A Most Unseemly Summer

by Juliet Landon

  She was spared the need to find a suitably frivolous reply by Dame Celia’s husband, the Reverend John Aycombe, who boomed cheerily, ‘Argh! Take no notice of him, my lady. He’d embarrass the queen herself, he would. Get a grip on yourself, man. You can’t go about scaring ladies like that.’

  ‘He can, sir,’ Sir Leon said, wearily. ‘He does it all the time. Lady Felice, allow me to present to you a boyhood affliction…er, friend. Marcus Donne of Westminster. He’ll be going home tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s wrong, my lady, as usual,’ said Marcus Donne. ‘I’ve no intention of going home for quite some time, I assure you. How could I go now?’ He took her offered fingertips, kissing them with such protracted ardour that she was bound to pull herself free, laughing.

  ‘Marcus Donne,’ she said. ‘A poet, of course.’

  ‘Poet, playright and artist, my lady. And suitor to your hand.’

  ‘Correction,’ said Sir Leon, drily. ‘He’s a limner. Forget the rest.’

  Mr Donne adopted an expression of exaggerated anguish. ‘All right, I’m a limner and I came here expressly to paint your portrait, my lady. Will you sit for me, or will you break my heart with a refusal?’

  ‘The latter,’ Felice said, still laughing at his absurdity. ‘Paint my maids instead. Here’s Mistress Lydia, for you.’

  The banter continued over Lydia’s colourful beauty while Sir Leon came to stand by Felice’s side. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘having made a remarkably sedate entry, you may as well allow me to show you round.’ He followed the direction of her eyes. ‘He’s only just arrived.’

  ‘Delightful,’ she murmured, purposely ignoring his invitation. ‘Such charming manners. What a welcome change.’

  ‘Don’t get carried away,’ he replied. ‘He puts on that performance for every woman, old or young, plain or pretty. He won’t do for a husband.’

  ‘That’s not something that occupies my thoughts these days, Sir Leon. But thank you for the warning. It will make his flirtations all the more piquant.’

  ‘Go ahead, but remember to take them with a hefty pinch of salt.’

  ‘And you’ll warn him about me, no doubt.’

  ‘Naturally. I shall make him aware of our understanding.’

  ‘Which I shall deny, sir.’ She turned her scowl into a quick smile as the two Aycombes caught her eye.

  ‘You’ll deny it at your peril,’ Sir Leon replied. Giving her no time to respond in the same vein, he turned to the others. ‘Good. That’s settled, then. A conducted tour to take stock of progress so far. This way, ladies and gentlemen, if you please.’

  Inwardly seething at his continued provocation, Felice took Lydia’s arm in a gesture intended to unite them against Marcus Donne’s attempts at separation. It was while they were examining the beautifully carved pews in the small private chapel that Felice and Lydia, straying near the pulpit, noticed a battered leather chest upon the steps by the communion rail. They recognised it as one that had come from Sonning on one of the carts two days ago.

  ‘It’ll be the spare Latin bibles and altar plate that my mother wants out of the way,’ Felice said.

  Lydia agreed. ‘And it’ll not be needed here, either. I’ll get someone to come and move it. It can go in the cellar for now.’ But then the intention was put out of mind at the appearance of Adam Bystander, Sir Leon’s tall good-looking valet who, having heard that Lydia was here, came to stake his claim before the notorious Mr Donne could do the same.

  Lydia’s interest in Adam was already established, being one of the reasons for Felice’s decision to reconsider returning to Sonning. Lydia’s ability to forget about men was the cause of much heartache; in fact, most men of her acquaintance would have agreed that her forgetting was too highly developed for her own good—certainly for theirs. It would be a pity, Lydia had said to Felice, to be rushed into a forgetting that would be premature, even by her standards.

  The reason why the leather chest faded from Felice’s memory was remarkably similar, for she now had to delude Marcus Donne into believing that she found him interesting, the Aycombes into believing that she was admiring every detail of the New House, Sir Leon into thinking that she was quite unmoved by his handsome presence and herself into believing that she was not watching him when, in fact, she was. It required all her concentration, especially as Adam Bystander had now weeded the willing Lydia away from her side.

