by Louise Allen
‘Are you sure they're here?’ Henrietta whispered hoarsely, her throat dry from nerves and excitement.
‘Here.’ Robert's shadow freed itself from the door in the far corner. He gestured them to join him and, as they circled the walls like rats clinging to the skirting board, Henrietta saw a second, heavily cloaked figure standing behind him.
Alice's hand clutched hers convulsively as she glanced round. ‘Pray God we are not seen.’
‘Robert, take Alice home at once. What were you thinking of, bringing her here with her time so near?’
‘I could not enter your chamber, Mistress.’ His scandalised whisper would have been amusing were not the danger so acute.
‘Go and wait in the laundry, Alice. The ashes under the copper should still be warm.’ She steered Alice towards the door, then turned to face the messenger. ‘You wrote to me, sir?’ She could not see his face under his hood, but he nodded. ‘What is your name?’
‘It is best you do not know.’ His deep voice was cultivated. A gentleman, then, by his bearing. ‘You have the casket?’
‘It is in the priest's hole in the small parlour floor.’ An awful thought struck her. ‘But you fixed it down, did you not, Robert? How can we lift it without rousing the whole household?’
‘I did not nail it, I wedged it. All we need is a thin knife to prise it up, and that I have.’ He held up a slim blade that glinted in the muted starlight. 'Come, Mistress.'
They crept back, Robert in his stockinged feet, leaving the messenger with Alice in the laundry. The board was easily freed, although to Henrietta, with her heart in her mouth, every creak was magnified into a crash that would surely wake everyone.
She reached down into the cold, cobwebby gap and withdrew the casket that had been the cause of so much heartache. If it could just be got safe away perhaps her troubles would go with it.
After what seemed an age they finally regained the yard. Henrietta felt as though she had been creeping about in the dark the whole night long. An owl screeched as it flew overhead and she jumped convulsively, stifling a scream, and Robert, pulling on his boots beside her, nearly fell over with shock.
Finally she was thrusting the casket into the messenger's hands, feeling the responsibility lift from her shoulders as though someone had raised a yoke from her neck. The man secreted it beneath his all-enveloping cloak and Robert stepped into the laundry to fetch his wife.
The messenger took Henrietta's cold hand in his gloved one, brushing his lips over her knuckles. ‘Your great loyalty to our sovereign lord the King will not go unrewarded, madam.’
‘I want no reward, only that you go quickly and safely. But tell me, is there no news of the King's safe deliverance?’
‘Not yet. We can only wait and pray.’
‘Amen to that.’ Henrietta stood and watched as he moved into the yard, directly into a patch of moonlight.
At that moment the door from the house banged open and Cobham stood there, a horn lantern in one hand, a cudgel in the other.
‘Stay where you are!’
Henrietta's hands flew to her throat. Behind her she heard Alice's gasp cut short by Robert's hand over her mouth. After a heart-thudding moment Henrietta realised that only the messenger could be seen in the fitful moonlight. The man threw back his cloak over one shoulder, his hand on his sword hilt.
‘No,’ Henrietta whispered fiercely. There could be only one end to this: Cobham dead on the cobbles, run through. How could she justify that, explain it to Matthew?
Cobham's grizzled head swivelled as he caught the sound. Henrietta braced herself to step forward, somehow to stop him while the messenger escaped, when behind him another voice broke the silence.
‘Wilson!’ Lady Willoughby's authoritarian tones echoed round the yard, freezing them all where they stood. ‘What are you about, man? As if I did not know!’ She was an imposing figure in flowing robe and nightcap, her grey plait loose on her shoulders. ‘Cannot I bring you to a gentleman's house without you sneaking about to despoil his maidservants? What have you to say for yourself? Come, I am waiting.’ She folded her arms across her bosom and glared into the darkness.
There was a moment of heavy silence, then, ‘I'm sure I'm sorry, ma'am.’ The man's accent was purest Buckinghamshire. ‘But the wench had such a willing eye.’
‘They all have willing eyes.’
