by Mary Nichols
‘No, they always give me a headache and I always want to scratch. Do what you can with my hair.’
It was done at last, a wonderful creation, full of padding and rolls, and after a final powdering Penny took off the cape and Margaret was ready to don the petticoat and put on the magnificent gown. The effect was magical. She felt inches taller although she had not yet put on her slippers; her eyes, with their naturally dark lashes, shone lustrously. Margaret had always thought of herself as plain, but even she had to admit that she looked very handsome. She was watching in the mirror as Penny fastened her mother’s garnets round her throat and set the bonnet on her curls when Kate came in, radiant in the red taffeta and sweeping peacock feathers.
‘Are you ready? Charles and Roland have already gone, and the carriage is outside. Roland has had the servants busy for hours clearing the snow from the road to the church.’
‘Yes.’ Margaret took a deep breath, picked up her handkerchief and fan, and turned towards the door.
The tiny church was crowded with villagers and estate workers come to wish both brides well, and Margaret was glad to see them. They made the ceremony more impressive than it would have been if there had only been she and Roland and a couple of witnesses. She really felt like a bride as she walked slowly down the aisle in that magnificent gown towards the man she was to marry. He turned to face her and she noticed, with a little quirk of amusement how his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of her.
He looked elegant himself in a double-breasted brocade waistcoat with silver buttons, matching breeches and a mauve velvet topcoat frogged in silver braid which fitted his muscular figure exactly. His huge turn-back cuffs were also braided and ornamented with silver buttons. The froth of lace at his neck and wrists was pristine. His shoes had silver buckles and he wore a white wig, curled at the sides and tied at the back with black ribbon. She was so much in awe of him that she almost tripped, and certainly was not aware of the congregation, and only half conscious of the presence of Kate and Charles.
Step by step, she moved towards the man who, in a few moments, would become her husband. Forgotten was their bargain, forgotten the temporary nature of the transaction; she was like any bride going to be joined to the man she loved, ready and wanting to make her vows to love, honour and obey. For life.
Not until she reached his side and heard a strange cry did she become fully aware of her surroundings. She turned to see Lady Pargeter standing in the family pew, supported by Hannah on one side and leaning heavily on her cane at the other. She was staring at Margaret, and her eyes were so venomous with hate that Margaret almost recoiled. ‘Witch!’ Her voice was so weak that no one but those standing near her heard it. ‘You will pay!’ She lifted a bony finger to point. ‘A year, that’s all!’ Then she fell back on to her seat. Margaret was afraid that she had had a seizure and looked from her to Roland in alarm. He nodded to Hannah who, unseen by the congregation, gave her ladyship a few drops of laudanum, for she was crying hysterically, her voice rising almost to a shriek. She soon fell quiet under the drug and leaned heavily against her companion, her eyes closed. Roland turned to the congregation, who could not see into the enclosed pew and were whispering among themselves, imagining all sorts of calamities—the excitement was too much for the old lady; she was going to announce an impediment to one or both marriages; she was drunk, for everyone knew she liked a drop of brandy, preferably from a keg which had not seen an excise-man. There were any number of conjectures. Roland raised his hand and they fell silent. ‘There is nothing to cause alarm,’ he said, then, turning to the parson, added, ‘Proceed.’
The parson cleared his throat and the service began. Margaret heard the words, made her responses, but none of it sank into her bemused brain. She was sure Lady Pargeter had been looking at her when she had cried out. How could the sight of her have caused such a response? What could the old lady have against her? If she had disapproved of the marriage she would surely have said so before; she was unfailingly outspoken on every other subject and most of the time everyone deferred to her. Was she genuinely ill or was it an act? Roland certainly did not think her condition was serious enough to suspend the ceremony.
