Читать книгу Marriage Under Siege - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 7

Wednesday, the day of Lord Edward Mansell’s funeral, saw a continuation of steady rain and high winds. It seemed to the new Lord Mansell most apposite to be standing beside a coffin in a gloomy churchyard in such dire conditions. It matched his mood exactly. The trees, some such as the towering horse chestnuts with the merest hint of spring growth, were lashed without sympathy as the rain drummed heavily on the surface of Lord Edward’s coffin and on the small crowd of mourners who had turned out to mark his passing. There was a collective sigh of relief as Lord Edward’s earthly remains were finally carried into the church where they would be laid to rest in the family vault, allowing everyone to get in out of the rain.

Few of the local families had chosen to attend the passing of the old lord. The war was beginning to stretch the traditional ties of local loyalties and Lord Edward had never been a popular member of the county elite. Too irascible, too penny-pinching, reluctant to extend even the basic needs of hospitality to his neighbours. And, more often than not, downright unpleasant. Therefore, given the state of the roads and the possibility of enemy action, even on a small local scale, many had elected to stay at home.

There was no sign of Viscount Scudamore of Holme Lacy, although it was true to say, even by those who disliked his youthful flippancy and lack of respect for convention, that he would have the furthest to travel. But also absent was any representative of Fitzwilliam Coningsby of Hampton Court near Leominster. Or Henry Lingen. But some had made the effort. Henry Vaughan was present, as well as Sir Richard Hopton. And Mansell was conscious of Sir William Croft’s brooding presence at his shoulder throughout the burial service. There was family connection here, through history and marriage, but the new lord did not relish the forthcoming conversation with his powerful relative. Sir William, major landowner in the county and owner of Croft Castle, had a reputation as a staunch Royalist and had, without doubt, more than a little influence in county politics.

The family retainers from Brampton Percy were present in force, of course, and some tenants from the village cottages and surrounding farms—but they had braved the weather more to get their first sighting of the new Lord Mansell, he mused cynically, than any desire to pay their last respects to Lord Edward.

The Reverend Stanley Gower droned on through the service, his nasal intonation increased by a heavy cold, as damp and chill rose from the stone floor and walls and the congregation coughed and shuffled.

‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother Edward here departed …’

Mansell sighed silently, doubting that any of those present regarded Lord Edward Mansell in the light of a dear brother. He kept his gaze fixed on the scarred boards of the old box pew before him, effectively masking his own thoughts. Sir Joshua sat at his side, gallantly lending his support—as he had cheerfully explained when he postponed his journey to Ludlow, the prospect of enjoying the explosion of temperament when Croft was made privy to his new neighbour’s political leanings was too good an opportunity to miss. Mansell had expressed himself forcefully and succinctly, threatening to banish Josh from the proceedings and send him on his way if he dared say one word out of place but, indeed, he appreciated the solid presence beside him in the grim atmosphere.

Alone in the old lord’s pew, the worn outline of the Brampton coat of arms engraved on the door, sat Lady Mansell. It had been her own choice to sit alone. Mansell had every intention of lending his support to the widow, but she had chosen otherwise. She had absented herself from the company until the last moment, deliberately isolating herself in her lord’s pew. He turned his head slightly to assess her state of mind, intrigued by this unlooked-for influence on his inheritance.

Honoria Brampton remained unaware of his regard. She sat perfectly still, gloved hands folded in her lap, the hood of her cloak pushed back from her neat coils of hair. No shuffling, no fidgeting, she looked straight ahead towards the distant altar. Lord Mansell could detect no trace of tears, no obvious distress on her calm face, her eyes somewhat expressionless and unfocused. He frowned a little, but had to admit that after their single encounter he would have expected no less.

On the previous night she had arranged for the provision of food and warmth and then simply withdrawn with instructions to the servants to ensure their comfort. She had made no effort to entertain, to explain the death of her husband, to enquire after their journey. All was competently and capably ordered, but Lady Mansell was personally uninvolved. And yet not, it would seem, from overwhelming grief. Mansell shrugged his shoulders in discomfort within his sodden cloak and shuffled his booted feet on the cold flags. It was, of course, difficult to judge on such slight acquaintance and it would be unfair of him to presume.

The service came to an end, even the Reverend Gower spurred into hurrying his words as the restlessness of the congregation made itself felt and his cold threatened to overwhelm him. The coffin was duly carried to the south aisle and manoeuvred, with some difficulty and muttered imprecations, to be lowered into the vault below the stone flags with the decayed remains of other de Bramptons.

‘… dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life …’

The congregation proceeded in a wave of relief out into the churchyard.

‘Well, my lord.’ Croft appeared at Mansell’s side and offered his hand. ‘Unpleasant circumstances, I know, but welcome to the county. I knew your father, of course. I shall be pleased to make your acquaintance, my boy. And introduce you with pleasure to the rest of my family on a more auspicious occasion.’

