by Stella Riley
‘Every fortune-hunter, you mean,’ retorted Phoebe with rare asperity. ‘I can’t believe you’re serious. And it’s all so unnecessary. Gabriel won’t touch Ford Edge.’
‘Possibly not – but I can’t take the risk. I’d rather entrust it to you and know that it’s safe. Unless, that is, you don’t want it?’
Phoebe drew a long, unsteady breath.
‘Want it? Of course I want it. It’s my home. I’m just not sure I’m capable of looking after it properly.’
‘I am.’ Venetia stood up and smiled at her. ‘If I wasn’t, do you honestly think we’d be having this conversation?’
*
Wat arrived back from Boroughbridge at around noon on the following day in charge of two expertly laden carts and then sat down to whittle at a piece of wood while the Colonel supervised the unloading of them. Spinning wheels, carding-combs and spare spindles disappeared smartly inside one cottage and the two looms were taken carefully away for erection in the other, along with the gears needed to modify them for weaving flax.
‘What’s the matter?’ His inventory in one hand and a piece of mutton pie in the other, Gabriel paused at his henchman’s side. ‘Something wrong with your back, is there?’
‘No there sodding isn’t. I’m as fit as you. Fitter, probably. But I reckon I’ve done my share. And you seem to be having enough fun for the both of us.’
‘You think I should play the lord of the manor and leave the real work to the peasants?’
A reluctant grin dawned on Wat’s taciturn features.
‘That’ll be the day.’
‘Thank you. So what’s curdling your liver this time? The fact that I refuse to open fire on Venetia without proper ammunition? Or some half-baked notion that I like what I’m doing here so much I won’t want to leave it?’
‘So long as it is half-baked,’ muttered Wat, paring deftly at the rough, doll-like shape between his hands.
‘Oh for God’s sake’!’ Gabriel turned away to point two fellows carrying a large trestle in the right direction and threw the crust of his pie to a dog. Then, lowering his voice, he said, ‘How many times must I say it? If I can’t make this place pay for itself, it’s going to be millstone round my neck. And since I can’t rely on my lady wife to keep things going for me, I’ve somehow got to create sufficient organisation and enthusiasm to survive my absence. Those are the realities, Wat, and they’re not especially pleasant. So I’m damned if I’ll apologise for enjoying beating them.’
‘Did I ask you to?’ Mr Larkin rose in a shower of wood-shavings. ‘Far be it from me to spoil anybody’s pleasure. Live and let live, that’s what I always say.’
It was, as Gabriel well knew, the closest Wat would ever get to an apology. Laughter warming his eyes, he said, ‘Of course. How silly of me to think otherwise. My nerves must be shot.’ And found that Wat was laughing with him.
By the time the light started to fail, both cottages were fully equipped and in pristine order. The looms stood proudly side by side, their warp threads expertly renewed by John Parker of Mole Farm; five lovingly polished spinning-wheels formed a graceful semi-circle around a log-stacked hearth; and a variety of smaller items hung from hooks on the walls.
Just as Gabriel had intended, the project had brought the community together in satisfaction at a combined achievement – and he prayed that the feeling would last till after shearing. For the only thing missing now was the wool and, by the time that came, he fully expected to be back with his regiment.
*
Lambing moved into full swing and took precedence over everything else; Phoebe went home to Ford Edge, leaving Venetia to settle matters with Lawyer Crisp before explaining them to Gabriel; and, in South Wales, one Colonel Poyer refused to hand Pembroke Castle over to the officer sent to replace him.
In itself, the Pembroke incident was insignificant – but Gabriel found it worrying. Recent months had seen a series of riots begin over the price of fuel and shortages of food but end as Royalist demonstrations. And every news-sheet spoke of plots to rescue the King and invasions from abroad. There was unrest in the City, continued resistance to disbandment within the Army and a tide of Leveller feeling running throughout both. Even Parliament was divided within itself. In such a precarious situation it would take only the smallest hint of mutiny – even across the border in Wales – to destroy the delicate balance completely.
