Garland of Straw (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 2)

by Stella Riley

  Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘You’re supping here?’

  ‘No. You and I – and Phoebe, if she cares to come – are dining with the Lieutenant-General.’

  For a moment, Venetia was incapable of speech. Finally, she said unevenly, ‘I’d rather cut my throat.’

  ‘Oh don’t be so bloody silly!’ Eyes and voice were suddenly stripped of both courtesy and patience. ‘We won’t be the only guests. And if I can put up with your friends, you ought to be able to tolerate mine occasionally.’

  She struggled to control her breathing.

  ‘Would you sit down to supper with Goring or Rupert?’

  ‘Why not? After all, I’ve already done so with Philip Knightley – and he’s a damned sight more objectionable than either of them.’ Gabriel paused briefly. ‘This isn’t a request, Venetia. Since I inherited Brandon Lacey and married you, Cromwell has been taking a personal interest in me. In many respects, I could do without it. But I’m not prepared to damage my career by telling him so.’

  She frowned. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that I’ll call to collect you at about five tomorrow afternoon,’ came the unhelpful reply. ‘And, as always, I’d be glad if you could sheathe whatever resentment you feel with at least an appearance of civility.’

  *

  ‘Not go?’ echoed Phoebe incredulously when Venetia related the gist of this conversation. ‘Of course I want to go. And, quite honestly, I should have thought you’d want to go, too. Know thy enemy and all that … not to mention showing that you’re not at all intimidated by them.’

  A martial light entered Venetia’s eye.

  ‘Intimidated? I? That will be the day.’

  ‘Good. So we’ll go?’

  ‘Yes. And what’s more, we’ll give the thrice-blasted Roundheads something to think about.’ Venetia flung open her closet and began throwing clothes across the bed. ‘Call Jane. There’s a lot to do.’

  *

  Gabriel collected his ladies at precisely the hour appointed and found them already waiting, swathed in their cloaks. It was therefore not until they arrived at Cromwell’s house in King Street that he was privileged to see them in their full glory; and by then, of course, it was too late to do anything about it.

  The sleeves of Phoebe’s apricot silk had been trimmed with great falls of creamy lace, pearls encircled her throat and ribbons were twined cunningly through her curls. Her brows had been plucked into a delicate arch, her lashes artfully darkened and her lips subtly enhanced. She looked both older and more sophisticated than Gabriel had ever seen her and he wasn’t sure he liked the effect. Compared to Venetia, however, she was a mere candle to the sun.

  Leaving only a feathering of tiny curls, the silver-gilt hair had been drawn back from her brow into a luxuriant coil from which a torrent of ringlets cascaded over her ears. Like Phoebe, the exquisite face had been skilfully touched with cosmetics and an ornate locket lay at the base of the slender throat. But it was the elaborate gown of dull gold watered taffeta that stopped Gabriel in his tracks; not because it revealed a good deal more of her than he’d seen before or even because she looked beautiful – but because it told him everything he needed to know about her intentions.

  ‘I see,’ he remarked dryly, ‘that you’ve come dressed to kill. But are you sure you haven’t overdone it a trifle?’

  ‘Oh no. I don’t think so.’ She smiled and opened her fan with an expert flick. ‘I chose this gown specially. I’ve only worn it once before and that was for the masque of Philogenes and the Furies at Whitehall. The King played the leading role … and I was amongst the Chorus of Beloved People.’

  ‘I see.’ The grey eyes grew openly sardonic. ‘The point being, of course, that you still are.’

  ‘I’m so glad you understand.’ She laid her fingers on his right arm and waited for Phoebe to take his left. Then, allowing her smile to gather an element of malice, she said, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t say a word out of place unless I’m provoked. And I’m sure the great and mighty leaders of the Army will be able to cope with a mere woman.’

  Although his guests that evening were colleagues either from the House or the Army, the Lieutenant-General had assumed his incarnation of bluff geniality. He began by complimenting Gabriel on acquiring such a lovely wife and then jovially commanded Venetia to tell him if “this busy fellow of mine” was looking after her properly.

  She withdrew her hand and smiled coolly.

