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Chapter Three

When Edward came out of the house Arabella looked towards him. There was an air of melancholy about him. He scarcely seemed to notice what was going on about him as he dabbed his brow with his handkerchief and strode to his horse. Arabella wasn’t so insensitive and heartless as not to realise how he must be feeling on parting from his son. She could well imagine how difficult that must have been for him. The leave-taking had clearly affected him deeply. She found she could not bear that withdrawn look on his face and went to him.

‘You have said farewell to Dickon?’

He nodded, his expression grim. ‘Alice’s children are amusing him. He will hardly know I’ve gone.’

‘I’m sure that is not so. He will miss you. But...tell me, Edward—is Malcolm Lister likely to come here looking for you?’

He gave her a penetrating look. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘When he finds Dickon is not in London, what then? Will he not enquire as to his whereabouts?’

‘The servants saw me. Malcolm will know I have taken him.’

‘Which is a father’s right. But you are a fugitive. As Dickon’s uncle he will want to know where you have taken him. With your close relatives either dead or in France and knowing you and Stephen are close friends, will he have reason to come here? I ask because I am concerned.’

‘Understandably so and I have reason to believe that Malcolm will go to any lengths to find him. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that he will remember that you and I were once betrothed. It would not be difficult finding out that you are living with Alice and that he will come here. I advise you to be on your guard at all times—although at this present time with the Commonwealth army marching towards Worcester, I can only hope he will be occupied with military matters.’

‘What I recall of Malcolm Lister is that he is a man to watch and he has the long nose of a bloodhound. We must hope he does not come here.’

‘It cannot be ruled out. Perhaps we will meet in armed combat. If not and we both survive the battle, I can guarantee he will seek me out afterwards. He wants to hurt me. He thinks he can do that by taking Dickon and seeing me hang.’

He was looking at her intently and his magnetic eyes stirred her painfully. ‘I pray that does not happen.’

Edward’s eyes creased with pain. ‘It grieves me to have to leave my son. But I must go. I have striven for peace, but still I must fight. If there is to be another battle, then so be it. It is the price men like me have to pay to bring the King into his own. I would have contempt for myself if I did not do my duty towards my King and country.’

Her eyes suddenly moist, Arabella lowered her head, not wanting to dull the edge of his courage with her fear. ‘I know and I understand your duty well. Should Malcolm Lister come here I will do my utmost to hide Dickon. That I promise you. Be assured he will be well looked after.’

His eyes flickered in appreciation and the corners of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. ‘I know you will—and he will have young children to play with. His life so far has been peopled with adults—it is not good for him. If there is to be yet another battle, which I fear there will be, in my darkest hours your kindness and loyalty to my son will comfort me.’

She met his eyes, wondering if he would return. Ever since the war began, life had been one long series of partings. Tears shone in her eyes. Why did she care so much? He might have wronged her in the past, but she could not deny the physical attraction she felt for him. And then there was his son. Already Dickon was beginning to steal his way into her heart. That poor child had been through so much already. Anne Lister might have been low down in her estimation, but she had been his mother. Having been blessed with the most wonderful mother in the world, Arabella could not begin to imagine the pain of being raised without a mother’s love. Please God, don’t let him lose his father, too. Suddenly she knew that it mattered terribly that Edward came back safe—for Dickon’s sake, if not for her own.

‘You will come back. Have no fear,’ she said, her voice light, hiding the pain filling her mind. ‘Do not concern yourself about us. I will keep Dickon safe.’

Edward glanced across at Stephen, who was mounted and ready to go. He glanced back at Arabella with his disconcertingly blue eyes. When a smile tugged at her beautiful mouth, unable to resist the temptation to taste its sweetness, he bent his head and kissed her hard and fast on the lips, a kiss of anger and need and lost possibilities, the pressure of his mouth lingering longer than was customary.

When he released her his eyes were still on her, gauging her, watching for every shade of thought and emotion in her.

‘Take care, Bella,’ he said, his voice husky with emotion. He touched her cheek with his finger, as if commending her visage to memory against the moment when they must part, then turning from her he walked to his horse. Taking the reins, he looked back at her. His face was drawn and bleak in the harsh sunlight. ‘What you said to me last night—that I must enjoy the fighting—you are wrong. I do not enjoy what I do. An army is a harsh and brutal world to inhabit. Death is constant and soldiers carry their lives in their hands and look death in the face all the time.’

