Marrying the Mistress

by Juliet Landon

  ‘That’s one thing we shall agree to disagree on, so let’s forget about it. I cannot have a wife whose family live like outlaws in derelict houses on my property, can I? That would never do.’

  My heart staggered a little. ‘No, of course not,’ I said, lightly. ‘That wouldn’t do at all.’ Too hastily for a skilful recovery, I changed the subject, telling him about Prue’s recent bereavement and the Friday funeral.

  He was all sympathy. ‘Friday is when I’ll be going over to Foss Beck again, so why not have a day at Abbots Mere tomorrow while your house is being put back together again? Jamie can stay overnight, then on Friday he and Mrs Goode can spend the morning with my parents and I’ll have a coach bring them back here in the afternoon. Besides, I have something for him that I believe he’ll like.’

  I stared into his smiling eyes. ‘Something with four legs and a tail?’

  ‘Indeed. A lovely little Exmoor mare that I’ve had my eye on. She’ll be perfect for him. One owner, grown too tall.’

  ‘He’ll be over the moon.’

  ‘It’ll help him get over the disappointment of not having his Nana Damzell to stay. Bring them tomorrow after breakfast, and be sure he has some stout breeches and boots. Now,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘I must be off. I’m sorry about your spoilt preparations, but it’s all for the best. Forgive me?’ He held out his arms and I went into them with an enthusiasm that appeared to take him by surprise, since it was much less to do with either thanks or forgiveness than with my need to feel the security of his embrace. I needed that more than he would ever know, after what I’d heard that afternoon.

  ‘Hold me,’ I whispered.

  He did better than that. His kisses were heady and brandy-flavoured, and I knew it would be easy to persuade him to stay. We reached the hall, both of us searching for the perfect reason why he could not possibly leave. He took up his hat and gloves from the hall table, catching sight of three calling-cards on the silver tray, one of which he recognised. ‘Medworth?’ he said. ‘When did he visit you?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘I forgot. Just a social call while he was in town. He wished to apologise for not safeguarding Jamie too well on Tuesday.’

  ‘Did he, indeed? I should damn well think so, too. Heaven only knows what kind of rector he’ll make when Slatterly grants him his new living, if he cannot tend his flock better than that.’

  ‘Rector? New living? What does Lord Slatterly have to do with it?’

  ‘I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. I thought he’d told everybody. The living at Osbaldwick is in Slatterly’s gift, you see. It was he who made Medworth curate there, to help the old rector out. But the old chap has retired at last and now Medworth is to step into his shoes at Easter. Wear your riding habits tomorrow, you and Mrs Goode, and I’ll find two horses for you. We’ll ride across the estate with my parents, shall we?’

  ‘Er…yes. Will my phaeton be repaired by then?’

  ‘It was not broken, Miss Follet. Just stuck in a deep rut with a stone jamming it. The boys will have it all cleaned up by morning.’

  ‘So I need not have…?’

  While the footman had gone to stand impassively by the door with one hand on the knob, Winterson could do little but nod. His mouth, however, was struggling against an impulse to laugh. ‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘Sleep well, Miss Follet.’

  My first call was to the kitchen to apologise to Mrs Neape for being the bearer of such unwelcome news. We had devised the menus with great care, choosing all my family’s favourites, beef steak pudding with fricassée of turnips, roast saddle of venison with redcurrant jelly, cheesecakes, that kind of thing. She was philosophical. It could all be eaten cold, she said, seeing my bitter disappointment, and we would have enough to keep us going for a week.

  Mrs Carson was equally sympathetic and quite unruffled by the extra work involved. She had seen it all before and by this time tomorrow, she said, everything would be back in its usual place.

  Still dazed by the unexpected generosity showered upon me and my family by Lord Winterson, I went up to see Jamie, who had slept through his undressing and was in his own bed between lace-edged sheets meant for Nana Damzell, hugging the empty embroidered nightdress-case that smelled of lavender. Mrs Goode and I swapped smiles and tiptoed out. ‘Come down to the kitchen with me,’ I said. ‘We’ll dine with cook and Mrs Carson tonight.’

