by Stella Riley
‘So perhaps today will be Kate’s turn,’ giggled Tabitha.
Amy opened her mouth and then, catching Tabitha’s eye, closed it again. She smiled at her reflection and decided that it wasn’t really necessary to say anything at all.
By the time they arrived downstairs everyone else was already in the hall waiting to depart.
‘At last!’ said Toby. Then, ‘God’s boots!’ – before meeting his mother’s gaze and adding quickly, ‘Sorry. But why is Amy all prinked out like a candied tart?’
Dorothy looked at her daughters. Tabitha and Kate were neatly and sensibly clad in their riding-dresses … Kate’s a velvet one in a becoming shade of moss and the only new garment in which she’d shown the slightest interest. Amy, on the other hand, was resplendent in cascading lace and satin flounces and sporting enough ribbons to encircle Paul’s Cathedral.
‘I don’t know what you think you look like, Amy – but that dress is totally unsuitable for this morning. Why didn’t you wear your blue broadcloth?’
‘Because it’s old and I want to look pretty.’
‘Yes. Pretty stupid,’ muttered Toby under his breath.
‘I see.’ Dorothy looked enquiringly at Kate. ‘I suppose neither you nor Meg bothered to try and talk her out of it?’
Kate shrugged. ‘What was the point?’
Dorothy’s sigh acknowledged the truth of this.
‘Very well. If Amy wants to try riding to Westminster Fields in a silk gown, she can – but perhaps it will teach her a valuable lesson. Let’s go.’
The sun was up as they left Old Palace Yard and guided their horses through the network of streets but as yet it was a pale thing that promised a lovely day but offered little warmth. There was also a light breeze which tugged playfully at Amy’s ribbons and threatened to turn her skirt into a huge blue balloon. Eden watched her attempting to control this phenomenon with one hand whilst gripping her reins with the other and wondered if she would stay in the saddle long enough to get where they were going. His mouth twitched and, momentarily forgetting that he was annoyed with her, he sought Kate’s eyes. They gleamed appreciatively back at him beneath expressively raised brows and he yielded to reluctant laughter. Kate was Kate … and the person who could stop her saying what she thought had yet to be born.
He said, ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d be tempted to ask if she’s doing this for a wager.’
‘No, no. She just likes to be noticed.’
He looked behind at the growing gaggle of apprentice lads, all tagging along in the hope of seeing Amy’s garters.
‘She should be pleased, then. She’s attracting more attention than a dancing bear.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ advised Kate. ‘At least when she falls off there’ll be no shortage of volunteers.’
The air grew warmer, the sky bluer and the whitethorn was a mass of fluffy waving blossoms.
‘Oh – look!’ cried Tabitha. ‘Isn’t it pretty? Come on, Toby – I’ll race you.’
‘Oh look,’ said Kate expressionlessly and gazing in completely the other direction. ‘It’s Francis and Celia … and so on. What a surprise.’
In fact, it was more of a surprise to Eden than she suspected, for he hadn’t known that Francis intended to bring a party. But Goring was there and Sir John Suckling … and two ladies and a gentleman, all of whom Eden had seen before but could not name.
‘Hail and well met,’ drawled Francis. And, to Dorothy, ‘God’s greetings, lady. I trust you enjoy your customary health?’
‘Clumsy, dear boy – very clumsy. You should’ve said that you’d no need to ask after her health when her radiance outshines the morning.’ Suckling bowed over Dorothy’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘And yet you wound me, madam. In truth, I believe I am cut to the quick.’
‘Then you hide it very well,’ came the amused reply.
‘Ah – but appearances were ever deceptive. And I’m grieved that you should have come to London without sending word to your humble servant. Where have you been hiding yourself? Why haven’t I seen you at Court?’
‘We don’t aspire to Court circles,’ replied Dorothy calmly. ‘And since my husband sat in the late Parliament, I doubt we’d find this a good time to begin.’
Suckling’s brows rose but he said airily enough, ‘Nonsense, dear lady. I hope England’s not so far gone yet that politics must come between friends. Come – let us leave these children to their own devices and discuss the matter.’
