The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2)

by Anita Seymour

  He chuckled, tucking one hand behind his head “Hah, virgins are overrated in my opinion. I would rather a fully-fledged woman any day. They know what they are about.”

  She made to slap him, but he caught her hand in his, so she tossed back her curls, indignant. Why were her emotions so brittle? He could make her happy and sad in the space of a moment. “So, you take only married women to your bed do you, Master Devereux?” She kept her tone light, pretending she didn’t care what answer he gave.

  With a sigh, he reached for her. She made to resist, but he pulled her firmly into the circle of his arms and held her there. “One married woman,” he whispered, guiding her head back onto his chest. “And this bed you like so much, has never received another. It never shall.”

  Helena felt her eyes fill and blinked rapidly so he would not see.

  Chapter Seventeen

  June 1690, The Ship Inn, Exeter – Tobias

  In The Ship inn, a patron demanded ale from the landlord as if it were his last drink on earth. Tobias tried not to let his annoyance show when the man jostled him in his eagerness to take the first gulp and slopped the yeasty mixture on Tobias’ clothes.

  Brushing drops impatiently from his sleeve, Tobias backed away from the table, drawn by the shaft of sunlight streaming through the open door. He moved towards it, longing to feel warmth on his face and to breathe the fresh spring air after being in the gloomy taproom all day.

  He stepped outside to lean against the doorframe, idly watching the people walk down Broadgate into the Cathedral Close. Behind him, Matty chivvied the serving girls in a high-pitched voice almost impossible to ignore, a sound he struggled to block in order to think.

  If he stood there long enough, all of Exeter would most likely pass his door, most of them greeting him familiarly as they had done most of his life. He imagined himself standing there, an old man, leaning on a stick and hailed in the same way. The vision chilled him.

  “Where’s yer master to?” Matty’s voice drifted over the deeper murmurings of the crowded room, but Tobias did not respond. He glanced up at the sound of a window opening on the floor. His eldest stepson leaned out and called a lewd remark to a friend below. The boy saw Tobias on the cobbles and with a sharp gasp, pulled his head back in.

  Tobias grinned. He had no heart for punishing the boy. In fact, little interested Tobias these days, but with no idea why. His life was comfortable enough with Matty and his family of three healthy stepsons. The Ship provided a good living, far better than in Jim Lumm’s day, although running his foster father’s inn had been very far from Tobias’ mind, once.

  Delving into his memory, he drifted back six years, to the day Samuel Ffoyle plucked him from this very street and arranged for him to take the post of steward at Loxsbeare.

  He brought the news to his parents with unbounded enthusiasm, trying not to notice the wariness in their eyes. He wasn’t left wondering long. At Loxsbeare, the doubts and unanswered questions of his boyhood congealed into certainty when Sir Jonathan admitted to being his father. During a magical year, father and son grew close, with the promise of a better life that hovered within Tobias’ reach.

  But Fate had been unkind. Sir Jonathan left for the rebellion, never to return, thus depriving Tobias of the man he had come to respect and emulate. Nor could he grieve as others did; a bastard son had no status, therefore he could not expect sympathy.

  Then Jim Lumm, the man who had brought him up, died of lung rot and left him the inn, together with the guardianship of his five half-brothers. Luck shone on him once more, when Samuel Ffoyle brought Tobias the deeds to a house near the East Gate, left to him by Sir Jonathan Woulfe. The gesture had touched Tobias deeply; an inheritance from the father who had accepted and cared for him after all.

  Tobias rented the property to a magistrate, the extra income giving his family more luxuries than an ordinary innkeeper. Tobias Lumm was a man with responsibilities, comfortable, respected, prosperous, and lonely.

  A man Tobias recognized sidled past him through the door with a murmured, “good day to ye, Master Lumm. Have ye heard what that blackguard Blanden has done now?”

  This last remark he directed to another patron at a table by the door. Tobias pushed himself away from the doorframe and followed him inside. “What did you say about Lord Blanden, Master Smythe?”

