The Black Madonna (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 1)

by Stella Riley

  She knew an almost overwhelming impulse to say something extremely rude and had to draw a long breath in order to repress it. Then she said carefully, ‘I don’t deny it – and I’ve already apologised. Twice. What more do you want? Blood? No – don’t answer that. But though I may be vulgarly curious, what I don’t do is gloat.’

  ‘Don’t you? Are you sure of that?’

  Her temper simmering, Kate said shortly, ‘Don’t tempt me. I suppose I’d be wasting my breath if I asked you to come to a decision about Toby?’

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes continued to mock her. ‘I’ve already done so.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’ll apprise him of it later in the day when I’m in the mood to be patient.’

  It could mean only one thing and an unpleasant depression settled on Kate’s stomach. Swallowing, she said quietly, ‘It means a lot to him, you know. You wouldn’t refuse him because of me, would you?’

  A slow, malicious smile wreathed the handsome face.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ he said.

  * * *

  Toby was late for supper and Kate’s heart sank still further. She pushed her portion of beef and oyster pie around the plate and came to the conclusion that her entire morning had been a disaster. The only person to emerge with a smile on her face was Meg – who seemed to have spent a pleasant half-hour with the signor’s private assassin. All in all, she herself would have done better to have stayed at home.

  The door burst open upon Toby. Kate stopped rearranging her food and steeled herself to look at him. He was grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Mother – I’m late. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be but I – well, I forgot the time. Father – it’s happened! Mr Santi says I show some promise – just a grain or two, he said - but that’s just his way. And he says he’ll take me if you give your permission – freely and without me pestering you.’

  Richard’s eyes held a gleam of appreciation. He said, ‘Signor del Santi appears to know you rather well.’

  ‘Yes.’ Toby slid into his seat and helped himself to a hefty slice of pie. ‘He says I’m an obstinate, impatient, pestilential brat and the thought of having me living in the house is sing-singularly unnerving.’ He took a mouthful of beef, swallowed and added thickly, ‘I think he quite likes me.’

  The whole table dissolved into laughter and it was therefore several minutes before Dorothy was able to say, ‘Well, my dear? Are you reconciled to having an artisan in the family – or shall we pack Toby off to Oxford with all possible speed?’

  Richard sighed and laid down his knife.

  ‘I’m not reconciled to anything yet. But I think the quickest road to a little peace and quiet is to invite the signor to dinner. But only on condition that Toby promises to let the poor fellow eat it.’

  And so it was settled. After a brief conference with Kate, Dorothy despatched a formal invitation to Signor and Signorina del Santi and received a surprisingly prompt reply. The signor, it seemed, would be happy to dine with them but begged Mistress Maxwell to hold his sister excused. She was suffering, as Mistress Kate would doubtless confirm, from a mild distemper of the nerves.

  He arrived immaculate and saturnine in black silk. Dorothy, with only the haziest recollection of having seen him before, found that he wasn’t quite what she had expected but couldn’t work out why. Amy stared blatantly at the slight malformation of his left shoulder until Eden kicked her under the table … and then successfully avoided looking at it in a manner even more irritatingly obvious. Eden himself contributed little to the conversation. Kate, as resplendent as the signor, in her new and very becoming amber taffeta, chose to present a façade of maidenly gentility. Only Toby, Tabitha and Richard were entirely themselves … and Dorothy thanked God for it since they saved the meal from total disaster.

  When it was over, Eden pleaded an engagement with Francis and fled. Dorothy watched him go and then, hiding her thoughts, said calmly to the Italian, ‘You probably don’t know that Eden is soon to be married.’

  The night-dark eyes surveyed her enigmatically.

  ‘Ah. To Mistress Langley, no doubt.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, surprised. ‘You were aware of it?’

  ‘No. A guess, merely. I must remember to offer my felicitations to Lord Wroxton.’

  Dorothy rose abruptly from her chair.

  ‘I think we can discuss Toby’s future more comfortably in the parlour – and without an audience. Richard?’

  ‘Certainly. Don’t scowl, Toby.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I just thought --’

  ‘Then don’t,’ advised Richard. ‘We’ll summon you in our own good time. I daresay I’ve less need to tell you to stay within call than to remind you that I’ve very distinct views on people who put their ears to the door.’

  It was a little over two hours later that Toby found Kate in the garden cutting roses and said smugly, ‘You’re going home.’

  Kate stopped snipping.

  ‘And you’re not, I suppose?’

  ‘No. You and Father and Mother and the rest of them are going home so Father can see to the farm. I’m going to live with Mr Santi in Cheapside.’

  ‘Signor del Santi,’ she corrected automatically. ‘It’s settled, then? If so, I hope you’re good at dodging pots.’

  ‘If you mean Mistress Ginny,’ said stubbornly English Toby, ‘I shan’t have to. Gino says she only throws things at Mr Santi. Not that I’d care, anyway. I’m to go for a trial period till my birthday – and then, if I want to stay and Mr Santi is satisfied with me, they’ll let me be apprenticed properly.’ He folded his arms and grinned triumphantly at her. ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Me?’ Kate’s brows rose. ‘Why on earth should I be?’

  ‘Because I shan’t have to put up with Silly Celia and all the wedding stuff,’ said Toby, turning to go. And, cheekily over his shoulder, ‘Or maybe because you’d like to stay in London so as to encourage your admirer.’

  Kate stuck out her tongue at his retreating back.

  ‘I’d be careful, if I were you,’ remarked a pleasant voice from the shadowy doorway to the house. ‘The wind might change.’

  She froze, resisted the temptation to swear and, composing her face, turned slowly towards him.

  ‘You came to say goodbye?’ she enquired hopefully. ‘Goodbye.’

  Luciano ignored this and came out into the light, the sun striking sapphire sparks in his hair. He said, ‘I’m impressed. He must be a brave man.’

  ‘Who?’ she snapped. And immediately regretted asking.

  ‘This suitor of yours. Or doesn’t he know that you dip your tongue in vinegar every morning?’

  ‘No. Why should I boast? Some people dip theirs in hemlock.’

  ‘You underestimate me,’ he said, turning slightly away from her to gaze across the busy river and thus effectively depriving her of the glint of humour in his eyes. ‘My gifts are entirely natural.’

  Kate stared at him, wishing he’d go away. In her opinion, nothing about him was natural. But for the imperfect line of his shoulder, sharply etched in its dark silk against a cloud of white roses, he was the epitome of everything that foolish girls like Amy dreamed of. But Amy had found that one imperfection repulsive. Kate didn’t. For her, it gave him the sort of reality she could have done without. Distantly, she wondered if he minded … and then wished again that he would go. She’d come a long way in the last year, acquiring at least a veneer of the mysterious quality called poise and learning to voice the unacceptable a little less often. It worked with most people. But then, no one else turned her nerves into over-stretched lute strings and her stomach into something resembling a butter-churn. If he didn’t go soon, she’d end up saying something she’d regret.

  But it seemed Signor del Santi was in no hurry. He said dispassionately, ‘So … your brother is to wed Mistress Celia. Are you reconciled to it and ready to dance at his wedding?’

  ‘What do you think?’ she retorted. And then, abruptly, ‘I suppose I ought
to thank you for taking Toby.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to strain your finer-feelings.’ He turned to look at her. ‘As it happens, I accepted Tobias for reasons wholly unconnected with yourself. And, for all you know, I may be luring him into my evil clutches so as to corrupt, deprave and otherwise ill-treat him at my leisure.’

  Kate flushed and resolutely held her tongue.

  ‘What – no comment? How very disappointing. Any minute now you’ll be virtuously telling me that you never quarrel with your father’s guests and adding a prim enquiry into the state of Gianetta’s health and temper.’

  ‘Thank you for reminding me. How is she?’

  ‘Busy,’ he replied. ‘As I was leaving, she made the mistake of becoming histrionic at the head of the stairs and broke her pearls. I imagine she’s still on her hands and knees looking for them.’

  With care, Kate controlled the grin which threatened to disturb the studied blankness of her expression.

  ‘How unfortunate. But perhaps you shouldn’t encourage her to wear quite all your profits.’