Amy watched her mother ride off with the Court gallant who hadn’t so much as glanced in her own direction and was piqued. None of Francis’s friends were taking any notice of her either … but that could be mended. She pulled off one of the gloves and let it fall with a distressful little cry. Unfortunately, the brief satisfaction of turning every head was swiftly cancelled out by the fact that not one face expressed admiration; and one of the smart ladies beside Francis actually tittered.
Francis said feebly, ‘Amy. It is Amy?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate lightly, whilst wishing the ground would swallow someone up – preferably Amy, who seemed quite unaware that she now looked as though she’d been dragged through a bush. ‘She’s attempting a new fashion.’
The other girl in Francis’s party, a silver-fair beauty in grey, said, ‘It’s a very pretty dress – but perhaps not best suited for riding?’
‘But the hairstyle, Venetia darling!’ observed the sophisticated lady who had laughed. And to Amy, ‘Tell me, my dear – what do you call it? Meule de foin aux rubans?’
Amy’s grasp of the French tongue was minimal. Kate’s was rather better and she opened her mouth on an astringent retort – only to be forestalled by the man Francis had introduced as Kit Clifford and who was the fair girl’s brother.
‘No,’ he said mildly. ‘She calls it mode naturel d’une jeune fille – and it’s strictly forbidden to soignée widows such as yourself, Louise.’ Then, through the ripple of largely good-natured laughter, he met Kate’s eye with the suggestion of a wink and added, ‘Indeed, I’m sure it was charming before this devilish wind got at it – and I daresay a clever hand could set it right in no time. Venetia?’
Five minutes later Amy was restored to a passable degree of neatness and they were all strolling companionably across the grass, leading their horses and pausing every now and then to gather boughs of May. Kate joined Venetia Clifford in bathing her face in the dew and was soon also responding to Kit’s raillery as easily as she did to that of Francis. Eden, meanwhile, employed a dexterity of which he would have been incapable a bare six months earlier and extricated Celia deftly from the others.
She looked heavy-eyed and the faint droop of her lips wrung his heart so that he said without thinking, ‘I love you so much. But you must already know that.’
Slowly, she raised her eyes to his face. For weeks, ever since the day Hugo Verney had left town to prepare for his wedding and all her hopes had finally been dashed, she had lived in a desert of loneliness and hurt. She had not felt loved by anyone – least of all by her short-tempered mother or the man who said he wanted to marry her. And now, here was Eden – whom she had always liked but almost forgotten – offering precisely the balm she so badly needed.
Sparkling tears overflowed on to her lashes and she said, ‘Do you? Do you really?’
‘Of course.’ Her reaction surprised him for he had been blunt and he knew she scorned bluntness. He sought, as always, for something he could say that would please her and, not knowing that he had already found it, failed. ‘If I thought there was the least chance for me, I’d have spoken to my father weeks ago and had him approach yours. But there isn’t, is there?’
‘I – I don’t know,’ she said helplessly. And meant it. He was different … and his difference had always both attracted and confused her. It did so now. But he said he loved her and she needed very badly to be loved. The only trouble was that she could not help wishing he were Hugo – or, better yet, that Cyrus Winter was. She said softly
, ‘It’s all so difficult. My mother has received a very flattering offer for my hand. But though I know it’s stupid of me to hesitate – for he could give me all I’ve ever wanted – I c-can’t quite bring myself to agree. Do you see?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Eden. And he did – for Francis hadn’t felt the same need to withhold the cream of the jest from Kate’s brother as he had from Kate herself. He hadn’t known that, far from appreciating the tale, Eden had found it made him feel sick. He said, ‘It’s Mr Winter, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘I – I’m not sure I like him … but Mother says I will when I know him better. I just wish I knew what to do!’
‘Go on saying no,’ said Eden flatly. ‘You can’t marry a man you dislike just because he’s rich – and no one should make you.’
‘You don’t know my mother.’
‘Perhaps not. But doubtless your father does. In the meantime, you may rely on Francis. And there’s always me.’
For the first time in a month, her spirits rose a little and she peeped coquettishly at him beneath her lashes, ‘Always?’