I doubt it. Lord Mansell kept his thoughts to himself and returned the clasp with a smile and inclination of his head. ‘Thank you, Sir William. I remember my father speaking often of you and your boyhood activities. He held you in great affection. I trust you will return with me to the castle. Let us get in out of this Godforsaken rain and see if the content of Lord Edward’s cellar can help to thaw us out.’

‘I would not gamble a fortune on it!’ Sir William guffawed, raindrops clinging to his bushy eyebrows. ‘But I will willingly help you discover the flaws in your inheritance! I am not sure that you will be successful in finding even a keg of ale, much less anything of a stronger nature—I would definitely not bet my last coin on it. Lord Edward did not spend money willingly. Indeed, he claimed that he never had it to spend—but only because he could never be bothered to collect it efficiently. I fear that your new estates will prove to be a burden, my lord, unless you are willing to take the time and energy to whip them into shape.’

Mansell turned away with a shrug and a suitable comment—and was immediately conscious of Lady Mansell’s approach to stand beside him on the mired pathway. She had pulled up the hood to hide her hair and most of her face. She looked lost and fragile, alone amidst the groups of mourners. For one moment he thought that she swayed, that she might lose her balance, so he stepped forward and took her arm in a strong clasp.

‘My lady,’ he murmured in a low voice, ‘are you well? Do you need help?’

Her whole body stiffened under his impersonal touch and, although she did not actively pull away, she gave no outward appreciation of his offer of help. There was the merest flicker of her eyelids as she turned her face to his. And a look of shock as if she had been unaware of her surroundings until that moment, as if she were merely going through the motions of what was expected of her. She blinked at Mansell with a frown of recognition—and then shook her head as she pulled her arm from his grip. He could see her visibly withdraw from him, her eyes fall to hide her thoughts.

‘Thank you, my lord. I need no help. I have to return to the castle to ensure that the guests have all they require.’

She turned and walked away from him towards the forbidding gateway.

A simple repast had been laid out in the Great Hall. Bread, meat, cheese and pasties on large platters. Jugs of wine and larger vessels of beer were available, in spite of Sir William’s fears to the contrary. A vast table had been set up with chairs for those who might be infirm. A fire had been lit in the enormous fireplace. It was too meagre to do more than lift the atmosphere, but it was a gesture, and the few who returned to the castle with Lord Mansell gravitated to its flickering cheerfulness, steam rising from damp velvet and mud-caked leather. The guests expressed their sympathies in suitable if not exactly honest terms to the new lord and to Lady Mansell, the servants efficiently poured beer and mulled wine, and the gathering gradually relaxed into gossip, family matters and local affairs typical of such an event.

Mansell found Foxton hovering at his elbow, an expression of some concern on his lined face.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, my lord? We did what we could. But you must understand … Forgive me, my lord, but—’

‘Yes. Thank you, Foxton. It is better than I could have expected in the circumstances.’ He made no attempt to cloak his knowledge of the state of the once-magnificent castle of Brampton Percy. It was clear for all to see. A run-down estate. No money, no care over past decades, no stores to draw on in any emergency. Where the money from the rents went, Heaven only knew. If, indeed, they had ever been collected as he’d been led to believe. It had taken Mansell less than twenty-four hours to see the dire need here. And, as Josh had pointed out with delicate malice, it was now all his. ‘You have made the guests feel most welcome, Master Foxton. You have my gratitude.’ A smile of genuine warmth touched his harsh features. ‘I think that Lord Edward was not aware of the debt which he owed to your stewardship. But I am.’

Foxton bowed his appreciation. ‘It is my duty and an honour to serve your family, my lord. As my own father did before me. But this—’ he gestured with his hand ‘—is Lady Mansell’s doing, my lord. She was most particular that we should be able to offer some hospitality, and, not knowing who or how many would wish to mark the passing of Lord Edward … If anyone wishes to stay the night, my lord, a number of bedchambers have been made ready.’

Mansell raised his brows in some surprise at the foresight, but made no comment other than, ‘Thank you, Foxton. I am grateful.’

He turned from his Steward to locate the widow. There she was, almost invisible in the gloom in her black gown, moving between the guests, exchanging a word here, supplying another glass of wine there, listening to a whispered confidence or an offer of condolence. The grey shadow of the huge wolfhound had emerged from its temporary incarceration in the stables to attach itself firmly to her skirts once more. Lady Mansell carried herself confidently, gracefully, apparently having recovered from her momentary dislocation in the churchyard. But although she conversed with ease there was no animation and she did not smile. Her aloof composure struck Mansell anew. But perhaps even more remarkable, he quickly noticed, was the care and deference of the servants towards her. They watched her, ready to anticipate her needs, to respond to her every desire. Even Foxton. She might only have been mistress of Brampton Percy for a bare four weeks, yet in that time, however fickle the loyalties of servants might be, she appeared to have been taken under the caring wing of the whole household.

