The Master of Winterbourne

by Louise Allen

  ‘Does anyone else wish to tell me how to address Lady Sheridan in my own home?’ he enquired dangerously.

  Thomas Bulstrode, perhaps the drunkest and therefore most foolhardy of them all, cleared his throat. ‘I…’

  The blade came up and across with a swish. The tops of the candles in the ornate central candelabra on the table fell, some still smoking, among the debris of the food. An acrid smell rose in the stillness. Matthew raised one eyebrow at Bulstrode, who shook his head mutely, the sweat standing on his brow in great drops.

  ‘I interrupted you, madam. You were, I think, in the middle of a speech on the subject of Charles Stuart?’

  ‘These gentlemen…’ Henrietta felt her voice dying in her throat. She cleared it and tried again. ‘Marcus and his friends came to tell me the King is safe in France. We are all very relieved that the fighting is over.’ She could see the whole scene through his eyes. His wife, the sole woman in a group of drunken youths, the King's health being celebrated, her own voice tipsy with wine and relief, speaking what to him was treachery and disloyalty.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ With an effort she pulled her eyes from Matthew's cold face and turned to the aghast young men. ‘I must bid you goodnight and a safe return home. My husband, as you can see, is wet and tired and I would crave your indulgence.’

  ‘Henrietta – ’ Marcus began, then broke off as Matthew's sword-point lifted again. He swallowed convulsively but carried on, possibly the bravest thing he had ever done in his life. ‘Lady Sheridan. We thank you for your hospitality, especially as we arrived unannounced and forced our presence on you. My mother will be delighted to hear of Sir Matthew's safe return. We bid you goodnight.’

  Henrietta knew what he was trying to do and was grateful for his courage. She smiled gently. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen.’

  Matthew did not even turn as the door closed behind the last subdued youth. He shrugged the heavy cloak from his shoulders, letting it drop in a sodden heap on the boards, lifted a glass of wine and drained it in one draught, the sword still in his hand.

  He stood for a long moment, his eyes on the empty glass, then dashed it into the fireplace with a terrible violence.

  Henrietta moved swiftly behind one of the heavy oak chairs. It had never occurred to her that Matthew might strike her in any circumstances, but she knew most husbands would think nothing of doing so to a wife who gravely displeased them. And she was frightened for the child she was carrying.

  That fear must have shown on her face. Matthew sheathed the sword and stepped away from her. ‘You do well not to underestimate my anger, wife, but I do not strike women, even those who are disloyal, disobedient and flagrant in their flouting of the law.’

  Henrietta stared at his face, its lines chiselled in the leaping firelight. The dark shadows under his eyes spoke of little sleep, the tendons of his throat were taut. He seemed thinner and she spoke without thinking, full of love and worry for him. ‘Matthew, you have not been looking after yourself.’

  ‘Do not try soft words, Henrietta. Should I believe you care how I am? I did once, and told myself I was a fool for it.’

  ‘I do care, Matthew. I love you… I believe I have always loved you.’ It was a cry from the heart, her heart that was breaking.

  ‘Love? Do not defile the word by using it to lie to me. It will not work, Henrietta. Do you know what I have been doing, these days in London? I have been listening to the voices of those extremists who feel justified in their extremes by the damage done by your King and his heedless supporters. I have been attending to the affairs of people who have lost husbands and sons at Worcester. And when I return home to my lands and my people and my wife I find her flouting everything I believe in, undermining everything I have worked to achieve.’

  He swung away and stood, his back to her, one hand clenched on the stone mantelshelf, staring down into the heat of the fire. ‘Do not tell me you love me, Henrietta. I cannot believe you. I believed it once, fought against the evidence of my own eyes when I saw that letter. But I have been away, away from you, where I could think clearly.’

  If he rejected her words of love she would have to show him how she felt. Henrietta moved slowly to his side, but he continued to stand there, his face averted. She touched his sleeve compelling him to turn and face her, and she saw his eyes dark, not now with anger but hurt and pain.

  A tear slid slowly down her cheek as she reached up a hand to stroke the hollows under his cheekbones. His skin was dry, taut, burning to her touch, and she felt a pang of alarm.

