A Most Unseemly Summer

by Juliet Landon

  ‘Do rowing boats hoot?’ Felice whispered.

  ‘They seem to at Wheatley,’ he replied. ‘Keep still. Let it pass.’

  They waited until it had disappeared up-river towards the mill, then continued their slow amble towards the Abbot’s House. When he passed her porch and continued along the river path towards the mill, she made no objection to the detour.

  In sight of the mill’s dark outline they waited, flattening themselves against the high wall of the kitchen garden as the boat returned on the river’s flow, one oar steering expertly away from the bank. Then it was gone. Footsteps approached softly out of the darkness and, without any warning, Felice was pushed hard against the wall by the engulfing warmth of Sir Leon and held immobile as a shadowy figure passed them.

  Her nose was against his neck and the faint but intoxicating aroma of his maleness overcame her senses, heightening the longing she had felt earlier and clouding all but the desire to be kissed, to submit, to accept and give without reserve. But the moments passed as he listened, twisting his head away to watch.

  He took her arm in one hand and opened the new garden door with the other. ‘Come this way,’ he whispered, urgently. ‘I want to see where he’s going. If he’s returning to the abbey buildings we can head him off quicker this way, and if he’s going to the village we can watch from the kitchens.’

  Baffled, uninterested and disappointed, she slipped with him through the door where there had recently been a mere gap in the wall. Vaguely, she recalled how she had walked the same route in bare feet, a brief moment of bliss and a sudden parting. Then, she had been glad to get away from him: now, she would have given anything to stay, to begin again and make a better conclusion.

  Forgetting her bare feet, Sir Leon hurried her along the dark path that the workers had begun to restore. The cloak slipped and trailed over one shoulder, dragging her torn sleeve further down and jabbing her flesh with the pins that attached it to the bodice. Removable sleeves could be a boon, but not when one was being hauled through a midnight garden.

  Exasperated by his haste and especially by the redirection of his interest, she pulled her hand out of his to clutch at the spiteful pins at the top of her sleeve, yanking it away in anger. ‘You go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  ‘Stay where you are. I’ll come back for you.’

  He dived away into the blackness towards the garden entrance, leaving her to wrestle with her bulky skirts, heavy cloak and drooping sleeve. Then, seething with indignation and frustration, she hitched it all up into her arms and stalked after him, ignoring his command to wait.

  ‘Wait on yourself, Sir Leon,’ she muttered, heatedly. ‘And then wait some more. We’ll see who can wait longest.’ Purposely avoiding his route, she ran round to the back door of the Abbot’s House and let herself into the pantry, up to the servants’ hall on the first floor and up again to her bedchamber without being noticed. There, fumbling and tangling with an array of laces, hooks, pins and ties, her head swirling madly, she fell onto the bed. She was asleep before she touched the pillow, and this was how Elizabeth and Lydia found her only ten minutes later. It was another half-hour before Adam Bystander knocked on the door to ask Lydia if her mistress was in there, by any chance.

  ‘Well, of course she is,’ she replied, pertly. ‘Where else would she be?’

  As the pagan festival of May Day could not be allowed to exist in its own right, it was given a cloak of respectability by the feast days of Saints Peter and James, who drew a much-reduced congregation the morning after the bonfire. Admittedly, it was early, many of the worshippers holding their heads for reasons other than prayer, but Dames Celia and Audrey were predictably staid.

  ‘You all right, my lady? You look rather pale,’ said Dame Celia to Felice at the end of the service.

  ‘Headache,’ said Felice, thinking that the strong communion wine could not have helped matters. The sun pouring in through the large eastern window hurt her eyes, and she turned away with a frown.