How did she do it? Mansell mused as he watched her from a distance and later voiced his thoughts to Sir Joshua over a mug of ale. ‘She would appear to have no conversation of any merit—or certainly no desire to entertain. No charm. No warmth. Yet even Sir Edward’s hound follows her every step and appears inseparable from her. What is it that they respond to?’

Sir Joshua shrugged. ‘I know not. I have not seen her smile or show pleasure. I watched Thomas Rudhall try to engage her in conversation a little while ago.’ Joshua turned to survey the assembled group, to locate the gentleman.

‘Oh? Another family connection, I presume.’

‘Yes. A cousin of yours, I would think. And a very important one—in his opinion. And, more to the point, a widower. There he is—the large rumpled individual propping up the fireplace, scattering crumbs as he speaks. From Rudhall Park. Poor Thomas tried very hard to flatter the grieving and wealthy widow with his consequence and attention.’

‘And?’

‘She drew in her skirts as if to avoid contamination and looked at him as if he had crawled out of the slime in your inner courtyard.’ Sir Joshua’s face split in a reminiscent grin. ‘Our self-important Thomas made a hasty exit towards the ale. His dreams of a rich, youthful widow with a handsome jointure to warm his bed shattered by one sharp encounter. I could wish to have heard what she said to him.’

‘At least she has good taste.’ Mansell’s lips curled as he assessed his unprepossessing relative, who was at present waxing eloquent and loudly on the strength of local Royalist forces and the certain defeat of Parliament. ‘I imagine that the past four weeks have not been a source of amusement for her. She might not regard wedlock with any degree of tolerance and I wager few women would be attracted by Rudhall’s dubious charms. I remember little of my cousin Edward, but marriage to him must have been … a trial.’ Mansell hesitated a moment, a frown drawing together his heavy brows. ‘Perhaps even worse than that for a gently brought-up girl. Perhaps that is the problem.’

‘At least she now has her freedom. The lady should be rejoicing.’

‘She should indeed. Ah … my own rejoicing is over, Josh! I believe that I must brace myself. Sir William Croft is striding in this direction and I fear I cannot escape. I think the time is fast approaching when I must answer for my sins.’ Mansell’s smile was wry. ‘But I do not believe that I wish to be too apologetic!’

‘When are you ever?’ Josh raised his brows in mock surprise. ‘I will leave you to work out your own salvation, Francis—meanwhile, I will go and talk to the widow and try my own charms on her. If only to ruffle the Rudhall feathers, scruffy as they are. Just try not to shock your powerful relative too much on your first meeting.’

Sir William Croft approached, a tankard of ale clasped in one large hand. In spite of his advancing years he remained robust and active, his broad features ruddy and weatherbeaten, a force to be reckoned with. Authority wrapped him round like a velvet cloak and he wore it comfortably.

‘I suppose I should say that I am sorry about Edward’s demise,’ he stated brusquely, without preamble. ‘But I have to admit to being even more sorry about your brother’s death last month. A terrible thing, to have lost James so young.’

Mansell’s reply was tight-lipped and curt. ‘Yes. A great waste.’

‘And your own tragic loss. Both Katherine and the babe. More than a year ago now, isn’t it? And then your father …’ He shook his head at the terrible unpredictability of life and death. ‘A desperate time for your family.’

‘Yes.’

‘Forgive me, boy.’ Sir William closed a large hand on Mansell’s rigid arm, the warm pressure indicating the depths of sympathy which he would not convey in words. ‘I see you have no wish to speak of it, but it would have been discourteous not to express my condolences—and those of my Lady. Your mother wrote to her about Katherine. We never knew her, of course.’

‘No.’ If Mansell’s response had been coldly controlled before, now it was glacial. The rigid set of his shoulders discouraged further comment on the subject.

Sir William shuffled uncomfortably, then took a deep, spine-stiffening draught from his tankard. ‘Your mother. I suppose she is taking it hard?’

‘Yes.’ Mansell visibly relaxed a little, and took a glass of wine from a servant. ‘She is in London at present with Ned and Cecilia. I fear she finds time heavy on her hands. And is in constant despair that either I or Ned will also become victim of a stray bullet, as James was.’

‘And, of course, it has handed you a lot of unexpected responsibility. How do you feel about it?’

‘Uncomfortable.’ Mansell responded to the older man’s obvious concern with more honesty than he might usually allow. And besides, the new direction held no vicious memories, guaranteed to strike and tear at the unwary with cruel talons. ‘I suddenly seem to have inherited two titles. First my father’s knighthood, and now Edward’s barony, making me responsible for not only my father’s possessions but also Edward’s acres. It was not the life that I had planned.’