For another second they looked at each other, silent in the stillness of the morning. Arabella was overwhelmed by the urge to go to him, to reach up and touch his face. Immediately she pushed the feeling away, angry at her weakness. Then he hoisted himself into the saddle and was riding after the others through the gatehouse.

She watched him disappear from her sight, touched by an inexplicable sensation of loss. For all its intensity the kiss had been brief. The touch of his mouth on hers had sent a jolt through her system, which had for a moment left her incapable of coherent thought. She was unable to banish the memory of his mouth on hers. Her lips were warm and tingling from the farewell kiss, confirming it had actually happened, that and a heart full of unfamiliar emotions simmering inside her.

Putting her fingers to her lips, she stared after him. She had not expected him to do that. It was strange, she thought, how she could still feel it long after it had ended. At that moment it seemed to her that she had been set upon a stormy sea of emotions that had left her breathless and confused.

Clearly he had not changed. Not his reckless attitude or, to her dismay, the way he made her feel. She’d been alive to his touch, filled with a sweet longing that seemed to promise something wonderful that was just beyond reach. The way he had looked at her. The tone of his voice when he said her name. He had wanted her. The signs had all been there.

She looked down as something white fluttered at her feet. It was his handkerchief. She picked it up, holding it close to her chest, and his scent, a blend of wind and rain and leather and horses, was everywhere. She wanted to run after him and call him back and have him kiss her again with the ghosts of the past all around them. But she could not and so let the opportunity slip through her fingers. She felt empty and alone once more.

How could she have allowed such a thing to happen? With her emotions running high she had foolishly allowed herself to be borne away on a wave of passion. She despised herself for succumbing so readily to his coercive masculinity. Did he think he could go to another woman and come back and take up where he had left off?

Having witnessed the kiss, Alice came to stand beside her, her eyes fixed on the gatehouse.

‘So, Arabella,’ she said quietly, ‘if the kiss I witnessed is an indication of future expectations, it would seem Sir Edward’s intentions to court you are about to be resumed.’

Arabella was strangely reluctant to speak of Edward, for reasons that were hardly formulated even in her own subconscious, but she could not evade Alice’s questions. ‘Yes, he kissed me and I let him. He—he is a soldier going to fight. He might not come back. But it meant nothing. Edward left me—rejected me for another woman. It’s a long time ago, I know, but I have not forgotten—nor have I forgiven him.’

‘Do you remember how angry Father was when he renounced the betrothal—and Stephen, come to that? But they seem to be staunch friends now.’

‘It’s the war, Alice. The conflict has thrown them together in ways we could not have imagined before that. Both our families have lost so much—loved ones and our homes.’

‘Yes, we have. It will be hard for all of us when this is over. Nothing will be the same again.’

* * *

Riding with his companions towards Worcester, Edward found his thoughts wandering to Arabella. It was painful leaving Dickon behind, but he was shocked to discover how much he would miss Arabella. He had vowed that after Anne, with her treachery and deceit, his emotions would never again be engaged by a woman. But Arabella was not Anne.

He’d had to lose her to appreciate the prize he had lost.

She had been naïve, an innocent, and he had brought shame on himself for hurting her as he had. He felt a profound remorse that he had given her reason not to want him. He despised himself for the callousness with which he had broken off their engagement and he desperately wanted to make amends, to close the chasm that had opened up between them.

What Arabella had been through had toughened her. She was hard to read. He had hoped she might have put their past behind her, but they had parted bitterly all those years ago and he sensed a wariness about her now for which he could not blame her. But there was something about her, something that made him feel more alive than he had felt in a long time when he looked at her.

The kiss he had given her had been spontaneous, shocking him with its sweetness, its intensity. It had never happened to him before—at least, not since he had met and married Anne. Meeting Arabella again—all grown, a woman now—he found her intriguing and fascinating. But she was not ready to give her heart. Where he was concerned she never would be and he could not blame her for that.

* * *

In the days following Stephen and Edward’s departure nothing eventful happened at Bircot Hall.

Arabella watched Dickon running around the hall with Alice’s children. He was laughing and it warmed her heart to see him enjoying the game. At first he had been such a solemn child, so quiet, with a serious way of looking at her with his big blue eyes. This was exactly what he needed, other children to play with.