  However, the leather chest had also been noticed by the observant surveyor who, when his guests had been escorted away from the New House, returned for a closer examination. He found it to be unlocked, its stiffly studded lid at first unwilling, its contents unremarkable; bibles in the forbidden Latin, a linen altar-cloth spotted with iron mould, a priest’s white surplice and a box of polished beechwood with a silver carrying handle.

  He lifted it out on to a pew and sat down beside it, recognising it at once as a travelling box which priests had needed to celebrate mass before such rites were forbidden. The inside was lined with dark red leather, the contents still bright: a small silver chalice and plate, a crucifix, a candlestick, a rosary and a small leather-bound bible with a marker of old parchment still in place. The personal bible of a priest.

  Angling himself towards the light, he opened the book to examine the fly-leaf and found the inscription in faded grey ink, the style bold and artistic. ‘Timon Montefiore’. The bookmark was even more interesting, for instead of some biblical quotation or the owner’s initials, it was intricately decorated with the letter F, with pierced hearts, arrows, teardrops, bolts of lightning, thorns and every conceivable symbol of passionate love that the owner could have contrived. What was more, it marked the beginning of the Song of Solomon made up of verses metaphorically comparing spiritual love to earthly love in an unmistakably erotic manner.

  ‘Well, well,’ Sir Leon breathed. For some moments, he held it while he explored the implications and then, on intuition, he turned to the back of the bible and found between the black end-papers a lock of silky dark brown hair tied with a fine gold thread. As if he had known it would be there, he stroked it with his thumb, feeling its softness. Then he replaced it and closed the book.

  ‘So, that’s what it’s all about,’ he whispered. ‘And what happened to you, Father Timon? Did Lady Deventer discover your secret passion, perhaps? Dismissed, were you? No, of course not, or you’d have taken this with you, wouldn’t you? Death, then? Was that it?’

  Without any clear idea of what he intended to do with it, he replaced the contents and closed the lid of the leather chest, carrying the priest’s sacrament box back to his room in the guesthouse.

  Marcus Donne lay full-length upon his friend’s bed, idly leafing through one of Sir Leon’s notebooks of architectural drawings. He barely looked up as his friend entered and closed the door. ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Amazingly lovely.’

  Sir Leon placed the beechwood box on the floor beneath his table and then removed the book from Marcus’s inquisitive fingers. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know she is. So why have you decided to come here now, of all times? Did your nose lead you to the scent of woman, or have you no work to do these days?’

  Marcus swung his legs off the bed and stretched upwards with a smile. ‘I told you. I’m between commissions.’

  ‘You said that because John Aycombe was there. Now, what’s the real reason? You’re in hiding again, I take it.’

  ‘Your man put my bags next door. Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes. But tell me or I’ll have them slung into the river.’

  Marcus remained unperturbed by the threat. ‘Well, I was in London, and a certain possessive husband took a dislike to me.’ He grinned.

  ‘Yes, husbands can get tediously possessive, I believe. So you were painting the lady’s likeness, I suppose, and you couldn’t concentrate. Is that it?’

  ‘Well, she couldn’t, either.’ He and Sir Leon had known each other since they were boarded out at the London home of the late Queen Mary’s Comptroller of the Household, during wh
ich both young men had made excellent connections. Being unlike each other in temperament, they had retained a brotherly friendship over the years and this was not the first time that Marcus had sought his friend’s hospitality at Wheatley in order to lie low for a month or two. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’ll all die down. And I can paint the glorious lady while I’m here, just to keep my hand in.’

  ‘Just to keep your hand in what, exactly? Paint her, if she’ll let you, but no more than that, my friend, or you’ll be off back to London before your jealous husband has had time to forget your handiwork.’

  ‘Whoo…oo! Steady, lad! What’s all that about, eh? Has your lovely Levina stayed away too long, then?’

  ‘She’s not my Levina and mind your own business. Lady Felice Marwelle is in my guardianship while she’s down here, so just remember that. Deventer sent her to sort out the New House and gardens and he’s left no instructions for her to be distracted by cuckolding limners and the like.’