She found herself looking down at the ring which had just been placed on her finger and realised with a start that the deed was done. She had become Roland’s wife. She was the new Lady Pargeter, mistress of Winterford Manor, but somehow the joy had gone out of the day. She went back down the aisle on Roland’s arm, bowing and smiling to right and left, thinking, This isn’t happening to me; I am dreaming. She was almost at the porch when she noticed her great-uncle among the crowd of villagers at the back of the church. He was dressed in a dark coat and wore a tricorne hat over a dark brown wig, but she recognised his fleshy face immediately. His little dark eyes were looking at her with something akin to triumph. She shuddered and looked away, and a few moments later was borne away in the family coach back to Winterford Manor and the wedding-feast.
CHAPTER FOUR
KATE was concerned for her grandmother and would have delayed her departure, but Roland would not hear of it. ‘She is perfectly well,’ he said. ‘It was simply too much excitement. Hannah has put her to bed with a sleeping-draught. Go and see her, if you wish.’
Reassured, Kate and Charles left in the early afternoon after a sumptuous banquet, most of which was wasted on Margaret. The house seemed empty without them and Margaret found herself wishing that something would bring them back. Roland was morose, sitting by the fire in the withdrawing-room, a glass of brandy in his hand, staring into the flames, as if the solution to his problems might be found in their depths. And her own thoughts were in a tumult too as she wondered what would happen when the time came for them to go to bed. He had said he would not trouble her. Did that mean not ever? Not even on their wedding-night? Should she stay sitting by the fire as long as she could, delaying whatever it was she was afraid of, or should she precipitate whatever was to happen and suggest retiring? She looked across at him, a smile on her lips, wanting to lighten the heavy atmosphere, to let him know that if only he would confide in her she would try to understand. ‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked.
He looked up as if her voice had startled him. ‘Where did you get that gown?’
She had changed into a simple grey taffeta and looked down at it in surprise. ‘Why, in London. Do you not care for it?’
‘I meant the one you wore to church. Your wedding-gown.’
‘It was beautiful, wasn’t it? My great-uncle sent it. He said it was my mother’s but she never wore it.’
‘Burn it.’
She gasped. ‘You cannot mean that. It is too lovely to destroy.’
‘I said burn it.’
‘Why?’ She was perplexed. ‘Are you angry because I did not wear the gown you bought for me? I did not think you would mind. I am very sorry if I hurt you.’
‘Hurt me?’ he asked in surprise. ‘I am not hurt.’ He could not bring himself to tell her that the lilac taffeta would have done nothing for her complexion or figure, that the cream brocade had lifted her from the ordinary to the magnificent. For a moment, as she had walked towards him down the aisle, he had been half stunned by her beauty. He did not want her to be beautiful; he wanted to be able to dislike her, and he was angry with himself that he could not. He had to remind himself constantly that she was the last of the Capitains and she was making it possible for him to marry Susan. ‘It came from Henry Capitain; that is enough.’
‘I thought it was very kind of him to send it.’
‘Kind of him! He only sent it so that he could gloat over us; kindness did not come into it.’
‘Gloat? Why should he do that?’
‘A Pargeter taking a gift from a Capitain!’
‘You forget, my mother was a Capitain.’
‘I do not forget.’ His voice rose angrily. ‘God, woman, how could I forget? It’s the only reason I could——’ He stopped suddenly, realising he could not go on.
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��Only reason what? Tell me what you were going to say.’
‘No, I was distraught. I meant nothing.’
‘You married me because I was a Capitain? Is that it? To punish me, to punish all Capitains? But what have I done to you?’
‘You? Nothing, except to be far too beautiful and generous for your own good.’ He stood up and took two or three paces across the room, then turned and came to sit beside her, taking her hand. ‘No, my dear, nothing like that,’ he said gently, changing his tone completely and puzzling her more than ever. ‘It was simply that the sight of that gown and those pretty beads about your neck brought about my grandmother’s seizure.’ He reached out and lifted them from her throat, making her tingle from head to foot. It was like fear and yet it was not fear; she did not understand the extraordinary effect his touch had on her. ‘I am excessively fond of the old lady.’ He dropped the necklet and leaned back to look at her. ‘I do not want her upset.’