  * * *

  Afterwards, I gave in to the urge to begin putting things back where they belonged, and it was late when I went to bed in a silent house that I had expected to be warmed by my brothers’ laughter and my mother’s chatter to her companions. But now they had seen Winterson at last and had made the connection for themselves, leaving me with no explaining to do. He had eaten their vegetable broth and dumplings, and they would understand how easy it was for me to love him and, about the complications, they would not need to know. Nor did I ever expect them to ask.

  Yet for all the resolution of problems, I could not help but feel the worrying undercurrents that nagged me, not like the broodiness of recent days but more like a fear that there was something I ought to know, brought on, no doubt, by Medworth’s perplexing visit. Certainly something unusual had been agreed between Winterson and his sickly twin, something that even his father had no wish to pry into. But what could be Medworth’s purpose, I wondered, in trying to rock his brother’s boat? Had he anticipated our marriage? Did he have a problem with the inheritance? Was there an underlying jealousy that he’d managed, until now, to keep to himself? There was, after all, some difference in status between village curate—even rector—and titled landowner-farmer, heir to the estate. And although he and Cynthia managed to exude an aura of rather chaotic domestic bliss, could there be more than that behind the scenes, as I knew there was behind most marital façades? The thought of watching him in action for the first time on Friday failed to provide me with any hope, and it was a long time before I slept.

  Even then, I dreamt of enormous lakes, and boats, and huge mill-wheels thrashing the water, and my little Jamie yelling to me, over and over, that he could swim, and ride, and fly. I called to him, but he didn’t hear me.

  * * *

  His initial disappointment was soon overcome by the promise of a day at Abbots Mere and a stay overnight, though it did not escape his notice that Mrs Goode and I wore our riding habits for our journey in the shining phaeton. That, we said, was easy enough to explain, for the temperature had fallen to below freezing during the night, and the fields, once white with reflected clouds, were now white with ice and frost, blinding us with flashes from the mirrored sun. But when he saw that Nana Frances and Grandpa were also dressed for riding, he felt obliged to make the plaintive enquiry, ‘Am I going to ride with Uncaburl again, Mama?’

  Winterson held out a hand. ‘Come with me, Jamie. There’s someone out here who needs to take a look at you.’

  ‘Look at me, Uncaburl?’ he said, clasping the large hand. ‘Who wants to look at me?’

  ‘A lady called Penny. She’s out here.’

  We followed, eager to catch the first rapturous expression on Jamie’s face at his introduction to the dark brown mare, which to my mind was too large for him. A twelve-hand Shetland would have been far more suitable for a child of three. Jamie had no such reservations. Speechless with joy, he and the polite little mare formed an immediate bond of friendship, for he was confident from the beginning, without fear, taking the reins as he’d seen Winterson do, responsive to every instruction, determined to do everything correctly. His little feet hardly cleared the saddle-flaps, but the smile of pride in being a horseman at last helped to lift the burdens from my heart as nothing else could do. Watching them set off, side by side, one as tall as a church and the other reaching no further than the stallion’s saddle was a sight to pull at my heartstrings, though I think only Goody noticed the glisten of a tear upon my cheek. I thought then that if Jamie were the one to receive his father’s l
ove, instead of both of us, I would not complain or allow it to embitter me.

  There was something else to give me food for thought that morning, not having ridden out with Winterson and his guests since last autumn when Linas’s health began to deteriorate. Then, I had been left much to my own devices by our host, except when I was with Linas or another guest, Winterson never singling me out for a word as he had done on that isolated day in April 1802, forgotten by my lover. Nevertheless, someone must have taken the trouble to remind Linas after that, for on the day after our return home that year, a red rose appeared on my hall table which I placed before me at breakfast, lunch and dinner until it withered. The same thing happened on my birthday the following three years. Linas was always undemonstrative, and I dare say that was his way of saying what he could not say in words.

