"I fear you are right."
Emboldened by wine, Beth added: "But you mentioned that you were to be wed, sir."
"Wedded—ay, and bedded too, to a woman whom I have never met." He rose unsteadily to his feet and Beth saw that his face bore an angry wine-flush. "Do you not think that remarkable, Master Perkins?"
"I—I do not know, sir."
He laughed bitterly. "Before God, married to a woman whom I have never seen. Except once, long ago—as a child—"
Beth looked at him sharply. Her uncle and aunt had never told her of any visit from James Danyell while she had lived at Craighall.
"- A tiny exquisite child with long red-gold curls, sitting on a garden wall in Hythe talking to a broken doll. The tears streamed down her face and I have never seen a sight so lonely or a child so lovely. I carried that image for ten years—"
Beth remembered the beloved doll, and how Aunt Mary in a spiteful rage had broken it into pieces. The only toy she had ever possessed. She regarded the incident as the end of the precious little childhood she had enjoyed, for next day she had been banished to the kitchens and to an unpaid servant's life at Craighall. Vividly she recalled sitting on the garden wall and how later, secretly by night, she had buried Doll. Twitching at memory, a man's tall shadow, a warm comforting arm stretched briefly across her shoulders…
In wonder she looked at him. James Danyell; if only she had known—
"When my cousin Drake considered I had need of a wife, and one or two visits here to Millefleur convinced him of the matter's urgency, he learned through Admiral Howard that the merchant of Hythe was desperately seeking a husband for his ward. Tricked by that one memory, I accepted eagerly, and the marriage contract was signed six months ago. But we had not yet met. I was away at sea, then home again to find her ill with fever. I sent a ring, then velvet for a gown, but she ignored both items."
Beth's anger rose as she thought with loathing of her greedy, hateful uncle and aunt, holding on to gifts that he had sent, betrothal gifts that were rightfully hers. Oh Captain James Danyell, how I have misjudged you! And now, now you will never know—
"Often I wondered what had become of that beautiful small girl, and how she had grown. I was hurt, I must confess, Master Perkins, by her indifference. Ay, hurt -and afraid. Was she, too, at seventeen, already a virago? My worst fears were realised when the miniature I received was so changed from the miniature carried in my memory of her, I delayed visiting until the time we put in at Folkestone for repairs to the Sea Queen — and to bury our dead." He paused for a moment, his face clouded then continued grimly. "A time you have your own reasons for never forgetting, Master Perkins. I rode to Hythe early next morning, expecting my prospective bride and her guardians at least to bid me welcome, and hoping they would not be offended and would see the good sense in delaying the marriage until the Spaniard was defeated and we all could look forward to more settled times. I had no wish for my young bride to be isolated here at Millefleur, nor did I care for the idea of proxy marriage—an odious custom for any man whose blood runs warm in his veins." He paused. "You are looking bewildered, Master Perkins, know you not of proxy marriages?"
Beth shook her head, Small wonder she looked bewildered. She dared not trust herself to speak.
"Married to the bridegroom's sword, failing his presence for the ceremony. Do you not feel this is a somewhat cold and uncharitable fashion in which to begin one's married life, to thus carry out the terms of the marriage contract to the letter?"
He looked at her as if expecting comment and when she said nothing, he continued with a sigh: "And what did I find at Hythe but the lady's guardians, very agitated and awry at my unexpected arrival, full of tears and moans that Mistress Beth was abed and at that instant the victim of a terrible ague. They could not under any circumstance permit me even one glimpse of her."
Under any circumstances. Picturing the scene at Craighall, Beth longed to laugh out loud, since she had been, at that precise moment, riding hard along the Folkestone road heading for the sanctuary of her cousin Alys's house. Then her momentary pleasure in her guardians' discomfort at James Danyell's unexpected arrival changed abruptly to sorrow.
A few hours more—if only fate had not helped her escape! A few hours more in Craighall and they would have met. Would she have found him the ogre of her imagination? Would she have run from him? No, she thought, she would not.
"I fear," he said refilling his goblet, "that my betrothed is either ill-visaged or has as little inclination for this marriage as I have myself."
