Garland of Straw (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 2)

by Stella Riley

  *

  In truth, she hadn’t previously had any intention of going out; but a natural reluctance to let Gabriel know it, coupled with a small but undeniably exhilarating sense of triumph changed her mind. And two hours later, she was inside one of the elegant new houses in Inigo Jones’s Covent Garden piazza, asking if Lady Gillingham was at home.

  The room into which she was shown was light, well-proportioned and exquisitely furnished. A king’s ransom in books lined one wall and a glowing French tapestry adorned another; a portrait of the late Earl by Van Dyck hung over the fireplace and an impressive array of English silver and French porcelain graced the carved, oak court-cupboard. Venetia found herself wondering why Isabel continually pleaded poverty when – no matter how high the composition fine on the Gillingham lands had been set – the books alone would probably pay it twice over. Then the door opened and her ladyship shot in looking oddly harassed.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ she said, her voice both breathless and faintly brittle. ‘I didn’t know you were back in London. If you’d sent word, I’d have called on you.’

  Venetia’s brows rose almost imperceptibly.

  ‘I’m sorry. Have I come at a bad time?’

  ‘No, no. I’m delighted to see you – truly. Only you know the problems I have.’ Isabel arrived at Venetia’s side and lowered her voice confidentially. ‘My motherin-law’s here and I know just how it will be if she meets you. She’ll say the most terrible things and you’ll believe her. Everyone does. She – she bewitches people.’

  ‘Then perhaps I should go.’

  ‘No. No – not just yet. Not before you’ve told me some of your news.’ Catching Venetia’s hand in a feverish grip, Isabel drew her to a chair and sat down beside her. ‘How do you come to be here again so soon? I thought you were to stay in Yorkshire for the harvest.’

  ‘I was. But Gabriel’s duty brought him south and so —’

  ‘He’s with you?’ The words cracked like a pistol shot.

  Venetia blinked. ‘Yes. He brought the Duke of Hamilton and some other prisoners to London. And since the bulk of his regiment is still in the North, he’s been temporarily assigned to guard-duty at the Tower.’

  ‘Dear me,’ murmured Isabel reflectively. ‘Dear me. And doubtless you are once more living with the Colonel’s foster-family?’

  ‘Not this time.’ Venetia gave the ghost of a smile and explained about Luciano del Santi’s generosity.

  For once, Isabel listened without interrupting. Then she drawled, ‘Well, I suppose Cheapside is some improvement on Shoreditch. But surely you didn’t walk here unattended?’

  ‘Why not? It’s hardly the other side of the earth, after all. And being country-bred, my maid is —’

  ‘You mean you haven’t even a groom? Good God! Then who carries your messages?’

  ‘I haven’t had occasion to send any. But I suppose Mr Larkin would do it if I asked him.’

  ‘I daresay. But do you trust him?’

  ‘Yes,’ began Venetia. And then, suddenly thinking of Ellis and the fact that, if he materialised again, she might be glad of a go-between, ‘To a point, anyway.’

  ‘There you are, then. You need someone you can rely on. And I,’ announced Isabel earnestly, ‘have just the man. He’s always been loyal to me – so naturally the Dowager is set on getting rid of him. And she’ll do it, too. She always gets what she wants. So if you can find a use for him, you’ll be doing me a favour.’

  Venetia shook her head.

  ‘I only need someone while I’m here in London. After that —’

  ‘After that, if you don’t wish to keep him on, I’ll find him another position. So what do you say?’

  Feeling rather like a piece of rolled-out pastry, Venetia hesitated and then gave in.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see that he’s ready to leave with you.’ Her ladyship rose, shook the creases from her lilac taffeta and, with no warning whatsoever, said, ‘You’re dreadfully pale, my dear. You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  Startled and somewhat disconcerted, Venetia said unevenly, ‘No. No – of course not.’

  For a moment, the too-vivid gaze seemed to see right through her. Then Isabel said, ‘You should take better care of yourself. I’ll tell Harris of our arrangement and give him some of my special cordial for you. I’m sure you’ll find it most beneficial.’