  The old man turned watery blue eyes on Tobias and snatched off his felt cap in a well-practiced movement. “I would tell ye, but I have this terrible thirst, and me throat’s that dry.”

  His companion chuckled and with a resigned sigh, Tobias beckoned a serving girl. “Sally. Bring Master Smythe ale. With my compliments.”

  The man’s face split into a wide grin, displaying yellowed teeth. “Thank ye kindly, Master Lumm.”

  “What was it you were saying?” Tobias prompted.

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.“He believes Loxsbeare be ’aunted.” He chuckled wetly. “He’s quite mad is that’n.”

  “Since Blanden lost his commissioner’s post, he’s been getting more deranged by the day,” his companion interjected. “No more’n he deserves, I say.”

  Tobias wondered how to perpetuate the discussion, when Smythe did it for him. “Those ghost tales got more extreme since ’is wife died.”

  Sally laid the ale in front of him and Smythe rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  Tobias began to regret his generosity. The ghost story was old news, certainly not worth a tankard of his finest ale.

  Smythe tapped his temple with a browned finger. “He be tellin’ all and sundry he won’t share his home with demons. Moved back to his old place on St. David’s Hill.”

  “He’s gone?” Tobias straightened, alert. Finally he had heard something of interest.

  Smythe nodded. “Up an’ left three days ago. Manor’s empty. But I shouldn’t think them Woulfes will get it back. P’raps Blanden will sell it.”

  “Perhaps.” Tobias nodded, wondering what this could mean. Not much since Blanden still owned the manor, though he knew Aaron Woulfe was petitioning the king for its return to the family.

  Smythe took a puff from his newly lit pipe and blew choking smoke into Tobias’ face. He tried not to cough too conspicuously, but the fumes made his eyes smart and he backed away, his thoughts on Loxsbeare. Five men at a table were flustering Sally with their teasing and Tobias stopped to help. Then he heard the word, ‘Luttrell’, and halted, a jug held in mid-air, listening.

  “The master of Dunster Castle’s regiment is to join King William in Ireland.” The man who spoke sounded envious, his glance flicking down to his ruined arm. His sleeve ended at the elbow, a result of an accident at the fulling mill.

  Tobias felt sudden sympathy for him; he would never make a soldier.

  “Aye,” replied another. “Eight hundred men he has now, and thirty nine officers.”

  “They wear the scarlet too. Not the blue and yeller’ of Luttrell’s livery. I may even join ’em.” A sandy haired man sitting opposite ventured.

  “Hah!” Another mused thoughtfully. “I’m more inclined to join James Stuart’s men as the Dutchman’s.”

  “Now, Tom Armstrong, no Jacobite talk in here,” Tobias warned, only half serious. None of the so-called sympathizers he knew would do anything other than grumble.

  A ripple of laughter went round the table and Tobias collected empty tankards with slow deliberation, his thoughts wandering. Aaron Woulfe fought beside his own father at Sedgemoor, and according to Helena’s most recent letter, he was now with King William’s army on his way to Ireland to take on the Jacobites.

  Helena poured out all her fears for her brother in that letter, but Tobias’ uppermost thoughts when he read it was, yet again, Aaron would fight for his father’s cause.

  Tobias had never fought for anyone.

  When Sir Jonathan rode off to Somerset, he had not even asked him to go with him, although his legitimate son, his heir, rode by his side.

  “There you be, Tobias,” h
is wife’s voice called out from a few feet away. Hands on her hips, she looked Sally up and down, sneering. “I bin callin’ you. We need a new barrel o’ cider. I can’t shift it me’self.” With a final sour look at Sally, she turned away, obviously expecting Tobias to follow.

  A seed that Smythe had planted in Tobia’s head took root. Once the cider had been replenished, and several other chores Matty found to occupy him completed, Tobias slipped through the rear yard where his middle stepson sat, playing with a set of skittles.

  This boy was Tobias’ favourite, and without asking any questions, the lad helped Tobias saddle his horse and waved him off when he clattered out onto the High Street.

  The animal took the steep Longbrook Hill without slowing his stride, and before they reached the top, Tobias guided him left, where Loxsbeare Manor stood.

