Читать книгу Puritan Bride - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 9

‘Good morning, madam. You look well. And remarkably fetching in rose silk. Is it new? Ah, Felicity … I have brought you the books you requested. I believe that Verzons will have taken them from Jenks last night and have them in his keeping. And these—’ holding out a number of slim volumes to Lady Elizabeth with guileless grace ‘—should keep you entertained and make your heart beat a little faster, my lady.’

The ladies were seated in the magnificent library at Winteringham Priory. Chairs had been placed for them in the window embrasure where the light was good and a fire crackled beside them in the hearth. Warmth and light glowed on the leather-and-gold volumes and reflected softly from the polished oak table on which lay a quantity of embroidery silks and pieces of tapestry.

‘I see you have not lost your capacity to charm in your absence,’ Elizabeth responded in dry tones, but smiled with quiet pleasure as she returned his light kiss on her cheek. ‘Did the delicious Mistress Lovell not attempt to detain you at Court?’

‘Why, no. Your gossip is distinctly out of date, my dear.’ The Viscount’s eyes, so like his mother’s, held a decided twinkle. ‘The delicious Mistress Lovell has decided to cast her eyes and fortunes higher than a mere Viscount. She was fluttering her remarkable eyelashes in the King’s direction when I made my departure. And he was showing a distinct and lamentable tendency to engage her in conversation whenever their paths crossed. Which was frequently. Lady Castlemaine is even now sharpening her claws.’

‘I hope that she will not live to regret it! Or perhaps I do. Such a rapacious female in spite of her undeniable beauty.’

‘I doubt that Charles will notice her avarice as long as he has access to her equally desirable physical charms. I do not believe that she will have to wait long for him to accept her offers.’

‘How demeaning for you, dear Marcus …’ Elizabeth chuckled ‘… to be thrown over for the King!’

Felicity sniffed, lips downturned in disapproval. ‘Really, Marcus. Such disloyalty to your King!’ She frowned at Elizabeth, but directed her censorious gaze at the Viscount. ‘We have been expecting your return any time this past fortnight, have we not, dearest Elizabeth? Your long absence has been a severe trial to your mother—and a source of grave concern. We hear such tales of footpads and robbers, as Elizabeth will tell you. Could you not have sent us word of your safety and intentions? Then your mother’s mind would have been put at rest—you must agree, dearest Elizabeth!’

Elizabeth Oxenden suppressed a sigh, refusing to comply with her cousin. She shook her head slightly to deflect any sharp remark that Marlbrooke might be tempted to make in reply, a rueful smile touching her lips as she met her son’s sardonic gaze. Secretly Elizabeth was delighted that Marlbrooke had returned home and even more so that he should have noticed her extra care with her appearance that morning. Crippled she might be, but she retained a young woman’s interest in fashion and the latest styles at Court. Living in London had some distinct advantages. The deep rose of her full skirts and boned bodice compensated for the lack of colour in her cheeks. The lace edge at collar and cuffs was truly exquisite, if a trifle expensive. It was no good Felicity lecturing her on the sin of vanity. She enjoyed fashion and would do so until the day she died! If Felicity would only take more interest in her own appearance, she might be far more content with life. How could anyone be other than sour dressed in a gown of such unfashionable dark-green watered silk, and at least twenty years old? And with only the minimum of decoration. Felicity, an angular lady of more advanced years and thin features, grey hair scraped unbecomingly beneath a lace cap, managed a tight smile and dropped a small curtsy as the Viscount bowed politely to her and took the time and courtesy to salute her hand.

‘So what have you been doing in my absence? Nothing scandalous, I presume, or Verzons would have informed me on my arrival.’ He picked up a length of tapestry that had slipped to the floor. ‘More bed hangings? You could soon furnish Hampton Court! Have you been well?’

Lady Elizabeth could not prevent her lips curving in a smile.

