‘Money,’ said Thomas, panting and holding his arm. ‘I suppose you think your help’s worth more now than it was at the beginning? You’ve changed your tune, Smith. You were glad at one time to accept whatever I could spare.’
‘Ah, but things have hotted up, you see, with that flighty young filly having plans for this and that. Got Sir Leon round her little finger already. Things’ve changed, Mr Vyttery. I’ll need twice as much now, sir.’
‘For one damned boat trip a week? God in heaven, man!’
Smith was at Thomas’s throat like a bull-mastiff, holding his black tunic in one great fist beneath Thomas’s tangled white beard. ‘Yes, Mr Bloody Vyttery! And just you try taking a boat up-river in the pitch dark and see how far you get. If I’d got caught you’d have denied anything to do with it, wouldn’t you?’ He shook the fistful of fabric. ‘Eh? I’d have been on my own, yes? Yet I only have to tell Sir Leon where to look, don’t I, and that would put you back to square one. Now, let’s talk about a real reward.’ On the penultimate word, he threw Thomas backward on to the cope-chest like a rag doll.
Righting himself, Thomas wiped away a trickle of blood from his bitten lip, his fright and anger allowing him barely enough breath to speak. ‘Lock the door,’ he wheezed. ‘I don’t want that lot in here. Now, if you’ll just pass me that tool chest up there…?’
The smith obeyed, willingly.
The incident of Felice’s visit to the Sisterne House brought her nearer to a quarrel with her maid than she had ever been before. It was not only that Lydia was expected to know where her mistress was, but that Felice had gone knowing that the outcome would not be to her liking, that she had refused Lydia’s company and therefore her comfort and, worst of all, she had then taken an irrevocable step that defied any attempts at reason.
‘Reason has nothing to do with it,’ Felice said, defiantly. ‘I couldn’t have held him off, even if I’d wanted to.’
‘And you didn’t want to. Well, obviously what you saw in Mistress Godden’s room didn’t shock you enough to stop you having a go yourself, did it? Let’s just hope nothing comes of it, that’s all.’
‘Oh, Lydie, don’t spoil it for me. It was the only good thing that came out of the whole afternoon. He knew it was what I needed.’
‘What he needed,’ Lydia muttered, tying the cord at the end of Felice’s plait with a vicious tug. ‘It remains to be seen what his intentions are.’
There was nothing to be said to that, for it was a subject Felice had not broached, fearing the same lack of devotion Timon had demonstrated, and although he had said that she would be his to the end, he had not been too precise about the time span or her role within it.
‘We were to have seen his house today,’ Lydia said, shaking Felice’s skirt with a loud crack. ‘Adam came back like a drowned rat, and I was left not knowing how much to tell Lady West.’
‘I’m sorry, Lydie. I should have shared it with you. I’m still confused.’ Her voice tailed off into a whisper, heralding another weeping.
‘Nay…love!” Lydia relented, taking her mistress into her arms. ‘Don’t weep any more. We’re back to Wheatley on Tuesday and we’ll soon see how things turn out after that, eh? And you’ve seen more of him than you expected to, haven’t you, one way or another?’
The tears turned to laughter at Lydia’s forthright views, especially when she admitted to a slight case of sour grapes at the non-appearance of a convenient hay-filled barn and a thunderstorm.
But the following day, their last in Winchester, brought with it not only more torrential rain but an exhausted messenger from Wheatley who almost fell from his horse on to the cobbled courtyard of Sir Leon Gascelin’s stables.
It was late afternoon, and Sir Leon had just returned from Cool Brook House. ‘Will! What on earth do you do here, lad? Why…what is it?’
‘Bad news, sir,’ Will gasped, clutching at his lathered horse for support. ‘Fire, sir. Last night at the guesthouse. Whole place went up.’
‘Merciful saints, no! Fire? Anyone hurt?’
Will shook his head, searching for a way to begin. Suddenly, his face crumpled. ‘Mr Aycombe, sir. Nobody can find him. They think…oh, God!’
‘John Aycombe, lost? In the guesthouse at night?’
