by Stella Riley
The illusion lingered as she drew him towards the hearth without even appearing to notice his limp and told him to throw his coat over the settle. Then, turning to her husband, she said, ‘Get Mr Radford some dry clothing, Jack. I’ll go and help Bryony out of that dress.’
‘Why? If she could get into it unaided, she can take it off the same way.’ And then, meeting his wife’s gaze, ‘Oh – very well. But I won’t have you running round after her. She doesn’t deserve it and you’re supposed to be staying off your feet.’
‘Twenty-four hours a day?’ twinkled Annis. And planting a kiss on his cheek, she drew him firmly through the door.
Sam was left to the realisation that he was being thoroughly inspected by a pair of shrewd grey eyes.
‘A word of advice,’ said Gabriel at length. ‘If you’re staying to supper, it would be as well if you pocketed that green ribbon. Being less familiar with it than I am myself, Mr Morrell has yet to recognise its significance – and it might be better if he didn’t.’
Holding his sodden coat between his hands, Sam said warily, ‘You’re talking about his niece’s escapade?’
‘I am talking,’ came the arid response, ‘about the renewed flight of the Eleven, the Army’s presence in London and the fact that the King appears more likely to accept the Heads of the Proposals than the terms currently on offer from Parliament. In her usual fashion, Bryony has only added fuel to the fire. And I’m simply suggesting that you avoid piling on any more.’
Sam decided that there was a lot of sense in this and, though deception went against the grain, it was hardly likely to matter. Shrugging slightly, he pulled the now rather bedraggled ribbon from his button-hole and shoved it in his pocket.
‘Anything to oblige,’ he said.
‘You misunderstand.’ Gabriel rose and reached for his hat. ‘It’s your digestion that’s at stake, not mine. I’m leaving.’
‘You’re what?’ said Jack, walking back into the room with an armful of clothes. ‘I thought you were staying for supper.’
‘Not tonight. Didn’t I say?’ The Colonel’s smile was deliberately provocative. ‘I’ve an assignation with a rather merry little widow in Cornhill.’
‘No. You didn’t say.’ Mr Morrell eyed him blandly. ‘I suppose I should have expected it, though. Making hay while the sun still shines, are you?’
‘Something like that. And even if I wasn’t … I rather think you and I have argued enough for one day. Don’t you?’
~ ~ ~
FIVE
While Wat Larkin rattled round Paris like a pea in a colander looking for Harry Clifford and Bryony Morrell pursued her acquaintance with Samuel Radford in the forlorn hope of making Colonel Brandon jealous, Venetia Clifford counted the days since the departure of Captain Peverell and clung grimly to her sanity.
It wasn’t that she didn’t have a myriad of other things to think of. There was the harvest to be prepared for, the household accounts to be seen to and the usual discreet business of collecting and passing on Royalist messages. Then, of course, there was the news from London.
Mercurius Aulicus had disappeared after the war but other papers had taken its place and Venetia paid a fat fee to a Smithfield carrier for the privilege of receiving John Dillingham’s Moderate Intelligencer, Samuel Pecke’s Perfect Diurnall and Marchmont Nedham’s strongly Royalist [and therefore unlicensed] Mercurius Pragmaticus within a week of their publication. Normally, she devoured these as soon as they arrived. At any other time, an account of Oliver Cromwell forcing the Commons to nullify all votes taken during the absence of the Independent members or the news that His Majesty was demanding amnesty for every one of his supporters might possibly have bred a spark of interest. Now, however, even the startling reasonableness of the Heads of the Proposals paled into insignificance beside her personal concerns … and the waiting began to seem interminable.
The worst thing was having no course of action open to her … of being seemingly powerless to control her own destiny. The second worst thing was the continual, gentle nagging of her mother.
Lady Clifford never insisted or demanded or allowed her voice to grow shrill. She simply maintained a perpetual flow of plaintive remarks, wistful looks and melancholy sighs. And the effect, as Venetia well knew, was that of water dripping on a stone.