‘I find the cold weather attacks my fingers—’ she hid her swollen joints from his hawk-like gaze in her lap ‘—but I shall come about with the warmer days.’ She deliberately kept her voice light. How could she tell him of the pain that kept her awake and prevented her from doing all the things she had loved to do in the past? Her embroidery was a nightmare of perseverance and she dare no longer approach the spinet. The snowdrops and daffodils in the gardens bloomed without her care.

But, indeed, she did not need to tell him. He had already discerned the fine lines around her eyes—were they perhaps deeper than when he had left?—and the haunted glaze of pain in her eyes.

‘I know you would wish to return to London, ma’am.’ He was as forthright as ever in his dealings with her. ‘I think you are lonely here and would far rather enjoy the visits of friends and the Court gossip. But if you could agree to remain here at the Priory until arrangements for my marriage are finalised and the bride has arrived, then I would willingly transport you back to town again. Can you bear it for a little longer?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled as he bent to brush her fingers with his lips. She could not hide the obvious signs of suffering any longer and did not attempt to. She adored her handsome son, and, even if not blind to his faults, she was aware of his love and concern for her well-being. But if she was unwilling to tell him of the pain, how could she possibly explain to him her growing discomfort in this house, a house which he prized above all things? She had not felt it when she had first arrived—of that she was certain. But it had developed gradually in recent days. The sensation that her footsteps were being watched, if not actually followed, by a silent presence—a presence that chilled the air with the keen edge of winter frost. And brought with it such a sense of despair, of utter misery, enough to touch her own emotions in reluctant sympathy, almost to reduce her to tears. The word haunted did not seem too extreme. She could not, would not, admit that her sleep was disturbed not only by physical discomfort, but by a fear of what might lurk in the shadows in the corner of her room. Of every room. He would think she was fanciful in the extreme and merely making excuses to escape back to the city.

‘Well, tell me.’ She mentally admonished herself and turned the conversation into happier channels. ‘Tell me what she is like. Katherine Harley. Will I like her?’

‘I expect so. You are predisposed to like everyone!’

‘That makes me sound witless!’ she complained with a wry twist of her lips and not a little impatience. ‘Is she pretty?’

‘I don’t really know,’ he answered with a slight frown, surprising her. ‘I only saw her once and she looked dishevelled, as if she had come in out of a rainstorm. And she scowled at me for most of the interview.’

‘Oh, dear! Were you not made welcome? Surely Sir Henry was expecting you!’

‘I suppose the answer has to be no and no.’ Marlbrooke’s expression and voice had a derisive edge as he remembered the reaction of the household at Downham Hall. ‘Sir Henry was discomfited and flustered at having to enter into such close dealings with a Royalist. Lady Philippa withdrew into nervous silence and flinched every time I looked in her direction. My prospective bride could in all truth be described as hostile and likened me in a most uncomplimentary way to a frippery bird, without pretence to style or elegance! And they would all have willingly consigned me to the devil.’

‘So?’ Elizabeth failed to suppress a smile at the picture, wilfully ignoring Felicity’s snort of disapproval at the whole distasteful situation. ‘Do you then still intend to pursue the match? Apart from the hostility, was Katherine pretty enough to tempt you into the married state?’

‘I have to admit that the lack of candles—in the interest of economy, I presume—and the growing dusk made it difficult to pick out anything but a general impression. But she has a good figure and holds herself well. And she has a cloud of dark hair. I told her she was pretty, at any event. I am not sure that she believed me. Her opinion of me did not appear to be overly complimentary!’ He grinned at the memory of Mistress Harley’s barbed comments.

‘Oh, Marcus! You are very like your father.’

‘But is that for better or worse, my lady?’

‘I will leave that decision to you! And did you overawe the poor girl, in spite of my excellent advice, with full Court rig—nothing less than lace, velvets and those appalling shoes with red heels?’ She cast an appreciative eye over his more restrained jacket and breeches, more suitable to a country gentleman than the excesses of French fashion. The shoes in question had been abandoned for serviceable black boots.