  ‘Admirably, sir. And, if he does not, I promise that you shall be the very first to hear of it.’

  Cromwell gave his great, neighing laugh.

  ‘Good, good. That should keep him on his toes, eh?’ Then, turning to his wife, ‘Betty, my dear. Come and meet Colonel Brandon’s charming bride.’

  Elizabeth Cromwell, a plump-faced woman in moss-coloured satin, welcomed Venetia with a faintly startled glance at the gold gown and stepped promptly into a pit of her own making.

  ‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that, like myself, you are well-acquainted with the King?’

  Venetia’s face froze into a polite mask.

  ‘It’s certainly true that I spent several years at Whitehall. But if you feel able to call His Majesty your friend, I fear you must have the advantage of me.’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t say that, my dear. But my daughters and I visited him quite regularly at one time, you know.’

  ‘Yes. I do know. And I’m sure His Majesty was suitably grateful,’ came the silken reply. Then, ‘May I present my sister, Mistress Clifford?’

  Well-accustomed to dispersing awkwardness, Phoebe curtsied to her hostess and beamed at the Lieutenant-General. He patted her hand and commanded her to enjoy herself.

  It was unnecessary advice. Phoebe had already caught sight of a familiar russet head on the far side of the room and was so dizzy with anticipation that she could cheerfully have kissed Cromwell on his long, rosy nose.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure I will.’

  ‘Capital! Take them away and introduce them, Colonel. I think you’ll find that you know most people here. And then, later – after we’ve eaten – I’d like you to join myself and some of the others for a brief, informal meeting.’

  Gabriel inclined his head courteously but without noticeable enthusiasm and led his ladies away.

  Venetia said abruptly, ‘Is he always like that?’

  He eyed her witheringly.

  ‘No. And I shouldn’t complain, if I were you. At least he didn’t ask God to bless our union. Now. Who shall we choose to be civil to first?’

  ‘How about the earthworms?’ suggested Venetia, staring broodingly across the room. And, in response to Phoebe’s enquiring giggle, ‘O Cromwell! Thou art led by the nose by those covetous earthworms, Vane and St John. It’s Mr Lilburne’s view, of course. But I —’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Gabriel clamped his hand over hers and started heading for a group largely composed of officers and their wives. ‘This is neither the time nor the place. And if you can’t stomach Harry Vane, stay away from him.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she muttered. And summoned a smile as John Lambert turned to greet them.

  Truth to tell, Venetia didn’t dislike Major-General Lambert. He had an amusing air of cynicism – and, being less of a Puritan than many of his fellows, was happier discussing tulips than religion. Now she discovered that his wife, Frances, was equally easy to swallow – a vivacious, quick-witted brunette with excellent manners and a good deal of style. But the biggest surprise was undoubtedly Henry Ireton. Having read the Heads of the Proposals, Venetia had known that he was intelligent; she hadn’t, however, expected dark good looks and a cool, clinical logic that made him impossible to despise. Fortunately, his wife - Cromwell’s daughter, Bridget - was a different matter. She had her father’s nose, little conversation and the sort of piety which, in other times, would have been best suited to a convent.

  From the fringes of the group, Major Maxwell watched Phoebe standing mute while he
r sister turned the talk away from the peace negotiations taking place in Europe aimed at finally ending the German wars after thirty long years and replacing the topic with the progress made by the Scots towards raising an army. Eden grinned to himself and strolled idly round to the younger girl’s side.

  ‘That’s torn it,’ he murmured confidingly in her ear. ‘They’ll be at it hammer and tongs until supper. Come and let me find you a glass of wine.’

  Glowing with pleasure, Phoebe slid away from Venetia’s side saying shyly, ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I hoped you might be.’

  Eden’s brows rose a little but, assuming that she was just pleased to find a familiar face, he said, ‘You’re in luck, then. I’m not usually summoned to these affairs.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not important enough.’

  ‘Oh. But Gabriel is?’

  ‘A full Colonel with estates in the north? Absolutely. The only thing he needs now is a seat in Parliament.’

  Phoebe grinned.

  ‘No he doesn’t. He likes to get on with things, not sit around endlessly discussing them.’

