by S. D. Sykes
She calmed herself down. ‘Nothing for you to know about,’ she told her sons, as she moved the pony off again. ‘Get back behind the cart and make sure the chickens don’t fall out.’
‘So you have no idea who the father was?’ I said, now walking quickly to keep up with her.
She shook her head. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’
‘She wouldn’t tell me.’
She smacked the reins. ‘Then, dear Oswald, you have another mystery to solve.’
Chapter Twenty
I caught up with the men later that same day and joined their search for Barrow, though they showed nothing but antipathy to my presence – particularly Tulley, who refused to ride near me. Their feelings towards me only thawed when I offered to provide a meal at the house, when the light faded and we could not continue our search.
We resumed the hunt the next day, but with each successive day our party grew smaller, leading us to find nothing but the odd footprint or extinguished fire. Wherever Barrow was hiding himself, he had made a good job of it, since he was not even detected by the dogs. At the end of the second week without success, I rode back one night to Somershill to discover that Mother’s party had returned from London. The unkempt carriage was being cleaned by Piers, while Edwin was seeing to the horses. But there was another, finer carriage alongside with four tall wheels and four horses. The tilt was covered with a cloth of red and gold, and the flaps were rolled up to reveal an interior arrayed with velvet cushions and a Persian rug. The carriage stood tall enough for a chest to hang easily on a ring beneath the rigid frame – just as Mother had tried to achieve with our own.
I called Piers over. ‘Who does this carriage belong to?’ I asked.
‘Mistress Cooper, sire.’
‘Eloise?’ I froze on my feet. ‘What’s she doing here?’
It was a ridiculous question, and alarmed the boy. ‘I thought she was invited,’ he said nervously.
‘Why?’This was even more foolish, but the boy obviously felt the need to answer. ‘I don’t know sire. Perhaps Mistress Cooper wants to visit the house?’
My legs suddenly felt weak and I had to quell the urge to run to the garderobe. An urge I had successfully defeated in recent months. The thought of facing Eloise terrified me, however. We had not parted on good terms, since I had fled her house without saying goodbye, or even leaving a letter. Escape at dawn had seemed a good idea at the time, but now it felt tawdry and ill-mannered.
Pulling back the hair from my face, and checking that my breath was sweet, I walked into the great hall at Somershill. And into the bear pit where this story would finally play itself out.
The long table on the raised dais had rarely seen so many women about its edges. The only man at the table was baby Henry, who was sitting upon Clemence’s lap and blowing his milky bubbles. Eloise faced me, silent and unreadable. To my right were the young de Caburn sisters, squirming on their stools and desperate to free themselves from the hall and return to their haunts about the estate. I noted their fingernails were dirty, despite the grand dresses they were now wearing. Eloise had only succeeded in polishing their manners on the exterior, whereas their true characters were working their way out like the gesso beneath a gilded canvas. I was pleased to see it. In truth, I liked their spirit and pluck.
The atmosphere was awkward, the conversation stilted.
Mother turned to me with a clap of her hands. ‘So, Oswald. I expect you’ve solved the mystery of the butcher bird by now.’ Then she leant towards Eloise. ‘Oswald is our great investigator, you know.’
Eloise raised an eyebrow. ‘Your son is a man of surprising talents, madam.’ She licked the lard from her finger in a manner that only a few weeks ago had stirred my loins, but which now churned my stomach.
Eloise picked up a stale crust from her plate. ‘Do you have any more of this bread, my lady?’ she asked. ‘I am quite intrigued by the . . . coarseness of its texture.’ She then deliberately picked the husk of a wheat ear from her teeth and laid it beside her plate.
Mother snapped her fingers to call a servant, but it was only Gilbert who wearily shuffled in. ‘Yes, my lady.’
Mother adopted her most affected tone. ‘Please bring some more of this delicious country bread, Gilbert,’ she said. ‘Mistress Cooper is finding it a hearty fare after all that French flimflam they serve in London.’ Gilbert looked awkward, as if he were about to admit that there was no further bread, but Mother dismissed him with a haughty flick of her hand.