  The door closed behind her and Venetia gave a sigh of relief. She had no intention of telling Isabel – or anyone else, for that matter – about what had happened between herself and Gabriel that last night at Brandon Lacey; but she’d just come perilously close to giving away a clue or two through sheer clumsiness. And that, when she had always prided herself on having a cool head, was downright frightening.

  Unable to sit still, she crossed the room to examine the books. And then the door opened again and a woman came in.

  Though of moderate height and slender build, she was by no means young – for the dark hair was stranded with silver and there were lines and shadows about the thickly-fringed eyes. But it was obvious that she had once been a great beauty; and she still had the kind of elegant simplicity that most women envied but few could achieve. Venetia closed the book she was holding and expelled her breath. This, presumably, was Susannah, Dowager Countess of Gillingham. She wasn’t at all what one might have expected from Isabel’s tales; and something about her gave Venetia a vague feeling of having seen her before.

  Unsmilingly but in a rich, warm contralto, the Dowager said, ‘You must be a friend of my daughter-in-law.’

  Venetia replaced the book and curtsied.

  ‘Yes, my lady. My name is Venetia Brandon and I —’

  ‘Brandon?’ The echo was quick and soft. Then, with a slight shrug, ‘Ah – the Suffolk branch, no doubt.’

  ‘No.’ Unwilling to enter the convoluted labyrinth of genealogy, Venetia said, ‘My late father-in-law was a Yorkshireman.’

  ‘I – see.’ The Dowager paused, eyeing her with a strange sort of remoteness. ‘So you are married. To whom?’

  ‘A Colonel in the New Model Army,’ said Venetia, tiring of the interrogation and determined to put an end to it. ‘You must be wondering where Isabel is. But I’m taking on one of her servants, you see, so she’s just —’

  ‘Which one?’ The musical voice sharpened suddenly.

  ‘I believe his name is Harris.’

  ‘Ah.’ A frown appeared but, as ever, she seemed in no hurry to speak. Then, ‘Tell me … do you know Isabel well?’

  ‘Well enough. We served the Queen together.’

  ‘At Whitehall and in Oxford,’ added Isabel gratingly from the door. Her knuckles glowed white on the latch and the blue eyes were no longer empty. ‘So all your lies will be wasted, for Venetia won’t believe them.’

  ‘Lies?’ The Dowager turned with sudden, bitter weariness. ‘What lies could surpass the truth?’

  Impaled by the china-blue gaze and feeling intensely uncomfortable, Venetia said hastily, ‘I’m sorry – but I really must leave, Isabel.’

  ‘Yes. It’s no good staying, after all. She’ll spoil everything. And Harris is waiting to escort you. You’ll like him. I know you will. And when he returns for his things, he can tell me where to find you so I can call. You’ll let me call, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Venetia curtsied briskly to the Dowager. ‘I’m pleased to have met you, my lady.’

  ‘Polite but untrue, I fear,’ came the oblique reply. ‘And I think that, just this once, I am sorry for it.’

  Out in the hall, Isabel disintegrated into another impassioned torrent and it was therefore several minutes before Venetia reached the safety of the street with Harris following a correct two paces behind her. From the little she had seen, he was a large, softly-spoken young man with dun-coloured hair and a helpful demeanour. Venetia wondered what the Dowager had against him; and then, recalling Isabel’s past history, decided that it was probably better not to know.

 
*

  With two Royalist gentlemen confined below stairs and a host of other problems, Gabriel accepted the addition of Tom Harris to the household with no more than a lifted eyebrow and a pithy remark. Wat, on the other hand, conceived an instant and apparently unreasoning dislike of the newcomer and, when not occupied elsewhere, took to keeping him under subtle surveillance – until, that was, a severe attack of colic unexpectedly confined him to bed.

  On the day Mr Larkin fell sick, Venetia received an airy, apologetic visit from Isabel and a letter from Phoebe, gleefully announcing the departure of their aunt and cousins from Ford Edge. On the following morning, however, learning that the invalid was no better, she climbed the stairs to see for herself.