It had started immediately after the reading of Sir Robert’s will; qualified sympathy coupled with gentle criticism. Then came, ‘Of course, it’s a pity that you and Ellis weren’t married years ago, dearest. But now, even if he were here, there’s no denying that he’s no longer quite the match he once was, is there?’
And finally, ‘This dreadful Colonel holds us all in the palm of his hand, doesn’t he? Do you think that, if you refuse to marry him, he has the power to evict us from this house? Of course, I care nothing for myself. Though I can’t help remembering all the happy years I’ve spent here since your father first brought me home as his bride … but there! Were it not for my girls, I’m sure I should be perfectly content in the meanest cottage.’
There was, as Venetia well knew, only one aim in all this; that of delicately pressing her into the ultimate sacrifice. Marriage to a Roundhead bastard for the good of the family. And if Ashley Peverell didn’t return soon with some good news, there was a growing possibility that she would actually have to do it.
There was pressure, too – of different, unintentional kinds – from Elizabeth and Phoebe. Elizabeth merely wandered about looking lachrymose and Phoebe observed that, since Venetia couldn’t marry Ellis and wouldn’t marry the Colonel, she was likely to end her days a spinster. The only one who never said a word on the subject was Uncle James. But then, Uncle James could rarely be parted from his books long enough to say anything.
On the day before they were due to begin harvesting, Venetia donned her second-best habit and set off, as she did every Wednesday, on her routine trip into Knaresborough. It was, as always, market day and though this sometimes made it difficult for Venetia to get into town alone, the extra bustle was extremely useful for cloaking her activities once she was there.
Colourful booths selling everything from rushlights to canaries surrounded the Market Cross and lapped against the neat, irregularly-gabled shop-fronts. Venetia left her horse in the stables of the Golden Anchor and then sauntered casually between the stalls, pausing every now and then to feign interest in the items on display. All around her was a hubbub of voices – some crying their wares, some indulging in cheerful barter and others merely gossiping; and the smells – cheese, leather, animal dung and human sweat, to name but a few – changed at every step. Venetia ignored them all and continued drifting systematically towards the seamstress’s establishment opposite the Toll Booth.
The Widow Jessop, who ran a small haberdashery business from her front parlour, looked up from the tray of embroidery silks that she was showing to the corn-chandler’s tediously indecisive wife and immediately went into action.
‘Good day, Mistress Clifford. You’ll have come for your fitting, of course and I have everything ready for you. Mistress Horner – I’m sure you won’t mind if I leave Polly to wait on you while you make up your mind?’
‘Oh no,’ came the huffy reply. ‘Not at all.’
‘Very good of you, I’m sure,’ said the Widow with a small smile. ‘And now Mistress Clifford … if you’d like to step up to my workroom?’
They climbed the narrow staircase in silence and, not until the door was firmly closed behind them, did Venetia say quietly, ‘Something’s happened?’
‘Yes.’ Mary Jessop looked tensely back at her. ‘I’ve a young man hidden in the cellar. He’s been there two nights already and a party of soldiers were in town yesterday asking about a man of his description, so I need help to get him away before he’s discovered.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know. When somebody comes to me like this through the network – and thankfully it doesn’t happen often – I take care never to learn their names. It�
��s safer for everybody that way and, if something goes wrong afterwards, I’m not upset by hearing about it.’
In certain respects, it sounded eminently sensible; in others, Venetia wasn’t so sure. She said, ‘So what do you know about him?’
‘He put into Bridlington Bay two weeks ago carrying letters from France to various loyal gentlemen in York, Newark, Oxford and London. Unfortunately, he was recognised in York and had to make his way here cross-country as best he could.’ The Widow paused and spread her hands in a gesture of helpless anxiety. ‘You know how it is. I can count on my son but I’ve two servants and that girl Polly in the house and I don’t know how far I dare trust them.’
Venetia nodded.
‘Very well. I’ll see what can be done. But first, if you consider it safe, I think I’d better meet him.’
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, ‘Very well. The cellar entrance lies beneath the floor of my storeroom – and since Joan’s out doing the marketing and the scullery-maid’s abed with toothache, it should be safe enough so long as you’re quick. Just give me a moment to make sure Polly’s still busy in the shop and I’ll take you down.’