Eloise exchanged a look of amusement with the girls and then spoke to me. ‘Do tell me more about your investigation, Oswald. It sounds exciting.’ Clemence bristled at Eloise’s use of my Christian name.
‘It’s not exciting at all. Two infants have been found murdered in the village.’
Mother interrupted. ‘Such terrible crimes. One wonders what will happen next.’
Eloise picked another husk from her teeth. ‘I doubt you experience such wickedness as we must endure in London.’
Mother was challenged. Her hackles were raised. ‘Oh but we do, Mistress Cooper. Please don’t be fooled by our peaceful fields and silent woods. Last year two girls were found in these very forests with their throats cut. And then, when a boy with the face, of a wolf was burned in the village, demons escaped from his head.’
Eloise raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that so? Who would have guessed I was coming to such a nest of corruption. Perhaps Mary and Rebecca should return to London with me?’
Clemence gave a snort. ‘I can assure you the girls will be safe here,’ she said, without noticing the wink that Eloise had given to her nieces. ‘Don’t listen to my mother, Mistress Cooper. Somershill is nothing but a quiet backwater.’
A mischievous new current blew across Eloise’s face. ‘But what of this butcher bird, Lady Clemence?’
She was goading us. ‘There is no butcher bird,’ I said. ‘Only a madman who attacks small infants.’
Eloise turned to look at me. ‘Indeed?’Then she feigned a puzzled expression. ‘But is this not the man to whom you gave protection?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Yes. It is.’
‘Have you found him yet?’
‘No.’
Eloise smiled slyly and then turned to Clemence. ‘You must be concerned about Henry? With such a madman on the loose?’
Clemence pulled the baby close to her. ‘Not in the least, thank you Mistress Cooper. My son is guarded every hour of the day.’ She waved into the corner where Humbert stood to attention. ‘My servant is always present. Even when we sleep.’
Eloise raised an eyebrow. ‘Even in your bedchamber, my lady?’
‘Well . . . yes,’ said Clemence cautiously, now aware of some trap she might be walking into.
‘That must be distracting,’ said Eloise, turning to look at Humbert’s unblinking face. ‘To have such a sizeable man watching over your sleeping face. Most women only ever share such intimacy with their husbands.’
Clemence steamed. ‘It’s a perfectly usual arrangement.’
Mother chimed in. ‘Of course it is. I’ve often had a servant in my bedchamber. Even on my wedding night. My father even sent in the priest to make sure—’
I groaned. ‘Thank you Mother.’
Eloise clasped her small hands together and bowed her head to my sister. ‘Please forgive me, Lady Clemence. I’m sure there’s not a reason in the world to worry for the safety of baby Henry. He is such a healthy boy. And so . . . sizeable for his age, don’t you think?’
Now Clemence grimaced – clearly thinking of some acid response to make, while Mary and Rebecca giggled, enjoying the sport at the expense of their hated stepmother.
Knowing this conversation could only end in outright acrimony, I quickly stood up. ‘Mistress Cooper. I expect you would like a walk after the long journey from London.’ I held out my hand to Eloise. ‘Allow me to show you our orchards at Somershill.’
She took my hand in her own. ‘Thank you, Oswald. I would be delighted.’
>
The cool sun of spring was warming a pale blue sky. Beneath the trees of the orchard, a number of sheep grazed at the long grass, while starlings jabbed at the soil in search of worms. In the distance a boy was trying to catch bullfinches in a long-handled net before they nibbled the setting fruit from the branches. He sat beneath the cherry tree, patiently waiting for the rosy-chested robbers to appear.
Eloise took my arm. ‘How I’ve missed the country.’
I looked into her face. ‘Really? I thought you preferred life in London.’
She shook her head. ‘I was raised at Versey Castle, Oswald.The country is my true home.’
Somehow this wasn’t convincing, but before I had the chance to argue, she released her arm from mine. ‘Why did you leave London so suddenly?’
I had been dreading this moment since first seeing her carriage in our courtyard. ‘I received news of another murder at Somershill. I was needed here.’