‘But why should the sight of me upset her, Roland? We met for the first time less than two weeks ago and yet I seem to stir up such a hatred in her.’
‘It is not hatred, Margaret.’
‘What, then?’
‘Unhappy memories.’ He stopped speaking, wondering whether to tell her. ‘I did not know about it myself until today, when we came back from church and I went to see that she was comfortable.’ He paused and then went on. ‘You remember I told you she becomes confused sometimes? For a moment she thought you were your mother, just as she did when you arrived in that boat.’
‘I know I am very like Mama…’
‘Then she must have been very beautiful,’ he said softly, unable to forget the sight of her walking towards him in the church, angelic in the ivory satin, so slim and so vulnerable. It had come to him then, with terrible clarity, the dreadful harm he had done her. And Susan, too. What would she say when she learned of his hasty marriage? How could he tell her? Oh, why had he listened to Charles and his ill-conceived ideas? No, he should not blame his friend; it was his own fault. ‘My father certainly thought she was.’
‘Your father?’
‘Grandmama told me that your mother and my father fell in love. Against all opposition they were determined to marry.’ He smiled wryly at her expression of disbelief. ‘You did not know?’
‘No. She never told me. But why was there opposition?’
‘The Pargeters and the Capitains have been mortal enemies ever since the Civil War.’
‘But that was a hundred years ago!’
‘Old grudges die hard in these parts, Margaret. Before the war the Capitains owned Winterford Manor; it was their ancestral home. The Pargeters lived in Ely and farmed land near by. They were friends until the war, when we were staunch Parliamentarians and the Capitains were for King Charles. Their home and much of their land was sequestered and given to the Pargeters by a grateful Parliament. When the monarchy was restored, the new king saw no reason to restore their lands to them and there has been enmity ever since.’
‘Surely if there are grudges they are on the Capitain side? They lost most for their loyalty.’
‘I am only recounting the story, not judging the rights and wrongs of it. The Pargeters prospered, and they have been instrumental in improving the lot of the villagers who had been parlously neglected by the earlier lords of the manor. Perhaps that is why the Manor was not returned after the war.’ He paused and added, ‘We have been good squires, Margaret.’
‘I do not doubt that, but surely you could have done something towards a reconciliation?’
He smiled wryly. ‘It seems our respective parents tried. And failed. Family feuds go on for generations in the Fens.’
‘Perhaps, but is there any need to perpetuate them? They will never die if we do.’
‘You are right, of course, but to Grandmama it happened only yesterday.’
‘What happened?’
‘My father and your mother were very young and headstrong. They arranged to marry in secret. It was not the present cleric but his predecessor who agreed to perform the ceremony. They reached the church. Your mother was wearing that gown and those garnets, a wedding-gift from my father. My grandparents had found out about it and were waiting. They persuaded—nay, ordered—the parson not to proceed on the grounds that Felicity Capitain was a suspected Jacobite.’
‘That’s nonsense. Mama was a good Protestant, just as I am.’
‘Father was persuaded that she had deceived him. He left the church and shortly afterwards your mother went away.’
‘Poor, poor Mama, I think she never truly recovered. She was over thirty when she married my father. They went to India, where I was born, but he died. I do not know the cause. Perhaps he could not compete with the memories.’
‘My father married soon afterwards. It was an arranged marriage and lasted less than a year. Then he met my mother and they were happy together until Mama died ten years ago.’
‘What has all this to do with you and me?’
‘Nothing,’ he said brusquely, ‘I was simply explaining about my grandmother and why that gown is unlucky.’
‘Unlucky!’ she cried. ‘I can understand people like Penny believing in lucky and unlucky omens, but you, my lord, surely not?’
He grinned, almost shamefacedly. ‘I simply meant that I do not want it turning up again in another thirty years.’
