by Stella Riley
‘Yes.’ Venetia drew a long breath and strove for some semblance of interest. ‘I suppose she will. But fashions have changed very little since the war and I must have half a dozen gowns I’ve scarcely worn since I left Oxford.’
Phoebe opened her mouth on a furious protest and then, catching the Colonel’s eye, shut it again.
As it happened, Venetia was well aware that she ought to have been more gracious but, after the vicissitudes of the day, Gabriel’s unexpected consideration was just one shock too many. She relapsed into brooding silence, left the talking to Phoebe and decided that, since Boroughbridge and Ferrensby lay in opposite directions, it would be quite safe for her to meet Ellis tomorrow; if, of course, she decided she wanted to.
In the parlour, Sophia winced as she hitched the inevitably trailing shawl back around her shoulders and remarked that the damp weather was playing havoc with her bones.
‘You should go and take the waters,’ advised Phoebe, with a glimmer of mischief. ‘Uncle James swears by them.’
‘Yes, dear. I know he does. But he’s fortunate in not having an overly-acute sense of smell.’
Gabriel raised faintly amused eyes from a list of spinning and weaving equipment.
‘Waters?’
‘From the springs at Haregate-head,’ said Phoebe. ‘Haven’t you heard of our spa? It’s quite famous. People come for miles – and doctors have even written books about it. Wait a minute and I’ll show you.’
She whirled to the door, forcing Gabriel to slap a hand down on his papers to stop them escaping. Sophia smiled myopically and hoped that the work he’d been engaged on wasn’t especially urgent.
Phoebe returned clutching not one but two publications.
‘Look – I’ve found Dr Deane’s Spadacrene Anglica. Isn’t that lucky?’
‘Thrilling,’ agreed Gabriel, accepting a second volume optimistically entitled Cures Without Care.
Phoebe was already leafing through her book.
‘Oh – listen to what he says about the Tewit Well. It cheereth and reviveth the spirits, strengheneth the stomach, causeth good and quick appetite and furthereth digestion.’ She looked up, grinning. ‘Not a word about rheumatic pains, Sophy – but it appears to relieve nearly everything else.’
‘So I believe,’ shuddered Sophia. ‘But it’s so bleak up there … just moorland with a handful of tiny cottages and nowhere to shelter from the wind.’
‘Dr Stanhope,’ offered Gabriel, on a faint quiver of laughter, ‘is worried about more than the wind. What unseemly shifts have I seen many strangers of note put to, for want of a convenient place of retirement after drinking draughts of this water, which is apt – with some violence – now and then to open the body.’
‘It’s perfectly true,’ nodded Sophia. Then, in response to Phoebe’s giggles, ‘And not at all funny, either.’
‘I’m sorry,’ gurgled Phoebe, hanging over Gabriel’s shoulder. ‘What else does he say?’
‘He expounds the virtues of the Sulphur Well but says it’s frequented by poor, sick people who probably wash their sores and cleanse their besmeared clouts where others after dip their cups to drink,’ came the bland reply. ‘All in all, it doesn’t sound like a place to revive anyone’s spirits – but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.’ And then, with a particularly wicked smile, ‘Perhaps we should try it. After all, there must be something capable of improving Venetia’s health and temper.’
~ ~ ~
FOUR
Despite the fact that the rain overnight had washed away the bulk of the snow, Venetia arose the following morning with no intention of going to Ferrensby. Her feelings towards Ellis were still too confused – a mixture of nostalgia and something she refused to name; and, in any case, it would do him no harm to wait in vain. So she watched Gabriel depart for Boroughbridge with Wat Larkin and the bailiff … and then, leaving Phoebe peering behind tapestries to examine the stone walls of the gallery, she sat down to the task of reviewing the household accounts.
Concentration proved even more elusive than she had expected. Ellis intruded constantly upon her thoughts; and somewhere amidst the debris of her mind was another, quite separate hurt which refused to be identified until Phoebe bounced in and unwittingly released it.
‘I haven’t come to argue,’ she announced, standing in the doorway with her hair full of cobwebs. ‘I just wanted to point something out. If Gabriel can offer to spend money we all know he can ill-afford on silk-mercers and dressmakers, the very least you can do is to manage a polite refusal. Or so it seems to me, anyway. Think it over.’
