by Jane Feather
“If you will entrust this matter to me, Your Majesty, I give you my word I will not fail you.” Brian spoke earnestly, a throb of sincerity in his voice.
“We put our trust in you, sir.” The king rose to his feet. “Gentlemen . . .” He gestured in brief farewell and walked to the door. An equerry jumped to open it for him, and the king departed his bowing subjects, Prince Rupert on his heels.
“Lay your plans carefully, Morse,” Sir Jacob advised, moving to the door himself. “Granville’s no fool.”
“No, but he’s a newly married man,” one of the others said with a cynical chuckle. “He’ll have a few other things on his mind I daresay . . . for a month or two at least.”
Brian made no response to this sally. He walked to the window opposite the quadrangle. This one looked out over the broad sweep of Christ Church meadow and the line of winter-bare trees along the riverbank. It was a peaceful scene, one that made it hard to imagine the war raging beyond the city walls. Tom Tower struck five, its hollow, sonorous chime booming out over the city.
Cato had a new bride. New brides meant children. Brian’s luck couldn’t hold forever. One day Granville was going to get a son, unless something intervened. So far and against many odds Granville had survived the war, and with his luck he might well continue to do so. But Brian’s first priority must be the new bride. The wedding had been a month ago and she could well have conceived by now, be even now carrying the child that would disinherit him.
He stared out into the lowering dusk, his mouth pinched and hard. He had managed to dispose of the other one before she could produce more than squalling girl children; her sister should be no more difficult. He’d never met the girl, but if she was anything like Diana, she’d be easy to cozen, without a thought in her head but pleasure and fashion. Once under Granville’s roof he would find the way to remove her. But first, maybe he could use her. He had nearly succeeded in using Diana to work against Cato. Why not this one? And then once she’d served her purpose, he’d get rid of her . . . her and whatever embryo she was carrying.
And then, if the war hadn’t taken care of Cato, he’d have to turn his attention that way. Accidents were easy to arrange for a fertile and imaginative mind.
Brian nodded to himself as the last chimes of Tom Tower died in the dusk.
Cato and Giles Crampton rode into the stable yard at midday. It was a bright, clear day with even an intimation of warmth in the early March sunshine.
“ ’Ow long d’ye reckon we’ll be at ’ome this time, m’lord?” Giles inquired with apparent casualness. He whistled tunelessly between his teeth as he looped the reins over his mount’s neck and dismounted.
Cato was well aware that Giles was seething with the need to get back to the business in hand—the long and dreary siege of Basing House. They’d only managed to spend three days there before Cato had received a message from Cromwell to attend a briefing in the general’s camp outside Oxford. Giles, his most trusted lieutenant, had perforce to accompany him. Giles as usual was torn between his need to oversee the health, welfare, and discipline of the Granville militia and his need to be at his commander’s side.
On the way to Cromwell’s headquarters, Cato had made the detour to his own house in Woodstock. It was hard to tear his mind away from its constant preoccupation with the war, but he could not ride right by his house without checking up on the health and welfare of his wife and daughters
“A couple of hours today, then we’ll ride into Cromwell’s camp this evening. After the meeting I’ll probably spend a day or two here. You may return to the siege.” Cato dismounted as he spoke, handing the reins of his bay charger to a groom. As he did so, his two small daughters, riding Shetland ponies whose leading reins were held by a stolid groom, came into the yard.
They smiled shyly at their father as he came over to them, and solemnly informed him that they had been learning to trot. At four and five that was impressive, Cato reflected as he congratulated them with appropriate gravity. But their mother had been an intrepid horsewoman. So very unlike her little sister.
He left the children and made his way back to the house, thinking how he must teach Phoebe to overcome her fear of horses. It was absurd that she would only ride pillion behind a groom. There wouldn’t be time this visit, but as soon as he had a few days clear, he would begin.