Five minutes later, Venetia stood in the stockroom and watched as the Widow unlocked a small door in the corner. Then she was descending a narrow, stone stairway into the gloom below.
The fact that it was no conventional cellar but actually a cave, hollowed out of the massive cliff above the River Nidd on which both town and Castle were built, came as no surprise to Venetia. Many of the houses on the market-place were built above similar caverns – hewn from the rock centuries before by calloused hands and now simply converted into cellars. She had seen one before, many years ago when she and Ellis were children. And it was that recollection that brought the first glimmerings of an idea.
The glow of a lantern illuminated one corner and revealed a man sprawling, book in hand, upon a pallet. As Venetia rounded the stair, he jerked himself upright and she had an impression of long dark hair, a face that hadn’t seen a razor for several days and crumpled, dusty clothing. Then, in familiar, lightly-drawling tones, he said, ‘My God! Venetia Clifford … or my eyes deceive me.’
‘Perish the thought,’ she said. And, on a shaken laugh, ‘I don’t believe it. Francis?’
‘The very same.’ Francis Langley came swiftly to his feet. ‘Though, in my present sorry condition, it’s scarcely flattering of you to identify me quite so easily.’
‘Don’t worry. It wasn’t the outside I recognised,’ she retorted. And moved across the uneven floor to give and receive an embrace.
Francis Langley was a friend from her Whitehall days; one of the stylish, poet-courtiers from that other, civilised life they had all lived before the war – who, like Lovelace and Davenant and the rest, had left his lace-trimmed elegance behind in order to fight for his King in the field. And he was right, she reflected sadly, as they sat down side by side on the lumpy pallet. There was little of the old Francis in this unkempt vagabond with the muddy boots; only the echo of sophistication in his occasionally theatrical manner and a slim volume of verse lying carelessly at his feet.
She said, ‘I don’t understand how you come to be here. Someone told me you’d been captured at Naseby and agreed to take service in France rather than rot in a Roundhead gaol.’
‘I did.’ A faintly crooked smile touched his mouth. ‘But you couldn’t honestly expect me to continue expending my energy on foreign fields when there is unfinished business here at home – now could you?’
The violet gaze widened.
‘You’re saying you deserted? From the French army?’
‘Yes. But there’s always the Netherlands or Italy if I need to flee abroad again,’ he responded negligently. ‘As far as I’m aware, I haven’t committed any cardinal sin in either of those places. Not that flight has any part in my plans. Despite recent misfortunes, you’d be quite surprised at the new skills I’ve acquired.’
‘Yes,’ said Venetia tartly. ‘I daresay I would. But that still doesn’t explain how someone could conceivably have thought you a suitable choice for the sort of mission you appear to have been entrusted with.’
Francis’s blue eyes achieved an expression of utter innocence.
‘And what mission is that, dear heart?’
She subjected him to a long, critical regard and then laughed.
‘Not bad. Not bad at all. But you don’t have to waste your talents on me.’
‘I don’t? How very disappointing.’
‘No, it isn’t. It ought to cheer you up no end,’ she remarked, not without a certain degree of satisfaction. ‘I don’t know why you think Widow Jessop let me in here. But rather than put you to the trouble of working it out, I think it’s high time I informed you that I’m the one with the inestimable honour of arranging the next leg of your journey.’
Captain Langley’s brows rose a little but he slid an arm about her waist and drawled, ‘Darling, I can think of no one in whose hands I would rather place myself.’
Venetia pushed him away.
‘Let’s hope you still think so when this is over. The first step will to remove you from here to a house on the other side of the square. Tonight, if possible.’
He abandoned flirtation for a more business-like tone.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s not Mistress Jessop’s function to provide sanctuary for more than a night or two and, if you’re found here, she’ll be in as much trouble as you are. There are already soldiers out looking for you.’
‘So I believe. And this other house will be safer?’
‘It should be.’ Venetia thoughtfully traced an outline on the floor with the toe of her shoe. ‘Also, if this goes where I think it does, we can transfer you there without even having to step outside.’