  One gate hung from a rusted hinge and patchy weeds sprung up between the cobbles. A gentle summer wind lifted his cloak and sliding from the saddle, Tobias tethered his horse to a post and looked around, dismayed. How was it, a pile of stones could exude neglect as this one did? The blank windows were like lonely eyes staring inward at a pointless existence. He shrugged the thought away as ridiculous, thought at the same time he felt an empathy with the empty manor.

  His boots crunched on gravel as he rounded the side of the house, slipped through the kitchen garden and approached the back of the house. Hoping Blanden hadn’t noticed, and that his servants had been too indolent to care, Tobias grasped the latch and leaned his weight into the wood, lifting and pushing simultaneously.

  The warped wood leapt free of the frame, bringing a smile to his lips as it swung open, revealing the corridor behind the kitchen offices. He slipped through and pulled the door shut gently behind him. Spilled flour and discarded barley swished beneath his feet in the gloomy corridor. Metal pans lay about on the long wooden benches, with deflated sacks and broken pots littered the flagstones.

  Entering the main hall, his boots echoed on the boards, leaving powder footprints mingling with older ones. A tapestry hung drunkenly by a single fastening on one wall, with several shadows on plaster where paintings were once suspended. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, lighter where rugs and furniture used to be.

  Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window onto the half landing, where Helena used to sit, waiting for her uncle or her father ride into the courtyard. He shook his head to dispel the memories, but couldn’t help feeling the house should have Woulfes living there. He wondered if they ever would again.

  He jumped at a creak from above, but it was only an unlatched window swinging open. He smiled at his own foolishness. Surely he did not believe Blanden’s stories about a ghost? When Tobias lived there, he had heard no such talk.

  The man’s repetition of his story had grown more horrifying with each telling, taken up by superstitious locals, until the “ghost of Loxsbeare,” who walked these halls, dripped blood and floated above the ground.

  Smiling at the idiocy of such a story, Tobias did not climb the stairs; to do so risked painful reminders of a life lost to him. Instead, he descended the steps from the rear hall to the cellar, its door springing open at his touch. He released a pent up breath as his feet trod the stone steps, coming to a halt on compacted dirt and sand.

  The cellars were set half underground, where daylight dappled the floor from semi-circular windows high in the walls. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light, illuminating broken packing cases and discarded tools set against one wall.

  “Now where exactly was it again?” Tobias’ voice echoed into the dry air, which strangely, had no discernible smell other than old wood and dust. He crept forward, marking out the space between the stairs and a rear wall, where empty shelves stretched along one side.

  He bent to the floor, running his fingers along the base of the wall. At first he met nothing but smooth stone, then his fingertips nestled into a recessed groove and, gritting his teeth with the effort, he pressed hard. A portion of the wall sprang silently toward him and he scrambled backwards with a satisfied grin.

  He dusted off his breeches, then cautiously entered the rear cellar, its air cool and dry, with a sand floor and a similar row of half-moon windows above head height.

  In a rare moment of camaraderie, Sir Jonathan had revealed the secret of this room to Tobias.

  “Even Aaron doesn’t know about this,” he had told him, leading him beneath the stone arches supporting the floor above. Tobias could still feel his father’s hand on his shoulder, stored away in his memory where he kept every smile and kind remark, each one brought out at intervals and re-examined.

  When the family left the manor after Sedgemoor, he and the housekeeper, Betty Humbold, stored some of the Woulfe possessions in the hidden room, out of the reach of the avaricious soldiers who descended on it after the rebellion.

  Shaking the memories away, Tobias examined wooden packing cases stacked against the walls. Some stood open, revealing contents bound with rope or twine. Oilskin wrapped paintings, boxes of china and pewter covered the floor. He reached into an open-ended case, unwrapping a silver jug, tarnished, but still handsome. As he let it fall back into the box, a loud clink echoed into the silence.

  He strolled between piles of hangings taken from the bedrooms, and chests full of Sir Jonathan and Edmund Woulfe’s clothing. Clothes neither of them had any use for since Edmund lay in the family vault at St. Mary Arches Church and who knows what had happened to Sir Jonathan? So many memories, frozen in time since the day after Sedgemoor.