‘Could you not have written to me?’
‘I tried to, Eloise.’
‘Don’t you have parchment and a quill in this place?’
I couldn’t think of an answer to this taunt, and a long silence followed, during which I stared into the distance, as she stared into my face. Eloise was the first to speak. ‘I’m sorry for what I said to you, Oswald. When we discovered that bird. You’re not a stupid boy.’
I didn’t look at her. ‘Those words were said with venom, Eloise. They sounded heartfelt.’
She pulled her cloak about her shoulders and shivered. ‘I was upset that you wanted to destroy a bird that was precious to my nieces. And you were wrong about it attacking children, weren’t you?’
I set off again, but she soon caught up with me. ‘Please forgive me Oswald. I didn’t mean what I said. You must believe me.’
I stopped. ‘What happened to Rab then?’ I asked. ‘Did you have the bird killed?’
She shook her head.
‘I hope the bird has not travelled here. He may not attack children, but he certainly takes lambs.’
She grasped my arm again. ‘Goodness no.’ She cleared her throat, seemingly a little embarrassed. ‘I’ve told the girls that I’ll find the bird a new home.’
‘And will you?’
‘Of course.’ She looked into my eyes. The fur of her cloak framed her face and squared its length. She was so oddly and transiently handsome that it was tempting to study her features to catch each different facet of her beauty.
I must have stared too long, for it gave her the chance to take my hand. ‘Do you love me, Oswald?’ she said.
I quickly broke my gaze, horrified. I did not love the woman. I had simply enjoyed a week in her bed. I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me short. ‘Because I love you.’Then she suddenly grasped me about the neck. ‘And I have a wonderful secret to share.’
I stiffened. ‘Oswald, please. Relax,’ she said. ‘This will make you so happy.’
The boy with the net was staring at us, so I shouted at him to be on his way. I did not want to hear Eloise’s secret. This revelation. Because I had a horrible feeling that I knew its nature.
Eloise stood upon her tiptoes to kiss my lips. ‘I had to tell you this in person. A letter would not have sufficed.’
‘What is it?’ I said nervously, trying to back away from her.
Once again she took my hands in her own. ‘I am with child, Oswald. Our child.’
I took a deep breath and tried desperately to quell the urge to run away. ‘Are you sure?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve missed my bleeding.’ Then she dropped my hands and looked into my eyes. ‘I thought you would be happy?’
I wanted to say yes, but the lie would just not worm its way out. Instead we stared at each other in silence, until she raised her beautiful, green eyes to look at something distant in the sky.
‘Will you renounce me then, Oswald?’ Tears were welling and her voice was choked. ‘Both me and our child?’
I immediately swore not to renounce them both, without truly understanding what the alternative meant.
‘Do you mean it?’ she said.
I winced at the stinging of my lies. ‘Of course.’
‘Then it’s settled,’ she said. ‘We’ll marry in the next week.’
I suddenly held up my hand and found my latent voice. ‘But, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘It just seems so fast.’
She held both hands to her stomach. ‘But your child grows in my womb, Oswald. Would you have him called a bastard?’
‘Well, er no. But—’
‘If we mean to marry, Oswald. Then we must act quickly.’ A shadow fell across her face, and it seemed for the world as if a small maggot were growing from the corner of her eye. Looking closer I identified it as a bead of soft yellow rheum that was popping in and out of her tear duct as she spoke.
She poked a finger into my arm. ‘Oswald. Are you listening to me?’
My face felt hot and my hands clammy. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’
‘Are we to marry, or not?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Eloise. This has come as a shock to me.’
Then she crumpled into the long grass, her red and green gown falling about her. Tears stained her cheeks.
I don’t like women crying. I don’t understand what it means. Mother seems to be able to shed tears at will – mewling like an infant when we can’t find her dog, or even when she notices a stain upon a favourite handkerchief. Were these tears that particular sort of crying, or were they the tears of Joan Bath as she wept for her dead son? I was unable to distinguish.
