“I know you did your best.” Philippa’s voice was flat.
“Rest against it if you can,” Jane said, and knew, from the fierce agony in Philippa’s eyes, that it would be long before peace of any kind would come to her.
Jane knew something of the grief and rage seething inside her great-niece. Philippa had known of Robert’s death before her father and great-aunt returned home. The news had been proclaimed in Clicket. Letty had said that when Philippa heard of it, she had shut herself in her room for hours, and Eliza, going worriedly upstairs with hot milk, had found her not only weeping but storming about the room, beating her fists on the wall. Eliza had had great difficulty in soothing her.
“I had a word in the village with a woman there as has a new baby,” Letty had told Jane. “Just in case Mistress Philippa’s milk failed, but it didn’t. A mercy that—it might well have, the state she were in at first.”
Philippa had, however, become quiet after a time, had emerged from her room, and busied herself with the twins instead. But passions so violent would take a long, long time to dissipate, if they ever did.
They were once more in the parlour, where, over fifty years ago, Francis had been told that his sister Sybil could not go to court after all, because she was expecting an illicit child. Who had eventually turned into Stephen, this man in late middle life, whose face was hollowed by the memory of his cousin Robert’s execution.
Philippa turned her head and looked across the room to where the twins lay in basket cradles, side by side.
“Robert has an heir, at least,” she said. She glanced at her father. “Are we going to move into Clicket Hall soon?” she said. There was a silence, and then she added, “Well, it will be something to do—arranging the house to your liking.”
Stephen said slowly, “I shall certainly go to Clicket Hall shortly—the tenant has agreed to move out early. He is to have a refund. But, Philippa, if you and Aunt Jane are agreeable, I would like you to stay here. For the time being, I think you’ll be better in a familiar place. You both loved Robert. Perhaps you can comfort each other. Also, there’s another reason I would rather you stayed here. I’m thinking of getting married—or remarried—myself.”
Jane and Philippa stared at him. Philippa looked as if she had actually been jolted into genuine surprise. “Who to?” she asked.
“When we were in London,” Stephen said, “I sometimes went out for walks, leaving Aunt Jane in the inn. Did I not, Aunt Jane?”
“Yes. It worried me, in case a messenger came saying that we could go to the Tower to see Robert forthwith.”
“On one of my walks,” Stephen said, “I met Mistress Ursula Stannard again, the lady who recruited me for Walsingham. She was at court to be with the queen until the Babington business was all over.”
“You mean…Mistress Stannard is a widow, I take it?” said Jane.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of proposing marriage to Mistress Stannard!” Stephen suddenly laughed. It was the first laughter there had been in the house since the news of Robert’s death had reached it. “That woman petrifies me,” he said. “But one must be polite, and when she invited me to take refreshment at a tavern with her and her son-in-law, Master Hillman, who was escorting her, I agreed. Over our wine I mentioned to them that I had ideas of marriage. Why not? I am not young but I’m still—well, capable. I fancy I can still have children.”
“But Stephen,” Jane said, “a young girl, and a man your age…do you think it’s wise?”
“Oh, a young girl wouldn’t be suitable, but I thought, perhaps, a widow in her thirties—something like that. Master Hillman suggested one at once. She’s aged about thirty-five and living near Barnstaple. She’s a distant connection of the Carew family. She has two sons, aged fifteen and thirteen, well provided for under her former husband’s will. Master Hillman said he knew her, and that she is good-natured and agreeable to look at, and wishes to wed again.”
“Her name?” Jane asked, bemused.
“Silvestra Hapgood. I sent her a letter, through Master Hillman, and I hope to meet her soon after I move into Clicket Hall. If we take to each other, the hall will have a mistress—and…well…”
“Two women trying to run one house?” said Philippa. “No, it might not work. It’s different with Great-Aunt Jane. We…belong. I’ll stay if you’ll have me, Great-Aunt. Tell us more about this Silvestra Hapgood, Father, please.”