  Tobias blew air through his pursed lips, debating how he could remove all these treasures and where to store them without the entire city finding out. There was no room at the inn, and besides, it would take several cartloads to remove it all.

  He eased through a narrow gap between a wall of wooden boxes stacked at the back of the room, trying to recall if he had arranged them like that. Reaching to head height, they formed a false wall round a space beneath one of the windows. He rounded a corner and halted, his eyes wide as he gazed at something he had certainly not put there.

  * * *

  June 1690, Exeter – Tobias

  Tobias bounded up the stairs to the private quarters of The Ship, ignoring Matty’s shrill enquiry as to where he had been from the street. She appeared in the doorway, but jumped aside as he dragged a leather knapsack from a chest in the corner.

  “Where be you going? And without so much as a word to me?” she demanded, following him about the room.

  Tobias had rehearsed his explanation all the way home, but when it came to it, he lost heart. She would argue, no matter what he said, so he opted for the truth.

  “If he’ll have me, I’m joining Sir Francis Luttrell’s regiment.” He kept his back to her while hurling clothes and shoes haphazardly into the bag.

  “Regiment? I don’t understand.” She thrust a hand through her mop of brown curls, darting out of the way when he pushed past her and unhooked his cloak from behind the door.

  “It’s something I have to do, Matty. I cannot explain.” He refused to meet her eyes.

  “You can’t leave, Tobias. She sprang forward and grasped his upper arms. “What of the boys? And the inn?” She wasn’t a big girl, his Matty, but solid and very strong.

  He pulled roughly away, about to remind her they were her boys, but stopped himself in time. “My brothers will help run the inn while I’m away.”

  “You aren’t a soldier,” she cried, stamping a small foot on the floorboards. “You don’t have to go.”

  He turned on her, his fists clenched “Yes, I do. At the very least, I can fight with my brother.”

  “What are you talking about?” Her eyes hardened into contempt. “Your brothers live in St Sidwells. Who are you going to fight, and where?”

  Tobias ignored her, unable to explain. If he could get to Dunster, he would find a way to convince Sir Francis to let him join his army. Everything after that would be out of his control.

  “Talk
to me, Tobias!” Matty screeched.

  “I don’t know where. France maybe, but most probably Ireland.”

  “Ireland!” Matty stood open mouthed. “But that’s a terrible, savage place full o’ Catholics. Hundreds of soldiers died at the siege at Londonderry. Even more through disease last winter.”

  “It’s summer.” It was a ridiculous, inadequate response, but he couldn’t think what else to say. “You should be proud and honoured I’m going. Now. I’ll hear no more complaints.”

  She took a step back, her hands planted on her ample hips, her chin lifted. “So that’s the way it is, eh?”

  “It is. Now, out of my way, woman.” He shoved past her, his feet drumming on the stairs, heart heavy with dismay. She could have pleaded harder for him to stay. She wasn’t upset, or even fearful for his safety, merely angry he wasn’t doing her bidding. What she really cared for was the inn and her sons.

  There were no tears from Matty when she and the three tow-headed boys lined up outside the inn to watch him mount his horse. She was a tough one, always was.

  He turned his mount in a tight circle, prepared to offer a wave of farewell, while Joe, the potman stood at his wife’s shoulder, a satisfied smirk on his face. Before Tobias had rounded the corner into High Street, Joe had slipped an arm round Matty’s waist. A touch she did not shrug off.

  Matty was just like Emily Lumm. His foster father had seen it and tried to warn him, but he had not listened.

  Tobias ground his teeth as he kicked the horse into a gallop, but by the time he had reached the city gate, he experienced an exhilarating new emotion. Freedom.

  Chapter Eighteen

  July 1690, Tullyallen, Ireland – Aaron

  Aaron shifted on the bench, easing the stiff muscles of his lower back. He had been there for hours with the other officers, poring over maps and documents spread on the trestle table. The king, however, displayed no such discomfort, or impatience; so Aaron gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate.