by Stella Riley
Celia clung to the banister half-way down the stairs, terrified as much by the grim intent on Eden’s face as by the dreadful echoing clamour of steel ringing on steel. Hugo was being beaten back again and the times when he was able to stand his ground seemed to come less and less often. And all the time the swords chimed and hissed and slithered till she thought her head would burst.
Having let off a little of his first murderous rage, Eden felt reason start to return. He stopped pushing Verney around the floor and concentrated on finding just the right opening. It wouldn’t do to make a mess of it – and he’d already wasted enough time. And then, as he began a series of moves that would bring him what he wanted, he suddenly realised something. Killing Verney wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t even make him feel better. The only man he wanted to kill was the one who had shot Richard. And, as for Celia, he already knew he could never live with her again after this. Nor did he want to. None of which was Hugo Verney’s fault.
The moment he had been working towards arrived and he sent Verney’s sword spinning from his hand. Then, with swift, relentless precision, he drove his own blade deep into the other man’s chest a bare inch away from his heart.
Hugo crumpled and fell, a flood of bright crimson staining the whiteness of his shirt … and, with a tiny strangled cry, Celia came hurtling down the stairs to kneel at his side. Eden stared motionlessly down at them for a second; and then absently wiped and sheathed his sword.
Finally, in a tone drained of everything except fatigue, he said, ‘Get up, Celia. We’re leaving.’
She looked up at him, her face bathed in tears.
‘You think I’d go with you now? He could die!’
‘Unlikely. And you will come with me. Whether you like it or not, you’ll come back to Thorne Ash and say nothing of any of this … and behave like my wife until we’ve given my father a decent burial.’ Eden paused and then said bitingly, ‘After that, you may go where you like and with whom you like. Personally speaking, I never want to see you again.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
THREE
On the day that Richard Maxwell was laid to rest in the family crypt, Dorothy suffered a nerve-storm and Kate thought that life had finally reached its nadir.
She was wrong.
The following morning saw Eden depart – still grimly uncommunicative and with a worried Ralph in tow – to rejoin Waller’s reputedly fast-dwindling army; then, forty-eight hours later, Celia abandoned the threadbare performance which had carried her through the funeral and disappeared without a word. Three days after that, a strange new captain arrived in Hugo Verney’s place to collect the quarter’s rents with cold-eyed impatience.
Kate accepted the yoke and continued to contain her own grief. To spare both herself and him, she let Eden leave without asking what had happened at Far Flamstead … and when Celia vanished overnight, she made up a story to account for it. This worked with Dorothy – who was still too frighteningly apathetic to care – and, to a degree, with the household servants, whose sole aim was to ease Kate’s burdens. But Toby and Tabitha saw through it and had to be told the truth … or, at least, some of what Kate suspected was the truth. They were not surprised.
‘Good riddance,’ said Toby. ‘I hope she never comes back.’
And, ‘Thank God she didn’t take the children,’ said Tabitha. ‘Jude is the only one who can make Mother speak.’
This was undeniably true – and the only ray of hope Kate had. Like the twins, she spent what hours she could spare sitting in Dorothy’s room, trying to pierce her cocoon of frozen detachment. She talked of the tenants, the approaching harvest, the raspberry stains on Toby’s best shirt; and, when all else failed, she tried the news from outside, telling how Prince Rupert had apparently succeeded in relieving the besieged city of York only to be immediately defeated in an enormous battle just outside it at a place called Marston Moor. Kate talked until she was hoarse – but to no avail. Dorothy was simply not interested. The only thing that seemed to stir her at all was when Jude climbed on to her lap.
So even before Captain Ambrose put in an appearance, Kate’s days were already a constant battle and she could have done without his particular brand of crisp efficiency. When asked, he told her that Captain Verney had sustained a near-fatal chest wound and been sent to recuperate in Oxford – thus confirming all Kate’s darkest suspicions. And then he proceeded to ask a stream of questions of his own about the estate’s tenants and the yields and acreages of the various farms … from which she sickeningly deduced that he was both less embarrassed by his errand and a good deal more knowledgeable than Hugo Verney had been. Kate covered her tracks as best she could but was unable, at the end of an hour’s interrogation, to prevent him taking the ledgers away for further study. He promised to call again to return them. Kate hoped he fell off his horse and broke his leg.