‘It won’t,’ she said, remembering the transient nature of their marriage. In a year’s time she would be gone, put from his mind, forgotten. ‘When I leave it will go with me,’ she said, her voice thick with the effort not to cry, ‘as a reminder of my mother and what love did for her.’
‘Love,’ he said, and gave a crooked smile. ‘It leads to all manner of problems. Perhaps it is as well to put one’s trust in arranged marriages.’
‘But why me?’ she asked, conscious as she spoke that it was a question she should have asked long before. ‘Why another Capitain?’
‘I did not know you were a Capitain when I first saw you sitting in the White Hart looking like a lost little kitten. I thought you needed a home.’
‘I find that difficult to believe.’
‘As you please. It’s all the explanation I can offer.’ He rose and offered her his arm. ‘Now, it is late. Let me escort you to your room.’
She stood up and laid her fingers lightly on his sleeve and together they ascended the stairs. Outside her room he stopped and turned to her. ‘You will not be disturbed, my dear. Sleep well.’ Then he was gone, slipping into his own room and closing the door with a soft click. The gesture had a finality about it that left her in no doubt that he meant what he said. She turned and went into her own room, wondering why his rejection hurt so much. She had no right to feel hurt; he had not promised to love her, had not even said he would stay with her. She would have to find an occupation which would fill her days and mitigate the aching loneliness in her heart, something which would keep her busy for a whole year.
The next morning she woke determined to make the best of things—a favourite dictum of her mother’s—and, dressing carefully, went down to breakfast. Roland was already there, sitting at the head of the table with a cup of coffee in front of him. She smiled, pretending everything was as it should be. ‘Good morning, Roland.’
He looked up and she was struck by how tired he looked. His eyes were heavy as if he had not slept, but he smiled pleasantly. ‘Good morning, my lady. Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, very well,’ she lied, helping herself to a coddled egg from the sideboard and sitting down opposite him. ‘Are you leaving for London today?’
‘No. I must oversee the completion of the flood defences before I go, and there are one or two other matters to be dealt with. Can you bear my company for another day or two?’
‘Of course, my lord. It will be a pleasure.’
‘What will you do today?’
‘There must have been a great deal of food left over from the wedding-feast,’ she said. ‘I thought I would pack a b
asket and take it to the villagers; there is no reason why it should be wasted.’
‘I have already given orders for it to be distributed,’ he said, pleased that she had thought of it too. ‘Two of the menservants have been told to take it round to the cottages.’
‘Then I should like to go with them, if you do not object? I should like to thank the villagers for coming to church.’
‘They take a long time to accept newcomers, Margaret. Perhaps you should wait until I can go with you.’
‘There is no need, my lord. I will deal gently with them.’
‘Of course,’ he said, knowing she would. ‘But do not stray from the centre of the village. The snow is very deep.’ He stood up to go. ‘I shall see you at dinner.’
‘And my wedding-gown?’
‘Keep it, of course. I am sorry I mentioned it. I was not quite myself last night.’
Not quite himself! What could he mean by that? That he was ill, or out of sorts, or worried? ‘Thank you,’ she said, dazzling him with a grateful smile. Like a sacrificial lamb, smiling at its executioner, he thought, hating himself.
Margaret went upstairs for boots, cloak and muff, and then down to the kitchen where James and John, the two footmen, were preparing to take the heavy basket of food to the village. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and followed them along the snow-covered road towards the village.
The cottages, which had looked so picturesque from a distance, were nothing but mean little hovels with no floors or proper chimneys, and they reeked of stale odours and wood-smoke. Margaret was greeted with suspicion at first, but her sunny smile and obvious interest in the villagers melted their reserve, and they were soon chatting to her about their homes and their families. They did not seem unhappy, but their lives were undoubtedly hard. They worked on his lordship’s land most of the year, or for one of the yeomen farmers in the district, but in winter they spent a great deal of their time on the fen, fishing and catching wildfowl which they took to market to supplement their incomes. Even the children worked, except at this time of year when there was nothing for them to do. There was a charity school in Ely, but few of them attended.