‘Don’t forget the inheritance from Edward’s bride,’ Sir William reminded him with a sharp glance. ‘She will have an excellent jointure as his widow from the estate, of course, but Mistress Ingram must have brought great resources with her to the marriage. The Laxton estates in Yorkshire themselves must bring in a tidy sum. I can tell you, it was the talk of Herefordshire when Edward suddenly upped and wed at his time of life. Why in God’s name should he suddenly change the habits of a lifetime? Not to mention the financial cost! We had no idea—always presumed he would go to his grave with no direct dependants. But no—and he must have beggared himself and his tenants in raising the funds to buy Mistress Ingram’s wardship from old Denham. As you will soon be aware, Edward was the worst of landlords. From what I know of the matter, his record-keeping was disorganised in the extreme, his collection of rents erratic and his investment in the estate nil.’ Sir William, a conscientious landlord himself, shook his head in disbelief. ‘His pockets were invariably empty, he was always pleading poverty and living in a style worse than that of his meanest tenant. His lands are widespread with great potential, but you would not think it to look at them. Look at this place.’ He waved his hand to encompass the medieval gloom of the Great Hall. ‘And to bring a new bride here!’ He huffed in disbelief.

‘As you say.’ Mansell did not need to follow Sir William’s gaze to know the truth of it. ‘I was unaware of either the marriage, or the extent of the property that now falls to my care. Or the state in which I find it. I could wish, for the most selfish of reasons, that my brother James had lived to take on the inheritance.’

Sir William nodded. There was nothing to say. He took a contemplative draught of the ale, his thoughtful gaze resting on the lady in question at the far side of the Hall. ‘Poor girl,’ he muttered as if to himself.

‘Why do you say that?’ Mansell realised that it might be in his interests to hear Sir William’s more knowledgeable assessment of the match.

‘Did you know your cousin at all?’ The rough brows rose in exaggerated query.

‘Not really.’

‘I thought not or you would not ask. I would not wish to speak ill of the dead, and certainly not on the day of his burial. But let me just say this—Edward had few friends to respect or mourn him, as is obvious from the paltry turn-out here. Local unrest would not normally keep friends and neighbours away from a good funeral! And his merits as a sensitive and caring husband for a young girl? Well, all I can say is that Denham must have been out of his mind—should never have allowed it.’

Francis watched Lady Mansell as she eased an elderly lady to her feet from a settle by the fire and restored her stick to her gnarled hand. His lips thinned a little in sudden distaste. So his own thoughts on the marriage were confirmed. Poor girl indeed.

‘It will be difficult for you to enjoy your gains in the circumstances, my boy, although we are quieter here than many areas,’ Sir William continued, interrupting his younger relative’s thoughts, sure of his subject now. ‘Most of the families hereabouts are loyal to the King or have the sense to keep their mouths shut and their doubts to themselves. Connections between families are still strong—much intermarriage has strengthened family ties over the centuries of course. Your own family has close connections with many apart from us at Croft Castle. The Scudamores, of course. The Pyes, the Kyrles of Walford—none of them here, you notice. And the Rudhalls—the son was at the church earlier but—ah, yes, there he is by the screen, looking as if he has lost his best hunter as usual. You will have noticed that the Coningsbys did not put in an appearance?’

‘I had. Is there a reason? Your knowledge of my family intricacies is much greater than mine.’

‘No marriage connections with the Coningsbys, of course—but a deadly feud between Fitzwilliam Coningsby and Edward going back many years; I have forgotten the details. But a lot of history there. You might find that you inherit it along with the property. You might want to watch your back, my boy.’

‘I am sure I shall soon discover. But tell me, Sir William, how did my cousin’s loyalties lie in present politics?’

‘Royalist, of course. Hereford is well under the command of Coningsby as Governor in the city. He and I muster the trained bands as required. There has been little unrest so far. The nearest Parliamentary garrison is Gloucester under Colonel Massey and that is too far away to be much of a threat in everyday matters. So we organise affairs to our own liking with little interference from those self-serving blackguards such as John Pym in London.’

Mansell took a deep breath. It really would not be politic to remain silent longer on such a crucial issue, however difficult the outcome. His eyes held Sir William’s in a forthright stare. ‘Perhaps I should tell you clearly, Sir William. My own sympathies lie with Parliament. I cannot in all conscience support a man such as Charles Stuart who would bleed his country dry, ignore the advice of Parliament—or even its very existence—and would have used the Catholic Irish to invade and subjugate his own people. I am not a Royalist—and nor would I be content to keep my mouth shut and my head down, as you put it. I will speak up for my beliefs, and act on them if necessary.’

Silence. As sharp as the honed blade at Sir William’s side.

Sir William took another gulp of ale. ‘Well, my boy.’ He eyed Mansell quizzically, perhaps a hint of respect in his fierce eyes under their grizzled brows. ‘That will put the hunting cat amongst the local pigeons. I like a man who knows his own mind and is not afraid to state it. But are you sure? I had never expected your father’s son to speak such treason. And neither would he! He will be turning in his grave to hear you!’

