by Stella Riley
By the time they arrived at Brandon Lacey, all three of them were exhausted. As soon as they had eaten supper, Sophia took herself off, yawning, to her bed. Gabriel absorbed the feverish colour in his wife’s cheeks, the way her fingers wouldn’t stay steady and her sudden surge of bright, meaningless chatter and said gently, ‘Venetia … shall I say it for you?’
Her eyes flew to his and she stopped crumbling her bread.
‘Say what?’
‘That you would prefer, for a time at least, that I left you to sleep alone. That is what you were trying to work up to, wasn’t it?’
It had been … but she suddenly found it as difficult to admit as it had been to say.
‘I – I don’t know.’
Her answer hurt. Not just because he knew she was still shutting him out but because she was lying about it. Hiding behind a slightly crooked smile, he said, ‘Then perhaps I should give you the chance to find out. My door is always open. All you have to do is walk through it when you feel ready. But until then – and so I don’t make things worse by saying something crass – I’m going to give you time to deal with this in your own way.’
Her fingers whitened on the stem of her wine-glass and she said painfully, ‘You are never crass. And this is my fault, not yours. But I can’t … I don’t know how to mend it.’
‘By talking … and letting me help you.’
‘I can’t. I – I don’t know how.’
‘Not yet, perhaps. But you will. And, in the meantime, I am quite prepared to wait.’
*
Over the next few days, life settled back into something approaching its usual rhythm. Gabriel visited the tenants and toured the estate with Dick Carter, discussing crops, pasturage, the imminence of lambing and the potential yield of flax and wool for the coming year. Sophia spent hours with her beloved menagerie and found time to summon a stonemason to repair the dovecot. Venetia conducted a minute examination of the household accounts, plunged herself into an orgy of spring-cleaning … and successfully avoided thinking about anything that actually mattered.
Riding over from Ford Edge through the snow, Phoebe found her sister polite but uncommunicative. She learned the reasons for it from Gabriel, received a stern warning not to indulge her passion for probing and ended up saying doubtfully, ‘Very well – if that’s what you think is best. But I don’t think it’s the answer.’
‘Then what would you suggest?’ asked Gabriel curtly. ‘Forcing her to face up to it? In the space of an afternoon, she witnessed the King’s head being struck from his body, was trapped alone and in pain with a taunting she-devil and had her child murdered in her womb. I don’t know how that feels – and neither do you. But since it’s obvious she’s been through quite enough already, I’m damned if I’m going to risk adding to it.’
Phoebe sighed.
‘All right. I take your point. But perhaps you should at least try to stop her wallowing in Eikon Basilike.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Eikon Basilike,’ she repeated obligingly. ‘They’re calling it the King’s Book – though obviously he didn’t write it. It’s an account of his tribulations, mixed with prayers and meditations – and, by all accounts, it’s selling quicker than it can be printed. Venetia bought a copy from the carrier. Didn’t you know?’
‘No,’ said Gabriel wearily. ‘I didn’t.’ He paused, frowning a little. ‘Perhaps you could ask her to lend it to you?’
‘I already did. She wouldn’t.’
‘Oh. I’ll ask Sophy, then.’
‘That might work, I suppose.’ Phoebe eyed him critically. ‘You look as tense as a lute-string, you know. How long do you think you’ll go on without snapping?’
He smiled wryly and took his time about answering. Then, shrugging, ‘As long as I have to.’
*
Without appearing to do so, Sophia kept a shrewd eye on Venetia’s lack of progress and the effect it was having on Gabriel. And when, after they had been home for over a fortnight, she walked past the open door of the bookroom and glimpsed him sitting absolutely rigid, with his eyes pressed into the heels of his hands, she decided it was time to interfere.
Shutting the door behind her and taking the room’s only other chair, she said simply, ‘It will pass, you know. Eventually.’
Gabriel dropped his hands from his face and stared down at them.
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘She doesn’t mean it.’
‘I know that, too.’ He paused and then said, ‘But she … she tries.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ Like him, Sophia had watched Venetia’s attempts to appear normal; her brittle smiles and chatter that vanished as soon as she thought no one was looking. ‘You’d rather she didn’t.’
He looked up then, his expression no longer controlled.
‘Yes,’ was all he said.
It was enough.
*
Sophia found Venetia in the linen-room. Once more shutting the door behind her, she said quietly, ‘I want you to listen to me. No one expects you to get over this easily. But it’s been nearly six weeks now … and there are things you ought to start considering.’
Venetia froze for an instant and then turned the page of her inventory with unsteady fingers.
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the fact that – terrible as your loss is – it could have been worse. You might have lost Gabriel, too. Have you forgotten that?’
The pain-filled eyes turned slowly towards her.
‘No. Of course I haven’t.’
‘Then perhaps you might trying showing it,’ said Sophia. ‘He’s safe at your side and has resigned from the Army. And, in the fullness of time, there will be other babies.’
Venetia’s breath snarled in her throat.
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I know. But not - not that one. And I wanted it so much.’
Sophia hesitated briefly and then came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be gained by stopping now.
‘And you think Gabriel didn’t?’
‘I – no. But this is all my fault. All of it. So it’s – it’s different.’
‘No. It isn’t. He’s as devastated as you are. The only difference is that, being Gabriel, he will suffer in silence and go on presenting a brave face until he cracks.’ She paused, watching her words sink in and then added, ‘You saw what Wat’s death did to him. Do you honestly think he finds the loss of a child easier to bear? Do you think he finds it any easier than you do?’
‘I don’t – I hadn’t thought —’
‘Obviously not. When Wat died, you helped him cope. Now I don’t believe you’ve even offered him the chance to talk about how he feels having discovered who his mother is.’
Venetia swallowed and frowned down at her hands, saying nothing.
Sophia looked at her for a moment and then said, ‘This can’t go on, Venetia. He’s strong but he’s not a machine. And he needs you to share your pain with him so that he can share his with you. If you don’t … if you continue shutting him out … he may feel he has no choice but to go away for a time.’
Venetia looked up suddenly, her expression bewildered.
‘Why? Why would he do that?’
‘Because he thinks his being here makes it harder for you than it need be. And because it’s cutting him into little pieces watching you try to pretend you aren’t bleeding inside,’ said Sophia flatly. ‘Think about it.’
For a long time after Sophia had gone, Venetia remained where she was, staring blindly at the closed door. At first, she merely felt dazed and empty – exactly as she had done for the last month. Then, gradually, the first dim filterings of sensation returned … and, with them, anguish. Sobs tore at her throat and, folding her arms hard across her chest, she crumpled slowly amidst the sheets and bolsters and sobbed.
She cried until she was exhausted. Then, almost without realising it, she began tentatively exploring the things that Sophia had said; and, in doing so, gradually came to understand th
e terrible thing she’d been unwittingly doing to Gabriel. And found she couldn’t bear that either.
*
When Venetia’s maid appeared to say that her mistress would not be coming down to supper, Sophia’s heart sank. It was not the first time since their return that Venetia had chosen to take a tray in her room rather than sit at table with them; but, on this particular night, Sophia had hoped for better things – and was also afraid she had done more harm than good.
Gabriel accepted his wife’s defection without comment, fed most of what was on his plate to Trixie and addressed himself with more thoroughness than was usual to the wine-bottle while Sophia prattled rather desperately about the repairs to the dovecot.
He remained in the parlour long after Sophia had gone to bed, staring bleakly into the fire and drinking steadily. By the time he decided he’d had sufficient to stop himself lying awake thinking, it was close on midnight and he was more than a little cupshot. Concentrating hard, he climbed the stairs and, as on all the other nights, made himself turn right to his own room instead of left to Venetia’s. Then, throwing open his door with a sort of suppressed violence, he stepped over the threshold and stopped dead.