  Wat, consumed with stomach pains and feeling as sick as a dog, greeted her with apparent loathing. Venetia told him to hold his tongue or she’d leave him to suffer. Then she assessed his condition, brewed a concoction of mint and balm and stood over him until he drank it.

  By the time she reappeared with a second dose, Wat was feeling sufficiently improved to swallow the mixture without argument. Then he said bluntly, ‘I reckon it’s time you and me had a bit of a talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what’s going on in Gabriel’s head.’

  Venetia kept her gaze carefully blank.

  ‘I’d have thought you would know more of that than I.’

  ‘Yes – and time was when I would have. But whatever’s gnawing at his vitals now, it’s something he can’t bring himself to tell me. So I thought maybe you might.’

  ‘And why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Because it’s gnawing at you as well, lass – and has been ever since Uttoxeter, if not before.’

  Understanding from Mr Larkin was the very last thing Venetia had expected and, to her horror, she felt a lump forming in her throat. Swallowing hard, she said, ‘Haven’t you guessed? He thinks I’ve done something terrible.’

  ‘Ah.’ Wat fixed her with a shrewd stare. ‘And have you?’

  ‘No. I’ve been stupid and blind and unfair and said things I wish I hadn’t. I admit that. But I haven’t … I haven’t done what he thinks I have.’

  ‘So you’ll have told him that.’

  ‘I tried. At first he wasn’t in any mood to listen and now he never stands still long enough.’ She paused and then, looking at him, drew a slightly uneven breath. ‘You know, don’t you? You know what he thinks I’ve done?’

  ‘I could take a fair guess,’ agreed Wat, neutrally. ‘What I haven’t worked out is what he did about it.’

  Venetia coloured. ‘He lost his temper. But I don’t blame him for that.’

  ‘No. But he might blame himself.’ Wat winced as a fresh spasm twisted his guts. ‘Was he violent?’

  ‘No. And you know better than to ask that.’ She turned restlessly away towards the window. ‘I can’t discuss this, Mr Larkin. It wouldn’t be right. All I can say is that Gabriel has nothing to reproach himself with – or to apologise for.’

  Having by now acquired a surprisingly accurate picture, Wat fired his final salvo.

  ‘Do you love him?’

  Shock caught her by the throat. ‘That’s not a fair question.’

  ‘I know. Do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long, thoughtful silence.

  ‘Then you’d better get used to calling me Wat, hadn’t you?’ he said.

  Venetia turned slowly and met a deceptively irritable scowl.

  ‘And you,’ she remarked, ‘had better start eating at home where we know one mushroom from another.’

  The scowl turned into a look she couldn’t identify.

  ‘Are you saying,’ asked Wat, ‘that I’ve been poisoned?’

  Since she hadn’t meant it literally, Venetia’s first impulse was to observe that if he had been, someone had made a shocking poor job of it. Then, upon due reflection, she said, ‘Given your symptoms, I suppose it’s possible. But it’s hardly likely, is it? Unless, of course, you’ve upset someone by winning at dice a bit too often – or got your lady-friends mixed up?’

  Mr Larkin eyed her with a sort of disgusted approval.

  ‘I said you could call me Wat,’ he grunted. ‘I didn’t say I’d tolerate sauce.’

  ~ ~ ~

  SEVEN

  Having served under Prince Rupert during the first war – though at different times - Francis and Justin had less difficulty settling amicably into Luciano del Santi’s workroom than they had in agreeing why Colonel Brandon seemed in no hurry to discuss money. Francis maintained that it was because Eden knew perfectly well that he himself didn’t have any. Justin, less sanguine and worried about his wife, pointed out that it didn’t make any difference. The Colonel was supposed to be ransoming them on behalf of his regiment; and, unless he wanted to face a charge of corruption, he was going to have to do it.

  By the time ten days had passed, Gabriel was beginning to think so too. He had chosen guards who were not exactly over-burdened with intelligence, magisterially ordered Venetia to stay away from the prisoners and done his damnedest to make her believe that he’d sell them to the galleys if the price was right – but all to no avail. She merely behaved as if the Cavaliers downstairs didn’t exist and continued looking at him in a way that was starting to haunt his sleep.