  ‘So you’re her keeper, then. Is that it?’

  ‘You’ll not say as much to her, if you value your head, but that’s the general way of things. She’s my employer’s daughter and I’m responsible for her.’

  ‘Right,’ said Marcus, rudely staring.

  ‘And take that stupid grin off your face. Now listen; you can keep your ears and eyes open while you’re here. There’s something going on at night. Thieving, I expect. That’s the usual problem on building-sites. Rival builders stealing stuff. But so far I’ve not discovered anything missing.’

  ‘So how d’ye know there’s something going on?’

  ‘A boat on the river at night. The only one hereabouts belongs to the chap who works the mill forge, but I’ve not been able to track him. I spent hours over the last two nights waiting to see if he comes through the kitchen garden or the other way round.’

  ‘But no one came?’

  ‘No.’ His fingertips pressed gently against the deep toothmarks at the base of his thumb that still bled from time to time. ‘Perhaps you could take a watch?’

  ‘Sure. Anything else?’

  Sir Leon glanced at the box under the table piled with books and ledgers, measuring instruments and letters. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is. What d’ye know about a priest called Montefiore?’

  ‘Father Timon. Mmm…’ Marcus’s voice wavered, fruitily.

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘No, but I met him. He was chaplain to the Paynefleetes.’

  Sir Leon frowned, suddenly rivetted. ‘The Paynefleetes here at Wheatley? Dame Celia’s brother? I never knew that.’

  ‘Well, that’s not so surprising. The Paynefleetes of Wheatley Manor also have a house in London and they could have been there when you began work here. That’s where I met him, but he left them soon afterwards.’

  ‘You met him in London?’

  ‘Yes. I painted the Paynefleetes’ maid, Thomas Vyttery’s daughter Frances. You didn’t know that?’

  ‘No, how do I know what you get up to in London? So Thomas’s daughter was the Paynefleetes’ maid, was she? He’s never talked about her.’

  ‘A dark-haired beauty, almost as lovely as—’ He caught his friend’s glare and retreated. ‘Her mother, Dame Audrey, asked me to paint her daughter’s portrait while she was with the Paynefleetes in London. So I did.’

  ‘And what does this have to do with Timon Montefiore?’

  Marcus spoke irritatingly slowly, as if to a child. ‘Well, they were lovers. The maid and the chaplain.’

  ‘Whew! F for Frances! How d’ye know?’

  Marcus quirked an eyebrow at his friend’s odd response. ‘How do I know? For pity’s sake, lad, I’m trained to see.’

  ‘She died though, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, after young Montefiore had been packed off in a flurry of silence ostensibly because he was a Roman Catholic priest who was not supposed to be performing anywhere, let alone with a dissenting family like the Paynefleetes. Word gets round quickly in London, so I believe they packed him off to a Berkshire family where he’s now probably busying himself with another patron’s daughter, or maid, or whatever. The family managed to keep it all remarkably quiet, but I get to hear the gossip, you see. I didn’t take to the man, particularly.’

  The hairs on Sir Leon’s arms bristled uncomfortably as he pictured the scene, against his will, of a young priest ingratiating himself into Deventer’s family, charming the mother, seducing the daughter. Is that what had happened? F for Frances and for Felice, one or both? The sacrament box, unused and forgotten. A hasty departure. Her grief and anger. ‘How old would he have been, this priest?’ he said.

  ‘Late twenties, perhaps. Soft-spoken. A quiet character. Intelligent, but not to be trusted, from what I gathered.’

  ‘Thieving, you mean?’

  ‘Dismissed for theft even before he reached the Paynefleetes, but that’s only hearsay.’

  ‘Then who on earth recommended him?’

  ‘Leon, my friend, the priesthood closes ranks tighter than clams when one of them needs help. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding another priest to recommend him.’

  ‘So how does Dame Audrey find the money to pay for a portrait? I thought you were expensive.’

  ‘I am, but I don’t make a habit of asking my clients where they get their money from. I just collect it, with thanks.’