"Then why marry at all, sir?"
"Do you not think Millefleur needs a mistress?"
"Ay, sir—but do you?"
He smiled. "In all truth, Master Perkins, I have had one or two, since I am not a monk by nature." He sighed heavily. "Some I have loved, others I have taken but to pass the tedium of a few days, a few hours even."
"Beth. Beth Howard."
Beth gave a convulsive start at this mention of her name. The Captain was leaning forward, staring at her. "Who, sir?" she asked trembling, expecting denunciation.
"Beth Howard. That is her name." His pointing finger seemed to accuse her. "You are from Hythe, Master Perkins. Perhaps you know the Howards?"
"I have heard tell of the merchant, but my master's house lay outside the town boundary," she said boldly.
"You do not know a Beth Howard?" He sounded disappointed, and Beth chose evasion rather than the direct lie and took refuge in silence.
The Captain regarded her thoughtfully. "Strange, for her circumstances are much as your own. She too is an orphan."
"There are many orphans in Hythe—and elsewhere, sir. There is nothing remarkable about that."
He nodded. "Her guardian is a poor relative of Admiral Howard."
"So I have heard."
"The man is always at the Admiral's door, begging favours, I understand, complaining of poverty, and that this ward of his is without dowry."
"He is a mean man, sir—by repute."
The Captain shook his head sadly. "It was my own folly that brought me to such a pass. I must have been out of my senses, for I thought it better to marry for pity than love, so that I would never again know grief and loss." He drained the goblet and put it down heavily on the table.
"Is the marriage cancelled then?" asked Beth.
"Nay, but the Howards were pleased—even eager, it appeared—to agree to a postponement."
It must have seemed like a miracle, sent to save their faces, thought Beth.
He smiled like a man reprieved. "I am for bed, Master Perkins." At the door he paused. "Before God, Master Perkins, you are an understanding lad. Do many plague you with their tales of woe?" he added apologetically, "for you talk little, but listen uncommon well. Sweet dreams to you."
Sweet dreams indeed, thought Beth, tossing restlessly in her handsome bed. What little sleep that came her ways was confused by nightmares about James Danyell's many mistresses, all with the face she had seen once but would never forget. The face that the Captain carried in a miniature, from his desk in the cabin of the Sea Queen to the table by his bed in Millefleur. The smiling face of the beautiful black-haired Madeleine.
Significantly, she thought, he carried no such portrait of Mistress Beth Howard. Even without her mysterious rival, she realised there was another very good reason for concealing her real identity from James Danyell. Alas, the exquisite small girl with the red-gold curls he had glimpsed long ago had vanished into plainness, the fever-shorn hair darkened to chestnut.
The Captain did not summon her next day but stayed in his bedchamber where he ate alone, jealously attended by Mistress Pyck who told Beth sharply:
"There is bread and ale in the kitchen for you."
Regarding her with faint disfavour as she ate, the woman added: "The Master says you are to do nothing. I hear you have been brave in battle," she concluded suspiciously, as if the statement was in considerable doubt.
Beth, left to her own devic
es, explored the empty rooms with their shrouded furniture on either side of the stone staircase. They had been added during the reign of the Queen's father, the stone walls replaced by oak panelling. Dark in colour, the sombre aspect was not improved by an air of mustiness and damp, the dust-covered windows with their tiny panes the haunt of spiders, allowing little light or air to penetrate the gloom. The corridors were similarly panelled, long, narrow and heavily burdened with indifferent family portraits.
She was glad to escape into the sunny garden. Fascinated by the river, she arose early next morning while gossamer mists hung upon trees and over the rippling water, turning the river bank into the background for a curtained fantasy. As the sun rose higher and brought a warm day, the rivermen appeared, briskly plying their trade up and downstream. Not only passengers conspiratorially cloaked, humble carriers, rich merchants with their apprentices and goods, but also barges full of gaudily dressed players from the Globe at Southwark.
She felt a moment's envy for their merry laughter and shrill teasing voices, the musicians who accompanied them, the tune of lute and whistle. A slim man, balding but elegant and bearded, leaned against the prow, frowning, book in hand. She wondered if he might be Master William Shakespeare and these his players who had been at Greenwich, performing for the Queen.