Mansell laughed, but harshly, and the bitterness did not escape Sir William. ‘Oh, yes. I am sure. Will this situation—your family connection with a traitor—make matters uncomfortable for you?’

‘Yes. It will. No point in beating about the bush. My wife will expect me to welcome you for the sake of your father and mother. My political associates will damn you as spawn of the Devil. So what am I expected to do?’ Sir William finished the ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he contemplated the future. The lines of authority and experience around his eyes deepened as he weighed the situation. Mansell simply waited for him to come to a most personal decision, hoping that he had not totally alienated this proud but honest man. He was not disappointed.

‘I will try not to forget what I owe to family. Or the strength of historical connection. I owe that to your family and mine. But I never dreamed … Did your father know of your … your political inclination before he died?’

‘Yes, he did. And although he could not support me—he remained true to the Stuart cause until the end—he did not try to dissuade me. But our relationship was not easy in the months before he died.’ Mansell’s eyes were bleak as he remembered the pain and disillusion which had marked his father’s last days.

‘Well, then. It has indeed been a day of revelation.’ Sir William hesitated a moment. ‘It could put you in a dangerous position, you realise.’

‘How so? I am hardly a threat to my neighbours, outnumbered as I am.’

‘So it would seem. But a Parliamentarian stronghold such as this in a Royalist enclave? A severe weakness, many would say, particularly as some of your neighbours might believe that your potential influence is now too great, given your fortunate increase in wealth and property. Some might decide that it would be best policy to divest you of some of that influence. Permanently!’ He showed his teeth without humour. ‘Some such as Fitzwilliam Coningsby!’

‘You are surely not thinking of a physical assault, are you?’ Mansell did not know whether to laugh at the prospect or to be horrified.

‘I hope not. But put your mind to your other properties. It would do well for you to see to their security before word of this gets out. As it most assuredly will.’

‘And you would give me that time, Sir William?’

‘I could. For the sake of family, you understand. But don’t expect too much of me. I am not enamoured of the work of Mr Pym and his rabble of supporters who would oust the rightful monarch—and replace him with what? God only knows. It would put all our lives and property in danger if we allowed such a thing to happen. Yours too, my lord.’

‘Now is not the time for such a discussion. But I am grateful for your advice and tolerance, Sir William. I hope that I can repay it.’ His features were softened a little by a genuine smile. ‘And not put you into too great a difficulty with Lady Croft.’

Sir William grunted, turning to collect his cloak and hat from the chest against the wall. ‘I must be going. What will Lady Mansell do now?’

‘I have no idea. Although I expect that she is more than well provided for. I presume, given the wardship, that she has no family to return to.’

Sir William shook his head. ‘These are not good times for young women, particularly wealthy ones, to exert their independence.’

‘I am aware. That, Sir William, is the next problem for me to consider.’

‘I wish you good fortune. And if you will take my advice, you will mention your allegiance towards Parliament to no one, at least not until you are certain that you can hold your property. I would hate you to lose it before you have taken possession!’ He laced his cloak and pulled his hat low on his brow. ‘Take care, my boy. Take care.’ Sir William clapped Mansell on the shoulder. ‘Local politics run very deep.’

The guests had all gone at last. Honoria, Lady Mansell, stood with her back to the smoking fire, listening to the silence around her. Absently she stroked the coarse shoulders of Morrighan, the wolfhound, who pressed close. Now what? Until this moment there had been so many necessary tasks for her to supervise or undertake, so much to fill her mind. Now there was nothing—until the business dealings with Mr Wellings, Edward’s lawyer, on the following morning. No one had taken up the offer of hospitality. How would they, in all honesty, wish to stay in this dismal castle, the very air redolent of despair, of hopelessness. Even Sir Joshua had gone to pack his few possessions prior to making the short journey to Ludlow before night fell. What should she do now? Her brain seemed to be incapable of coming to any sensible decision. All she wished to do was retire to her room and sleep for a week. Or weep from the relief that she was no longer governed by Lord Edward’s demands. But she would not! Tears solved no problems.

The great door at the end of the Hall opened to admit a blast of cold air and the new lord. He hesitated for a moment as he saw her there and then, as if reaching a difficult decision, walked slowly towards her, eyes intent. She lowered hers. It would not do to increase her vulnerability by a show of emotion or uncertainty. Or weakness. If she had learnt anything at all in her short life, it was just that.

She remembered him vividly from their first encounter at Whitehall. He had not remembered her, except as a vague acquaintance—indeed, how should he? She was not a noticeable person, would not draw a man’s attention in a crowd. Her hair, her face, her figure were all acceptable, she supposed, but really quite commonplace. Certainly not attractive enough to catch the eye of a man such as Francis Brampton, as he was then styled. But she remembered him.