  ‘Plus the gratuities. You’re disgusting, Donne.’ Sir Leon laughed.

  ‘Delightfully so, and you’re green with envy because building houses for wealthy old men doesn’t give you the same opportunities. Or does it?’

  ‘Come on down to the hall. You look as if you could do with the company of stout men, for a change.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Your brain’s going soft, lad.’

  Despite his conspicuously carefree manner, Sir Leon’s curiosity was far from satisfied by the discovery of the wayward priest’s inclinations or by his connection to two women who bore the same initial. Ironically, the apparent solution to the enigma of the Lady Felice’s confusion had lasted only a short time before suffering more complications too difficult to unravel, though the priest’s reputation indicated that he was capable of multiple offences.

  And as if this was not enough, the sudden appearance of Marcus would do little to aid the self-imposed task of taming the beautiful sharp-tongued wildcat. She would use Marcus as a tool, and Marcus would play the part to the hilt, willingly skimming the bounds of the warning like a master. Well, let them do their worst; he had always been a match for Marcus, both intellectually and physically, and the lady herself would soon learn just how far she could go before he took her in hand again.

  Sir Leon’s guardianship of Lady Felice provided Marcus with a delicious temptation he had no intention of resisting. There had always been an element of rivalry in their good-tempered friendship, the latest and most serious manifestation of which was Sir Leon’s erratic friendship with Lord Deventer’s dazzling niece, Levina Deventer, which had previously irked Marcus more than he cared to admit. Any opportunity to pay his rival back in the same coin was something for which he had waited patiently, so it was no concern of his what Lord Deventer had instructed his surveyor to do; he would take the maid from under their noses. Clearly she had little liking for her new guardian; one had only to look at her to see how she resented his authority. Women were so transparent, bless them.

  For Felice, Marcus Donne’s arrival could not have been better timed. With the chivalrous and amusing limner, she could now show Sir Leon how little she cared for his presence or needed his ungenerous warning about the man’s manners. He may have been the first limner she had ever met, but he was certainly not the first flirt. She knew exactly how to handle such men.

  If only the same could be said of Sir Leon, who had put himself outside her experience from the start. With her horses and waggons gone, she had now no option but to comply with his decision concerning her immediate future, but she would make him regret his overbearing interference before
the end of the week. That much was certain.

  These resolutions were comforting for being easily acted upon; other hurts lay deeper and would have to wait for some more impressive retribution to salve them.

  The opportunity for Marcus to acquaint himself more closely with his willing target came later on in the day as delicious aromas wafted across the courtyard from the kitchens of the Abbot’s House. The sun had lowered itself slowly until it rested upon the western edge of the cloister roof, flushing the derelict square with pink and accentuating the colour of Felice’s gown. It was this vision that greeted Marcus Donne as he emerged from the shadows of the far side.

  At first, Felice thought the sound of the door opening might be Sir Leon and she had been prepared to make a very dignified but obvious exit. But then the honey-coloured velvet caught her eye and she waited, half-pleased, half-disappointed. She watched as he looked around him as if to get his bearings and felt herself respond to his genuine pleasure at the sight of her, thinking that it would not be difficult to enjoy his company, for his charms were not all superficial.

  The eager boyish smile was now replaced by that of a self-assured man who knew how to regulate his absurdities to suit his audience. With only the object of his interest to hear him, he could allow his flattery to fall more accurately, drop by precious drop. ‘A Felice-itous meeting,’ he said, approaching her through the untidy grass. ‘A rose-washed Felice bathing in the sun’s last rays. Now there’s a picture waiting to be painted, my lady.’

  ‘And I’m waiting for a summons to supper, Mr Donne,’ she replied, prosaically. ‘You’re welcome to join us.’

  ‘And I, my lady, am lost. But my host expects my presence at supper on my first day here and I dare not disappoint him.’ He came to stand before her, smiling gravely. ‘Pink is your colour. I shall paint you wearing that gown.’ His eyes swept over her, lingering on the soft mounds of peachy skin where the stiff bodice supported from below, then returning to hold the unsureness in her eyes with a slow and lazy smile. ‘Another evening, perhaps?’