The soft weathered brick of the manor house was mellow in the sunshine, the mullioned windows gleaming. He caught himself thinking as he approached the house how welcoming it looked. He caught himself remembering how much he’d enjoyed coming back to Nan after an absence. Her dislike of the bedchamber hadn’t ever dulled the warmth and affection of their companionship. He knew he’d been fortunate in the comradely pleasures of that marriage, and her death had grieved him terribly. Much more so than the death of Brian’s mother. Their marriage had been too brief for any real emotional attachment. The marriages of his friends and his own to Diana had taught him how rare were the conjugal ease and affection he’d enjoyed with Nan. It had taken him a few bitter and disillusioning months to realize he wouldn’t get it from Diana; he wouldn’t set himself up for disappointment with her little sister.
The housekeeper glided across the hall to greet him as he entered, blinking to adjust his eyes after the brightness outside.
“Good morrow, Your Lordship. We wasn’t expecting you for another week.”
“No, but I have business outside Oxford and stopped on the way,” he said, tossing his whip onto the long bench beside the door and drawing off his gloves. “Is Lady Granville within?”
“She’s abovestairs, I believe, m’lord. I believe she’s not yet risen this morning.”
Cato frowned. Phoebe was never a slugabed and it was now past midday.
“Good morrow, sir.” Olivia came down the stairs, the inevitable book in her hand. “We weren’t expecting you t-today.”
“No, I have a summons to headquarters,” Cato replied, regarding his daughter with a smile that sprang directly from his earlier thoughts. Olivia was so very like her mother, except for the long Granville nose. She had the same habit of drawing her brows together and pursing her lips when she was considering something.
“I c-came down for some reading candles,” Olivia informed him. “It’s hard to see to read in the parlor even though the sun’s shining.”
“What are you reading?”
“Caesar’s Commentarii.” Olivia showed him the spine of the book. “It’s m-most interesting. About the Gallic wars.” Cato nodded. “I remember it.”
“D-didn’t you find it interesting?” Her black eyes shone.
“Not particularly,” Cato said with a reminiscent smile. “I think any recognition of its finer points had to be flogged into me.”
Olivia regarded him in patent disbelief. “How c-could you not find it completely absorbing?”
Nan had never evinced her daughter’s passion for scholarship, she’d been far too down-to-earth, but she’d had a needle-sharp wit that Olivia had certainly inherited. Cato reached out and lightly patted his daughter’s cheek. “The military history interested me,” he offered.
Olivia gave him a shrewd look. Despite his smile, she could detect a constraint in his eyes, a slight tension between his brows. “Are you sad about something?”
Cato shook his head. “No, but the siege is grim . . . grimmer even than most.”
Olivia nodded and reached up to touch his hand. The bond they shared was usually unspoken, but there were times when a fleeting gesture expressed the inexpressible.
Cato’s fingers briefly closed over Olivia’s. “Where’s Phoebe?”
Olivia frowned. “I haven’t seen her this morning. Perhaps she’s writing her p-play.”
“Play?”
“Yes, she’s writing a play.” Olivia stated this as coolly as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “She’s a very good poet.”
Cato had had no idea his wife had literary pretensions. It didn’t sound like Phoebe at all.
>
He shook his head as if to dismiss this puzzle and made for the stairs, taking them easily two at a time without even appearing to hurry. He strode down the corridor leading to the east wing and opened the door to his bedchamber.
The room was in darkness, the curtains still pulled across the windows, and still shrouding the bed. The fire was almost out in the grate.
Cato went to the bed and drew aside the curtain. “Phoebe, are you ill?”
She was a curled mound at the furthest edge of the bed, and as he spoke she turned with a little groan onto her back. Her face was pale in the gloom, her eyes heavy. She certainly didn’t look well.
Sick . . . pregnant perhaps?
“What is it?” he asked, keeping the eagerness from his voice as he drew the curtain further back so that he could see her more clearly.
Phoebe turned again on her side, but this time facing him, drawing her knees up with another little groan. “It’s my terms,” she muttered, sending his hopes plummeting. “It’s always bad the first day, but this is worse than usual.”
