Reckless Angel

by Jane Feather

  Now, however, life had assumed a different complexion. Three thousand pounds would mean that even if he could not get his indemnity decreased, he would not be reduced to penury, and would be able to recover financially in a relatively short time. Defeating Sir Gerald’s ploy would give him great personal satisfaction, and he would be rid of the staple-statute debt…and his wife could be quite enchanting at times, when she was concentrating on being a wife. He would take time to encourage that concentration, he decided, smiling with satisfaction as her wriggles and moans told him she was nearing the peak of arousal.

  “Daniel!” His name broke from her lips in an urgent whisper as she shuddered in ecstasy, her body rigid against his until the wave receded and she collapsed against him, her breath swift and shallow.

  He kept his hand where it was for a long minute, feeling the pulsing of her core against his fingers, while his other hand stroked the tumbled hair from her brow and he murmured soft nonsense words against her cheek as her head drooped on his shoulder.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked at last in bewildered wonderment at sensations more intense than any she had ever experienced.

  “Because it gave me pleasure,” he answered, smoothing down her skirt. “Did it not pleasure you also?” His eyebrows lifted teasingly.

  “Most powerfully,” she answered in the same wonderment. “Unlike anything I have felt before. But it is the middle of the afternoon and we still have our clothes on and are not in bed.”

  He laughed at her candid surprise, so expressive of her lack of experience in these matters. “Loving does not always require darkness, sheets, and nakedness, my elf. Neither must it always take the same form.” Still chuckling, he tipped her off his knee. “We must make preparations for leaving tomorrow. Do you go and inform Mistress Kierston of our plans. I must confer with Master Herald about estate matters, since I do not know how long this business in London will take.”

  Harry stood up, a look of uncertainty in her big brown eyes. “D’ye not think Mistress Kierston might resent my telling her? Would it not be better if you talked with her?”

  Daniel shook his head. “’Tis your task, Henrietta. Y’are the mistress of the house, and now the mother of my daughters. If you begin to accept that, then mayhap you will find it easier to behave accordingly.”

  There was no hint of reproof in his tone, which was simply matter-of-fact, stating a truth as he saw it. Henrietta nibbled her lip, frowning, then with an accepting shrug, she went to the door. It was the truth, and she had already shouldered the burden once today when she took upon herself the responsibility of setting Lizzie to rights. It had most definitely been her responsibility, though a few weeks ago she would not have seen that.

  The Ellicots welcomed them warmly. Sir James was rotund and rubicund, with a personality to match. He embraced his new sister-in-law heartily, pronounced her a dear little thing, and bore his brother-in-law off to his parlor, declaring that the women and children were best left to their own business. The prospect of spending time with their aunt, clearly a great favorite with Daniel’s daughters, did much to compensate Lizzie and Nan for Henrietta’s imminent departure. Frances took due note of the affection her nieces bore their stepmother, an affection obviously reciprocated, and began to feel a little more sanguine about her brother’s whimsical marriage. Daniel appeared more cheerful, also, and his wife more at ease than when she had last been at Ellicot Park.

  They spent one night with Frances and James. It was the week before Christmas, but since public celebration of that festival was now forbidden except by solemn attendance at church, there seemed little point in delaying their departure in order to be together. There would be no twelve days of festivities, no mummers, no dancing, no Lord of Misrule, no Twelfth Day cake, no mistletoe and ribaldry. Even an unhappy childhood offered good memories of Christmas, Henrietta thought, as she rode at Daniel’s side through the bitter cold morning. Would today’s children ever have the opportunity to garner such memories?

  London bore a strange atmosphere, very different from that Henrietta remembered. An aura almost of menace hung in the freezing air, and the entire city seemed to be holding its breath, waiting, not for some pleasant happening but for the unthinkable. People scurried, huddled into cloaks, along the filth-encrusted cobbled lanes under the biting wind. Somehow it seemed to Henrietta that everyone avoided meeting another’s eyes, all keeping their heads down as if watching their feet. Was it shame or fear they felt, inhabiting the city where the King of England was on trial for his life?

  “Where will we stay?” she asked as they rode through unfamiliar streets.

  “In lodgings near St. Paul’s,” Daniel replied. “We may as well be as close to Master Filbert on Cheapside as we can, since I imagine we shall be spending much time in his company.” He glanced sideways at her. “One thing, Harry. Y’are not to leave the lodging without my permission and an escort. It’s understood?”

  She frowned. Never before had he placed any restriction on her movements, and it was the one thing of old that had unfailingly driven her to rebellion. “Why may I not?”

  “There is violence in the air,” he said somberly. “Do not tell me you cannot feel it. The people are uncertain, and they are angry because of their confusion. I’ll not have you risking the streets alone.”

  Harry was silent, unable to argue with his impressions yet reluctant to accept a proscription that might prove inconvenient on some as yet unforeseeable occasion. Fortunately, Daniel appeared to read her silence as acceptance and made no demand for a verbal promise. They turned off Cheapside onto Paternoster Row, then down a narrow lane where the gabled roofs on either side touched to form an archway over the cobbles and neighbors across the street could shake hands from the top-floor casements.

  “Here we are.” Daniel drew rein about halfway down the alley before an ironbound door set in a lath-and-plaster wall. The stoop was well honed, the glazed windows gleamed, and even the cobbles in front of the stoop were swept and washed clean of mire. “My old nurse,” Daniel said with a smile. “She wed an ostler and they set up house in London. If ever I plan an extended stay in the capital, there is always room and a welcome for me here.” He swung down from his horse and hammered upon the great brass knocker, gleaming evidence of housewifely pride.

  The gray gloom of early evening was banished as the door was opened. A tiny woman, small-boned as a sparrow, bobbed into the opening, saw her visitor, and burst into a great twittering of pleasure. Daniel, laughing, lifted her easily, enclosing her in a bear hug so that she seemed to Henrietta’s eyes to disappear altogether, except that her excited trilling continued unabated.

  “Dorcas, my dear Dorcas!” Daniel exclaimed when he could be heard. “You never grow any bigger. See whom I have brought to you.”

  Henrietta had slipped from her horse during the exuberant welcome and now stepped forward as Daniel held out his hand.

  “This is my wife. Henrietta, this is Dorcas, who knows more to my discredit than anyone has the right to.”

  “’Deed, Sir Daniel, that’s not so. An angel child you were,” exclaimed the tiny figure, bobbing a curtsy to Henrietta even as she scrutinized her with a pair of sharp, bright blue eyes that to the girl seemed uncomfortably circumspect. “I bid ye welcome, Lady Drummond. Pray come within. Our Joe’ll look to your horses.”

  Our Joe, a lad as burly as his mother was minute, appeared promptly, responding to Daniel’s greeting with a bashful smile and a tug of his forelock. He led away the horses and Henrietta accepted the invitation to precede her hostess into a minuscule hall.

  “I’ll put ye in the chamber above the parlor, Sir Daniel,” Dorcas said, ascending a narrow flight of stairs. “’Tis quite the largest, and ye’ll be needin’ space now y’are married again.”

  “I’d not cause you trouble, Dorcas,” Daniel demurred.

  “Lord-a-mercy!” Dorcas flung up her hands in horror at the very idea. “Don’t you be a-talking such nonsense!”

 
; Harry couldn’t stifle a grin at the idea of this little woman taking the large and authoritative Daniel to task in such brisk, matter-of-fact fashion. Daniel appeared to find nothing unusual about it and simply shrugged in accepting fashion.

  They were shown into a clean and pretty chamber, not luxuriously appointed but comfortable enough with heavy winter hangings to the bed and a big fire in the grate. A small mullioned window looked down onto the street.

  Dorcas bustled around, placing a screen between the window and the fire, twitching the coverlet straight, fiercely polishing a gleaming gateleg table with her apron. “There now,” she pronounced, satisfied, looking around her with proprietorial eyes. “Ye’ll not find neater than this in all of London town, though I says so myself. How long’ll ye be stayin’, Sir Daniel?”

  He frowned, unclasping his heavy riding cloak. “That depends. I have business with a lawyer, a Master Filbert of Cheapside. Think ye, Dorcas, that Joe would go and find his direction for me? It should not be too difficult.”

  “Aye, I’ll send him straightway. Ye’ll be sharp set, I dare swear, after a day’s riding, so come on down to the parlor when ye’ve settled in and I’ll have supper waitin’ on ye.”

  The door closed on her energetic departure, sending flames shooting in the grate. Harry bent to the blaze, holding her chilled hands to the warmth. She had the unmistakable impression that Daniel’s old nurse was reserving judgment where his new wife was concerned. Apart from the initial words of greeting and that close scrutiny, she had directed no further words or observations in Henrietta’s direction.

  “I expect Dorcas was very fond of your first wife,” she said, still gazing into the fire.

  “Aye, she was,” Daniel agreed readily. “She delivered Lizzie and I think believes that if she had been there for the others Nan would still live.”

  “I expect she will find the idea of your remarrying rather hard to become accustomed to,” Harry said.

  “Not at all. She has never lost an opportunity in the last few years to tell me to take another wife.” He regarded her averted back, sensing the tension in the hunched figure. “Harry? What troubles you?”

  “Why, nothing.” She managed a dismissive half laugh. “I am most dreadfully hungry.”

  “That can be easily remedied if ye will but make haste,” he pointed out dryly. “Crouching over the fire will not get your cloak off, your hair tidied, and your face washed.” Coming over to her, he took her shoulder, turning her to face him. “More than hunger troubles you.”

  “Oh, ’tis just that sometimes I feel uncomfortable.” She shrugged. “’Twill pass when I have supper.”

  Daniel frowned, unwilling to accept this half explanation. “That will not do, Harry. What makes you uncomfortable?”