And she remembered his wife. His betrothed as she had been then in the final months of 1640. Katherine. A lively, laughing sprite of a girl. A vibrant beauty with slender figure, tawny hair and jade green eyes, a young girl experiencing the pleasures of Court for the first time—the allure of the masques, the songs, the dancing. And they had so clearly been in love. A glance. A touch. A smile. Such small gestures had shouted their passion to the roof timbers. So much promise for the future of their marriage together. With an effort of will, Honoria closed her eyes to blot out the memory and governed her mind against the envy that had engulfed her and still had the power to bruise her heart. How could her own experience of marriage have been so empty of love, so painful and humiliating?

But, after all, what right had she to complain? Katherine was dead.

Honoria saw Mansell now when she raised her eyes once more, her control again securely in place, her lips firm. Not a courtier, in spite of his appearance at the sophisticated Court of Charles and Henrietta Maria, but rather a man of action. A soldier, perhaps. She knew that he was a younger son and so had been prepared to make a name for himself as a soldier or, more likely, politician. But then his elder brother had died, in a minor, meaningless skirmish against opposing forces near their estates in Suffolk, thus thrusting Sir Francis, as he became, into the role of head of family, into the elite of county society.

Honoria studied him. He was tall and rangy, well coordinated with long, lean muscles. Hard and fit, he carried no extra weight, his black velvet coat emphasising his broad shoulders and the sleek line of waist and thigh. She could imagine him being equally at home in the saddle or wielding a sword in battle. He walked towards her with long strides, with a natural grace and elegance, of which he was probably unaware.

He was not conventionally handsome, she decided—his features were too strong for that. But striking. Definitely not a man to be ignored in any circles. His hair, which waved to his shoulders, was dark brown with hints of gold and russet. His eyebrows were darker, drawing attention to remarkable pale grey eyes, which could appear almost silver when caught by the light, or dark and stormy when passions moved him. They were beautiful, she decided. And they made her shiver a little with their intensity. A masterful nose and firm lips, now set in a straight, uncompromising line. No, not handsome, but a striking face that would be impossible to overlook or forget. And made more memorable by a thin scar, which ran along his brow from his temple to clip the edge of one fine eyebrow. An old scar, thin and silver against his tanned skin. Honoria found that she could not take her eyes from him. And yet she was forced to acknowledge that he would be a dangerous man to cross. His face was imprinted with harsh lines of temper and a determination to have his own way, and it seemed to Honoria, given his confident arrogance, that he would enjoy much success.

She sighed a little. What would it have been like if she had been wed to Francis Brampton—Lord Mansell, as she must now learn to think of him—instead of Lord Edward? Handsome the new Lord Mansell might not be, but she had been well aware of the number of eyes that had followed him at Court. Followed him with feminine interest and speculation in spite of his recent betrothal. She herself had not been immune … But where had that thought come from? She pulled her scattered wits together. She had no idea what had prompted such a daydream—and it would not do to think further along those lines. To show emotion was to put yourself in the power of those who witnessed it. She must keep her feelings close at all costs.

Mansell continued to approach, unaware of the disturbing thoughts that ran through the lady’s mind. No, he decided, he hardly remembered her from their first meeting. Only a vague impression of a young woman within Denham’s family. How should it have been otherwise when he had been caught up in the glory of new love, held captive by Katherine’s vivid face and vibrant colouring. God—how he had loved her! And been consumed by the miracle that she should love him. It seemed like yesterday—and yet a lifetime ago. No! He would not have been aware of the woman who stood before him, shrouded in black and an indefinable air of desolation. Attractive enough, he supposed. Well born, rich—but nothing to compare with the girl who had shared his childhood and had bestowed on him her love and her heart so willingly. He could almost hear Katherine’s laughter. He closed his mind against the sharp lance of pain, forcing his thoughts back to the immediate problem. At that moment he sincerely doubted if Edward’s widow ever laughed!

The widow raised her eyes to his as he halted before her. ‘I trust that the arrangements were to your liking, my lord?’

‘Excellent—in the circumstances.’ His smile of thanks warmed his features. ‘I understand from Foxton that I have you to thank for the arrangements—and the spread of food. I have to admit that I had not given it much thought.’

‘How should you? Men rarely do. You merely expect it to be done.’

Mansell raised his brows, the smile fading, at the quick response. Had she intended such needle-sharp judgement? He could detect no malice in the lady’s face. Nothing except for a soul-crushing weariness that she could not disguise. He chose to control his instinctive reaction and bit down on a curt reply.

‘I could have no complaint, and nor could our guests, my lady. Unless it was the length of time it took the Reverend Gower to bury my late unlamented cousin.’

As on the previous evening, it crossed his mind that perhaps that was not the most tactful of comments to make to Edward’s widow, but she accepted the criticism of her lord with her usual lack of response. No touch of humour. No smile. Merely a frigid acceptance.