  The events of last night had drifted through the service in a concoction of memories, both irksome and pleasant, those concerning Sir Leon being particularly difficult to untangle. She recalled a sense of temporary compromise that had developed into an expectation on her part which, she now realised, was probably more to do with the cider than anything else. And after her earlier request for no more intimacies, she supposed it was only natural for him to grant a lady’s request. All the same, she found it hard to suppress her indignation that he had so easily been able to overcome any urges he might have felt in favour of a cursed boat on the river. At least she now understood why he had been in the garden that night, thinking that she had been involved in these mysterious activities. She also remembered what she had meant to say to him about yesterday’s conversation with Marcus, but that would now have to wait, for he had not taken his place by her side in church, and she assumed he must still be asleep.

  She was wrong; he was waiting at the back of the church, though if she had expected him to say something she was to be disappointed; his bland greeting was general rather than particular. The man was so unpredictable.

  He wore the new style of knee-length breeches known as Venetians, brown with vertical panes of silver-grey to match his doublet. He swept off his feathered velvet cap and bowed, smiling, apparently unaffected by the cider. Marcus was nowhere to be seen.

  The light at the western door was even more intense. Unable to remove her frown at the pains in her head and feet, Felice’s first words to Sir Leon came out with a sourness she had not intended. ‘Good day to you, sir. It looks as if both you and the vicar will have to make do with anyone you can find today, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Oh,’ he replied, ‘there’ll be no work done on the site today. Most of the young ones are still out there in the woods and the older ones find it hard to hold their ale, these days. Dame Audrey,’ he remarked to the steward’s hovering wife, ‘you’re looking particularly grand today. Will you be at the festivities later on?’

  Dame Audrey had not spared any available space on her bright green silk bodice on which to hang a brooch or jewelled pin, and even her girdle-chain was weighted with clinking objects as she moved: scissors, a tiny watch, spectacle-case and a golden locket no larger than the palm of a lady’s hand.

  Her reply was predictable, in view of her early departure from last night’s bonfire. ‘No, Sir Leon. May hasband and aye have always trade to observe the calendar according to Her Majethy’s decree, you know. Aye think our vicar should show his disapproval of these goings-on bay benning them. Heaven only knows what these silly lesses will hev on their hends in nane manths’ tame.’

  The silly lasses to whom she referred were at that moment filtering out of the woodland that surrounded the village and abbey, arm in arm with the lads and carrying boughs of May blossom with which to decorate the May Queen’s bower. There would be maypole dancing, music and laughter, of which the Vytterys apparently disapproved.

  Felice could find no suitable response to that, nor did she care to scan Sir Leon’s face for signs of amusement, but there was no need, his eyes having caught a more interesting topic.

  ‘Heaven knows, indeed, Dame Audrey. Is that a locket hanging from your girdle? A portrait?’ He bent to look at it more closely, then at her. ‘May I?’

  For a moment, Dame Audrey hesitated, as if about to refuse, then she relented and hauled it up by its chain and lowered it carefully into Sir Leon’s waiting hand. ‘You may open it, if you wish,’ she said.

  The tiny domed lid sprang back to reveal a portrait of a young woman, her face no larger than Sir Leon’s thumb-nail. She was dark and very lovely, her hair covered by a close-fitting black cap, her oval face enclosed in a small frilled collar, her eyes dark brown and red-rimmed as if she was prone to weeping.

  Felice peered, equally enchanted. The young lady’s hair was as dark as her own but Dame Audrey was fair-haired and blue-eyed, her husband grey-haired, his eyes pale. So who was the yo
ung lady? ‘A relative, Dame Audrey?’ she said. ‘She’s very good-looking.’

  ‘My daughter Frances, my lady,’ the dame said, quietly, taking the locket out of Sir Leon’s hands and closing the lid. She held it lovingly like a new-hatched chick.

  Completely taken by surprise, Felice realised that she should perhaps have waited longer for information instead of pressing for it, but her next question slipped out in the same uncontrolled fashion. ‘Does she live hereabouts, dame?’

  Dame Celia stepped in to save her friend. ‘We lost her, my lady, just over a year ago. This is Mr Donne’s portrait of her. We still miss her so.’