‘My dear Mother, you could not expect me to pay my respects to my future wife in anything less.’

‘And will you go ahead with the marriage, now that you have seen Sir Henry?’

‘Why not? He is willing enough, no matter Mistress Harley’s sentiments. It brings my claim all the advantages of legitimacy. And she did not seem totally unwilling.’ He did not seem too convinced, but shrugged his shoulders. ‘I expect we shall brush along fairly well.’

Elizabeth chose not to comment, once again effectively hiding her concern on this sensitive subject. She changed tack again as Felicity, unbidden and always solicitous, poured and served small ale in pewter goblets. It sounded a bleak prospect, although Marlbrooke, lounging in an armchair before the fire, boots propped comfortably on a fire dog, appeared to be unaware.

‘Mistress Neale has told me of the occurrence last night. About the young girl you found on the road.’

Marlbrooke looked up from his contemplation of the flames. ‘Of course. I had momentarily forgotten. I am sure Mistress Neale has furnished you with all the details. You had retired when I arrived home. When I realised that she was a girl and not the young man she wished to be taken for, I asked for Mistress Neale’s help.’

‘That was very considerate of you! I believe that many would not expect it, Marcus, if gossip speaks true.’ There was a degree of disapproval in her voice.

‘My delicacy and thoughtfulness can be relied upon on such occasions.’ The gleam in his eye held a degree of cynicism not lost on his mother.

‘You could have fetched me, dear Marcus,’ Felicity interrupted with a fluttering of hands and an avid gleam in her eyes, always receptive of gossip and intrigue. ‘I believe that I was still sorting dearest Elizabeth’s embroidery silks in the small parlour. I could have come to your aid.’ Her voice was as thin and dry as her appearance. ‘There was no need for you to be concerned with some runaway girl—so indelicate, do you not think?’

‘Thank you, Felicity. I know. I suppose I did not think of it.’ And I certainly did not want you prosing in my ear about the morality of modern youth.

‘A most unsavoury circumstance, I am sure. Doubtless the girl will be recovered and well enough to leave today.’

‘Mistress Neale suggested that her head wound was quite unpleasant. And a damaged wrist, I think.’ Elizabeth closed her mind to her cousin’s perpetually querulous voice, sipped her ale thoughtfully, and directed her comment towards her son.

‘I suggest it was merely a ruse to get herself into this house,’ Felicity continued, impervious to the lack of response. ‘That type of female might sink to any level to gain the interest of her betters.’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘Are you suggesting that we should lock up the silver? I think not. If you please, Felicity, I find it rather cool in this room. Please would you be so good as to fetch me my quilted wrap from my bedchamber? I am sorry to put you out.’

‘Of course, dear Elizabeth. It is always my pleasure to be of service to you.’

‘She is so judgmental!’ Elizabeth regarded the retreating figure with disfavour. ‘And always so obsequious towards me. Sometimes I find myself wishing that she would curse me so that I could curse her back! But she never would, of course. She is far too grateful.’

‘I do not know how you tolerate her day after day. All her petty criticisms and ill wishes. Does she ever say anything pleasant about anyone?’

‘Rarely! But she helps me with all the intimate tasks that I can no longer do for myself! So I have to be grateful and tolerant.’ There was an astringent quality to her reply that her son could not ignore.

‘I know. Forgive me for my lamentable insensitivity.’

‘Besides, she has nowhere else to live. I try not to pity her or patronise her.’

‘You have more goodness than I have.’

‘So, what of the girl?’ Elizabeth asked somewhat impatiently. ‘Could she have come from the village?’

‘I think not. My impression is that she is of good family—her clothes, if a little unconventional, her hands, her features, all speak of money and breeding.’

‘Is she seriously injured?’

‘It was difficult to tell when I left her in Mistress Neale’s capable hands. She was comfortable enough and Mistress Neale had bathed and cleaned the head wound but it was deep and her face is badly bruised. We must wait. She had hacked off all her hair,’ he added inconsequentially.