There were sombre barges too, slow-moving, black-draped. One carried a flower-bedecked coffin and weeping mourners on its last journey to a burial errand down-river. The Royal Barge too passed up and down, so frequently as to be no longer remarkable but never, alas, bearing its Royal occupant.
She decided she liked the river best at evening, with its ornate shadows and sultry air heavy, strangely still, as if the very trees fell asleep, the reeds' whisper exhausted by the heat and traffic of the day.
On Beth's second night in Millefleur, there was a thunderstorm with heavy rain which disturbed the Isle of Dogs. All night long the mastiffs howled, baying at a fitful moon behind scurrying clouds. Next morning she found the river in flood, the steps by the landing stage under water. Pieces of timber swung past, urged on by fast brown waters as though bent upon destruction, infuriated battering rams lacking only a siege-tower.
She remembered James Danyell telling her of how the Romans had sacrificed to the river gods of the Thames when she saw a dead sheep and dead swan, bloated and unlovely, drift past.
Twice, as she walked in the gardens, she was conscious of being watched and, turning, saw the Captain at his window. Twice she bowed and raised a hand in greeting. He made no movement to indicate that he had seen her, nor did he summon her to dine with him, although she had hopes that he would do so. Upon reflection, she decided that he probably regretted the confidences induced by good Rhenish to a mere cabin boy and intended to remain aloof, thereby reasserting his lost dignity once more.
The house of Millefleur was not idle. Tradespeople and messengers arrived by barge or rode in from the Dover road, and swiftly left again. Once she recognised a sailor from the Sea Queen being landed, and stayed out of sight until he departed again. Later there was a strange horse in the stable, whose rider was swiftly escorted into Millefleur. That evening she heard the murmur of men's voices dining in the Captain's bedchamber and next morning, when she went down to the kitchen, Mistress Pyck told her that the Master was gone from Millefleur. Her rather triumphant manner suggested that Master Perkins need expect no favours of her, either, while he was absent.
"But what of his wound?"
"I examined it myself and he took my advice," said Mistress Pyck importantly. "No harm will come of it now, for 'tis practically healed."
"Of that I am glad. How long will he be gone?"
"How should I know that, Master Perkins?" demanded the woman sharply. "It is not a servant's business to pry into the Master's comings and goings in his own house," she added reproachfully. "He will return when we see him."
Although Beth had dined in her own bedchamber in case the Captain should summon her to attend him, Mistress Pyck put down her supper in the kitchen, remarking that she was not climbing all those stairs for any cabin boy, however brave.
"Has the Captain perhaps returned to his ship?" Beth asked humbly, for she had seen a messenger cross the lawns earlier.
"Nay, he will be in Folkestone I expect."
In Folkestone with Madeleine, Beth added to herself. For the woman's casual tone suggested that the Folkestone visits were an accepted and accustomed fact.
Emboldened by the turn of the conversation, Beth was about to enquire if the gowns in her bedchamber belonged to Mistress Madeleine—that, and a dozen other questions which plagued her—but the door closed sharply and was locked as the servant returned to her cottage for the night.
Beth toyed with cold chicken and ate little of the delicious fresh bread, butter and cheese, left to accompany it, for Mistress Pyck's sour disposition did not extend to her cooking. She felt hurt, hurt that the Captain who had treated her in such a friendly manner had left Millefleur without informing her. Also, since that evening when they had supper together, he seemed to be avoiding her. She made excuses for him. She was but a servant—or so he thought.
But she knew in her heart that it was his destination of Folkestone, and where he slept this night—and in whose arms—which hurt her most.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Apart from peevish cares and doubts about the Captain, heaven itself could not have been more peaceful than this interlude at Millefleur, after the nightmare of the Armada. And so Beth resolved to be grateful, to keep these harmonious days untarnished by thoughts of James Danyell and his Madeleine. Pushing them both determinedly out of her mind, she wandered into the sun-filled rooms where Mistress Pyck was already busy with beeswax, grumbling because by the time she had her task complete, the Captain would doubtless be back at sea again.