  He knew that sooner or later they were going to have to talk about what had happened at Brandon Lacey. The trouble was that, now his anger had cooled, he had fallen victim to an emotion that was infinitely more dangerous and which he didn’t know how to fight. Worse still, he’d also started to doubt some of his previous assumptions.

  When he’d hauled her off to bed, he’d put her fear and reluctance down to the obvious; he wasn’t Ellis, he wasn’t a gentleman and he was mind-blowingly furious – so she’d expected the worst. But somehow, when he thought about it – and he did think about it - that didn’t quite add up. She’d seemed to think he was just going to put her on her back and have her … and when he hadn’t … when he’d put his hands on her, she’d been genuinely shocked by her own response. In short, if he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought she’d never been with a man before. And that led him to a possible conclusion that, in the wake of his own actions, he preferred not to contemplate.

  So he went on avoiding her … and would have probably gone on doing so had not Wat taken a hand in the matter by helping Venetia to trap him in the parlour one evening when Eden was out.

  She shut the door and leaned against it, her hand still resting on the latch. Then she said simply, ‘I can’t go on like this. Either talk to me or let me go home.’

  Gabriel stood very still and controlled an impulse to push past her and walk out. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that, if he got that close, he’d catch the scent of her hair and might even have to touch her. Deciding not to take the risk, he said, ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because I don’t deserve this. I’ve made a good many mistakes during the course of our marriage but adultery isn’t one of them. I lay with Ellis exactly three times just before I left Oxford in 1644. I have not slept with him since – nor ever, for a single instant, considered it. As for his visit after Preston, I neither wanted nor invited it. I kept him locked in the east wing and sent him packing as soon as I could. And I will swear to that on anything, or before anyone you care to name.’

  The wide eyes met his with every appearance of candour. Forcing himself to concentrate on saying nothing he might regret, he said coolly, ‘Isn’t it a little late to be telling me all this? If you’d revealed your previous liaison before we were married, I would have had fewer misconceptions and Ellis, less scope for his malicious remarks. And if his stay at Brandon Lacey was as innocent as you say – why didn’t you tell me about it as soon as I arrived?’

  ‘Because I knew how it would look to you,’ she replied. ‘And because I – I was afraid it would destroy the foundations which you and I had only just begun to build and which mattered a great
deal to me. As they still do.’

  ‘Do they?’ An ironic smile curled his mouth. ‘Then it’s a pity we seem to have built them on sand.’

  ‘We didn’t. We just … haven’t trusted each other as much as we should have done.’

  ‘My God!’ Gabriel gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘That’s the most thundering euphemism I’ve ever heard. You’ve never trusted me at all. I’m just the Roundhead bastard you were forced to demean yourself by marrying.’

  Venetia flinched.

  ‘That’s not true any more. But after what I said at Thorne Ash, I can’t blame you for thinking it. All I can say is that I didn’t mean it the way it must have sounded – and that I deeply regret it. My only excuse is that my nerves were raw.’

  ‘So, as it happens, were mine.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  He stared at her across the width of the room, wishing his sense of proportion had stayed buried. Then he said abruptly, ‘Why? I was quite atrociously insulting and we both know it. Also, if apologies are the order of the day, I most certainly owe you one for my lack of self-control at Brandon Lacey. It was, of course, entirely inexcusable.’

  ‘But understandable.’ Venetia coloured faintly. ‘Also – as you yourself pointed out – it wasn’t rape.’

  ‘No. But you expected it to be, didn’t you?’ Turning away slightly, he leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and frowned down into the fire while he grappled with the most difficult question of all. ‘You didn’t want to lie with me … but you didn’t fight it. Was that because you were afraid of what might happen if you did?’

  ‘If you mean, did I believe you would hurt me – no. I never thought that.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘It’s … complicated.’ She drew a slightly shaky breath and summoning all her courage, said ‘The truth is that I was afraid – but not of you. Also, I didn’t think fighting you would help or make it any better. And I … I didn’t want to do it anyway.’

  He looked at her then, the frown still lingering in his eyes.