Elizabeth raised her fine brows. ‘Then she won’t be pretty enough for you to flirt with!’

‘Never fear! I am now betrothed to be married and so beyond the levities of youth. And, as you know, I never flirt!’

‘Well …!’ Lady Elizabeth’s views on handsome young men who were ruthless and arrogant enough to use flattery to gain their own ends would never be known for they were interrupted by a quiet knock quickly followed by the opening of the library door. Mistress Neale entered in her usual calm fashion, hands clasped before her over her enveloping apron, the jangle of keys at her waist marking her every step. She stopped inside the door.

‘Excuse me, my lord, my lady. I have brought the young lady. She says she is recovered sufficiently to rise from her bed—although I did tell her you would understand if she rested today, in the circumstances. In my opinion, she is far from well.’

Lady Elizabeth registered the faint expression—of what, anxiety or disapproval?—on her housekeeper’s homely features, but with a mental shrug presumed that it was merely concern for the health of their unexpected guest.

‘But yes, Mistress Neale. Please come in. Is she with you now?’

Mistress Neale turned, beckoned and ushered in the young woman who had been standing in the shadows in the hall. She paused, framed by the doorway, her own ruined and unsuitable clothing discarded, now clad in ill-fitting skirt and bodice, borrowed from Elspeth, tied and tucked to take into account her slender figure. Her harshly cropped hair was uncovered. The extensive bruising down one side of her face was shocking to see, but the wound in her hair, covered by some neat bandaging, appeared to be giving her few ill effects. She held one firmly bandaged wrist awkwardly at her side. Exhaustion was printed on her face, the pallor highlighted by the plain white collar, and there was a faint frown between her brows, but she waited with apparent composure for her hostess to make the first move.

‘Come in, my poor child. What an ordeal you have been through. Come and sit with me.’ Lady Elizabeth stretched out her hand in instant compassion.

Mistress Neale curtsied and left. The lady remained standing in the doorway as if she had not heard the invitation. Viscount Marlbrooke saw the instant bewilderment in her expression and so rose and walked across the room, to take her hand. It was icy cold. She did not resist as he led her further into the room but neither did she respond to her new surroundings. His eyes searched her face, but he could detect no emotion. Perhaps she was unaware that she grasped his hand hard as he led her into the room. He felt compelled by he knew not what impulse to raise her hand and brush his lips over her rigid fingers in a formal salute.

‘There is no need to be anxious,’ he reassured her in a gentle voice as he applied a comforting pressure to her fingers. ‘I was at the crossroads and brought you here last night after the accident with your horse. I am Marcus Oxenden. This is my mother, Lady Elizabeth. You are at Winteringham Priory. Perhaps you know of it?’

Her eyes flashed to his face as she shook her head, wincing at the sudden lance of pain. If anything she became even paler, the blood draining from beneath her skin.

‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ Her voice was clear and steady but toneless as if her mind was engaged elsewhere.

‘Forgive me that I do not rise.’ Elizabeth held out her hand and smiled in welcome. ‘I find the cold weather difficult. You must tell me where you were going. I am sure that we can help you reach your destination. You must have a family—and friends—who will be concerned for you, to whom we should send a message. What is your name, my dear girl?’

The result of the concerned enquiry was devastating. It was not composure that held the girl in its rigid grasp but naked fear born out of blind panic. She pulled her hand from Marlbrooke’s light clasp to cover her face, to suppress a sob of anguish.

‘But what is wrong?’ Elizabeth struggled to gain her feet, ignoring the discomfort, moved immeasurably by the plight before her. ‘I am sure that whatever distresses you so can soon be put right.’

‘No!’

‘But what is it that causes you such despair?’ Marlbrooke raised his brows, glancing hopefully towards Lady Elizabeth, but she merely shook her head. ‘Surely it can be remedied?’