  ‘That,’ agreed Eden, on a quiver of laughter, ‘is a very fair assessment. You like him, don’t you?’

  ‘Very much. Don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. But then, he and I are on the same side – whereas I would imagine your views coincide with those of your sister.’

  Phoebe’s breath caught. She wasn’t to know that Eden was trying to establish just how much Venetia resented Gabriel’s politics. She thought – or hoped, at any rate – that his words had a more personal implication; that he’d sought her out because he wanted to know her better. And consequently she said softly, ‘I suppose they do, after a fashion. But Venetia spent years at Court. I didn’t. So she feels an attachment to the King … whereas I care more for the people I know. Whatever their allegiances may be.’

  Eden smiled wryly.

  ‘You might feel differently if you were married to a Parliamentary soldier.’

  Again she misinterpreted his thoughts, this time catastrophically.

  ‘Why don’t you divorce her?’ she blurted out.

  The scarred face froze.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Phoebe flushed.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just thought —’

  ‘I doubt if you thought at all!’ snapped Eden. ‘However. Since you ask – and so that you won’t be tempted to do so again – I won’t divorce Celia because I don’t want my private life sold for a penny on every street corner.’

  ‘B-but it wouldn’t be, would it?’

  ‘Of course it would. If you need an example, think about the late Earl of Essex – and the press is a hundred times more active now than it was then.’ He folded his arms and looked down on her, breathing rather hard. ‘And if you’ve some misty-eyed notion that all my ills can be cured by the love of a good woman, you are utterly mistaken. I haven’t the slightest desire to marry again. Nor do I intend to do so.’

  From the far side of the room, Venetia watched her little sister wilting under Eden Maxwell’s frown and came to the conclusion that the Major was putting an end to Phoebe’s attack of calf-love – and none too gently, at that. Then she flicked a cool, meaningful glance at Gabriel, excused herself with practised grace from Frances Lambert and set off to see how much damage had been done.

  So intent was she on evaluating the look on Phoebe’s face that she did not notice the lady approaching her until they all but collided – and even then Venetia merely murmured an absent apology and would have continued on her way if the lady hadn’t suddenly addressed her.

  ‘Venetia Clifford! I knew I wasn’t mistaken.’

  Venetia turned sharply and then stood very still as surprise invaded every muscle. The flaming red hair was instantly familiar, as were the startlingly blue eyes. But the fine-boned face that ought to have gone with them was now decidedly puffy and the once slender figure had vanished beneath layers of firm, dimpled flesh.

  ‘Isabel?’ she said weakly. ‘Isabel Molyneux?’

  The palimpsest vision smiled thinly.

  ‘Lady Gillingham, now. George’s father died last year, you know.’

  Venetia murmured a few words of banal condolence. She had known the late Earl only by repute and, though she and Isabel had served the Queen together at Whitehall for a time and then briefly at Oxford during the war, they had somehow never gone beyond day-to-day courtesies.

  She said, ‘The Cromwells are friends of yours?’

  ‘Betty is,’ drawled her ladyship. ‘She likes having a Countess to grace her parties. And as for my willingness to oblige … well, necessity makes strange bedfellows. But I imagine you know that. So what brings you here?’

  There was a small, strained silence. Then, ‘My husband.’

  ‘Your husband? Ah yes. Of course. I remember now. You were betrothed to Edward Brandon, weren’t you?’

  ‘Ellis Brandon,’ corrected Venetia stonily. ‘Yes I was. But we didn’t marry. I’m married to his half-brother – who happens to be one of Cromwell’s Colonels.’

  ‘Dear me.’ The vivid blue gaze widened a fraction. ‘How enterprising of you. And how intriguing that Ellis should have been hiding a secret brother all these years.’

  ‘He wasn’t.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Venetia could see Mistress Cromwell starting to shepherd her guests in the direction of the table and realised that if she didn’t reach Phoebe now, she might have to wait until everyone had eaten. She therefore said baldly, ‘My husband is illegitimate. Excuse me. I really must find my sister.’ And she stalked purposefully off.

  When questioned, Phoebe flatly refused to answer; and before Venetia could press the matter, Mistress Cromwell arrived to draw them into dinner.