Henrietta realised that for this ludicrous charade to work she must make her presence felt. Alice and Robert, whose presence would be impossible to explain, had melted back into the darkness, but sooner or later even Cobham, with his eyes left weak by years of close bookwork, was going to see her in the shadows.
‘My thanks, Lady Willoughby.’ She stepped into the pool of light cast by the horn lantern and heard Cobham's indrawn hiss of breath. ‘The silly wench escaped me. I heard her creeping down the back stairs and followed, but without a candle I lost her in the yard. The next thing I knew, this rogue was standing there, and, not knowing who he was, I dared not show myself.’
Cobham’s head swivelled from Henrietta back to Lady Willoughby. Henrietta knew the suspicion must be in his mind that she was meeting a lover. But how then could he account for the presence of Lady Willoughby? Even Cobham was daunted by her.
‘Where is the wench, then?’ he demanded, the nearest he dared approach to accusing them of outright lies.
Suddenly a window above them flew open and Letty stuck out her head. ‘She's here, Mistress, I have her. Flighty slut!’ Her voice was shrill with moral outrage. ‘I caught her sneaking back in, Mistress. Stand still, you baggage!’ There was the sound of a stinging slap and an outraged feminine cry.
‘Wilson, get back to your bed in the stables this minute. I shall deal with you in the morning. Henrietta, child, come with me, you must be frozen. I can only apologise for my groom's behaviour. His master will hear of it, I promise. And you, girl – ’ She tilted back her head to address Letty who was still hanging out of the window, ‘Well done. Lock the slut in her room and Lady Sheridan will deal with her tomorrow as she deserves.’
She put her arms round Henrietta and swept her past Cobham. ‘Come along, man, back to your bed. You should know better than to go creeping about like a thief in the night at your age. Lock the doors after us.’ Leaving Cobham speechless in the face of this totally unjust attack, she ascended the stairs, her arm linked through Henrietta's.
At her chamber door she drew Henrietta inside, keeping her voice low. ‘I do not know what that was about or who that man was, but he should be safe away by now. Perhaps you will tell me as much as you are able one day, but tomorrow we will be up and off early, before that clerk can cast a rheumy eye over my servants.’
Henrietta threw her arms around her and kissed her cheek. ‘You are a wonderful woman, Lady Willoughby. You have saved more people than you know tonight, perhaps even served His Majesty.’
The older woman's eyebrows rose and a spot of colour touched each cheek. ‘And you are a surprising young woman, Henrietta. I wish I had you for a daughter. But take care, you will not gull your husband as easily as you did his clerk.’
How fortunate that Matthew had been from home. Henrietta shivered with more than cold as she climbed back into bed. With his false belief that she already had a lover he would not have hesitated if he had found the messenger – the man would be dead by now.
And Cobham was sure to tell him of the suspicious scene. Henrietta could not comfort herself they had fooled him for a minute. He might not know what was afoot, but he would lose no time in telling his master, who would draw his own conclusions.
Could she tell Matthew the truth now the casket had gone? Henrietta tossed and turned, weighing the dangers to the others and her oath to James against the possible reactions of the man she had married.
Henrietta was still undecided when she sat down to dinner next day in solitary splendour at one end of the long table in the hall. She had been tempted to order dinner set in the parlour, it was so lonely there without M
atthew or Aunt Susan, especially since Lady Willoughby had gone. But she was mistress of Winterbourne and standards had to be kept up.
The servants were already becoming slack, freed from Mistress Clifford's gimlet eye and Alice's sharp tongue. It would do them no harm to realise their mistress was firmly in charge of the household.
‘Martha, that apron is a disgrace. You should not be serving at table in it.’
‘There's no guests, Mistress,’ Martha protested indignantly.
‘Well, I do not want to eat with you looking like a wench out of a tavern, and, besides, Sir Matthew may walk through that very door at any moment.’
Martha muttered under her breath, dropped a brief curtsy and took Henrietta's plate back to the kitchen. Her voice carried faintly back as she passed Mary behind the screens. ‘Got out the wrong side of bed this morning.’