And she disappeared without waiting for an answer.
For a long time, Venetia sat staring at the space where Phoebe had been. The thing she had been unable to name was quite clear now. With everyone about her firmly committed to supporting Gabriel, she was being made to feel like an outcast – and it hurt. Worse still was the tiny seed of self-doubt which suggested that it might, just possibly, be her own fault.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyelids and thought about it. There was laughter and companionship in the house from which she had chosen to exclude herself because something inside her recoiled at being even remotely pleasant to a Roundhead soldier. That much was true. But why couldn’t Sophia and Phoebe at least respect her views instead of constantly criticising? Or was she herself so far gone in self-pity that she no longer saw anything as it really was? She didn’t know. The only sure thing was that, if she didn’t turn her thoughts in a less destructive direction, she would go out of her mind.
*
Ellis was waiting for her in the doorway of the mill and his smile told her how sure he’d been that she would come. Aggravated by it, Venetia said abruptly, ‘Does Ashley Peverell know you’re here?’
‘Naturally.’ He strolled unhurriedly across to lift her from the saddle. ‘You know the so-called Falcon. He expects to be kept informed of every leaf that falls.’
She withdrew from his grasp and avoided his kiss by turning to shake out her skirts.
‘So why didn’t you contact me through the proper channels? He must have told you not to approach me directly but to do so through Mary Jessop.’
‘No. As a matter of fact, he felt that I shouldn’t get in touch with you at all,’ came the smooth reply. ‘After all, your marriage to a Roundhead does make your position somewhat precarious, doesn’t it?’
It wasn’t the absolute truth. Captain Peverell had also made it plain that, since Ellis had chosen to linger in the arms of his French mistress rather than offer moral support to his affianced wife, the best favour he could do Venetia now was to stay well away from her. But Peverell was unlikely to say this to Venetia herself; and, in the meantime, Ellis had his own fish to fry.
He said lightly, ‘I don’t know whether he’s protecting you or his precious network. But though both are perfectly understandable, it seemed to me that he was asking too much. Was I mistaken?’
She drew a slightly unsteady breath.
‘Not entirely. I believe some part of me is glad to see you. At least – no matter what our personal difficulties may be – there’s no doubt about our being on the same side.’
The bitterness in her voice finally gave Ellis the lever he had been looking for. He said, ‘What’s wrong, Venetia? Is the bastard making life difficult for you?’
‘Difficult?’ She gave a tiny, mirthless laugh. ‘On present showing, he bids fair to make it downright impossible – but not in the way you’d expect.’
‘How then?’
‘By the ease with which he’s charming everyone else,’ she replied, walking slowly towards the meagre shelter of the mill and scarcely aware of his arm about her waist. ‘Phoebe adores him, Dick Carter hangs on his every word and the tenants vie for the honour of stuffing him with curd tarts and ale. As for Sophy – you’d think she’d given birth to him herself.’
Ellis spread his cloak on a fallen beam and drew Venetia down to sit beside him.
‘Of course. Any stray mongrel can be assured of a warm welcome from my dear aunt. But who was his mother? Do you know?’
She shook her head.
‘I haven’t asked. I meant to … but somehow I never got round to it.’
‘My dear girl! Don’t you think you should? She may have given him a pack of coal-heaving brothers by now.’
‘I sincerely hope not. But you’re right. I ought to have asked about her – and I shall.’ Then, sitting suddenly upright, ‘I almost forgot one of the oddest things of all. Hard though it is to believe, Sophy’s known about Gabriel for the last thirty years.’
The faintly satisfied gleam vanished abruptly from Ellis’s eyes.
‘Sophy knew? How on earth … ? Or no. That matters less than her choosing to keep the knowledge to herself. But it’s all of a piece, isn’t it? The first I heard of any of this was when your letter arrived. I could come face to face with my so-called half-brother on the street and not recognise him. An enviable position, wouldn’t you say?’