  Matthew flinched away, shaking her off. ‘Do not touch me. Do not think you can seduce me with your body as you have done before, you jade. You know I cannot resist you…’ His eyes were bright, fixed on her face, then he staggered, clutched helplessly at the table, and fell full-length, unconscious, to the boards at her feet.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  His forehead burned hot and dry under her palm. ‘Matthew, my love.’ Henrietta lifted his dark head on to her lap and smoothed back the wet hair from his temples. ‘Matthew, speak to me! Wake up.’ What can be wrong with him?

  She could see no wound to account for his collapse, no rash or mark on his pale skin. ‘Martha! Letty! Come quickly,’ she cried, trying to shift him so he lay straight and she could pull away the sodden cloak.

  The two girls arrived together, breathless and frightened, followed by John. ‘Mistress, what is it?’ After one quick glance he fell to his knees beside her but made no move to touch the unconscious man. ‘Mistress, have a care, he may have the plague.’

  Henrietta stared at him aghast. ‘The plague?’

  ‘’Tis always rife in London town,’ the groom responded grimly, scrutinising Matthew's face without touching him. ‘Does he have a fever?’

  ‘He is burning up. We must get him upstairs to bed. Martha, prepare the chamber quickly. Fresh sheets and light the fire.’

  Martha pulled her skirts back, her lip quivering. ‘I'll not stay, Mistress, not if he's got the plague. You come away, Mistress, leave him to die. There's nothing you can do, God save us all!’

  ‘You wicked girl.’ Henrietta rounded on her furiously. ‘You do as I tell you or you leave this household tonight with no character. The master is not going to die, nor has he got the plague.’ She spoke with more assurance than she felt, never having seen the dreaded disease. ‘John, help me get him to our chamber.’ The groom stood up and made for the door. ‘John, I beg you, do not leave me, Letty and I cannot manage him by ourselves.’

  ‘I’ll not leave you, Mistress, never fear, but I'll need another of the lads to help carry him.’ He paused beside the tearful figure of Martha. ‘And you, silly wench, get about your business as your mistress tells you or I will give you a beating to remind you of your duty.’

  Martha fled upstairs with a wail of dismay, leaving Henrietta and Letty kneeling over the supine figure. ‘It is not the plague, is it, Letty?’ Henrietta begged. ‘You have seen it, haven't you?’

  ‘My uncle died of it in Aylesbury and my mother told me of the signs.’ Her fingers hesitated over Matthew's shirt front, then with a visible effort of will she unlaced it, pulling it open to reveal his chest. ‘There are no swellings I can see, Mistress.’ Emboldened, she insinuated her fingers under his arms. ‘This is where they begin, but I can feel nothing.’

  ‘Then it is not the plague?’

  ‘Mayhap not.’ Letty bit her lip in an effort to remember the symptoms. ‘What is his breathing like?’

  Henrietta put her ear to his chest and listened to the rasping intake of breath. ‘It is not right, Letty, his lungs must be afflicted.’

  ‘Letty pulled her mistress upright. ‘If it is the plague the surgeon can do nothing, even if he were willing to enter the house, but Mistress Perrott will know what to do.’

  ‘Run and send Sim,’ Henrietta urged, falling to her knees again and cradling Matthew in her arms. His face in the firelight was drawn and thin, his eyes sunken. How had she missed it when he had first co
me in? How had she not seen how ill he was? His anger had given him the strength to stay on his feet, but what had given him the strength on the journey from London to Winterbourne?

  ‘My love, my love, don't die; please don't die,’ she whispered over and over like a litany. ‘I need you, our child needs you.’

  It seemed an age before John and Tom appeared and carried the still-unconscious Matthew upstairs between them to the master bedroom. Martha had worked quickly, more out of fear than duty. The fire burned brightly and the bed was crisp with fresh linen. The maidservant backed from the room as they entered, a handful of pot-pourri held to her nose.

  ‘Put him down,’ Henrietta ordered. ‘John, help me undress him. Tom, get Cook to heat bricks and wrap them in flannel, his hands are freezing.’

  John pulled off the muddy riding boots, swearing under his breath as he cut himself on the spurs in his haste. ‘His feet are cold too, Mistress.’

  Henrietta raised her eyes to look at her groom across her husband's semi-clad figure. ‘He is so pale and drawn, John.’