By the time Venetia chose to inform him that Phoebe was destined to become the new mistress of Ford Edge, Gabriel was preoccupied with preparing to plant the flax. He therefore merely remarked that, though Venetia doubtless knew her own business best, he’d have thought her mother might be less than happy with the arrangement.
Having already endured an affronted lecture from Lady Ellen, Venetia was well aware of this. But instead of telling Gabriel so, she took a deep breath and, taking advantage of the fact that they were alone for once, said, ‘That reminds me. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
‘Oh?’ His hand travelled on across the page and the dark head remained bent.
‘Yes. I have been wondering – indeed, I am sure you can’t blame me for wondering – who your mother was.’
Seconds ticked by in silence before his eyes rose, harsh and impenetrable, to meet hers and, even then, he did not speak. Venetia stood it as long as she could and then said, ‘Well? Under the circumstances, that’s not such an unreasonable question, is it?’
‘Under what circumstances?’ asked Gabriel. His tone was perfectly smooth but no less dangerous for that.
‘Don’t be coy. For better or worse, we’re married —’
‘Mostly for worse, I’d say.’
‘But the fact remains that, after almost three months, I still don’t know anything about your background.’
‘So? After almost three months, what difference can it make?’ He rose and moved to the shadows on the far side of the hearth. ‘And don’t they say that ignorance is bliss?’
‘I don’t. I say that it’s generally the things you don’t know about which have a habit of dropping on you from a great height. Such as Eden Maxell, for example.’
‘Oh my God. Are we back to that again?’
‘No. We’re advancing to the subject of your mother.’
‘Correction. You are advancing to it. I’m merely wondering why it should suddenly matter.’
‘I’ve already explained that. After all, if your mother is still alive or you’ve a host of relations lurking somewhere, I think I’ve a right to know – before any of them take it into their heads to turn up on the doorstep.’
‘And embarrass you with their vulgarity.’ It was not a question. ‘Of course. I should have guessed.’
A faint, betraying flush touched her skin and, irritated by it, she said defiantly, ‘Think what you like. I’m only asking what anyone would ask. And, quite frankly, I don’t see why you’re making so much fuss about it.’
Gabriel contemplated her over sardonically folded arms and wondered if that were really true or if Venetia somehow knew she had picked on the one thing he never discussed with anybody. He wouldn’t put it past her. She was fully capable of looking for a weakness to exploit. And that, of course, was why it would be foolish to let her know she’d found it.
Though he didn’t relish being called a bastard, his illegitimacy no longer bothered him. After all, he’d had many years in which to get used to it and, in the world of the professional soldier, it was neither a handicap nor even particularly unusual. The question of his mother, however, was another matter entirely. He ought, by now, to be totally indifferent to the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about her – but somehow he wasn’t. And he didn’t really know why.
It wasn’t as if he thought of it often or with any sense of pain. Those days were long gone, left behind in his childhood. Neither did he feel as if knowing might be in any sense important. At almost thirty-five, he was beyond all that. No. Inwardly, it wasn’t a problem. The only trouble was that
he still couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. Not with Jack, not with Wat – and certainly not with Venetia; except that, if he didn’t say something, she’d continue twisting the knife.
In a tone of stinging mockery, he said, ‘Very well. Let’s see if I can set your mind at rest. I was reared in the house of one John Morrell, an armourer of Shoreditch. Both he and his wife are now dead – as is the elder of their two sons. But my foster-brother, Jack, is very profitably engaged in the family trade and possessed of a wife, a baby son and an orphaned niece. He is also about as likely to visit Yorkshire as the Pope. How’s that?’
‘A start,’ said Venetia. She half-wished she’d never begun this but knew that, if she didn’t pursue it now, the chance would be lost forever. ‘And your mother?’
‘Need not concern you since you will never meet her.’
His voice contained a clear warning.
Venetia ignored it. ‘But she is still alive?’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’
‘Oh.’ There was a somewhat nonplussed pause; then, ‘When did you last see her?’
Damn you to hell, he thought. And said tightly, ‘So far as I am aware – never.’