As a distraction from the misery of Robert’s death, Silvestra was a success. Mercifully, Philippa showed no jealousy, but seemed interested in her father’s plans. Jane, watching her, acutely aware of her, knew that this was not just due to generosity on Philippa’s part, but owed more to the fact that since Stephen’s failure to bring Robert back from London, the deep love and trust she had had for her father had cooled. She loved him still, yes, but he was no longer the lodestar he had been. Well, perhaps there were advantages in that.
It was a mercy, Jane thought, that Philippa had been spared the sight of Robert’s last seconds, when he kicked on the end of a rope. His neck had broken in less than a minute, but that minute must, to Robert, have felt as long as eternity. It would have done Philippa no good to witness that.
A little feverishly, but glad to lead Philippa’s thoughts away from Robert, Jane, too, began to ask questions about the unknown Mistress Hapgood. They were still discussing her when Nell came up to announce that a visitor was asking for Mistress Allerbrook. “A Master Wells, he says he is.”
“Wells?” Jane broke off in the midst of trying to ascertain exactly what relation Silvestra was to Sir Peter Carew. “Not Gervase Wells?”
“That’ll be him, ma’am.”
“But…he’s a soldier! Sergeant Wells, that’s his rank. Nell, are the soldiers back?”
Philippa put out a hand and clutched at Jane. They had both gone pale and Stephen’s expression was grim. Nell, however, was shaking her head. “No, ma’am. He’m alone and in ordinary clothes, ma’am, and he’s calling hisself just Master Wells.”
“Shall I see him?” suggested Stephen.
“No, bring him up here, Nell,” Jane said. To Stephen, she added, “As it happens, he brought the letter that called Tobias and Robert to London, but he didn’t know what was in it. The next time he came it was with Clayman, but he tried to keep them all out of Philippa’s room. He spoke up for me when that man Clayman wanted to arrest me. I shouldn’t think he means us any harm. Though I don’t know which Mistress Allerbrook he wants to see.”
He came into the parlour apologetically, carrying a brown velvet cap. He was very much a russet-coloured gentleman today: hair, eyes and velvet doublet. His small ruff was the only touch of white.
“Master Wells?” said Jane uncertainly.
He bowed to them all and greeted them. His eyes rested on Philippa for several seconds, Jane noticed. Then he said, “I only came because I wished to know—how you all were.”
“Why should you want to know that?” Stephen asked coldly. “And how is it that you are not in the gear of the militia?”
“I’ve bought myself out. My father needs help on his farm. He’s not a young man now. I was born when he was already nearly forty. He’s a Luttrell tenant at Foxwood Farm, near Dunster, on the side of Grabbist Hill. I’ll inherit the tenancy one day. I wanted to apologize.”
“For inheriting the tenancy of Foxwood Farm?” said Philippa, genuinely bewildered.
“No.” Master Wells smiled. “I put it badly. The last time I came here—you will recall the circumstances—well, I want to apologize for them. I was sorry then and am sorry now for that intrusion into a lady’s room at such a time. Whatever the law may say, I think it was wrong. I am sure, truly, that Captain Clayman wouldn’t have done it, except that he was so angry because of the heat and the flies and…”
“The snake and our gander and Hellspawn?” said Jane. “We haven’t replaced the gander yet.”
“As I observed,” said Wells, smiling. He became serious again. “I know what happen
ed to Robert Allerbrook,” he said. His eyes were once more on Philippa. “The proclamation was given out in Taunton as well as here. I can’t regret that a plot was foiled, but I do regret what happened in this house, in the presence of both of you ladies—above all, Mistress Philippa, at such a time for you. I also offer my condolences to Robert’s family, if you will accept them. I wouldn’t blame you if you ordered me to leave, but when I say I did not like what was done here, I mean it.”
Jane said, “Master Tobias Allerbrook really is in France. We hope, in time, to win a pardon for him.”
“I wish you well, madam. And I am happy to see that Mistress Philippa is recovered.” He looked toward the cradle. “Is that your…but there are two of them!”
“Twins. Sybil and Robin. One of each,” Philippa said.
“I hope,” said Wells soberly, “that they may be a comfort to you in years to come.”