  Venetia found herself placed between the saturnine elegance of Henry Ireton and the pedantic bulk of Bulstrode Whitelocke. The first expounded the difficulties of dealing with a King who refused to accept that changes must be made; the second attended with great thoroughness to his plate. Diagonally opposite her, Gabriel had Bridget Ireton on one hand and pretty Frances Lambert – with whom he was enjoying an apparently amusing flirtation – on the other. On the rare occasions when their eyes met, his expression was one of bland mockery; and it was that, decided Venetia, which was making her want to push his face into the apricot custard.

  The meal – which had plainly been chosen on the grounds of economy rather than taste – seemed interminable and, when it was finally over, most of the gentlemen disappeared in the Lieutenant-General’s wake. Venetia was glad to see that Eden Maxwell was one of them but could not help wondering precisely what Gabriel was saying to account for the flash of temper she glimpsed on both their faces as they left the room. Then, leaving a still stubbornly reticent Phoebe in conversation with Bridget Ireton, she moved away to the window for a breath of air. Seconds later, Lady Gillingham materialised at her elbow.

  ‘My dear, I came to apologise,’ said Isabel. ‘I’m so immersed in my own problems that I often forget others have them, too.’

  Venetia looked back thoughtfully and then, with a wry smile, said, ‘That’s my besetting sin as well.’

  ‘Then it seems we’ve something in common.’

  ‘Perhaps. But at least you are here voluntarily.’

  ‘You think so?’ Her ladyship gave a small, bitter laugh. ‘I’m here because of money – or rather the lack of it. Our lands are under sequestration and the composition fine is set so high we can’t possibly meet it. Consequently, I’ve little choice but to make Betty Cromwell my dearest friend in the hope of gaining her husband’s influence.’

  Venetia’s brows rose. ‘Will that help?’

  ‘I’ve no idea – but I’ve tried everything else and George, of course, is utterly useless. However; do tell me. How did your marriage come about?’

  ‘It was … I suppose you might say it was arranged,’ admitted Venetia neutrally. ‘Ellis never shared his father’s politics and so Sir Robert
eventually chose to disinherit him in favour of the natural son who did. And I became part of the bargain.’

  ‘Then you have my every sympathy,’ was the warm reply. ‘It must be extremely difficult for you.’

  ‘At times. But that is less to do with Gabriel’s birth than the complete and irrevocable conflict of our loyalties.’

  There was a moment’s silence while the cornflower eyes gazed attentively back at her. Then, ‘Gabriel?’ enquired Isabel gently.

  ‘My husband – Colonel Brandon.’

  ‘Ah. Of course.’ Another pause. ‘Doubtless the red-haired gentleman I saw with your sister before dinner?’

  ‘No. The dark gentleman who is advancing on us this very minute,’ returned Venetia. And, as Gabriel arrived beside her, ‘That was quick. Have you worked out how to prevent a second war or simply how to win it?’

  ‘Neither – but the debate continues.’

  ‘Then I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.’ She smiled coolly at him before turning to the countess. ‘Isabel – allow me to present my husband, Colonel Brandon. Gabriel … this is Lady Gillingham, an old acquaintance of mine.’

  Gabriel bowed over the plump hand and wondered precisely what his wife had said to account for her ladyship’s rigid stare. Then, because he was pressed for time and didn’t really care what the woman thought of him, he said crisply, ‘I’m sorry to be precipitate, Venetia, but I’m afraid I need to take you back to Shoreditch.’

  ‘Already?’ she asked sweetly. ‘What a shame.’

  ‘Isn’t it? But I’m sure you’ll master your disappointment. And I, meanwhile, will attempt to console Phoebe.’

  The thread of meaning in his voice told Venetia everything she needed to know about his conversation with Major Maxwell. Meanwhile, Isabel Molyneux watched him walk away and then said lightly, ‘He’s very attractive. Those shoulders alone must be some compensation for his other drawbacks. But did he say Shoreditch?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a little out of the way, of course. But —’

  ‘Out of the way? My dear, it’s the back of beyond! But I daresay I might find my way there – if you’ll permit me to call?’