‘Aye, sir. Mr Vyttery’s fair demented, he is. Place is still smouldering. Most of the men were in the village, so they couldn’t stop it spreading. Sparks flew across, sir, and caught the stable thatches and then the stables went up, and…’
‘The horses? Any horses inside?’
‘No, sir. They’d all been moved across to the Abbot’s House stables, like you said. But some of the mason’s lodges went up. It’s a mess, sir. I came as fast as I could.’ His face was still grimy and wet with sweat.
‘We’ll be away at first light in the morning. Take Will inside, you lads, and tend him.’ He turned to his steward. ‘Samuel, get a message to Cool Brook House, will you? Tell the ladies we must be away fast at dawn.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘John Aycombe. I can scarce take it in. But what was he doing there, for pity’s sake? Most of my stuff was being moved out as I left.’
The first light on the following day revealed dark lakes of water in the lowest fields, the roadways more like rivers, the tracks deep with mud. Some of the wooden bridges had collapsed in the floodwaters and the fords were treacherous, but the group of riders had gone on ahead, leaving the packhorses and extra waggons to make their own pace, and although they cursed the appalling conditions, Felice and Lydia were determined not to lag behind.
Their leave-taking from Cool Brook House was genuinely affectionate, the ebullient Lady West being completely unruffled by her guest’s short lapse of common sense which, she said kindly, was by no means a unique affliction. Furthermore, her observations concerning a certain relationship had proved to be as close to the truth as one could get, whatever differences the two had once had now being apparently resolved. She was glad to have been instrumental in their new accord, at which rather pompous announcement she and Lydia had winked at each other, knowingly.
Squalling rain dogged them on their uncomfortable journey, stinging their faces, soaking their legs and chilling their hands into numbness. Waggon-teams approaching from the opposite direction were not inclined to deviate, the riders being forced to make detours and new routes wherever the ground was easiest. But there was a certain joy in the discomfort, none the less, whenever Sir Leon’s grey eyes caught hers, reminding her that she was now his more than ever she had been Timon’s.
The damp clothes chafed on her new Spanish leather saddle, but predictably her comment was misinterpreted. ‘Sore?’ he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘We should be able to find a cure for that, m’lady.’
It was late in the day when they reached Wheatley and the wooded approach to the abbey where the rain had done just as much damage as it had to the rest of Hampshire. The wooden bridge beneath the chestnuts was now awash, and the horses had to be led, resisting and nervous, across the slippery planks towards a building-site blackened, wrecked, steaming and chaotic. Soaking men still wrestled with masonry, their faces resolute and unemotional, fire being a common enough hazard to every householder these days.
Grooms came running to lead the horses and to be first with the news. ‘Haven’t found the vicar yet, sir. They’re still looking,’ said one.
Another had more recent news. ‘Smith’s missing too, sir.’
‘What?’ said Sir Leon, dismounting. ‘Ben Smith? What the devil was he doing in the guesthouse? What’s been going on while I’ve been away?’
‘No, sir. Not in the guesthouse. Drowned, they think. Boat’s missing, too.’
‘Since when?’
‘His woman hasn’t seen him since last night, but the river’s too swollen for a search. We’ll have to wait a day or two for it to go down, sir.’
‘Where’s Thomas?’ Sir Leon snapped.
‘At home, sir. He wanted to help search, but it’s too dangerous for an
old man like him, and he was taking too many risks. Too upset to know what he was doing, they said.’
‘And Dame Celia?’
‘With her brother at the manor, sir. All your things were moved into the offices at the back of the New House…well, most of them, anyway. I think there was your table and a few odd bits still to go, but nothing important. Shall you and Mr Bystander be sleeping over there now, sir?’ The lad glanced up at the rain-soaked ladies and their mud-spattered mounts.
‘Mr Bystander and me’ll not be sleeping at all until we’ve made a few arrangements, lad. Go and make some space in the stables and tell the head groom to come and see me. We shall have Lord Deventer down here in a day or two, if he responds to my message.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The lad took another appreciative glance at the two new horses, determined to be the one to care for them and wondering at the same time what the gifts betokened, considering her ladyship’s hasty departure with Sir Leon’s artist friend a week ago.