For a moment, Francis stared blankly down at her feet and then he met her eyes with an expression of awed fascination.
‘My dear girl … can you be talking about tunnels?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled at him. ‘Several houses on the market-place have connecting cellars. And there are at least two concealed sallyports from the Castle – which were very useful when Cromwell had it under siege back in ’44. But all that’s beside the point. First I need to make sure that Sophy’s house is empty and then the Widow’s son will have to do a little discreet house-breaking to unbar the trap for you.’
The Captain’s gaze held traces of faint hilarity
‘And who, may one ask, is Sophy?’
‘Sophia Brandon – Ellis’s aunt,’ replied Venetia tersely. And then, as if no longer able to help herself, ‘It’s probably a silly question … but you don’t happen to have seen Ellis at all?’
‘I’m afraid not. Why? Are you worried about him?’
‘In a manner of speaking, though —’ Venetia broke off as the Widow’s voice drifted anxiously down from the top of the stairs, asking her to hurry. Knowing better than to ignore the warning, Venetia rose from the pallet and shook out the dark blue folds of her skirt. ‘I’ll have to go. If someone sees me emerging from the stockroom, it’s going to take a bit of explaining – besides which, there’s a good deal to be done if we’re to get you out of here tonight. And there’ll be other chances to talk, I’m sure.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Francis, rising to face her. ‘But, just in case there aren’t, may I ask if you’ve heard anything of Kate?’
Venetia’s face stiffened. ‘Kate?’
‘Kate Maxwell.’
There was a short, chilly silence. Then, ‘Nothing that I imagine you will be glad to hear. I believe that she was at Basing House when it fell – along, it seems, with her husband, Luciano del Santi.’
Francis drew a sharp, faintly rasping breath and, beneath the stubble, his face lost some of its colour.
‘Christ,’ he said quietly but with a rarely-heard ring of feeling. ‘They sacked Basing and then burned it to the ground. Did she – do you know if she survived it?’
‘No,’ s
he said. ‘I don’t. And after the way she treated Kit, you can’t really wonder that I’ve never troubled to find out.’
*
Upstairs in the parlour with the Widow Jessop, Venetia dealt with the problems of Captain Langley’s immediate future efficiently enough. Mistress Brandon’s house, said the Widow, had been empty for a year or more, ever since the retired cleric to whom Sir Robert had leased it had died the previous spring. As for breaking in to it, it wasn’t what she liked to ask of him, but doubtless her son would be able to accomplish the task without anyone being the wiser. Then, if Mistress Clifford wished it, the anonymous gentleman downstairs could be transferred through the cellar tunnel with as much food, ale and other comforts as he and Matthew could carry.
Mistress Clifford agreed that this was precisely what she wished and promised to take care of the gentleman herself once the transfer had been completed. Then, collecting her mare from the inn, she rode home in a dark mood that – just for once – had nothing to do with Colonel Brandon.
What she had said to Francis during those last moments had been true. She hadn’t made any attempt to discover if Kate Maxwell was still alive because thinking of Kate conjured up images better left undisturbed. For Kate had not only been her own friend but also Kit’s affianced wife. Until, that was, he had found her nestling in the arms of an Italian goldsmith, and had gone back to the war filled with the new, wild recklessness that had killed him.
Venetia gave herself a mental shake. Such thoughts did no good and she had more pressing concerns – such as how, at the exact time they were due to start harvesting, she was to get Francis safely away from Knaresborough without arousing suspicion in the bosom of her family. If they knew what she was about, her mother and Elizabeth would be aghast; less at the risk she herself was running than the one facing the family as a whole if she were caught. And as for Phoebe… well, Phoebe was still young enough to want to join in just for the fun of it. Concealment, therefore, had always been a prime consideration and, in the past, had not proved especially difficult. But then, she hadn’t previously had to do much more than pass a few messages to and fro. She certainly hadn’t held a man’s life in her hands. And, for this reason if for no other, Venetia was perfectly well aware that she needed help.