‘More like 'cos master ain't there to warm it,’ the other maid said pertly. Just as Henrietta was about to issue a sharp rebuke there was a faint shriek of alarm and John, his sword drawn, strode through the front door.
Chapter Twenty Four
‘Mistress, you must go up to your chamber immediately. Lock the door. There is a party of horsemen approaching at the gallop, Royalists by the look of them.’
‘This is a Royalist household, John,’ Henrietta began, then corrected herself. ‘Well, not exactly, but we need have no fear of them. What can they want at Winterbourne?’
‘The silver, most like,’ John said grimly. ‘The men are getting it down the cellar now. You'd best get to your room, my lady. I don't want to risk you receiving any insult.’
There was the sound of hoofs on the gravel, then a confusion of voices and colour as half a dozen young men burst through the door. John drew Henrietta behind him and took one step forward, sword at the ready. ‘What business do you have at Winterbourne?’ he demanded. ‘And how dare you burst in upon a lady in her own home?’
‘Henrietta.’ Marcus Willoughby elbowed his way to the front of the group. ‘Since when have I had to be invited in order to visit you?’
‘Marcus.’ Henrietta sat down with a thump in the nearest chair. Now the alarm was over she realised just how frightening the last few minutes had been. ‘Since the country has been in an uproar, that is when. What do you think you are doing, and who are these people with you?’
‘But you know them all,’ he said cheerfully and she realised for the first time that he had been drinking. ‘Make your bows, my friends.’
Henrietta did indeed recognise them now, all men of Marcus's age, the young bloods of the county too youthful to have fought in the Civil War, but fervent Royalists for all that. They smiled and bowed, sweeping off their plumed hats in exaggerated gestures of gallantry. They were in their best clothes, silks and velvets decorated with lace and ribbon bows and, like Marcus, were all amiably drunk.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Marcus?’ she demanded frostily, gesturing to John to put up his sword. She ought to offer them hospitality, but was not inclined to do so after their unceremonious entrance. Nor did she want to consider her husband's reaction if he knew they had been there.
‘Good news, Henrietta, we bring good news, do we not, my friends?’ There was a rowdy chorus of assent which only served to deepen Henrietta's perplexity and growing annoyance.
‘If you do not stop talking in riddles, Marcus, I shall ask John to see you all to your horses.’
‘The King! The King!’
‘Where?’ Henrietta looked around wildly, half expecting the gangling figure of Charles Stuart to emerge from the party of young men.
‘In Paris. He’ll be safe away, the news just reached us. Bulstrode here brought the tidings and we have ridden to every loyal household in the district to tell them.’
‘Thank God,’ Henrietta said with profound relief.
‘Amen to that,’ John echoed her. ‘Shall I tell the household, Mistress?’
‘Yes, bring them here to drink a toast to our King’s safe deliverance.’ But in her heart she was celebrating something quite different. If the King was safe away over the Channel in France the fighting would end, and there would be no danger of Matthew becoming caught up in it.
There would be peace again, time to rebuild and for her and Matthew to grow together again, await the birth of their child with everything to look forward to. The dreary weather, the misunderstanding which separated them, her aching, awkward body were all forgotten in a great welling joy.
‘There gentlemen, I told you Lady Sheridan would be pleased.’ Marcus turned to his friends. ‘She doesn't stand on ceremony with old friends. They said you wouldn't want us all arriving unannounced,’ he confided tipsily, ‘but I knew you wouldn't mind once you knew the cause of it!’
‘I thank you, gentlemen, for your consideration in bringing me this news,’ Henrietta said with dignity, causing one or two of the more sober bloods to look abashed. ‘My husband would wish me to offer you hospitality and my servants are bringing wine now. I hope you will drink to the peace and prosperity of this country before you leave.’
The hint was plain enough, but Marcus and his friends were too intoxicated to heed it. Henrietta sighed inwardly and gestured to the maids to take round the wine. They would soon be gone, leaving her alone to plan for the future. Somehow she would think of a way to explain things to Matthew.