‘Please. Don’t cry,’ I said, placing my hand on her shoulder, though she continued to sob, her body now shuddering. ‘I’m sorry, Eloise. It’s just such unexpected news.’
‘What do you think happens when you bed a woman, Oswald?’ she blubbered. ‘A child can be conceived. Have you never seen a boar covering the sow? Four months later the piglets are born.’
There was nothing I could say to this, for the truth was embarrassing and showed the true extent of my naivety. I’d never given the possibility of conceiving a child the slightest thought. It certainly hadn’t been my intention when I crept into Eloise’s warm bed.
I began to compose some platitudes in my mind in order to give myself more time to think, when the conversation took a new turn.
‘I’m sorry, Oswald,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have come here.’
‘No, no. I’m glad you did.’
She looked up at me from her crumpled state in the grass. ‘Please, Oswald. Don’t lie. I understand. This is not the sort of news that a young lord wants to hear.’
‘Well . . . um.’ Now what was I supposed to say? She had completely unseated me.
She sighed. ‘This was not what I planned either. I like you well enough, Oswald. But I do not love you. And I know you do not love me.’ I went to make some sort of half-hearted protest, but she held up her hand. ‘Please. Do me the honour of being honest.’
I sat down beside her. ‘So what are we to do?’
She shrugged. ‘I can return to London quickly. I’m sure Master Dukinfield would marry me quickly. He’s asked many times. And he holds me in enough regard to accept your child as his own.’
Now I felt sick again. The thought of that great slab of boasting belly fat having anything to do with my child was nauseating. ‘You can’t marry him, Eloise.The man is obnoxious.’
‘So what would you have me do then? Go to a nunnery? Or perhaps I could hide in my bedchamber for nine months and pretend to have a lame leg?’ Now she appeared to be almost talking to herself – running through the options aloud. ‘Except such news will always get out. Particularly once a child is born. And I could hardly keep that a secret. Unless I travelled to France and paid for the child to be cared for in a monastery.’ Then she looked up at me again. ‘I’m already called a witch. Now I will be a whore.’
‘But—’
She took m
y hand. ‘I will marry Dukinfield, Oswald. Let’s not argue any longer. I have been stringing the man along enough anyhow. He deserves an answer to his constant badgering.’
And then a great gust blew into my lungs, whistled up my throat, and loosened my tongue. I don’t know where it came from, but it was strong and unstoppable. ‘No. Eloise. We will marry.’
‘But—’
‘There will be no more discussion.’ I stood up and pulled her to her feet. ‘I will advise Mother and Clemence immediately.’
‘But you don’t love me, Oswald.’ I sensed a little of her play-acting now. Perhaps she fluttered her eyelashes a little too desperately and fell into my chest a little too readily?
‘I’m sure our love will grow,’ I said. ‘There are plenty who marry without strong feelings and are very happy.’ God knows, Mother had told me often enough about such marriages.
‘Thank you Oswald,’ she said, with such relief in her voice. ‘I will make you a good wife.’
‘I know.’
She smiled, but now it was not relief that shaded her face, instead it was victory. ‘And our son will be a lord,’ she said. ‘Lord Versey.’
I should have told Eloise, there and then, about my promise to Clemence: her son Henry would have this position, not any son of ours. I would tell you that I forgot to mention this, but, in truth, it was cowardice. For, at that moment I just could not stomach another drop of drama.
Mother was predictably horrified when I informed her of my plans to marry Eloise. ‘Why on earth would you want to marry such a woman? She’s as ancient as a woody taproot.’ Then she held up Hector to growl in my face, as if he might be equally displeased with my choice of bride. Hector did not oblige however, as the dog now preferred my company to my mother’s, and would often escape her lap to follow me about the estate, digging at badger earths and barking at squirrels. Much to Mother’s consternation, it seemed that her dog liked behaving like a dog.
‘Eloise is not that old,’ I said. ‘In fact she’s—’ but I was unable to finish the sentence, since I did not truthfully know her age. I had never thought to ask. ‘She’s only twenty-eight,’ I guessed.