  Felice’s head thudded. On impulse, she took Dame Audrey’s hands between her own and held them tenderly. ‘I’m so sorry, dear lady. Truly I am. I would never have…oh, dear…that was clumsy of me. Do please forgive me.’ She took a pretty lace handkerchief from her sleeve-band and handed it to Dame Audrey, and the situation was overtaken by the boisterous arrival of the Reverend Aycombe who appeared not to notice that group’s momentary un-ease.

  Felice, however, was troubled by the incident, particularly as she felt she could have been warned in advance about the Vytterys’ personal tragedy, which did much to explain their obvious unhappiness. If only she had known.

  There was no denying that the quality of the painting was excellent, perfect in every detail and as lifelike as if the young Frances Vyttery had been sitting there inside the golden filigree case. Upon the bright blue background, Felice had noticed the date, Anno Domini 1559, painted in a delicate scrolling hand, and she wondered again how Dame Audrey was able to afford such a valuable object, or whether Marcus Donne had presented it to her as a gift. And how well had he known his subject? A miniature portrait was a personal object usually commissioned by a husband, wife or lover.

  Partly to escape the May Day rituals, Felice slipped away to the kitchen garden to discover what had once grown there and to make a rough plan for the men to use the next day. Lydia was the first to understand: her mistress’s feet were still sore, she still had a sick headache, and she didn’t want the effort of making herself affable to Sir Leon. Or to Marcus, for that matter.

  ‘Here, love,’ Lydia said with genuine sympathy. ‘Take your pad of paper with you, and your charcoal. Make your plan on that, and don’t bother about young Elizabeth; we’ll keep an eye on her. Here, take an apple with you.’

  Felice was sitting in the shade of a drooping ash tree when Sir Leon found her, her head leaning back against the flaking whitewashed wall, the pad of paper discarded by her side.

  He took her noisily discouraging sigh in good part. ‘I know, I know,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘You wanted to be alone, you’ve got a sore head and, most of all, you wanted to avoid me. And now your plans won’t work.’ He came to sit on the old bench beside her.

  ‘How d’ye know they won’t?’ she said, without moving.

  He picked up the pad of paper and looked at the mess of lines, scribbles and rubbings-out, turned it round several times and smiled. ‘Well, I suppose it depends on what you have in mind,’ he said, turning it again.

  Lethargically, she took it from him. ‘It makes sense to me,’ she said, looking at her plan and then at the acreage before them. ‘That’s the northern side.’ She tapped the top edge of the paper.

  Delicately, he gave the paper a quarter turn. ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Go away. I know what I’m doing. And why could you not have told me about the Vytterys’ daughter? You must have known.’

  ‘There didn’t seem to be an appropriate time to suddenly start talking of the Vytterys’ daughter. Not even then. It’s the first time I’ve seen the portrait; perhaps she wears it because Marcus is here.’

  ‘You’ve not seen it before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘But you knew she’d died,’ she accused. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Thomas has never mentioned it and I’ve not asked. I didn’t even know Marcus had painted her until he told me on Sunday. Now, lady, am I absolved?’

  ‘No. How did you know the details of my conversation with Mr Donne?’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  She opened her eyes and turned to stare at him in disbelief. ‘Then how did you know I’d denied anything?’

  ‘Denied our understanding? I guessed you would at the first opportunity. And I was right, wasn’t I?’

  ‘What if you’d been wrong?’

  ‘You’d soon have let me know. It was worth a chance. I got what I wanted.’

  ‘It was dishonest, sir.’

  ‘No. All’s fair in love and war, they say.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning. So you won’t object if I do the same.’

  ‘Try it, by all means, my lady. I shall soon let you know if I do.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, sir, but I doubt I shall know the difference, your objections coming so thick and fast.’

  ‘Whew! Sharp! Now, would you like me to help you to plan the gardens? I could draw you a rough diagram and you can tell me how you want it set out.’

  ‘No, thank you. You’ve disapproved of everything I’ve done, so far. It would be a complete waste of time to tell you how I want anything.’