Standing in a pool of light by the fire with her hair falling loose over her chamber-robe and her eyes full of apprehension, was Venetia. Unprepared both for her presence and what it did to him, Gabriel stood very still, holding fast to the door-jamb. And finally she said simply, ‘Your door was open … and I came through it.’
With immense caution, he reinflated his lungs.
‘So I see,’ he replied. And then, because floating somewhere inside the wine-haze was the vague idea that it mattered, ‘Why?’
‘To say I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. That I’m sorry – so very sorry – for everything. And to talk … if that’s what you still want.’
There was a long, reflective silence. Then he said carefully, ‘It’s what I want. But right now it might be difficult.’
‘Difficult?’
‘Yes. Because I’m not… not entirely sober. Not at all, in fact.’
Ludicrously, since he generally drank very little, it was the very last thing she had expected. She said uncertainly, ‘Is that a joke?’
‘No. Just lam-lamentable timing on somebody’s part,’ came the slightly slurred reply. Then, conversationally, ‘Do you think you might come over here?’
A sudden surge of emotion left Venetia not knowing whether to laugh or cry. This incredible, strong, loving, beautiful man who never demanded or complained, had been trying to drink his hurt away rather than let her see it. She swallowed hard and thought, Oh Gabriel. How can you love me when I deserve it so little?
As lightly as she was able, she said, ‘Why? Are you afraid you’ll fall over?’
A loose, glinting smile dawned.
‘It’s a possibility.’
Smiling back - albeit a little mistily - and, shaking her head, she crossed the room towards him. Gabriel waited until she was within reach and then, pushing the door shut, caught her to him.
‘About time too,’ he grumbled. And, twining his fingers in her hair, sought her mouth with a hunger bordering on desperation.
They did not talk that night … or not about anything that mattered … and neither did they make love. There was plenty of time, they now knew, for both of those things; and these first hours were for nothing more than the simple, healing pleasure of being together.
They slept eventually and awoke slowly when the day was well-advanced to lie lazily smiling at each other. Then, turning her mouth against the warm skin of his shoulder, Venetia murmured, ‘I forgive you for last night. But if you now tell me that you have a headache, I may not be so lenient.’
Gabriel remained perfectly still and it was a moment before he replied, ‘What headache?’
A tiny sound that defied interpretation escaped her. Her lips trailed up his throat and she moved closer, her hand travelling languorously down over his ribs and beyond. His breath caught but still he made no move to touch her and, lifting her head, she peered provocatively at him through her hair.
‘There’s no hurry. You can join in whenever you want.’
The grey eyes looked impenetrably back at her.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘Aren’t you?’
Gabriel trapped her exploring hand and stilled it. He said gently, ‘I wanted you to come back to me mentally. Just that. For the rest … isn’t it a bit soon?’
Her brows rose. ‘You’d rather wait another month or so?’
‘No. But —’
‘Neither would I.’ She slid her foot temptingly up his calf until her thigh lay over his and waited. Then, when he neither kissed her nor released her hand, she said rapidly, ‘It’s all right. I’m perfectly well. Do you think I’d be doing my best to seduce you if I wasn’t?’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated, looking full into his eyes. ‘I need this, Gabriel. I need you … to make me whole again. Please?’
There was a pause. Then, ‘The first rule of warfare,’ returned Gabriel, ‘is good intelligence.’ In one swift, fluid movement, he pinned her beneath him and grinned. ‘The second is never to leave your flank exposed.’
‘Oh.’ Delicious heat started to flow through her. ‘Well, judging by the scar you got at Breda, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’
Laughter flared in his face and then was gone. His mouth teased hers with familiar, tantalising lightness and his hands drifted lazily over the curves and planes of her body. Venetia’s breathing shortened and her fingers tangled in his hair. As aroused as she but - except in one particular - better at concealing it, Gabriel lifted his head and looked down at her.
‘Did I ever tell you about Breda?’
‘No.’
He slid his leg between hers.