  Without warning, laughter flared in the midnight eyes.

  ‘Don’t be diffident. If you mean ill-gotten gains, why not say so? And vulgar ostentation is the prerogative of the merchant class. You should know that. I’m already considering how best I may impress your father with a bride-gift for your brother’s nuptials. Do you think he’d object to a pair of twelve-branched candlesticks set with turquoises and garnets … or a seven-foot salt in silver-gilt? Or no. Mistress Celia might like them.’

  This time Kate had no desire to smile.

  ‘Why,’ she asked darkly, ‘are you giving Eden anything at all? You hardly know him.’

  ‘Have you forgotten that he and your father saved my life?’ he mocked. ‘And it’s usual, is it not, when one is bidden to the wedding? Especially when – as in this case – one feels that one has played some small part in bringing it about. And then, of course, my position with regard to Tobias makes me almost one of the family, wouldn’t you say?’ He paused, smiling at her. ‘Not impressed? Never mind. You’ll have plenty of time to get used to the idea before September.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  SEVEN

  Within days of the Maxwells leaving London, the King’s second, long-awaited Scots war came a step closer when the Earl of Argyll led the Clan Campbell down on the Ogilvys of Airlie, burning their castle beneath the noses of the gentler garrison placed there by the Earl of Montrose. A new violence was in the air and His Majesty’s Governor of Newcastle began to send weekly bulletins to Whitehall on the state of the Scots army assembling on the border. He said they could not invade; then, discovering their numbers, that they must either invade or disband; and finally, in mid-August, that they would almost certainly invade … and that, when they did, Newcastle could not be held against them because – although he had a goodly supply of bread, cheese, muskets and cannon – he hadn’t yet managed to acquire any bullets.

  After months of dallying, Whitehall was thrown into a fever of activity and on August 20th the King left for York with his army. Lord Wroxton went too – having sent his wife and daughter back to Far Flamstead with instructions to delay the wedding until he and Francis returned to grace it.

  Celia waited until Eden’s shoulder was within reach and then indulged in a fit of mild hysterics. Flattered and not a little touched, Eden swallowed his own disappointment and set out to comfort her. Richard, busy about the farm and in close correspondence with John Hampden and Lord Brooke about the chances of the Scots war forcing a recall of Parliament, plainly considered a postponed bridal of small importance beside the events which had caused it; and Dorothy’s step regained its usual lightness and she started singing in the still-room again.

  Unaware that, on the very day the King’s army had left London, the Scots had crossed the Tweed, Francis Langley rode north full of joie de vivre. The first hint that this might be misplaced came when they were greeted at York with a petition from the local gentry against the raising of troops … but the King talked his way out of this and Francis was able to forget it without much difficulty. Then, on August 27th, he set off with the twenty thousand strong force to relieve Lord Conway at Newcastle – and, seeing only numbers and the glamour of being personally led by the King, he still thought the army splendid. Happily, he was unaware that the veteran campaigner, Sir Jacob Astley, viewed it as a collection of ‘all the arch-knaves in this kingdom’.

  As things turned out, its abilities – or the lack of them - were not to be tested. While His Majesty’s army was still at Northallerton, the Scots marched through the Northumbrian hills to cross the Tyne at Newburn and took Newcastle. Most of Lord Conway’s troops distinguished themselves only by the speed with which they fled … and, when told of this, Francis’s confidence suffered its first jolt. On the following day, the army slunk dismally back to York, leaving General Leslie to lead his Scots into abandoned Newcastle – and, thinking it too easy, to send to Edinburgh for reinforcements.

  However, once back in York, spirits gradually rose again. Lord Strafford arrived to take command, the army was drilled into some semblance of order and a few bottles of wine dulled the bitter taste of the Newcastle debacle. Within a few days rumour had turned disaster into victory and Francis was able to write to Eden that the Irish forces were expected any day and that, in the meantime, ‘the army is remarkably pleasant when there’s no need to ruin one’s appearance in nasty, sweaty battles.’

  Eden smiled wryly when he read this and then put it to one side. One did not, of course, wish to fight in such a war … but when one had been trained to fight, it was only natural to be a little sorry not to be able to do so. It was cheering, therefore, to hear that one didn’t appear to be missing much.

  Richard, paying a flying visit to London in mid-September, could have told him differently. With Pym, Hampden and the rest now released from the Tower again, events were once more moving towards forcing a recall of Parliament by means of a Remonstrance stating all the grievances of the Short Parliament. From York, the King countered this by summoning all peers of the realm to a Great Council. He also tried to re-kindle Strafford’s dwindling optimism by awarding him the Order of the Garter – apparently unaware that this merely rendered the Earl a target for everyone who disapproved of the war. No longer infected with blind faith, Stafford saw it all and privately admitted that ‘never came a man to so lost a business.’

  * * *

  While the Great Council met in York and the King listened politely to an attack on his policy whilst allowing his friend Strafford to become a national scapegoat, Celia Langley entered into an uneasy truce with her mother and prepared, less extravagantly than she’d hoped, for her wedding.

  The trouble was that – still smarting over her defeat in the matter of Cyrus Winter – Lady Wroxton was not disposed to be generous and, instead of sending to London for silks and seamstresses, went no further than the sign of the Ragged Staff in Banbury. Celia was furious. All the materials might be of perfectly good quality, but the finished gowns could not be other than provincial since they were to be sewn by Ruth Radford – who had never been more than five miles from Banbury in her life and was, in any case, an austere Puritan. But it was impossible to say anything to Lady Wroxton without releasing a fresh storm, so Celia had to content herself with pouring her troubles into the sympathetic ears of Amy Maxwell and taking out her temper on the nervous younger sister that Mistress Radford brought with her to hem petticoats and hold the pins.

  Kate stayed aloof from it all as much as was possible and then discovered that she was expected to join Amy in attending the bride.

  ‘And that,’ she said flatly to her mother, ‘is hypocritical to the point of idiocy. We’ve never been more than civil to each other and aren’t ever likely to be anything else – so she can’t exactly relish the prospect of relying on me to cherish her luck by counting up pins on her wedding-night. She’d never rest for fear I’d left one in just to spite her.
’

  ‘And would you?’ asked Dorothy gently.

  ‘No. I can’t, can I? Because it’s Eden’s luck too – and he’ll need as much of it as he can get.’

  Eden, had he been privileged to hear this statement, would have laughed. Since Celia had returned to Far Flamstead, their relationship had blossomed in a way he had never dared hope for. She was perfect; his rose without a thorn, her petals tipped with a passion that both astonished and delighted him – and which suddenly laced the time of waiting with a new and wholly exquisite danger. He was resolved not to anticipate their wedding-night – even though it was clear that Celia would take little persuading – but he told himself that her ardent response to his kisses was as new and unexpected to her as it was to him. Only when she melted into his arms and her mouth breathed enticement into his, it was growing more and more difficult to exercise restraint. Visions of their wedding-night … of Celia, hot and eager and of all that silky, white skin naked beneath his hands … started to haunt both his dreams and his every thought. The result was that he had frequent recourse to the frigid waters of the lake.

  Despite the delay and her mother’s parsimony, Celia was happier through those September days than she had been for a long time. Hugo started to fade from her mind and, now that she was away from Whitehall, Eden’s simple taste in dress and inability to phrase clever compliments mattered less and less. He knew how to make her feel secure and how to fill her days with laughter; and, more even than this, it seemed that he could help her discover all the sweet secrets of her body which she was now impatient to experience. She began to exult in her power to arouse him – and even more in the promised ecstasy she sensed in herself. She almost believed she loved him; and it was almost true.

  * * *

  September became October.

  In York, the King issued writs for a new Parliament, asked for and was promised a loan from the City of London and signed an expensive armistice with the Scots. The second Bishop’s War was discreditably over and Lord Wroxton headed south for his daughter’s wedding. He arrived a bare three days before the end of the month and, with Parliament due to open on November 3rd, Celia and Eden greeted him with immense relief – having begun to wonder if, once Richard Maxwell was sitting in Westminster, they would ever be married at all.