“I think,” said Stephen, “that we had better have some cider—and a tisane or some milk for you, Philippa.”
Nell said, “I’ll get it,” and vanished down the stairs.
In the kitchen she said to the others, “It’s hard to believe, so soon, but there it do be. One man’s wiped out of the world and afore his widow’s had time to turn round, another turns up. September it were when Master Robert died and now, before October’s out…well.”
“He’s never said he’s here after Mistress Philippa!” said Letty, aghast. “Is there a scent blown on the wind, or what? The way men’ll come sniffing round…”
“All he said,” Nell told them, “was how sorry he was about the way Master Robert were dragged off. That’s all he’s sayin’. But he’s lookin’ at Mistress Philippa in that way, and he’s admirin’ the babes, and he’s got smart velvets on, that show him off, and he’s shaved as smooth as cream. I know the signs!” said Nell.
“That man,” said Philippa to Jane later that day as they walked in Jane’s garden, examining the herbs. “The one who came today. Gervase Wells. What did he really want?”
“To say he was sorry—about Robert,” said Jane carefully.
“He kept looking at me. It was noticeable. But I can’t think of anyone but Robert and I don’t believe I ever will.”
For a moment Jane said nothing. When she did speak, it was with some difficulty, for it had been suddenly borne in on her that Stephen was right; Philippa, who shared Jane’s grief for Robert, would indeed be a comfort. She didn’t want even to think about Philippa one day leaving her. In the same moment she knew that she must not say so. The right words were quite different and only the right words must be spoken.
“My dear, you are young and your life stretches far ahead. Even the worst memories grow less as time goes on. I’ve lived long enough to know it. I thought when I heard of the death of my lover that I couldn’t go on living. Yet I did go on. One does.”
“He wasn’t executed! He wasn’t dragged from your bedchamber and…and…!”
“No, I know. But the years lie before you. You won’t want to look over your shoulder forever.”
“If Wells comes here again, I don’t want to see him.”
“Then you need not,” said Jane.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The Time Has Come
1586–1587
Master Wells reappeared a fortnight later. During that time, Stephen had ridden to Barnstaple, stayed for three days at an inn there and called on Mistress Hapgood every day, returned home announcing that he was betrothed and moved into Clicket Hall forthwith, to prepare it for his bride. He was therefore not at Allerbrook when Wells once more rode into the yard and asked to see Mistress Jane Allerbrook.
“I just came to see how you were all faring,” he said when he had again been shown into the parlour.
Jane had been sitting there with Philippa and Alice, while all three of them worked on the stitchery which was always part of their lives. From the window they had seen Wells approaching, and Philippa had at once retreated to her chamber. Jane, clicking a thoughtful tongue, sent Alice away, too, and welcomed the visitor alone.
“The weather has turned cold,” Wells remarked. “I noticed a rich crop of berries on wayside trees and bushes. It means a hard winter to come, so it is said. Nature feeds the birds and squirrels well, in readiness.”
“It’s kind of you to come so far, just to ask after our health,” Jane said dryly.
“Is Mistress Philippa in the house? May I pay my respects to her?”
“She is in the house, but…Master Wells,” said Jane, picking up her embroidery frame and looking at it as though not certain what it was, “why have you come? It was courteous to visit once, to express your regret for that unhappy scene when my grandson was arrested. But what, really, brings you here again?”
“You have an acute mind, mistress,” said Wells, sounding uncomfortable. He didn’t seem anxious to go on.
Jane laid the frame down on her lap. “Is it Philippa?”
“I know it’s much too soon. I wouldn’t say anything to her—not yet. I just have a hope that if I visit occasionally, and see her now and then, she may grow used to me, and perhaps begin to think of me when I’m not here, and that one day, when time has passed…I was enchanted by her the first time I saw her. She was another man’s wife then. But that’s not so any longer and surely, one day, she must marry again. Might it not be me—eventually? I would like to say,” he added, “that Foxwood Farm, where I shall inherit the tenancy, is a worthwhile place. My family has money and we own the stock. I would see that the boy, Robin, was trained to inherit Allerbrook in due course. I would be an honest guardian.”