‘Always,’ he said firmly. And then, less confidently, ‘I know I ought not to ask … but is there – have you – do you care for anyone else?’
‘N-no. No one,’ she said. And thought, No one that I can have, at all events.
‘Well, that’s something.’ He struggled to hide the bubble of hope that was growing inside his chest. ‘Then let me be your friend until you give me leave to become something more … and your friend still, if you don’t. Now smile for me and let’s go and watch the maypole dancing with the others. It’s too beautiful a day to be gloomy.’
If he had thought about it at all – which, of course, he didn’t – he would have said that surely no one would disagree with this statement. He would have been wrong.
They were all sitting outside a small tavern, sipping ale and eating honey-cakes when the first small signs of dissent appeared. One moment, tanned and rosy-cheeked girls in their Sunday-best gowns were dipping and weaving around a brightly-beribboned maypole whilst Sir John Suckling roared out the words in time to the music with a gusto that might have surprised his sovereign; and the next, everything faltered to a halt under the stern gaze and fiery words of some half-dozen sober individuals in steeple-crowned hats.
Kate was familiar with the sight and sound of Puritans – living so close to zeal-famed Banbury, it was impossible not to be. And these men who ranted so glibly about heathen, idolatrous practices and lewd ungodliness were no different. She supposed she should have known that the merchants of London would find Puritanism as appealing as did the merchants of Banbury; it kept the apprentices’ minds off sports and mummery and meant that everyone worked harder. But it did seem excessive to render their religious observances austere to the point of ugliness and to prohibit Sunday football which – barring a broken head or two – had been played harmlessly enough for generations. There was, Kate had often suspected, more than half a Puritan lurking inside Nathan Cresswell; he never approved of anything unless it was either tedious or ugly – or both.
‘Damned poke-noses,’ growled Sir John. ‘There’ll not be an ounce of pleasure left to any of us by the time they’re done. Pity a few more of the Bible-canting miseries don’t take themselves of to the Americas, that’s what I say!’
‘If the King hadn’t stopped it, John Hampden would have gone five years ago – and taken that boorish cousin of his with him,’ remarked Kit Clifford idly. ‘What’s the fellow’s name – Cromwell, is it? Got a big nose and a noisy laugh. I can’t think why His Majesty didn’t let them go. Pity, if you ask me.’
Dorothy surveyed him quizzically. ‘Because he’s uncouth?’
The grey eyes laughed disarmingly back at her.
‘Why else, madam?’
At Francis’s suggestion, they rose and left the inn before the Friday-faced gentlemen in black could completely cloud their day. And Kate, feeling Amy’s eyes like knives in her back, found herself riding homeward beside the charming and insouciant Mr Clifford.
She said cautiously, ‘Thank you for stopping Amy being made to look even more ridiculous than she already did. It was kind of you – and more than she deserved.’
‘Think nothing of it. Venetia and I have younger sisters, too, so we know what it’s like. And I suspect you’d have done just as well yourself – for all you were thoroughly annoyed with her.’ He grinned. ‘You aren’t much alike, are you?’
‘No,’ agreed Kate calmly. ‘But I don’t think it’s very civil of you to mention it.’
His brows rose. ‘Why not?’
‘Because Amy is generally regarded as the Beauty of the family.’
‘Is she?’ he asked blankly. ‘You surprise me.’
Kate began to wonder if Mr Clifford suffered from defective eyesight but, before she could ask, he completed her confusion by saying pleasantly, ‘I don’t mean to disparage her, of course. No one could deny that she’s a pretty enough child … just a touch insipid when seen beside you.’ He paused and smiled apologetically. ‘You’ll have to forgive me. But I’ve always had a weakness for red hair.’
Kate closed her mouth, swallowed and then said weakly, ‘Colour-blind. I knew it.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘No. And if you’d been called carrot-top as often as I have, you’d understand why. Mother has red hair – and Eden. Mine was a mistake.’
It took him a long time to master his mirth and when he finally did so it was to confound her still further by saying, ‘I hope I’ll have the chance to know you better, Mistress Kate. Do you suppose your lady mother would mind if Venetia and I were to call?’