So a month of duty-filled nights had produced no fruit. He looked down at her, frowning.
“Oh, I’m so indiscreet,” Phoebe wailed at his frown, closing her eyes with another groan.
Cato could not immediately think of anything to say. His previous wives had always been very discreet about their monthly inconvenience. One evening he would discover that they had taken themselves to the bed in the dressing room, and there they would sleep until they made an equally explanationless return to the marital bed.
Phoebe opened her eyes again into the continuing silence. “Your pardon, my lord, if I shocked you,” she said apologetically, struggling up against the pillows and pushing the tumbled hair from her face. “I can’t seem to help what I say, particularly during my terms, when everything about me’s all topsy-turvy, and I feel so cross and irritable, and then in the next instant so gloomy, I want to weep . . . oh, what am I saying? You don’t wish to hear all that, do you?”
For a moment it looked as if Cato might laugh. Then he glanced around the darkened chamber. “It’s no wonder you feel miserable. It’s dark and cold as charity in this room, while the sun’s shining almost like spring.”
He drew the curtains right back from the bed as he spoke, then went to the window and flung the heavy velvet aside, letting in a stream of sunlight. He turned to the fireplace, raked over the embers, and took a handful of kindling from the log basket, throwing it onto the dim glow.
Phoebe watched his domestic maneuvers wanly, one hand unconsciously massaging the cramping in the base of her stomach. “Could you ask Mistress Bisset to make me a posset, my lord? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she added.
“A posset? In the middle of the day . . . I hardly think that’s wise . . . but, well . . . I suppose if it helps your . . . your . . .” His words trailed off as he busied himself with rather more energy than the task warranted, poking at the kindling until it spurted and crackled. He threw a log on the flame before he straightened and strode hurriedly to the door.
“Have you come home for long?” Phoebe’s bright blue gaze followed him hungrily as he went to the door. He was wearing black again, relieved only by the crisp white of his shirt collar and the emerald on his finger.
“No, I have a meeting with Cromwell this evening. But I was passing and thought to see how you were doing.”
“And then you’ll return to the siege?”
Cato turned to look at her. Was she so eager to see him go? Her heavy-eyed gaze was intent despite her wan pallor and the shadows beneath her eyes.
He had been intending to spend a few more days with her, but there seemed little point in her present condition. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll return there for a week.” He opened the door. “I’ll send Mistress Bisset to you.”
Phoebe surveyed the now closed door with lackluster eyes. So it was to be another week before she would see him. She pulled the covers up to her chin under a renewed wave of misery as her belly cramped fiercely.
The pain really was much worse than usual. She wondered if it could be because of the herb-drenched sponges Meg had given her to prevent pregnancy. Phoebe had been religiously using them when she went to bed in the evening, before Cato came up, and then sliding out of bed when she was sure he was asleep to cleanse herself again of all residue of their union. It had worked this month, anyway, she thought with another groan.
Had Cato been disappointed? It had been impossible to tell from his expression. But then, so often his countenance gave away nothing of his thoughts. The dark brown eyes would be unreadable, his features smooth and impassive. She had rarely seen him angry, although he could on occasion be unpleasantly sardonic.
The door opened again and Olivia came in carrying a tray with a covered bowl.
“My father’s just left again, but he said you’re unwell,” she said in concern. “I wondered where you were when you didn’t c-come for breakfast, but I thought perhaps you’d gone into the village to help out one of the women.”
She set the tray on the bedside table. “He didn’t say what was the matter. Is it your terms?” Until the last month, they’d shared a bedchamber and were both as familiar with each other’s cycles as they were with their own.
Phoebe nodded. “I was just feeling sorry for myself,” she said. “I wouldn’t have been good company even if you had come in.”
Olivia looked doubtful. Phoebe was so wan, lying in the big bed, somehow swallowed up by Lord Granville’s invisible presence in a chamber that bore little evidence of Phoebe’s occupation. No little feminine touches anywhere; not even her hairbrushes were visible; no discarded clothing; no flowers; no ribbons; no little pots of creams and oils and perfumes.