‘I believe that your family connection with Lord Edward is somewhat distant, my lord?’

‘Indeed.’ Mansell moved closer to the fire. ‘Some three generations back, I believe. My great-grandfather was brother to Edward’s great-grandfather, which makes us … well, second or third cousins, I suppose. And I had no expectation of this inheritance, of course.’

‘I heard about your brother’s recent death, my lord. And that of your wife and son. I am sorry for your tragic loss. It must be very hard to accept it.’ He heard a note of true regret in her voice. Even as he mentally withdrew from further expressions of sympathy—had he not suffered enough for one day?—he saw a shiver run through her so that he surprised himself and her by reaching out to cover her clasped hands with his own. And he kept the contact even when the wolfhound showed her teeth in silent warning.

Her hands were icy.

‘You are frozen, my lady. This is no place for you.’

Honoria choked back the sudden threat of tears at such an unexpected expression of consideration, silently horrified at how little it took to disturb her.

‘It is no matter,’ she answered in a low voice. ‘I will see to the clearing of the repast now. I will talk to Master Foxton and Mistress Morgan.’

‘You will not.’ Sir Francis turned her hands within his own, aware of the soft skin and slender fingers. Such small hands to be burdened with such responsibility. He snapped his concentration back to the immediate. ‘Is there a fire in the solar?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then come. You have been on your feet all morning and should rest a little. And some wine will be acceptable, I think.’

‘But Sir Joshua—’

‘Sir Joshua can fend for himself admirably. Have you eaten today?’

‘It is not important …’

‘I suppose that means no. No wonder you look so pale and tired.’ Mansell took her arm, in a gentle grasp, but one which brooked no more argument and allowed her no room for rebellion. He led her to the stair. The wolfhound shook herself and pattered after them, her blunt claws clicking on the stone treads.

Soon Lady Mansell found herself ensconced in a cushioned settle before the smouldering, banked fire in the solar.

‘Stay there,’ he ordered, frowning down at her. ‘I shall return shortly.’

It was easiest, Honoria decided, to do just that, although she did not want the inevitable conversation with the new owner of Brampton Percy. He returned with wine and a platter of bread and cheese, which he placed at her elbow and then kicked the logs into a blaze. When he took a seat on the settle facing her, Morrighan stretched before the warmth with a heavy sigh, but kept her pale eyes on the intruder. Honoria sat quietly, waiting, ignoring the food and wine.

‘I cannot force you to eat, of course,’ he commented in a clipped tone, disapproval evident in his stern face.

‘I am not hungry.’ The slightest of shrugs.

Suppressing the urge to take issue with her on this point, he decided that it would serve no purpose and that he should go with impulse to discover what he could about the lady. ‘Will you tell me about your marriage?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I will understand if you choose not to but … Do I presume correctly that it was not a love match.’

‘No. It was not.’

‘I see.’ What should he say next?

‘You should not forget, my lord, that I was an heiress,’ the lady obliged him by explaining the situation, ‘and my parents were dead. The Court of Wards placed me and my estates under the authority of Sir Robert Denham as my guardian, until such time as a suitable marriage could be arranged.’

‘Of course. And so Lord Edward bought your wardship from Sir Robert.’

‘Indeed, my lord. Lord Edward informed me that he had managed to scrape together enough money from the estate for the purchase in the hope of a good return on his investments. Not least an heir. It cost him the noble sum of £2,000 to acquire my hand and my lands. He begrudged every penny of it and the effort it took to raise it from his unwilling tenants. He lost no opportunity to inform me of it.’

The statement of events was delivered in such a soft, flat tone, but his ear was quick to pick up an underlying thread of—what? Hurt? Humiliation? His heart was again touched, the merest brush of compassion, by her calm acceptance of her experiences.

‘That could not have been pleasant for you.’

‘It is the lot of heiresses, I believe. I cannot complain.’

‘Forgive me for touching on a personal subject, but surely your guardian could have found you a more suitable husband?’ Mansell resorted to the direct. ‘Lord Edward must have been nearer sixty than twenty. And, with respect, I would have expected you to have been married before now.’

‘Before my advanced age?’ Her hazel eyes met and held his. ‘I am twenty-three, my lord.’

A slight flush touched his lean cheeks and a spark of anger, of guilt, glinted in his eye: he might have broached the subject head on, but he had not expected her to be so outspoken. ‘It was not my intention to be so insensitive, my lady. It is simply that, in general, heiresses have no lack of suitors. There must have been others more … appealing, shall we say, than my cousin Edward.’

‘You read the situation correctly, my lord. I am not offended. There was no lack of suitors.’ She was cold now, as if reciting the contents of a recipe. ‘When I was very young I was betrothed to George Manners, the heir to the Stafford estates. I only met him once. He was very young—still a child, in fact, even younger than I was—and very sweet. I remember that he wanted to climb the trees in the park … he died from a contagious fever within a year of our betrothal.’