  His chest gave a deep chuckle like a rumble of thunder. ‘Oh, dear. That cider has a lot to answer for, doesn’t it? I didn’t want you tamed that fast, lass, not when I was beginning to enjoy myself. Here,’ he said, taking the paper from her, ‘let me make a start and then you can heartily disapprove of everything I do, just to get even. Yes?’

  She could not resist a smile as she watched him stroll away with the pad and charcoal, drawing without looking. ‘And if you see a red shoe anywhere,’ she called, ‘it’s mine,’ and closed her eyes again.

  ‘You lost them both? Serves you right for walking off.’

  Two encounters so close together without a fight began to look like the beginnings of a truce, at last. Even more so when, for the next two hours, they plotted the kitchen garden in something approaching harmony, if one discounted the occasional disagreement about the points of the compass.

  ‘Look,’ he said in exasperation. ‘Over there you can see the apse of the church. Which way does the apse always point?’

  ‘East.’

  He took her shoulders and faced her in the same direction. ‘East,’ he said. ‘Now, point to the north.’

  She stuck out her right arm but he pushed it down and pulled up the other, holding her wrist out. ‘North. So that is the south-facing wall where the apricots and medlars will grow. Right?’

  ‘But you just said….’

  ‘No, the other side of it faces north. This side faces south.’

  ‘Did you find my shoe?’

  ‘Look over there.’

  She discovered it perched on the handle of the old broken-down wheelbarrow that she had bumped into during their first confrontation but, as he had suspected, she would not go to collect it. Finally he retrieved it himself, making her blush angrily at his unashamedly teasing laughter.

  Sir Leon had not asked why she had left him last night without an explanation, so she assumed it did not matter to him, nor would she raise the subject of the mysterious man and his boat in case he asked her for reasons she would have found uncomfortable to provide. Even so, she would like to have known why he had decided to spend the afternoon with her instead of at the May Day games.

  From the kitchen garden they went to the cloister for more planning, by which time Felice was bound to assume that he enjoyed her company almost as much as she enjoyed his, in spite of the air of controlled antagonism that held the delicious promise of a fight. If he was intent on taming her, there was no reason why she should make it easy for him.

  By comparison, the company of Marcus Donne that same evening held none of the same undercurrents. He was unfailingly charming and amusing. He told her as much as he could remember about the accommodating Betty and, with almost no persuasion, went on to talk about people he had met and painted.
He remembered very little about his time with her at the bonfire last night but begged her to forgive his lapse; the cider was liquid gunpowder, he said.

  He hoped her guardian had not been too tedious.

  ‘Tolerable,’ she said. ‘Have you known him long, Mr Donne?’

  ‘Since we were lads. He’s a mite older than me, but we’ve always been friends. We meet when we’re both in London.’

  ‘Sir Leon has a house in London?’

  ‘Yes, on the Strand, but his other house is in Winchester. He does most of his entertaining in London, though.’

  ‘Entertaining who?’

  With some difficulty, Marcus contained the smile that threatened the seriousness of her barely concealed interest. Leon had berated him for his less-than-chivalrous conduct last night, particularly for failing to care for Lady Felice as he should have done. Added to this, the buxom Betty had made demands upon him that no country-bred lass ought to know about. His pocket had suffered, too.

  ‘Who?’ he said, guilelessly. ‘Oh, Leon’s always been popular in court circles. He’s well sought after, especially by the ladies.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’

  Marcus had no intention of letting the subject rest there. ‘He’s been linked with so many of the court beauties: Lady Arabella Yarwood, the Countess of Minster’s twin daughters, Marie St. George, Levina Deventer, Dorothea…’

  ‘Who? Levina? My stepfather’s niece? He knows her?’

  ‘Why, yes. Of course, I almost forgot. You’re related, are you not?’

  ‘Only by marriage, thank heaven, and then only distantly. So Sir Leon and Levina have been friends, have they?’

  ‘Still are, my lady. That affair’s been on and off the boil for the last three years. They’re mad about each other, but her money’s tied up till her father dies. Pity, really. They make a fine pair.’