There was a sudden vicious rattle of hail against the window panes and the room darkened. ‘You had best dine with me, gentlemen, until this downpour passes.’ It was the last thing she wanted, or needed, but in the name of hospitality she could not turn them out into the storm. After all, these were the sons of the gentry of the neighbourhood, many of them she had known all her life. ‘John, send Letty to attend me and ask Cook to send through food for our guests.'
He did as he was bidden and she turned to Martha. 'More candles, girl, and send Sim with more logs for the fire.’
There was a growing murmur of voices from behind the screens where the servants had assembled from all over the house. ‘Come in,’ she called, gesturing to one of the maids to pour ale. ‘I have good news for you all,’ she began, standing at the head of the table. ‘The King is safe in France. Peace will return to the countryside once more, you will be able to stand down the guards about the estate. Let us drink to the peace of the nation and the healing of divisions.’
‘Amen to that!’ several voices called in unison. There was no mistaking the feeling of relief in the room. Bumpers of ale were downed and the servants returned to their duties, chattering and excited.
An hour later Henrietta looked down the length of the table and stifled a yawn. The food was finished, leaving only bones and heels of bread littering the table. Puddles of spilt wine reflected the candle light shining on flushed, replete faces. She fervently hoped her unwelcome guests would be inclined to leave now the flow of wine had slowed and the weather improved from downpour to drizzle.
Marcus was seated in Matthew's place at the head of the table. He banged his cup on the table and shouted for silence. ‘Gentlemen! We have presumed on the hospitality of our hostess Lady Sheridan for too long and it will soon be night.’
Thank goodness for that, Henrietta thought, absently taking a long drink from the glass of wine she had been toying with throughout the meal. Its warmth hit her empty stomach and she realised with a shock that she had eaten scarcely a morsel.
‘A toast!’ Marcus continued, lurching to his feet. ‘To Lady Sheridan.’
The young men raised their glasses and shouted her name, banging on the table enthusiastically.
‘Thank you gentlemen. I wish you a safe return to your homes and – ’
‘And now we must all stand,’ Marcus cut across her. ‘I give you the King!’
They all got to their feet, Henrietta among them. She could not stay in her place when such a toast had been called. Suddenly she was suffused with optimism and joy. One day the King would return in peace and she and Matthew and the child she was carrying wou
ld be safe and happy together.
Her voice joined with theirs, clear over their deeper tones. ‘Our sovereign lord the King. Health and long life to King Charles.’
The front door crashed open. Candles guttered in the sudden inrush of cold air and the room filled with a swirl of smoke from the fire. They turned as one, glasses and tankards clenched in their hands, words frozen on their lips.
Matthew Sheridan stood on the threshold of his hall, a dark figure silhouetted against the grey evening light. His black cloak hung sodden to the floor, he was bareheaded, his hair plastered to his head by the rain.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the homely crackle of burning logs and the drip of water from his clothes on to the bare boards.
‘Matthew,’ Henrietta gasped in disbelief. She had wanted him home so much, had dreamt of it sleeping and waking, but not this terrible figure standing like Judgement in the door.
He took six deliberate, echoing steps forward to confront her as though the young men did not exist. His face was deathly white, his eyes glittered strangely, his mouth a thin, grim line.
‘So.’ The word dropped into the silence like a pebble into a winter pond. ‘So this is how you pass your time when I am away, madam.’
‘Matthew, I – ’
‘Be quiet.’ He had never spoken to her like that, with so much contempt and menace in his voice. A muscle jumped convulsively in his cheek. ‘Be quiet, madam, until I give you leave to speak. Who are these people? Why are they carousing in my house with my wine, my food – and my wife?’
‘Now look here, Sheridan,’ Marcus began, blustering. ‘You can't talk to Henrietta like that.’
Matthew turned slowly to face the young man. With deliberation he threw his cloak back over his shoulder to free his sword arm and with equal deliberation drew the sword from its scabbard. The blade whispered, steel against leather, as he drew it, then held it, its glittering point resting lightly on the table.