“It’s funny,” she observed, “but when Diana was alive, this chamber seemed more hers than my father’s. But it doesn’t seem as if it b-belongs to you at all.” She lifted the cloth from the porringer and handed the bowl to Phoebe.
“I don’t feel as if it does,” Phoebe responded bluntly, inhaling the rich, comforting steam of the posset. “I don’t really feel like a wife at all.”
“Does my father not make you feel like one?” Olivia asked tentatively. “He is preoccupied a lot of the time, I know. But isn’t it b-better that way? You can get on with your own life without interference? Just as you always said you would.”
“Yes, of course it’s what I want,” Phoebe said hastily. “It’s just the usual depression, you know how it is. It’s like a black dog on my shoulder.” She took a deep gulp of the hot milk curdled with wine and smiled reassuringly. “That’s much better.”
Olivia was not completely convinced, but she wanted to be, so she sat down on the end of the bed and began to regale Phoebe with a piece of kitchen gossip as the hot drink did its relaxing work, easing the cramped muscles.
The sound of horses and the insistent barking of a dog from the gravel sweep below the window brought Olivia to her feet. “I wonder who that could be.”
She went to the window then gave a cry of pleasure. “It’s Portia!”
“Truly?” Phoebe flung aside the bedcovers and scrambled to her feet, her pain miraculously easing.
“Well, that’s Juno down there,” Olivia said excitedly. She grabbed Phoebe’s cloak from the hook on the wall and thrust it towards her. “Just put this on; you can dress later.”
Phoebe needed no urging. She pulled the cloak over her shoulders as she thrust her feet into a pair of slippers, hopping her way to the door as she did so.
5
A week later Cato walked into the great hall in the middle of a rainy morning and for a bemused moment thought he’d come to the wrong house. Whosever it was, it resembled a madhouse.
Explanation appeared in the shape of a large mustard-colored dog. Once encountered, Juno was not easily forgotten. And Cato had encountered her on several memorable occasions. She flung herself upon the master of the house with an excited bark, utterly confident of her welcome.
“Down!” Cato commanded in a voice that was as soft as it was meant to be obeyed.
Juno sat at his feet with a breathy sigh and gazed up at him, tongue lolling.
Having handled that situation, Cato turned his attention to the remaining causes of this bedlam. Two smallish boys were sliding down his banisters with an excess of exuberance, tumbling to the floor at the bottom and instantly scrambling up again and racing back to the top of the stairs. A very tiny little girl was stolidly clambering up the stairs in their wake, with a single-minded purpose that Cato could only admire. The boys ignored her until she reached the top step, at which point one of them heaved her up and tried to lift her onto the banister.
It seemed a suitable moment for intervention. Cato reached the head of the stairs in the nick of time and swept the little girl off the banisters the instant before she was about to be set in motion with a helpful brotherly hand on her back.
Cato surveyed Rufus Decatur’s natural sons with a raised eyebrow. They stared back at him with their father’s bright blue eyes under tangled thatches of strawberry curls.
“That was not a good idea,” Cato declared.
“But Evie likes it,” one of the pair informed him solemnly. “She cries if we won’t let her do what we do.”
“Clearly her mother’s daughter,” Cato muttered. Still carrying the child, who seemed perfectly content to be sitting in a stranger’s arms, he turned back down the stairs. At the bottom he became aware of his own two small daughters standing to one side of the hall, eyes as round as saucers. They were clearly too timid to participate in the circus—Diana’s daughters, although a year or two older, lacked the intrepid nature of Portia’s—but there was no mistaking their fascinated envy.
They came forward when Cato beckoned them, offered him shy little curtsies, and then scampered back up the stairs to their own domain. Eve wriggled to be set down, obviously intending to follow them.
Cato hung on to her. “Portia!” he called in ringing accents.