‘No. It’s damnable.’ Suddenly, for no reason she could name, most of her anger withered away and slipping her hand through his arm, she said, ‘Ask what you want and I’ll tell you.’
This was exactly what he had hoped for but he was careful not to let it show. Turning to look into her face and gripping her fingers, he said, ‘Everything. I need to know everything because one day he and I will meet.’
There was a short airless silence.
‘Then I’d better begin at the beginning, hadn’t I?’ said Venetia. And, as concisely as possible, her tone more often sardonic than distressed, she embarked on a detailed appraisal of Gabriel. She described his physical appearance and his manner, his background as far as she knew it and his activities at Brandon Lacey; and, since it was important not to distort the picture, she tried – for the very first time – to be objective.
Ellis listened without interruption and, at the end of it, drawled, ‘Well, well … so the master of Brandon Lacey is an illegitimate rebel mercenary, reared in the house of some backstreet tradesman. He’s done well for himself, hasn’t he?’
‘Except for the money, yes.’
‘A bagatelle, my dear. I’m sure this sordid little commercial venture of his will soon fix that. And, once he’s lured the tenants to work for him, he can make sure they go on doing so by raising the rents. Simple.’
The violet eyes looked starkly back at him.
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I – I don’t know. I did, at first. But he seems so genuine – and he’s got everyone else convinced. Recently, I’ve started to wonder if I’m the only one marching in step or whether I’m simply blinded by my own resentment and dislike.’
‘It sounds to me as though you’re the only one bright enough not to be taken in by him,’ came the flat reply. Then, ‘He’s a Roundhead, Venetia. It was he and his kind who killed Kit and your father, and who are keeping the King from his rightful place. Others might be able to forget that – but not you. And, even if you wanted to, he’s going to be fighting us in the field again soon enough.’
‘Yes.’ She stared down at her hands, frowning a little. ‘I realise that’s a possibility. But will the Scots really invade? And what chance do they have of winning if they do? As I understand it, they’re having trouble raising an army – and another failure won’t help His Majesty’s cause in the least.’
‘It won’t be a failure,’ Ellis assured her confidently. ‘England’s so discontented now that, should someone just apply the match, the whole country would go up in flames.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. We’ve had two bad harvests and the price of food has gone up as a result. But the man who riots over the cost of bread won’t necessarily take up arms to put the King back on the throne – much as he might like to see him there.’ She paused and, rising from his side, added dryly, ‘It will take more than a handful of raw recruits with slingshots to defeat the New Model, Ellis. And if they beat us again, the consequences could be disastrous.’
He lifted one brow and surveyed her quizzically.
‘Are you saying we shouldn’t take the risk?’
‘No. I’m saying we should be realistic and not underestimate the difficulties.’ She shivered, pulled her cloak closer about her and said diffidently, ‘We’ve talked of everything except your immediate plans. How soon are you leaving for London?’
He smiled ruefully.
‘As soon as I can lay my hands on sufficient funds.’
‘That can’t be a problem, surely? Mr Crisp is holding your Oxfordshire lands in trust. Can’t you …?’ She stopped and then said slowly, ‘No. I suppose not. After the roasting he got for telling me how things stood at Brandon Lacey, he’s not likely to risk keeping the Colonel in the dark a second time.’
‘My own thoughts exactly,’ agreed Ellis smoothly. It was as good an excuse as any – and watertight so long as neither Isaiah Crisp nor Venetia mentioned his name to one another. ‘Anxious as I am to confront the by-blow, I’d prefer to do it on my terms rather than his … which leaves me in something of a quandary as to how to pay my tavern-bill and finance my journey to London.’
‘How much do you need?’
‘My dear!’ He dropped a brief kiss on her brow and then shook his head. ‘I couldn’t possibly take it from you.’
‘Why not? The Duke of York has to be got away – as much for his father’s sake as his own. You must know as well as I do that Parliament’s been toying with the notion of deposing the King in his favour. So tell me. How much?’
‘Fifty pounds might suffice.’ And then, catching the look in her eye, ‘I know – I know. But discretion involves bribes and a whole host of other incidental costs.’
Venetia thought rapidly, trying to work out how she could find a sum of that size in a hurry.