The eyes that the lady raised to Marlbrooke’s face were wide, stark with terror. ‘I don’t know where I was going,’ she explained, her voice breaking on a sob. ‘I do not know who I am. I cannot even remember my own name!’

‘I cannot remember my name,’ the lady repeated the statement in barely a whisper. ‘I don’t remember anything before I opened my eyes here this morning.’

She looked at the two strangers before her, panic turning her blood to ice, freezing her ability to assess her position with any clarity. The lady with her faded beauty, kind smile but awkward limbs. The gentleman, eyes intent, dark haired, with a distinct air of authority. Both offering compassion and support, but both total strangers. How could she be so dependent on them? She shook her head, wincing again at the sharp consequence, unable to take in her surroundings or the enormity of her predicament. In response to the mute appeal in the girl’s face, her pale lips and cheeks, Elizabeth put a gentle arm around her shoulders and steered her towards the fire. She was trembling, but obeyed as in a trance and sank to the cushioned settle. Elizabeth sat beside her, keeping possession of her hand, stroking the soft skin in comfort.

‘You must not worry so. You have had the most traumatic of experiences. You must know that you were struck on the head when you fell from your horse. I am sure your loss of memory will be temporary and you will soon remember everything quite clearly.’

The lady looked into Elizabeth’s calm grey eyes, clinging to sanity as she clung to her hand. ‘But what am I doing here? Please tell me what happened last night.’

The Viscount had come to stand before the fireplace, leaning his arm along the heavily carved mantel, pushing the smouldering logs with his booted foot until sparks showered onto the hearth.

‘I am afraid that I can tell you very little. You were riding from the south, but from where exactly, I know not. You arrived at the crossroads on Winteringham Common at the time when my coach had stopped because of an incident. We waited to warn you of possible danger on the icy road. You were travelling fast.’ He frowned, watching her closely to see if there was any hint of recognition of the subsequent events. There was none. ‘When you came abreast of us, your horse shied badly on a stretch of ice and you fell, hitting your head on the road. I brought you here. And that is all I know.’

She nodded in thoughtful acceptance, head bent as she contemplated his answer and the blank spaces in her memory, which his explanation did nothing to restore.

‘Do I know you?’ The lady raised her eyes to the Viscount’s face, but without hope.

‘No, my dear.’ Elizabeth sighed in answer and shook her head sadly. ‘We can be of no help to you in that quarter. I do not think you live in the vicinity, although we have only just returned to the area ourselves after some years’ absence. We can make enquiries, do you not think, Marcus?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did I have any possessions with me? Nothing to tell who I am?’

‘No.’ The Viscount had moved silently to a side table to pour a glass of wine. He handed it to the lady, who took it and sipped absently. ‘Your horse may have had saddle-bags, but it bolted out of sight. I have sent out word to recover it if it is found on the estate or in the village. I expect it will—horses rarely stray far, even when frightened.’

‘I … I understand from Mistress Neale that I was dressed as a boy.’ She lowered her eyes in some confusion as a faint flush stained her pale cheeks. ‘And I have cut my hair.’ She lifted her hand to touch in shock and disbelief the shorn strands that lay against her neck. ‘I think I had long hair. I do not understand any of it!’

‘Indeed.’ Elizabeth squeezed the cold hands. There was little she could say to comfort her. ‘You must have had a good reason for doing so.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

The door to the library opened to admit Felicity, who had completed her task and returned carrying the shawl. Her pursed lips and the closed expression on her narrow face indicated that she had, in her absence, made it her business to become well informed of events by Mistress Neale and did not approve.

‘Here is Mistress Felicity, my cousin.’ Elizabeth made the introduction, her heart sinking as she read the condemnation in her companion’s stiff shoulders and tightlipped mouth. Uncomfortable at the best of times, Felicity could be a damning influence when her sense of morality was outraged. ‘This is …?’ She looked at the lady beside her in sudden consternation.

