ransome to fill this role.’
Instantly Henrietta felt slighted for Matthew's sake. ‘Does Lord Hargrave no longer trust you since your marriage to the daughter of a known Royalist family?
’
‘My lord would condemn no one for holding to their beliefs,’ Matthew began, but was overridden by his friend.
‘Our patron knows Matthew too well to believe anything would turn him from his duty,’ Ransome interrupted. ‘Nor can I believe, having met you, that you would attempt such a thing.’
Henrietta subsided, guiltily aware that in the matter of the letter she was not only going against everything Matthew was committed to, but that she was lying to him also.
‘To answer your question, Lady Sheridan, Lord Hargrave believes, as we do, that to heal this nation we must start from its roots, build trust again. Men such as your husband with estates in the country, yet with influence in Town, will be the builders, laying the foundations of a united England once again.’
‘Your patron, moderate man as he is, seems not to represent the voice of Parliament from what I hear,’ Henrietta remarked tartly.
‘You are acute, madam.’ The conversation had developed into a dialogue between Ransome and his hostess. Matthew sat back, watching and listening. To Henrietta's anxious eye he seemed tired, yet curiously content despite the worry of the King's invasion.
‘The invasion of the Royalist army is not all that concerns us,' Ransome continued. ‘Rather it is the growing radicalism in Parliament, the increased influence of the Puritan movement. Your husband must have talked often to you of his fears for freedom of worship and for individual liberty if the legislation we are promised comes to fruition.’
Henrietta rose to fill their wine glasses. Instead of taking her chair again she seated herself on a low stool at Matthew's feet. ‘Come, gentlemen. You are both tired. Let us ring for a dish of nuts and drink our wine, turn our thoughts to lighter matters.’
The candles burned down as they talked. The firelight flickered hypnotically and Matthew began to stroke her hair, teasing his fingers through the ringlets in an unconscious caress.