  The difference on that sharp frosty morning is worth recording if only for the happiness it gave me to be one of the group instead of an outsider tolerated only for her relationship with a brother. That day, I was made to feel like one whose opinions were valued, drawn into conversation, laughed with and teased, occasionally. Jamie, of course, preferred to take his instructions directly from Winterson rather than me.

  ‘Bear up, Miss Follet,’ said Lord Stillingfleete in an aside that everyone could hear, ‘mothers are not supposed to know a thing about horses. Frances suffered in exactly the same way, convinced that Burl’s first pony was far too large for him. It didn’t do him any harm, in the end.’

  ‘I seem to recall,’ said Winterson, straight-faced, ‘that a certain three-year-old end was rather sore for a day or two. As you say, I recovered.’

  ‘Burl Winterson,’ his mother reprimanded, ‘there are ladies present.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ he said. ‘Keep your hands together, Jamie.’

  ‘I’ve lost my stirrup, Uncaburl.’

  Winterson drew on the leading-rein. ‘All right. Sort it out. Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My lord,’ I said, ‘is it time for Jamie to take a rest now?’

  ‘Yes, and tomorrow he can practise riding bareback in the paddock.’

  Mrs Goode’s sidelong glance at me showed that her thoughts ran parallel to mine, that we had entered men’s territory and that, from now on, Jamie’s infancy was on the wane.

  With a view to discussing what Jamie could and could not do tomorrow, I lingered near the pony’s empty loose-box after the others had gone into the house, certain that Winterson would want a private word with me concerning Jamie’s shifting allegiance and my sharing of him. New experiences, and not comfortable for a possessive mother.

  He entered the stable, stopped, looked, and saw me. I had not expected to feel such breathless girlishness as he came slowly towards me, bare-headed, stripping off his gloves. Laying them with his whip along the top edge of the box, he steered me backwards by one arm into the thick brass-topped doorpost. ‘I suppose you must go home this afternoon?’ he said, not waiting for an answer. ‘Because if I have to spend another night without you, Miss Follet, I may be obliged to make violent love to you here. Would you mind that?’

  ‘Lord Winterson, please! I waited here to speak with you in private.’ I was not as shocked as I pretended, and he knew it, but nor did I take his request at all seriously. What is it about stables, I wonder?

  ‘Sorry. It’s the figure-hugging jacket that brings out my baser instincts.’

  ‘Then I’d better go and change into something looser.’

  ‘No. Stay as you are. You did well just now. It’s not easy for you, is it, to watch him pass into someone else’s hands? But don’t worry about tomorrow. My father will be there, and my head groom, and Mrs Goode. They won’t overtire him. They’ll show him how to groom the mare. He’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I know he will. He’s beside himself with happiness.’

  ‘He’s going to be good.’

  ‘Like his father,’ I whispered, unable to avoid the ambiguity.

  But his reply was to take me in his arms as I’d wanted him to, instinctively knowing which twin I referred to. ‘You were thinking, out there, of those other times. I know. I could see it. But there’s no need to, sweetheart. It’s all in the past. Let it go.’

  ‘I would, gladly, if I knew what it was all about.’

  ‘One day we’ll talk about it. Give me time. It’s hard for me too.’

  ‘I can wait. But don’t turn cold on me again, Burl. Previously, if I’d had the courage, I could have walked away from it all. This time, I shall not be able to do that, shall I?’

  ‘There’ll be no walking away, lass. There’ll be no cause. No more of those wild parties and loose women. Only people we both like.’

  The wild parties were the least of my problems. ‘Were there many loose women?’ I asked.

  ‘Only a few. No one I allowed you to meet.’

  ‘That sounds, my lord, as if you cared who I met, which I find hard to believe. Half the time you didn’t even know I was here.’

  ‘Wrong, Miss Follet. I knew exactly where you were all the time. Particularly I knew where you were on the eighteenth day of April in 1802 during the hours of—’

  ‘Stop! We must go in, or they’ll come looking for us.’ I pushed myself away from him, but he pulled me back roughly by my shoulders and I felt the hard sting of his hands as his kiss demonstrated how his desire had not cooled. If he recognised the reasoning behind my queries, he had given me no hint of it, and though I was tempted to share my concerns with him about the Slatterly woman, those few snatched moments were too precious to spoil when I had so little evidence to go on, and even that was at third hand.