  ‘If this is the plague it will be all over for better or worse in five days. That being so, we will soon know if he is afflicted.’

  They both stood looking at him in silence, listening to the laboured rasp of his breathing. ‘Could it be the pneumonic fever?’

  ‘Aye, it could be that, Mistress. You must keep him warm and hope that the fever breaks.’ He stroked his chin, considering. ‘Shall I send for the surgeon? If we tell him it is not the plague he might come.’

  ‘To cup him and take away what little life blood still runs in his veins?’ Henrietta had no great trust or regard for surgeons except for dealing with simple breaks or cuts. Her aunt had brought her up to understand and use the country remedies and the wisdom of the local wisewomen and their plants and simples. ‘Sim has gone for Mistress Perrott, they will not be long, God willing.’

  By the time they had wrestled Matthew's limp body into a nightshirt and tucked him between the covers Letty had fetched the first of the hot bricks.

  ‘Where is Martha?’ Henrietta demanded.

  ‘Nursing her boxed ears in a corner of the kitchen.’ Letty was grim. ‘I found her wailing about how the Master had the plague and how we'd all be locked up in here by the constable with a plague cross on the door until we're dead.’

  ‘Have the servants all run away?’

  ‘No, they have more sense.’ John opened the door. ‘I'll go down and talk to them, but Cook has the wit to disregard anything that tale-carrying wench would say.’

  Henrietta wrung out a cloth in the water-pitcher and began to sponge Matthew's forehead gently.

  ‘He looks so white, Mistress,’ Letty whispered.

  ‘It is just the sheets,’ Henrietta said stoutly, wishing in her heart she believed it. She was very much afraid, but some instinct told her not to admit it, even to herself.

  ‘What have you done to him, Jezebel?’ a voice hissed from the door. Both women jumped, spun round to see Cobham standing just within the room, watching them with hatred burning in his eyes.

  ‘Cobham, hold your tongue. Your master has a fever and if you wish to help him you will go away and leave him in peace.’ Henrietta turned back dismissively to the bed, but the clerk did not retreat.

  'You are to blame for this with your potions and your philtres.' He sidled up to the bed, stabbing a bony, accusatory finger in Henrietta's direction.

  ‘What are you talking about, man?’ Henrietta wrung out a fresh cloth and laid it on Matthew forehead. ‘My husband has only just returned, with a fever, as you see. How can anyone in this household be responsible for his condition?’

  ‘Harlot! You wish him gone so you can continue you wanton life. Distance is no barrier to a witch's arts.’

  ‘Get out.’ Letty shoved the clerk with such force that he staggered and was out of the door before he had a chance to recover himself. She slammed it and turned the key.

  ‘Thank you, Letty, we have no time to spare for Cobham's ravings. I think age must be turning his brain.’

  They were distracted by Matthew moving his head restlessly on the pillow. He moaned softly and Henrietta motioned urgently to Letty for some water. ‘His mouth is so dry. I must get him to drink.’

  ‘He is insensible, Mistress, you will only choke him if you try and force him to drink,’ Letty pointed out.

  Henrietta contented herself with moistening his cracked lips with a kerchief dipped in the water. ‘Where is Mistress Perrott?’ she fretted. Suddenly there was a great clamour in the corridor outside, in the midst of which the wisewoman's voice could be heard raised in anger.

  Henrietta wrenched the door open. ‘Be quiet, all of you. Your master is sick. What is happening here?’

  Mistress Perrott stood halfway up the stairs holding a covered basket tightly against her chest, her face flushed and angry. Cobham barred her way at the head of the stairs, a rusty black figure, arms outstretched like a scarecrow, defying her to pass him. ‘I shall not let you near him, witch!’

  Henrietta gasped at the word and beside her Letty automatically stretched out her hand, making the sign against the evil eye.

  ‘Bewitch me if you dare, daughter of darkness. I am under the protection of the Lord, your spells will have no effect on me. But approach my master at your peril!’

  Henrietta's frayed temper snapped as she realised that servants were gathering in an excited knot at the foot of the stairs, the word witch passing between them in vehement whispers.

  ‘Cobham, be silent, let Mistress Perrott pass. We all trust her in this household with our lives.’