The fear had deepened in the lady’s eyes as her lack of identity had immediately presented its own problems.

‘We must decide what to call you, my dear child, until your memory returns.’ Elizabeth smiled and tried to keep her tone light.

‘Why, I … I don’t know.’

‘I do.’ The Viscount had been watching intently and now surveyed the delicate features and deep blue eyes with a light curve of his lips. ‘You are Viola, for sure. Master Shakespeare had the right of it in naming his masquerading heroine. We will borrow it for you, if it pleases you, if only for the short term.’ The smile that accompanied his words held great warmth and charm, guaranteed to put the lady at her ease. He reached down for her hand and bowed elegantly over it. ‘Welcome to Winteringham Priory, Mistress Viola.’

She tried for a smile, but it was a poor attempt, and pulled her hand away as if his touch embarrassed her even more. A shiver ran through her slight frame in spite of the burning logs. Seeing it, Marcus took the shawl from the fussing Felicity and placed it round her shoulders.

‘Thank you. I cannot express how grateful I am for your kindness.’

‘Well, of course …’ he grinned ‘… we had planned to throw you out into the cold and wet to find your own salvation. We always treat our guests with such lack of consideration! Particularly when they are in distress.’

‘Enough, Marcus.’ Lady Elizabeth frowned at his levity. ‘Take no heed of him, my dear. Be assured you are welcome to stay here until we know what is best for you.’

The girl smiled at last with genuine warmth but Marcus had seen the flash of real fear and tried to remedy the effect of his light jest.

‘Indeed, Mistress Viola, there is no cause for concern. I have known cases such as yours before—in the war. A severe blow to the head can bring temporary loss of memory. It returns, sometimes gradually in increasing flashes of realisation, sometimes in one blinding revelation.’ And occasionally leaves the sufferer in devastating limbo for ever! ‘You need to rest. You will stay here as long as you need. Meanwhile, as my mother suggested, we will put out the word.’

‘I cannot express my thanks.’ She placed the almost untouched glass carefully on the table at her elbow. ‘I have a headache a little. Perhaps, if you will excuse me, I will go and rest.’

‘Of course.’ Elizabeth saw the distress and weariness in the young face and understood the need for privacy. ‘Mistress Neale will provide everything you need. Perhaps, Felicity, you will show Mistress Viola to her bedchamber, until she becomes more accustomed to the house.’

Felicity moved to comply with bad grace and a sharp inclination of her head, leading the way from the room, leaving Elizabeth alone with her son.

‘Well, Marcus? She is so young and defenceless to be put in such a position.’

He shrugged as he returned from the door to pour out two more glasses of wine, handing one to his mother before stretching his limbs again with casual grace in the chair opposite her.

‘It is as I said. Her memory will probably return in its own good time. But what can have frightened her to such an extent that she would cut her hair, dress as a man and ride through the night with no companion or protection?’ He frowned down into the blood-red liquid as he swirled it in the glass, the light catching in the faceted stem. ‘Perhaps her fears are more deep rooted than from mere loss of memory. We must be circumspect in our enquiries. It may be that she does not wish to be found.’

‘I agree.’ Felicity stalked back into the room in time to hear the final comment. ‘A girl who is prepared to dress in such an unseemly manner and take such precipitate action might have all manner of things to hide. I believe that you are too trusting, my dear Elizabeth. We do not know what she might be guilty of.’

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and caught the fierce challenge in her son’s eyes as he prepared to deliver a stinging rebuke. Felicity would only sulk and that would make everyone uncomfortable. She took up the challenge before he could speak.

‘Your lack of charity in the circumstances is unfortunate and does you no favours, Felicity,’ she chided in a mild tone, but leaving her cousin in no doubt of her sentiments. ‘I expect you to treat Mistress Viola with all consideration and compassion until we know for sure who or what she is! I would not like to hear that she has been open to insult in my home.’

Felicity pressed her lips into an even firmer line, if that were possible, and sniffed.