It was with enormous regret to Arabella that Joan had done exactly what Edward said she might do and left Bircot Hall for her home in Bath. Arabella had thought it would affect Dickon, that he would pine for her, but much to her relief he didn’t seem to mind being without her. Arabella was touched that he turned to her. Dickon had worked his way secretly and profoundly into a corner of her heart. She was the one who watched over him, who washed him, fed him and put him to bed and told him the kind of stories children like to hear. She was the one he ran to when he tumbled over and she brushed away his tears.

Alice had reason to rejoice when she received a long-awaited letter from her husband Robert in France. Like many Royalists who had fled across the water, with little to do he was finding life tedious. He was considering joining the French army, as many English exiles were doing. He made brief mention of several gentlemen Alice might know who were of like mind, including one man by the name of Fairburn who had left Paris before he arrived. Robert had not met the man and knew nothing about him other than his surname and that he came from Wales and, rumour had it, bore a strong resemblance to the John Fairburn who had been killed at St Fagans—which was where Arabella’s husband had met his end. He considered it a coincidence since Arabella had married a man by that name and wondered if he could be one of her husband’s relations.

He asked about the children and while Alice went on reading, Arabella continued to think about the man called Fairburn Robert had referred to with a stirring of unease. Why this should be she couldn’t say. After all, John was dead—he had to be dead. After all, had she not buried him? she thought with a stirring of alarm—and if the man was a relation then it didn’t concern her. On that thought she put it out of her mind, but there were moments when she least expected it that it surfaced to cause her further unease.

* * *

Information began to filter through that there was fierce fighting in and around the city of Worcester. The days were spent in an agony of mounting tension for everyone at Bircot Hall. Passing travellers provided worrying news that Charles Stuart was besieged within its defensive walls by Cromwell’s army. They heard that Cromwell had broken through and of vicious fighting in the streets, which ran with blood.

Arabella felt fear stab at her. Where were Stephen and Edward? She couldn’t bear to think that they might be wounded or lying unattended and in pain somewhere on the streets of Worcester or on the battlefield, or even worse—killed. It was impossible to find out. There was nothing she could do, nothing any of them could do but wait as one anxious day ran into another.

* * *

It was almost dark. The children were in bed and, feeling the need for some fresh air before going to bed herself, Arabella went outside. Everything gleamed wetly after the shower of rain they’d had earlier and a breeze was tearing the clouds apart to reveal glimpses of the brightly shining stars. After strolling round the courtyard she was about to go inside the house, but on hearing the sound of horse’s hooves on the stone paving, she looked towards the gatehouse though which a horse and rider emerged, leading another horse.

‘Edward,’ she whispered, her heart leaping with sudden joy and relief. It was three weeks since they had left—an eternity of waiting. Her eyes passed to the horse he was leading. A man was slumped over its back. Her stomach lurched and she whispered her brother’s name, ‘Stephen.’ He appeared to be unconscious.

Lifting her skirts, she ran towards them in alarm. Bringing the horses to a halt, Edward dismounted quickly.

‘Edward—oh, thank goodness you are back.’ Emotions tumbled within her as, still shaken from his sudden arrival, she was so very glad to see him even though she knew his presence and that of her brother meant danger for them all. Not wanting him to read these sentiments in her eyes, she turned her attention to her brother. ‘Is Stephen badly injured?’

With a week’s growth of beard and his clothes stained and torn with the traumas of battle, the mud and blood having dried on them long since, Edward nodded. His face was grey and strained with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, bleak and darkly circled. ‘He has a musket ball in his chest. He’s lost a great deal of blood and needs attending to at once. We managed to escape in the aftermath of the battle. It’s taken us two days to get here. Roundheads are crawling all over the place. He’s been unconscious for the past five hours.’

‘Sam,’ Arabella called over her shoulder. ‘Come and help. It’s Stephen—he’s wounded.’

‘The horses are conspicuous,’ Edward said. ‘Have someone put them out of sight, as far away from the house as possible, and rub them down. If they are found, they will raise suspicion and questions will be asked. They will also be sequestered by the Parliamentary army.’

Together the two men lifted Stephen from the horse, nearly falling under the weight. Tom, Sam’s young son, took the mounts’ reins and led them away as Alice came running out of the house to see what all the commotion was about. On seeing her injured brother being hauled along and the large bloodstain on his buff coat, she assessed the situation immediately.

‘Bring him inside. We must get him upstairs and into bed.’

Managing to get him up the stairs, Edward and Sam set their burden down in a bedchamber. While Alice went to fetch the things she would need to tend her brother’s wound, with Sam’s help Edward worked frantically to remove Stephen’s blood-soaked clothing.