  So I savoured the warm seeking thrill of his lips as well as the pain of his hands, then the dizzying shock of release that made my walk across the cobbled stableyard more dangerous than usual.

  Hot chocolate and shortbread awaited us by the crackling fire, but I had sacrificed my sense of taste for the more powerful sense of yearning, and I might as well have been eating sawdust while I smiled and chatted as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening to me. He knew, I’m sure.

  He knew enough of my strangely elevated status to escort me all round the house into places I had never had reason to visit before, opening up all the rooms to my inspection to show me, I presumed, what I would soon be mistress of. The kitchens, the extensive pantries and larders where game and poultry hung in furry bundles beside hams and sides of venison. Fresh fish waited for attention, baskets of eggs, shallow bowls of cream, shelves of cheeses and butter, wooden churns, racks of vegetables and bunches of pot-herbs. The beautiful frosted kitchen garden too, with glass succession-houses I had never seen before, and the wide lacy arms of fruit trees pinned against the walls. His roses, he told me, bloomed throughout winter and into spring.

  He took me through the long gallery built in the sixteenth century for King Henry VIII’s overnight stay at Abbots Mere. I had attended routs and balls here with Linas very occasionally, but Winterson must have guessed that I had never been introduced to their brooding ancestors who lined the oak-panelled walls. It was an omission he put to rights as we walked, finding yet another way to make up for his brother’s lack of attention, which I knew better than anyone was more to do with his illness than deliberate neglect.

  Perhaps, I thought as we joined the others, Winterson had at last begun to realise that it was not so much Linas’s thoughtlessness that had hurt me most but his own icy detachment. For my part, it was not so much being mistress of that beautiful house that would soothe my pride, but knowing that, for whatever reason, Burl Winterson wanted me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With no Jamie or his nurse for company, the evening felt oddly vacant. Yet although the house on Blake Street was almost back to normal, there were still a few things left to be rearranged and put away, and by bedtime I felt sure of being able to sleep soundly. The fresh air had done its work; riding was something I hoped to do more of, for Winterson had some very fine horses and some
wonderful gallops too.

  But as I lay in my bed thinking things over, I realised that the pile of Linas’s notebooks I had last seen on the side table in the parlour had not been replaced. Nor could I recall where I had put them. They would be sure to turn up unexpectedly, somewhere.

  * * *

  Friday was the morning of Prue’s parents’ funeral and I was up early to the shop to place a notice in the window, to pull the blinds halfway down and to tie a large black satin bow over the coloured tassels. The wearing of black had almost become a habit with me, these days, and I longed to wear colours other than greys and violet. But propriety was everything to Follet and Sanders, so I did my best to be worthy of Prue by adding a long black feather boa to my ensemble, a plume of ostrich on my bonnet and a fine edge of the same around my wrists. With black braid frogging down the sleeves and a narrow panel of it down the front of my pelisse, I felt that she would approve. Even at a time like this, Prue Sanders would be critical of what her staff were wearing.

  For the second day, the rooftops shone with white frost, and the cobbles had been sprinkled with straw to make them less treacherous as Debbie and I walked down to Stonegate to pick up the phaeton. Having no reason to call at the front entrance, our approach through the ginnel into the rear stableyard was the most direct way to approach the phaeton and the groom who would accompany us. Winterson’s coachman was there talking to the green-and-grey liveried young man, showing me, by the way their conversation lingered, that something had disturbed them.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Are we ready?’

  ‘Indeed we are, ma’am,’ they said, touching their grey beavers.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  A quick glance at each other told me there was. ‘Er…well…not exactly wrong, ma’am,’ said the senior coachman, getting his word in first. ‘Mr Treddle’s had a bit of a problem at the house just now. His lordship gave us all instructions, you see, not to allow anyone in while he’s away, excepting yourself, ma’am. So it’s a bit tricky when…well…’ He touched his nose with a knuckle, striving to be respectful in his bluff Yorkshire way.