‘I am sorry.’

She lifted her shoulders again dispassionately, turning her face to the fire. ‘And then I was betrothed to Sir Henry Blackmore, cousin to the Earl of Sunderland. He had very powerful connections and had his eye to my estates. We met on a number of occasions. We would seem to have been compatible. He died from a bullet in the head last year at Edgehill.’

‘I see. And then there was Edward.’

‘And then there was Edward.’ A mere whisper.

He could think of nothing to say about the sad little catalogue of events.

‘So you see,’ she continued, her voice stronger now, ‘as long as Lord Edward was willing to pay the price, my guardian was more than pleased to accept his offer.’

‘Were they kind to you?’

‘Sir Robert? Of course. I was given every attention and consideration by Sir Robert and his wife. It was his duty to do so and he took his obligations very seriously. As a Baron of the Exchequer, he could afford to live in considerable style and I was brought up with his daughters as one of the family. I lacked for nothing. My education was exemplary. I have all the skills deemed necessary for an eligible bride. But a guardianship cannot go on for ever. I believe that the outbreak of the war spurred my guardian to push for the marriage. And I believe that he wanted the money to donate to the Royal cause.’

But they did not care for you, did not love you, did they? Did she realise that she had spoken only of duty and obligation?

Mansell felt a sudden inclination to ask if Lord Edward had also been kind and considerate to her but knew that he must not. It was too private a matter. And after Croft’s comments, the answer was in doubt. Whatever the truth of the matter, she was now free of her obligation and might achieve a happier future.

‘What will you do now, my lady? I presume that you will not wish to return to the household of your guardian.’

‘No. I have no further claim on them. The legal obligation is complete. But I have made plans. You need not fear that I shall be a burden on you, my lord. As an heiress I have an excellent jointure. It will all be clarified at the reading of the will, but I am aware of the terms of the settlement that was negotiated with Sir Robert on my marriage. I know that Lord Edward made a new will on our return here and my jointure is secure. I need nothing from you.’

‘That was not what I meant.’ He tried to quell the sudden leap of annoyance at her resistance. ‘Where will you go?’ he pursued. ‘You can hardly live alone and unprotected. Not with the prospect of armed gangs, not to mention legitimate troops who are prepared to take possession of any property that might further their cause.’

‘I shall not be unprotected.’ She noted but ignored the impatience in his voice and in the determined clenching of his jaw. ‘Sir William Croft offered me an armed guard if I wish to travel any distance. And certainly I can live alone within my own household. As a widow of advanced years I hardly need a chaperon. And as a woman I believe that I will be in less danger of attack than you, my lord. No man willingly wages war against an unprotected woman. It is not considered chivalrous.’ Her lips twitched in the merest of smiles. ‘Sir William’s warning and advice to you would seem to have been most apt, my lord. It is perhaps necessary for you to look to your own possessions, rather than be concerned with mine.’

‘I see that you are well informed!’ And how did she know about that? Annoyance deepened. ‘I suppose that I must learn that nothing remains secret for long in this house.’

‘Very true. Besides,’ she continued, ‘I have had my fill of protection, of betrothals and marriage.’ She breathed in steadily as her wayward emotions once more threatened to slip beyond her grasp. ‘Primarily I shall go to Leintwardine Manor. It is part of my jointure and only a short distance from here. I shall be comfortable there. It is a place of … great charm.’

‘I still do not think you should do anything precipitate,’ Mansell insisted. ‘Take time to decide what is best for you.’

‘I shall remove myself from this place as soon as may be. By Friday, if that can be arranged.’ He noted the faintest of shudders once again run through her slight frame and did not believe that it was from cold.

‘You sound as if you hate it here.’

‘I never said that.’ For one moment her eyes blazed, glinting gold and green in their depths, only to be veiled by a swift downsweep of sable lashes.

‘You do not appear to appreciate the very real dangers,’ he pursued the point, but knew he was losing the battle. ‘I feel a sense of duty to see to your comfort—and safety.’

‘How so?’ Her gaze was direct, an unmistakable challenge. ‘You have no duty towards me. You need not concern yourself over my future, my lord Mansell. After all, until yesterday, you were not even aware that I existed as a member of your extended family. After tomorrow, I shall take my leave.’

Abruptly she stood to put an end to the discussion and walked from the room without a backward glance, leaving food and wine untouched, her black silk skirts brushing softly against the oak floor. The wolfhound shadowed her once more, leaving Mansell alone in the solar to curse women who were obstinately blind to where their best interests might lie.

‘And the problem is,’ he confided to Sir Joshua when he walked with him to the stables an hour later, ‘I find that however much I might wish to accept her decision, to let her make her own arrangements, I simply cannot do so. God save me from difficult, opinionated women!’