Outside, the garden sang with life, each sunny day, every hour presenting some new aspect to please her. And always the river, forever changing, an endless fascinating panorama of city and rural life.
It was only when evening brought storms riding across the sky and Beth sat alone in her bedchamber listening to the eerie howling from the unseen occupants of the Isle of Dogs, that she was acutely aware of the Captain's absence. Not only did she miss him and long to see him again, but she also recognised how much this dear house could have meant to her, how it could have seized and captivated her heart as - she had also to admit in honesty—as its owner had done. She did not dwell on such moments, or the remorse which constantly reminded her that, but for her own headstrong folly, both Millefleur and James Danyell might have been hers for ever.
Wandering from one empty room to the next, bringing in roses from the garden where those sudden storms threatened ruin to their beauty, or gathering sweet-smelling herbs in a valiant attempt to foster some warmth upon Mistress Pyck's frosty countenance, was a blessed oasis from which she could now calmly contemplate her future, away from those recent crises which had evoked rash decisions.
In the light of his recent revelations, any possibility of marriage with James Danyell was "out of the question. However, equally, each passing day carried her further away from any possible return to her former life at Craighall. Her recent sufferings and experience of the outside world had removed her from the endurance of wardship. She was no longer the same girl who fled from Craighall, and having ruined her marriage chances by such wanton behaviour, she must learn to make her own way as best she could in the world of those who are slaves to others, the world in whose domain her recent activities merited her a place.
Mistress Pyck continued to be tight-lipped over the Master's activities, and was prepared to divulge nothing guaranteed to satisfy a cabin boy's vulgar curiosity concerning his betters. However, she enjoyed hinting whenever possible, that she was completely in the Captain's confidence regarding all the important and intimate details of his life. On many occasions Beth had to suppress a smile, since Mistress Pyck developed tones of awe at the very mention of his name, as if James D
anyell were but a step away from the Queen or the Archbishop of Canterbury.
One day Mistress Pyck was more voluble than usual, and let slip the valuable information that the Master would be back at Millefleur within three days at most. It was all that Beth required, for she was determined to be gone from the house before he returned, especially as the amount of beeswax and the old servant's mysterious hints suggested that the Master would not be returning alone this time. There were winks and nods, and oblique statements which indicated an expected female presence in the house. Presumably, Beth thought, Madeleine would be returning with him.
She considered her plans. Since she had no desire to repeat the depressing performance of being imprested yet again to service upon another of Her Majesty's ships, and realising that as many dangers lurked with masquerading as boy or girl in these troubled times, she decided to return to female attire. Almost ideal for her purpose, she found at the back of the closet a saffron kirtle and white petticoats, plain and rather shabby but still rather too grand for a servant, and suggesting, on closer scrutiny, the day gown of a lady of Millefleur. However, it was the best suited to her purpose, so she decided to leave two of the Captain's ducats in exchange for the garments, adding a white coif and a couple of aprons from Mistress Pyck's vast kitchen supply.
Before she replaced the gown in the closet until the time was ripe to don her disguise, Beth could not resist trying on the three gowns which hung there. In particular she was enchanted by a white satin kirtle, wide-hooped and lavishly embroidered with embossed pink roses and gold leaves. Over this, a rich white velvet gown falling in ample folds from a tight-fitting waist, the neck cut square and low, to reveal the kirtle's motif in seed-pearls on its bodice. A ruff of modest proportions, hung with pearls, satin slippers and a velvet bonnet similarly bejewelled, completed the attire.
Beth stole into the Captain's bedchamber to admire the total effect in the long mirror, so elaborate and unusual a household fitting, that suggested it had originated in Venice. In its glittering depths, she saw herself changed almost beyond recognition by her new fine feathers and she sighed with delight over the silken touch of velvet and satin, finer in quality than any she had inherited, shabby and threadbare, from Aunt Mary during her Craighall days. At once, she yearned to be a girl again. Oh to be the owner of a wardrobe of such gowns; but most of all, she closed her eyes and wished that James Danyell could see her thus attired—just once—removed from his remembrance of Master Ben Perkins.
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