‘Never? But surely she —’
‘No. You find that surprising? You shouldn’t.’ Gabriel could feel both patience and tolerance being stretched to their limits. ‘When a girl conceives a child out of wedlock, she is either cast off, forced into a hasty marriage or hidden away until she can come back looking pure and unsullied. In only one of those instances is she guaranteed to keep her baby.’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’ Venetia stared thoughtfully at her hands for a moment and braced herself to look up at him for the final onslaught. ‘So it was Sir Robert who placed you in Shoreditch?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Where he presumably visited you from time to time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then no doubt he told you who your mother was.’
The sudden blaze of temper in Gabriel’s eyes told Venetia that she had finally pushed him too far.
‘Christ!’ he said furiously. ‘Are you just doing this to pass a dull evening or are you set on drawing blood? For it must by now have occurred to you that I’m not especially fond of being interrogated.’
‘Then it’s a pity you didn’t simply answer the question when I first asked it,’ she returned unevenly. ‘It’s not my fault you’re making it deliberately difficult. I just want to know if she was a – a local girl or someone Sir Robert met elsewhere.’
‘No you don’t. You want to know if she was a scullery-maid or a tavern-wench or a whore. After all, since Sir Robert wasn’t married at the time of my birth, she must have been some such, mustn’t she? Or so you would naturally think. So take your pick, madam. Which of them sounds most likely?’
‘Oh – this is ridiculous! How should I know?’
Silence lapped the edges of the room while an unpleasant chill made its way down Venetia’s back. Then Gabriel said blisteringly, ‘How indeed? And that, believe it or not, makes two of us.’
*
In the days between this unfortunate exchange and Elizabeth Clifford’s wedding, Gabriel reverted to a policy of strict neutrality and saw as little of his wife as possible. He therefore had no means of knowing that – far from wishing to renew her attack – Venetia actually regretted it. She had poked and pried into something that would have been better left alone and finally, with neither tact nor good sense, forced an unpleasant and obviously painful admission. She would have felt better if she had been able to apologise. Unfortunately, however, Gabriel seemed determined not to give her the chance.
On a gusty day at the end of March, they therefore set off for Ford Edge with even less than their usual accord. In deference to Sophia’s mulberry silk and Venetia’s silver-green taffeta, Gabriel brought the lumbering coach out of retirement but flatly refused to condemn himself to sharing its discomfort. He therefore rode silently alongside, leaving Sophy alone with Venetia’s stony profile.
They arrived to find the courtyard jammed with carriages and the house seething with the cream of the county’s gentry. In the first thirty seconds, Venetia recognised the Ingrams of Temple Newsham, Sir William Ingilby of Ripley Castle and her father’s formidable cousin, Lady Anne Clifford of Skipton. Then, as if what lay ahead wasn’t likely to be quite bad enough, Gabriel removed his cloak to reveal a new, severely-cut suit of dark grey broadcloth and the tawny silk sash wound flamboyantly around his waist.
Her heart sank and his smile confirmed the suspicion that she was being punished.
‘Merely nailing my colours to the mast,’ he explained blandly. ‘It’s what people will be expecting, after all, and it would be a pity to disappoint them. Don’t you agree?’
The ensuing half-hour told Venetia exactly what to expect of the rest of the day. Ruth Knightley asked her a series of impertinent questions in between oozing spurious sympathy; her mother, still presumably smarting over not being given Ford Edge, ostentatiously cold-shouldered her; and even those who tried to pretend nothing had changed were palpably ill-at-ease. As for Gabriel, the only people who acknowledged his existence were Phoebe, Uncle James and the prospective bridegroom. Venetia’s nerves were soon stretched to breaking-point and she was acutely thankful when the time came to enter the chapel.
This wedding was not like her own. A consort of viols played discreetly in the background and the altar was decorated with a profusion of spring flowers. Elizabeth floated serenely down the aisle in pale blue silk embroidered with silver lilies and, when she reached Tom’s side, he turned to greet her with unashamed love and pride. Venetia stole a brief, involuntary glance at the forbidding mask beside her and then restored her attention to the ceremony. Life, she decided, was demonstrably unfair.