‘I can’t promise anything – but I’ll see what I can do. How long can you wait?’
‘Unfortunately, only until tomorrow.’
She nodded. ‘Tomorrow, then. But not here. Three days in succession would be too risky. I’ll meet you at dusk in Stavely church … on one condition.’
‘Name it and it’s yours.’
‘Buy yourself another suit of clothes. However elegant it may be, tawny velvet isn’t exactly calculated to help you pass unnoticed. And it’s enough to give any qualified plotter an apoplexy.’
*
Gabriel returned from Boroughbridge well-pleased with the bargain he had struck but all too aware that he had less than a week in which to complete his plans. The result was a flood of orders; Mr Carter got the task of making the Scar Croft cottages fit for their new purpose and Mr Larkin was told to visit every household on the estate.
The bailiff thought anxiously about all his other duties and the fact that lambing was nearly upon them.
Wat spat into the fire and said, ‘You don’t want much, do you? But if I’m going, I suppose you’d better tell me what to say.’
‘You simply inform the head of each house – some of whom may be women - that I’d be glad of their presence here on Sunday after church and that there will be ale for those who want it,’ grinned Gabriel. And, turning to Mr Carter, ‘As for the cottages, I’d like the downstairs rooms knocked into one. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Happen it won’t be. But by Wednesday?’
‘No. By Tuesday,’ said the Colonel. ‘I want the places thoroughly scoured and the walls whitewashed on Wednesday, so that we can start installing the looms on Thursday.’
‘And what,’ asked Mr Larkin dourly, ‘will you be doing?’
‘Completing my costings, haggling with Warner the dyer, finding a way of retting our flax without breaking the law – and hopefully making useful contacts in the Merchant Adventurers Company,’ came the crisp reply. ‘Nothing very arduous. But then, you know how congenitally work-shy I am.’
Wat began his Odyssey next morning armed with a list thoughtfully prov
ided by the Colonel and the suggestion that, if he started from the top, he ought to arrive at the Skilbeck place in nice time for the noonday meal. Mr Larkin merely grunted. Jane Skilbeck was a good-looking woman and he’d grown fond of both her and her children. But that was as far as it went … and if Gabriel thought otherwise, he was wide of the mark. Wat hadn’t avoided wedlock all these years only to fall victim to it now; and besides, another few weeks would see him safely back in the Army where he belonged.
The reaction of the tenants to Gabriel’s summons was uniform and predictable. Wat sidestepped each family’s barrage of questions with practiced ease, put away two bowls of Jane’s mutton broth and went off to complete his rounds just as the intermittent drizzle became a deluge.
It was a long and increasingly tedious afternoon and Wat’s mood grew steadily worse. But finally, as dusk was falling, he paid his last call and rode morosely back through the village towards Brandon Lacey.
He was just debating whether mulled wine or a hot posset would best combat the chilling effect of the rain when his eye was caught by a flurry of movement in the churchyard. Two figures, both heavily cloaked, converged from opposite directions and disappeared swiftly into the shadows of the porch. Wat snorted to himself and continued stoically on his way. It wasn’t exactly the best of weather for a lovers’ tryst; but if they waited for a dry day in this place, like as not they’d wait forever.
He arrived back, changed out of his wet clothes and talked one of the maids into mulling some wine for him. Then he went in search of Gabriel – which was how he happened to be crossing the passage which led to a seldom-used side-door when Venetia walked in.
Just for a second, they both stood absolutely still, their eyes locked together. Then Venetia raised deliberately satiric brows and stalked wordlessly by … leaving Wat’s arm damp from contact with her cloak and his mind awash with black suspicion.
*
By the time his tenants started streaming somewhat uneasily into the house on Sunday morning, Gabriel had made the rather surprising discovery that he was enjoying himself. He’d come to Brandon Lacey knowing nothing of the land or its uses, forced himself to learn out of duty and attacked its problems from necessity. But daily involvement and the satisfaction of seeing his plans take shape had changed all that. Caring for the estate’s tenants wasn’t so very different to caring for his regiment and strategic planning was useful for more than taking a town. Also, one always enjoyed the things one was good at.