  ‘She shall not. You are in unholy alliance with her and the Devil. You have bewitched my master, now you will kill him. Whore! Jezebel! Salome!’

  Henrietta stood aghast, unable to deal with the intemperate outburst. The clerk's hair was awry, spittle foamed at the corner of his mouth and his fingers were clenched into claws with his hatred. To her frightened eyes he seemed possessed himself.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the treads and John and Tom pushed past Mistress Perrott and seized Cobham, one on each arm. ‘You don't speak to the mistress like that, you canting Puritan!’ John's amiable face was choleric with fury. ‘And Mistress Perrott saved my youngest when he had the flux last summer.’

  ‘You are all damned!’ Cobham shouted at the frightened servants below. ‘I'll have the witch-finder on you. This whole village – ’

  Tom slapped his free hand over the clerk's mouth, cutting the flow off abruptly. ‘What shall we do with him, Mistress?’ Above the gagging hand Nathaniel's eyes bulged.

  ‘Put him in his room and turn the key in the lock until he has calmed down.’ Henrietta pushed past them and down the stairs to the wisewoman. ‘Mistress, forgive us. The man is deranged with worry for his master. We have much need of you. I fear for my husband's life.’

  As Nathaniel was dragged struggling down the corridor Henrietta ushered the older woman into the bedroom. Matthew seemed unchanged, the commotion outside had not roused him.

  Mistress Perrott laid a hand on his forehead, then lifted an eyelid, gazing into the unresponsive pupil for a long while. Then she pulled back the sheets and opened his nightshirt, running knowledgeable fingers over his chest and under his arms. Finally she put her ear to his chest and listened.

  ‘It's not the plague. It may be marsh fever, or a chill settled on the lungs. Has he been very cold and wet for a long time?’

  ‘I don't know. He has not been gone very long, but he has been in London. Can we be certain it is not the plague?’

  ‘He has not the signs.’

  Henrietta felt some relief that her worst fears were unrealised. ‘But he is so pale and drawn, not like the man who left Winterbourne so recently.’

  Mistress Perrott pulled back the covers. ‘No. He may have been over-tired, starved of good nourishment. He has not been taking proper care of himself. Then any fever would take hold fast. He is in great danger, Henrietta, I will no
t hide it from you. His lungs are much congested and the fever strong.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Henrietta held on to Matthew's hand tightly as though her touch could bring him back.

  ‘We must break the fever, or there is no hope. Keep him warm as you are doing, cool his forehead with damp cloths and moisten his lips. I have an infusion of borage here: pour boiling water on it and hold it close for him to breathe. And pray to God to spare him,’ she added grimly.

  She unpacked the bottles and packets from her basket and turned back to the door. ‘I will come again in the morning.’

  ‘You cannot go.’ Henrietta took her arm. ‘I need you here.’

  ‘There is nothing more I can do for him that you cannot and Mistress Weldon is in need of me now. Sim caught me as I was leaving to attend her. Her time has come, and it will not be easy.’ The older woman hesitated, then touched Henrietta's cheek comfortingly. ‘He is fit and strong despite what has happened recently. He has much to live for. When he is conscious and can understand you, tell him of the child. And save your strength, look after yourself for his sake as well as for your own.’

  ‘Had you told her about the child?’ Letty asked as the door closed behind the wisewoman.

  ‘No, she must have guessed as you did. Letty, are you afraid to help me? You heard Mistress Perrott say it was not the plague.’

  ‘Not I, Mistress. I will be here, and so will all the others. They are loyal to you, Mistress, no matter what nonsense that clerk spouts at them.

  *

  ‘I fear he is not better, Henrietta.’ Mistress Perrott straightened up from the bed, smoothing the covers back across Matthew's chest. ‘And a day has passed since he collapsed. Has he shown no signs of wakening?’

  ‘None. He is restless from time to time, but that is all.’ Henrietta looked up from the low stool beside the bed, still holding Matthew's hot, dry hand in hers. ‘But he is not worse – surely there is some hope in that?’

  ‘I fear not, child. Insensible as he is, he cannot help himself or fight the fever with his will.’ The wisewoman touched Henrietta's shoulder, her face compassionate. ‘You must prepare yourself for the worst. He could slip away from us at any time.’