Back in the hall, with the wedding-breakfast still to live through, she kissed Elizabeth’s cheek, congratulated Tom and complimented Phoebe on the glowing apricot gown. Then, before her nerve could fail, she stalked purposefully back to Gabriel and said rapidly, ‘I owe you an apology. If I’d had any idea what I was meddling with, I wouldn’t have pressed the matter. But the fact is that I did – and I’m sorry.’
The dark, black-lashed eyes looked back with cynical indifference.
‘Dear me. Can this be a change of heart? And, if so, why?’
‘You may not believe it but I am occasionally able to admit being in the wrong. I’ve also possibly been less than fair to you in the past. I know you don’t like our marriage any better than I do – but at least you’ve retained a sense of proportion. I, on the other hand, have picked up the olive-branch only to hit you over the head with it.’
An odd quiver that might have been laughter passed over the still face but, when he spoke, his tone had not varied by so much as a hairsbreadth.
‘You have a point to make?’
‘Yes. I’m trying to say it won’t happen again.’
‘Ah. Forgive me for saying so, but I’ll believe that when I see it. Unless, of course …’ He paused reflectively. ‘Unless of course you’d care to back it up with some small token of goodwill?’
‘Such as what, for example?’ asked Venetia warily.
‘Don’t worry.’ His smile mocked her. ‘I’m not going to demand your body. Since we’re only waving white flags and not sealing a treaty, that would be carrying things a trifle too far. No. I merely thought you might keep an eye on the goings-on at Scar Croft after I leave next week.’
Her lungs malfunctioned and she wondered why. She said, ‘Despite any impression I may have given to the contrary, I’d have done that anyway.’
His brows rose.
‘Even before you were stricken with remorse?’
‘Yes.’ She shrugged, adding, ‘The only difference is that I wouldn’t have let you know it.’
There was a small, almost companionable silence.
‘Feminine logic,’ remarked Gabriel, ‘has always been beyond me. But I suppose no one’s perfect.’<
br />
The wedding-breakfast was a lavish display of panoplied pheasant, Bavarian creams, dressed lobster and endless other delicacies. Having been denied the chance to hold a spectacular reception for her eldest daughter, Lady Clifford had plainly set out to make up for it with the marriage of her second. Venetia did not begrudge Elizabeth her day; she just wondered where the money was to come from to pay for it and whether Phoebe stood any chance at all of curbing their mother’s natural extravagance.
The boards were drawn, drums and a shawm joined the viols and Tom led Elizabeth into an allemande. Gabriel made his intentions clear by calmly refilling his glass but Venetia found herself whisked into the dance by one of Tom’s cousins and a sort of determined gaiety set in. Then, as the noise was reaching its peak, the door burst open and Will Haslam of Ravensthorpe burst in with his hair all on end.
‘News!’ he shouted wildly. ‘There’s news!’
Couple by couple, the dancers froze in their tracks and the music dribbled into silence. Sir Charles Haslam bent a beetle-browed gaze on his son and barked, ‘This had better be good, boy. It’s bad enough that you’re late.’
‘I’m sorry. But I was in Leeds and when I heard the rumours, I had to stay to find out more,’ replied Will, his tongue almost tripping over the words in his haste to get them out. ‘Yesterday, London celebrated the anniversary of His Majesty’s accession with bonfires. Everyone who passed by was forced to drink his health and the butchers were saying they’d like to turn his gaoler – that fellow Hammond – into collops. But that’s not the best bit.’
‘Then get on with it, there’s good fellow,’ beseeched Tom ruefully. ‘I’d like to continue dancing with my wife.’
There was a ripple of laughter which died instantly as Will spoke.
‘There’s mutiny in Wales. Rowland Laugharne’s men have joined with Colonel Poyer. They’ve driven the Roundheads out of Pembroke, taken Tenby and declared for the King. Now do you forgive my interruption?’
His answer was a second’s incredulous silence, followed by a huge cheer and a spattering of applause. Faces beamed, hugs were exchanged and toasts were drunk. Gabriel set his glass down on the mantelpiece and looked on satirically until, as if recognising him for the first time, Philip Knightley said, ‘Well, Colonel? It seems your fine Army is no longer as united against His Majesty as you’d doubtless like to think.’