Jane was silent.
“Mistress Allerbrook?”
“Master Wells, it would rest with Philippa. Are you sure about this, though? Philippa is only half-English. She grew up with a New World tribe. Her father was with her and told her as much as he could about England—instructed her in Christianity, taught her to read and write—but she will never be wholly English. There will always be something different in the way she looks. And thinks. She has memories we can’t share, pictures in her mind that we can’t imagine. Is that truly what you want?”
“I think it is,” said Wells soberly. “I want to marry. I want a wife who is affectionate—well, she seems to have loved her first husband wholeheartedly. She has some education, too. All those are things I value, and as for the differences you speak of, I value them, too. They are something to marvel at and be forever just a little surprised by. I like a little salt on my table.”
He paused and then added, “I would wish to be her friend as well as her husband. Believe me, you can entrust her to me.”
“I see. Well, if you feel the same when you come to know her better, you are free to pay court to Philippa. The rest will depend on her. Yes, you may visit us now and then. She has sensed your interest and has hidden from you this time, but that’s because she’s still raw. Later, I daresay she’ll be willing to greet you in a normal way. But mark one thing. Say nothing to her of your feelings until you are quite certain they will not change, and indeed, until Philippa has had time to heal. In fact, please say nothing until I give you leave.”
“Very well,” said Gervase.
“Aunt Jane, I was coming to see you!” said Stephen, pulling his horse to a stop on the track from the combe to Allerbrook House. “Should you be wandering about in the cold?”
It was a grey December day with an edge on the wind. Jane, wrapped in a cloak, was walking restlessly along the path. She had no basket or sign of any other errand, and Stephen was surprised to find her out of doors in such discouraging weather.
“I can’t walk as far as I used to do, but it helps me to think,” said Jane. “I wanted to think.”
“About what? I was coming to ask for some advice about my wedding feast next week. You look worried.”
“It’s Wells. He’s been here three times now. Stephen, he wants to court Philippa. At first she hid from him. I told her that she couldn’t go on doing t
hat, and since then, she’s sat with us and talked to him, but she’s wary. She makes conversation cheerfully and she never mentions Robert—it’s heartbreaking sometimes—but she’s careful not to be left alone with Wells. Not that it would matter if she were. I’ve warned him to say nothing to her until I give permission, but it ought to be your permission! You’re her father. I was thinking I must come to see you.”
“Wells has called on me already,” said Stephen. “He wanted to give me details of his finances and expectations and to convince me that he would be a trustworthy stepfather! He suggested that you and I should be trustees of Allerbrook on Robin’s behalf.”
“I see,” said Jane thoughtfully.
“The man’s in love with Philippa—that’s true enough, Aunt Jane. I told him that it would rest with Philippa herself. Since Tobias is in France—I bless Nicholas Lanyon for that, for he stood by us nobly in the end—we shall have to settle a way of looking after Allerbrook anyhow. You and I could do it well enough together, that’s quite true. But at a guess, I’d say that Philippa needs a year at least before she will be ready even to think of a new marriage. Then let him try his luck.”
“Stephen…”
“Yes, Aunt Jane?”
“It’s terrible,” said Jane. “I ought to want Philippa to find a new husband. But sometimes the idea makes me angry. It feels as though she would be forgetting Robert, being unfaithful to him! I know I’m being unreasonable, that Robert is gone and Philippa has her life ahead of her. I’ve even told her she can’t always be looking over her shoulder at what she’s left behind! And then I think of Robert, and how he died and…I should miss Philippa so. She’s like a daughter, and I’ve already lost my son and Blanche, though I know they’re safe enough in Paris. You were right—Philippa does comfort me and I hope I comfort her. I dread the thought of losing her. It’s wrong to feel like this, but I do.”
Calmly Stephen said, “Tell Wells to wait until the first anniversary of Robert’s death has passed. I fancy you need that year as well as Philippa! Wait and see how all three of you feel then.”
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