‘The siege lasted nearly a year, you know. I remember how —’
‘Stop – stop. I’m sorry I mentioned it. Are you going to kiss me again or not?’
‘Probably. All in good time.’ He made a small but significant shift in his position and watched her eyes darken. ‘You’re a wanton hussy. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ came the ragged reply. Then, a little later and with increased difficulty as his mouth followed the path of his hands, ‘But whose fault is that?’
When finally he entered her, the incandescent pleasure of their joining was threaded with something new. A sense of completion and fulfilment that only he could provide and which told her she was finally home … and that healing was possible after all.
Almost without being aware of it, she breathed, ‘I love you so much. So very much.’
And heard him whisper back, ‘Heart of my heart … I’m yours. Utterly and entirely, to the end of my days.’
*
Much later, they went down hand-in-hand to the parlour and found Sophia, James Bancroft and Phoebe in vociferous consultation with the stonemason.
‘Oh God!’ breathed Gabriel on a faint quiver of laughter. ‘Don’t tell me – the thrice-basted dovecot again.’
Four pairs of eyes turned with one accord and the room fell abruptly silent. Then Phoebe grinned, Uncle James allowed his gaze to wander and Sophia said tactfully, ‘My dears – I’m so glad you’re here. Mr Felton was just telling us something quite intriguing.’
Gabriel slid an arm about his wife’s waist and smiled blandly. ‘Oh?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask what?’ demanded Phoebe.
‘No. But doubtless you’re going to tell me.’
Venetia laughed and leaned her head against one broad shoulder.
‘Ignore him, Phoebe. We’re fascinated. Really we are.’
‘No you’re not. But you will be. Tell them, Mr Felton.’
The stonemason shrugged slightly and meeting the Colonel’s gaze, said, ‘As you probably know, aside from the recent damage, the whole structure is in a very poor state of repair – so I’ve
had to remove various parts of it in order to replace them. And this morning I came across what appears to be a box, wedged inside the column. I was just asking whether I was to take it out or leave it be.’
‘Ah.’ Gabriel surveyed Phoebe with maddening calm. ‘And you think it’s the Garland.’
‘Yes. But even if it isn’t, we still have to know, don’t we? And it’s so obvious. The dovecot’s been there forever and it’s the only place no one would ever think to look. Also, why —’
‘All right – all right.’ He looked at the stonemason. ‘Is there any possibility that removing this box might cause the dovecot to collapse altogether?’
Mr Felton smiled reassuringly. ‘None at all, sir.’
‘Pity,’ said Gabriel. And, with a grin, ‘However … if I’m to get any peace at all, you’d better pull the thing out anyway.’
‘I should think so, too,’ said Phoebe. And she hustled the stonemason willy-nilly through the door.
‘Oh dear,’ said Sophia. ‘I hope it doesn’t turn out to be the bones of someone’s favourite falcon.’
Ten minutes later and pink with cold, Phoebe returned clutching a small and extremely dirty lead casket. Laying it in Gabriel’s hands, she said, ‘It’s locked.’
‘And you want me to break it open.’
‘Yes. Preferably today.’
Shaking his head, he took a cursory look at the casket, stooped to lay it on the hearthstone and briskly struck off the rusting lock with the aid of one of the fire-irons. Then he set about trying to prise it open.
Venetia, Sophia and James Bancroft gathered with Phoebe to watch. And finally, with a protesting grown, the lid started to lift.
Gabriel stood up. ‘Now?’ he asked.
‘Now,’ nodded Phoebe, breathlessly.
Slowly, his fingers forced the casket open. Inside it were no gold or jewels – or, indeed, anything obvious value. Only a slender scroll of parchment, wrapped in rotting blue silk.
‘Oh,’ said Phoebe disappointedly. Then, brightening again, ‘Perhaps it’s a map.’
‘God forbid,’ murmured Gabriel, setting down the casket and lifting out the scroll so he could unroll it. Then, frowning, ‘It’s not a map. I think … I think it’s a poem. Venetia?’