Chapter Nine
That evening left no time for reflections on relationships or understandings or even on the future, the needs of the men on the site taking paramount importance over everything else. The servants and workers were both numerous and capable, but relieved to have their surveyor once more in charge, more than filling the gap left by the missing clerk of works, John Aycombe. Felice had time only for a quick change into dry clothes and an even quicker bite to eat before she was over in the kitchens of the New House to see what was needed to produce enough food for them all, the kitchens at the guesthouse having been demolished. The place had been due for reconstruction, but not as drastically as this. No one seemed to know how it had happened.
As well as having dozens of exhausted men to feed and accommodate in every nook and cranny, there were wounds to dress, burned hands, black eyes, cuts and bruises and a broken collar-bone, mountains of wet clothes to dry and clean ones to regenerate from every available source. Most of the guesthouse’s last inmates had been slow to move out and had therefore lost many of their possessions, but goodnaturedly settled into the outhouses and stable-lofts, granaries, storerooms and even in the newly built kennels awaiting Lord Deventer’s hounds.
The kitchens of the Abbot’s House worked overtime that night, preparing food that the guesthouse could not. Kitchen lads carried sacks, boxes and baskets over to the new kitchens that were being put into service for the first time. Animal carcasses had to be re-hung, extra bread to be made.
At one point, Sir Leon found Felice coming away from the great larder where the meat waited to be cooked, the ubiquitous list in one hand. ‘You should not be in here, lass,’ he said to her, softly, steering her away into the passageway. ‘This is no place for a lady. Besides, it’s time you’d finished.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said, wearily. ‘This is the last check. Where’ve you been?’
‘Searching the ruins. We found him.’ He brushed a grimy hand across his forehead and leaned against the whitewashed wall where a blazing torch lit his tired face.
‘You found him…oh!’ Felice’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Badly burned?’
‘No, not at all. He’d fallen into one of the emptied cavities beneath the stone stairs where we’d been keeping some stoneware bottles. It’s one of the few places the fire didn’t reach because there’s nothing to burn. There was rubble and collapsed beams all around him, but it looks rather as if he’d got lost in the smoke and hit his head on the lintel as he fell. He’s got a massive bruise on his forehead, but I’m beginning to wonder if he didn’t simply have a seizure and collapse. He’d been complaining of chest pains for some time.’
‘Oh, poor man! But why was he there at that time of night? Was he working late?’
‘That’s how it looks, sweetheart. I can think of no other reason.’
‘Finish now,’ she pleaded. ‘You can do no more tonight.’
He looked at her without smiling, passing a hand quickly over her breasts. ‘Can I not, woman? Then you don’t know me so well.’ He pulled her to him, crushing her inside one arm and kissing her hungrily, almost desperately. ‘Go to bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll come to you as soon as I can.’
Resuming their vigilance of their mistress, the two hounds followed her lazily back to the Abbot’s House and to the familiar bedchamber where Lydia and Elizabeth waited and repaired men’s torn and singed clothing. The rain had stopped at last, but the night air was full of woodsmoke and the stench of burnt bedding and, in her own room, the many windows were steamed with warm damp garments that hung before the blazing fire. But her bed was warmed, and sleep came instantly.
Several hours later, she propped herself up against the pillows to watch Leon undress before the glowing fire. He stretched, gracefully, like a beautiful night creature whose skin bulged tautly over muscles, whose chest was deep, his limbs lithe and strong. And as he gradually became aware of her attention, he turned and stood to watch her, full-face and unashamed, showing himself for the first time. He came to her and sat on the bed, slowly peeling away the covers that she held up to her chin.
She was well used to nakedness and to her maids’ reactions to it, but the scrutiny of such a man made her aware of every tingling surface even more than in the darkness; being able to see where his eyes examined as well as his hands seemed to double the thrill of each impending caress.
His fingers drew her long plait to one side, indicating where his next interest would fall but not the breathtaking excitement of it and, as she watched his eyes, the sensation of his fingertips plotting the ripe fullness of each breast, drawing slowly towards the hardening peaks, tipped her head back as if by a magic thread. Her eyes closed as she reached out for him and smoothed her hands over his magnificent shoulders, allowing herself to be taken into his mouth, melting her body for his delight.