For a long time after he had gone, she continued to sit at Richard’s desk and stare gloomily into space while she tried to decide what to do if Captain Ambrose spotted their deception. And then, almost absently, her fingers reached for the small drawer in which Eden had placed the contents of Father’s pockets.
Everything was there, just as he had left it. All those small, precious items that her mother was as yet too fragile to receive. A handkerchief, a tortoiseshell comb, a small purse with a handful of sovereigns in it … and something else. A brief letter in an unfamiliar, flowing hand, addressed to someone named Samuel and signed with a single initial, so confidently convoluted as to be completely indecipherable.
Kate frowned at it. Was it a G … or perhaps and L or a J? She couldn’t make it out. More importantly, she couldn’t work out what it had been doing in Father’s pocket.
The door opened and Nathan came in, smiling his unctuous smile. There was something, he said, which – after long hours of prayer – he wished to discuss with her. Kate repressed a sigh. It was probably the purification of the chapel again. At any rate, it would take him twenty minutes to come to the point. She let her gaze drift back to the puzzling letter in her hand; and for perhaps the hundredth time found herself searching for a solution to the most vexing question of all.
Why had Father left London to go to the King?
Something Nathan was saying suddenly achieved a stranglehold on her wandering attention. Kate stood up and, cutting across his measured tones, said incredulously, ‘What? What did you say?’
Nathan maintained his smile and suppressed a spasm of annoyance. Without a hint of diffidence, he said patiently, ‘I said, dearest Kate, that you cannot go on shouldering responsibilities too heavy for a young girl – and God has shown me how best I may relieve you of them. In short, I would wed you.’
It was a long time before Kate could bring herself to speak. Then she said unsteadily, ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘On the contrary, my dear. I am proposing the only sensible solution. Of course, I realise that the notion comes as a shock. But I am sure you will soon come to recognise the manifold advantages of it.’
‘You think so?’
‘After a period of calm reflection – yes.’ He moved towards her, exuding patronising persuasion. ‘Think, Kate. With your father at peace in God, Eden away prosecuting the war and your poor, grieving mother no longer able to help you – how long can you go on alone?’
‘As long as I have to,’ she said frigidly. ‘And I think you’ve said enough.’
‘That is because you are prone to be overly impulsive,’ observed Nathan indulgently. ‘You require a helpmeet, Kate – and more than that. You need a husband. You are twenty-one years old and it is not God’s wish that you should die a maid. You should have a man to care for and children at your knee. Don’t you feel this yourself?’ His hands grasped hers. ‘Doesn’t your womanhood demand it?’
A gust of pure temper washed over Kate and she freed her hands with one violent jerk.
‘My – my womanhood demands a good many things,’ she responded furiously. ‘First and fo
remost, that you refrain from touching me. And in case that’s not plain enough for you – let me put it another way. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.’
Nathan’s smile evaporated and something shifted in the pale, lightless eyes. He said, ‘Such sentiments do you no credit, Cousin. But I shall try to overlook them and pray that God will pardon your intemperance.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she snapped. ‘I’m sure God understands my feelings only too well. Did you really think I’d let you get your sanctimonious hands on Thorne Ash? Or that Eden would welcome you as a brother-in-law?’
‘Eden isn’t here – and nor, since his whoring wife ran off, is he likely to be,’ came the suddenly vicious reply. Then, smiling again, ‘Oh yes. I’ve guessed why she’s gone. Your lies might have fooled Goodwife Flossing and the rest but they didn’t delude me. I’ve always suspected exactly what Mistress Celia was. No. Eden won’t be back. And I don’t think your poor deranged mother will --’
The words ended in a grunt of pain as Kate hit him across the mouth with all the force at her command.
‘Get out,’ she said fiercely. ‘Get out of this room and out of this house. Now. Today. And if you ever show your face here again – as God is my witness, I swear I’ll set the dogs on you.’
Her hand-print flaming against the whiteness of his face, Nathan reached out as though to take hold of her again but Kate didn’t give him the chance. Snatching up a small paper-knife from amidst the clutter on the desk, she said, ‘Touch me just once more and I’ll use this. Now go. I want you away from here within the hour.’
‘You can’t do this!’
‘I can.’ Still holding the knife, she forced him to retreat before her to the door. ‘And one more thing. My mother is not mad. If I ever hear that you’ve repeated that lie to anyone, I’ll tell Eden of it. And Eden will probably kill you.’
Nathan felt the wood at his back and fumbled blindly for the door-latch. He couldn’t quite believe that this was happening. But Kate had murder in her eyes, so he opened the door and backed cautiously round it into the hall … and the arms of Luciano del Santi.
It was hard to say who was more surprised. Nathan – who gibbered and achieved a nimble, swivelling twist to one side; or Kate – who simply stopped breathing and let the knife fall from suddenly nerveless fingers. For a few seconds, there was silence. Then, stooping to retrieve the knife and weighing it thoughtfully in his hand, Luciano said, ‘The door was open so I took the liberty of letting myself in. Problems, Caterina?’
‘No,’ she answered shortly. And, struggling to re-inflate her lungs, ‘No. Mr Cresswell is leaving. Permanently.’
‘Ah.’ Mocking eyes took in the red mark over the tutor’s mouth. ‘Then we shouldn’t delay him.’
Nathan looked from one to the other of them and, due mostly to the mild threat contained in the Italian’s voice, recognised defeat. There was nothing he could say and, though Kate needed to be taught a lesson in humility, now was not the time. Without a word, he stalked to the stairs and went up to his room to pack.
From the moment Luciano had returned from Genoa to hear what Giacomo had to say, he’d been bristling with cheerful vitality – and it showed. Smiling, he jerked his head in the direction taken by Nathan and said, ‘Let me guess. He made an assault on your virtue?’
‘Not quite – though it amounts to the same thing. He asked me to marry him.’
‘Did he indeed?’
‘Yes. I said no – but he wouldn’t listen. Then he … he said other things. I couldn’t let him stay after that.’
‘So you threw him out at knife-point?’ He started to laugh. ‘Don’t you think that’s trifle drastic? And what is Richard going to say?’
The ground shifted under Kate’s feet and she placed a hand against the door-frame to steady herself. Then she said flatly, ‘You don’t know.’
‘Know what?’ He frowned, suddenly struck by the unrelieved black gown and the fine-drawn pallor of her face. ‘Something’s happened.’
‘Yes.’ She turned wearily back towards the book-room. ‘You’d better come in.’
He followed her, closing the door behind him. And when she merely stood with her hands resting on the desk, he said gently, ‘Caterina? Quickly is best. Is it Eden?’
‘No.’ Drawing a long breath, she turned to look at him. ‘No, it isn’t Eden. It’s Father. He’s dead.’
With some disembodied part of her mind, she watched the blood drain slowly from his skin and his eyes dilate with shock before he swung away to the window. Then, for the first time in all the years she had known him, he said exactly what she expected him to say.
‘How?’
So, draggingly and without expression, she told him what she knew; and, when it was done, said vaguely, ‘It – it’s been two weeks now … but I still – I still can’t believe it.’
His hand clenched hard against the stone of the window, Luciano said abruptly, ‘What – do you know what he was doing with the King’s army?’
‘No. I only wish we did. It … it might make it easier to bear.’ She paused and then added wryly, ‘Or then again, maybe not.’
A horrible grinding fear lay at the back of Luciano’s mind and he was aware that he was shaking.
‘You said there was still some skirmishing going on after the battle. Is that how Eden said it happened?’
‘He thought so. There’s no other explanation, is there? But I don’t suppose we’ll ever be sure. Ralph couldn’t find anyone who saw what actually happened – and neither he nor Eden could well go round the Cavaliers asking questions.’
‘No. I suppose not.’ His stomach knotted with cramp, Luciano continued to stare unseeingly out of the window.
Richard had followed the ring to the King’s army; ergo – but for himself, Richard wouldn’t have died. That was crippling enough and already more than he could bear. But what if the shot that had killed him had not been fired in the skirmish but by – no. Better not to think of that. Later, perhaps – but not now. If he thought of it now he’d be ill and he owed Caterina something more than that.
Turning a little, he said, ‘I’m sorry. You can’t want to go through all this again.’
‘It’s all right,’ replied Kate automatically. It wasn’t, of course – but one got used to saying so. ‘You needed to know. I understand that.’
He hesitated for a moment, trying to find something he could safely say. Then, ‘How are things with you? Are you coping?’
‘Barely.’ He was the first person to have asked and it nearly undid her. ‘Mother is still in a state of shock. She won’t leave her room and scarcely eats or speaks. Eden went back to Waller immediately after the funeral. And Celia … well, everyone except Toby and Tabitha thinks Celia’s gone to her mother – but she hasn’t. Unless I’m very much mistaken, she’s in Oxford with Hugo Verney.’ She stopped and met his gaze with the travesty of a smile. ‘Quite. It’s a mess, isn’t it?’
‘An understatement.’ Luciano frowned a little. ‘Does Eden know?’
She nodded. ‘That’s why he wouldn’t stay. I think … I’m fairly sure he caught them in bed together at Far Flamstead on the day he came to tell us about Father.’
This time he simply stared at her, lost for words. Finally, cutting to the point, he said, ‘And Verney’s not dead?’
‘No. But he was sent to Oxford with a serious wound – so there was presumably a fight. As for Celia, I suspect Eden only brought her back here for the look of things and to save himself explanations. And now she’s gone.’
‘In which case there’s surely nothing to stop Eden coming back to share your load for a while, is there?’
‘It depends.’ Kate stared miserably down at her hands.
‘On what?’
‘On whether or not he’s worked out that Viola may not be his child,’ she said tonelessly. Then, steeling herself to look at him, ‘If he has, he may never come back. And I don’t know how I’m going to explain it to Mother.’
‘Oh Caterina.’ She looked so solitary, so fragile to be bearing so much, that there was only one thing he could do. Crossing the room to fold her close in his arms, he said, ‘You don’t deserve this. And I don’t know how I can help.’
‘You can’t.’ She leaned her brow against him. ‘You can’t. But I’m glad … so very glad that you’re here.’
And suddenly against all expectation, the flood-gates burst open and she was sobbing all her grief and anxiety and bitterness into his black-clad shoulder.
Luciano laid one hand on her hair and stared blankly over her head but made no move to hurry the process or to murmur inadequate platitudes. There was no comfort to be had in this. Not for either of them. She was not aware – and nor could he tell her – that he had his own demons to fight; demons that whispered a possibility more terrible than anything he had known since the day his own father had died. And as yet it was all he could do not to break down himself.
At length, Kate lifted her head and said unevenly, ‘I’m sorry. I d-don’t know what came over me. I haven’t cried before.’
‘Then it was time you did.’ He released her to give her his handkerchief. ‘And at least it seems I’ve done something right.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kate mopped her face and then turned the dampened cambric over and over between her hands. ‘None of this is your fault.’
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t even looking at her … and the quality of his stillness was suddenly alarming. She said, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Luciano did not hear her. He simply stared like a sleep-walker at the litter of objects and papers on Richard’s desk. His body was racked with pulses and he had no more colour to lose. A perfect match for the letters given to him by Robert Brandon, the flowing black script before him burned into his skull; and finally, in a voice that seemed to come from a long way off, he said, ‘That letter. Where did you get it?’
‘This?’ Following his gaze, Kate reached out and picked it up. ‘It was in Father’s pocket. Do you recognise the hand?’