The company parted at the Gate House and Kate rode home so deep in thought that she scarcely heard Amy’s carping remarks on the subject of sisters who spoiled other people’s chances. Admiration was an unknown quantity to her and, because it was, her strongest reaction was one of cynicism. But below that flowered a warm glow of pleasure – and it was really that, she realised, that she ought to mistrust most of all.
‘You know perfectly well that I saw him first!’
‘I beg your pardon, Amy?’ Dorothy brought her horse up on the other side of Kate.
Amy flushed. ‘I – nothing.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Dorothy conducted a discreet appraisal of her eldest daughter and noted, with amusement, the unusual air of abstraction. It was high time, she thought; and a little masculine attention was probably just what Kate needed to make her take more trouble with herself. She said, ‘A very pleasant morning. I liked Francis’s young friends, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Kate bent to rearrange the boughs of whitethorn looped on her saddle. ‘He – Mr Clifford – suggested that he and his sister might call on us.’
‘Oh? Well, I’m sure we’d all be very pleased to see them. Just as I, at this moment, would be very pleased to see Toby and Tabitha. Eden – do you know where they’ve got to?’
‘Mm? Oh – they rode on ahead,’ replied Eden vaguely. ‘They probably – or no. Here they come.’
‘Mother, Eden! Come and see. Crowds of people on the Surrey bank, all shouting – listen! You can hear them from here,’ cried the twins in excited and jumbled counterpoint.
Eden’s gaze sharpened and the image of Celia faded from his mind. He looked at his mother and said, ‘They’re right. It sounds like a riot.’
It was. Discontented dock-hands, sailors and young apprentices out for a spree had poured out of Southwark and Blackfriars towards the Archbishop’s palace at Lambeth, shouting for the release of their favourite preachers along with that of Lord Warwick. The English fleet, they cried, was an object of scorn; trade was hampered and Spanish Papists were being given too much freedom everywhere. Wisely, Archbishop Laud had removed himself as the mob approached and so was not there to see them trying to break into his house. Then, suddenly, it was all over. The Militia arrived to disperse the crowd and arrest the ringleaders and peac
e was restored. It was a sad end to May Day.
Sadder still was the case of the seaman who had tried to force the Archbishop’s door with a crowbar and was duly condemned as a traitor. He was hung, drawn and quartered and his head fixed on a spike on the bridge. He was nineteen years old.
* * *
Able to spend more time at home now that what people were already calling the ‘Short Parliament’ had been dissolved, Richard discussed the widespread grievances with his wife and eldest son. The most pressing of these was contained in the series of reforms currently being passed by the Convocation of the Clergy under the direction of Laud.
‘As far as the Puritans are concerned, it’s a red rag to a bull,’ explained Richard. ‘All learned professions are now required to swear not to subvert the ruling of the Church by ‘archbishops, bishops, deans and archdeacons etcetera as it now stands established’. Not surprisingly, they’re calling it the Etcetera Oath and saying that, for all anyone knows, it might be stretched to cover the Pope. Add to that the fact that the King is preparing to levy a forced loan on the richest merchants in the City whilst simultaneously considering taking money from Spain in return for protecting their ships from the Dutch, and you’ll see why the populace is in uproar. And at the root of it all, as always, is His Majesty’s determination to subdue the Scots.’
‘At the head of an army?’ asked Eden slowly.
‘How else? Rumour has it that Strafford left eight thousand Irish troops ready to embark at a moment’s notice. If that’s true, all they need now is the money to pay them.’
In the week that followed, the lucrative business transaction which His Majesty had been contemplating with Spain was crushed by the disapproval of two of his nearer neighbours. Cardinal Richelieu contemptuously withdrew the French Ambassador; and the Dutch envoy pointed out that, if England assisted in the transportation of Spanish soldiers, Holland could no longer regard her as neutral. Faced with the alternative of fighting the Dutch, the King was forced – with the utmost regret - to decline four million Spanish ducats. Instead, he seized the bullion deposited by the City merchants in the Mint and offered to pay them eight per cent for the use of it. He also announced his intention to debase all coinage below the value of a shilling.