She moaned, half-drowning in desire, and was swung round sideways across the bed, craving for the nakedness of him along her length. She heard his soft laugh. ‘So soon set aflame, my wildcat, as I knew you could be. I could keep your burning all night, couldn’t I? Eh? Shall I tame you now?’
‘Brute! I hate you!’ she whispered. It was all she could say to sting him and to manage her fear of his unconcealed arrogance. Lydia’s warning floated aimlessly through her mind, mildly chastising her for knowing his body before she knew his mind, but she gave it no foothold. Still suffering quietly from the blow to her pride, she knew that this was the only way to salve it, to put Timon in the shade and make him totally redundant. Yet using one lover as an antidote for another was a dangerous drug, especially when she now knew that she had herself been used as a remedy for another.
The time for teasing passed, and his loving took her into realms she could never have dreamed of where she truly believed that, at times, he was as moved by her performance as she was by his. She had no means of knowing whether his hunger was always great enough to take him on in a seemingly endless union that changed in pace but never flagged, or whether she was an exception for him. But in all other things, he had never seemed like the kind of man who would use superlatives so freely, just for the sake of kindness; on the contrary, she had discovered to her cost that his praises were usually so stinting as to be almost non-existent. Now, however, it was as if he was the one who would burn all night.
‘Sleep, brute,’ she whispered at last.
‘Tired, sweetheart? Have I tired you out?’ He reached across her for the ale cup and held it to her lips, cradling her head.
‘I’m still new to it, despite what you seem to believe.’
He finished what was left in the beaker and replaced it, lying on top of her, lightly. ‘And exactly what do I seem to believe?’
‘Well, that I’ve had some experience, for a start.’
‘Which you have.’ He kissed her nose. ‘But let me tell you something, woman. Your newness, as you call it, feels more like a natural aptitude to me. You have a freshness, it’s true, a delicious wonderment that takes the art of making love to a differ
ent level, but you also have a fire that feeds a man’s passion as quickly as he burns it. I knew it when I held you in the garden that night. I’ve known it ever since. It’s there in the daytime and it flares almost out of control here in the night, and that’s priceless, my beauty. You know how to take a man’s soul, but you also know how to give. You’re an amazingly gifted virgin, my sweet.’ He smiled, touching her lips with his. ‘New, experienced; demanding, giving; sweet and fierce. A rare mixture and I intend to keep it. I’d not have you tamed too far. Have I been too brutal with you?’
‘Very,’ she said, enjoying the chance to disturb him. ‘Is it any wonder I tried to leave? I believe you’re impossible to please.’
‘Difficult, but not impossible.’ He rolled off her and held her close to his side. ‘But I don’t throw praise about indiscriminately, otherwise it becomes worthless. When I give it, I mean it.’ He yawned.
‘You’re making me sound like a permanent fixture, Sir Leon.’ She caught his yawn and snuggled closer to him. ‘Is that what you intend? Do I become one of your mistresses, the one kept at Wheatley, or is there some other role for me? Perhaps you should tell me before Lord Deventer himself asks me about it. He is coming down here, didn’t you say?’
But it was too late. The rhythmic sound of his breathing told her that these were questions that should have been asked earlier.
With so many questions of her own left unasked, the prospect of having to supply Lord Deventer with some answers was not something to which Felice looked forward. It was far easier to prepare for his physical comforts than to face an inquisition regarding her new and deepening relationship with his surveyor which, so far, had been the cause of nothing but confusion. Fortunately the chance to put these problems to one side came early the next day when the waggons from Winchester arrived piled high with the purchases for the New House, and as this was the moment for which she had been waiting, she felt obliged to be in at least four places at once as the pieces were carried, assembled and manhandled. Then at last the best bedchamber, several of the guest chambers, the great hall, withdrawing room and parlour began to shrink with the addition of beds, chests, tables and stools, hangings and all the paraphernalia of living. There were the inevitable hitches, misunderstandings and arguments, but Sir Leon’s previously critical manner was noticeably tempered by a need to set the place to rights as soon as possible.
A Most Unseemly Summer Page 17