  Being married to you. Not an answer one could easily give. And it wasn’t as if it was a constant source of discomfort. It was just that sometimes she could see herself through the eyes of others looking upon Sir Daniel Drummond’s wife, and the impoverished, ramshackle creature she saw made her feel awkward. Perhaps if she felt a little more confident in the role herself she would not feel the implicit judgments. She shook her head. “’Tis just silliness, Daniel. I am awearied and famished and so inclined to be fanciful.”

  “I think y’are inclined to fibbing,” he responded, still frowning.

  Harry flushed. “I am not lying.”

  Daniel contented himself with a raised eyebrow, releasing her shoulders and going over to the dresser to pour water from the ewer into the basin. “As soon as we have supped, I will pay a call upon Master Filbert, if Joe has managed to discover his direction.”

  “I will come too,” Henrietta declared, shrugging out of her cloak.

  “No, not tonight. Y’are awearied, as you have said, and I would prefer to make the initial approach alone.”

  Harry bit her lip. “I am not so tired that I cannot accompany you. And I will remember Master Filbert and can remind him of the conversation I overheard, so that if he attempts to dissemble I can face him with the truth. He is my father’s lawyer when all’s said and done, and there’s no knowing whose side he will be on. Maybe my father has bought his silence.”

  Daniel splashed water on his face. He could well imagine the effect Harry’s outrage at her parent’s chicanery would have on a conventionally minded lawyer, particularly if he felt himself implicated by this importunate and indignant young woman. He would need Master Filbert as ally and certainly did not wish to put his back up this early in the game.

  “Not tonight,” he repeated, drying his face. “When I have discovered the truth, then mayhap you will make Master Filbert’s acquaintance. Come and wash away the dust of the road.” He stepped away from the dresser, indicating the bowl and ewer.

  “But ’tis my money,” Harry protested, fire in her brown eyes. “’Tis only meet I should be involved in exposing my father’s theft.”

  “That is not the way I wish to present the matter,” Daniel said shortly. “There’s to be no talk of theft.” He, too, was weary and still had a long evening ahead of him. “I don’t wish to argue further. The subject is closed.”

  “But that is so arbitrary!” she exclaimed.

  “Husbands on occasion are inclined to be arbitrary.” He went to the door. “Come down to the parlor when you are ready.”

  On that unsatisfactory but undeniable pronouncement, he left her alone to her ablutions. She thumped on the bed with a colorful oath. If he was going to exclude her from the business that had brought them to London, why had he allowed her to accompany him in the first place? Forbidden to go outdoors without her husband’s permission, she was presumably expected to sit twiddling her thumbs in this house where she was regarded with only dubious acceptance. ’Twas as bad being a wife as a daughter!

  Only hunger drove her belowstairs when the mouth-watering aromas of roasting mutton wafted beneath her door. Daniel, his spirits somewhat restored by the second glass of burgundy, smiled in conciliatory fashion as she entered the parlor.

  “I do not see,” Henrietta said, “why you would permit me to accompany you here if I am not to be allowed to take part in the business. ’Tis as much my business as yours.”

  “Later,” Daniel responded, “you may do so. But not tonight. Sit down.” He pulled out a chair for her. “May I carve you some mutton?”

  Henrietta glowered and contemplated a martyred return to the chamber abovestairs. Only the reflection that such a gesture would probably not cause Daniel the least remorse and would certainly cause her considerable regret made her take the proffered seat.

  “I suppose you expect me to sit by the fire and do fine sewing,” she said, before addressing a heaped platter of roasted mutton and floury boiled potatoes.

  Daniel regarded her quizzically. “Somehow I had the impression that you were not too handy with a needle.”

  Harry, recognizing her error, skewered a large piece of mutton and wisely devoted her attention to the consumption of her meal. “Well, what am I to do?” she demanded at last, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “Perhaps I should return to Kent. At least there I can go out and about without hindrance.”

  Daniel refilled his goblet, choosing his words carefully. He was forcibly reminded of the way she had responded on a previous occasion to a perceived snub, and of Will’s statement that one must tread cautiously where Harry’s pride was involved. He had no wish to be obliged to grapple with his wife’s open defiance of his orders. Matters could become exceedingly unpleasant between them. However, he did not find this persistence bordering on impertinence in the least appealing and was sorely tempted to deal it the short shrift he would have accorded his daughters in such an instance.

  But Henrietta was his wife, and if she was to learn to behave as a wife then she must be treated as one and not as a recalcitrant child. “Mayhap you did not hear me correctly,” he said quietly. “I said only that I wished to meet alone with Master Filbert this time. On subsequent occasions, I shall welcome your co
mpany, your assistance, and your opinions.”

  Put like that, the matter assumed quite a different complexion, Henrietta found. She cast him a suspicious glance across the table, but he was eating his supper quite naturally, his expression as calm as ever, except that the glint of humor she was accustomed to seeing in the bright black eyes was absent. That in itself was warning enough. It was clearly time to offer her own conciliation.

  “Mayhap I did not quite understand,” she said a little stiffly. “Would you be so good as to hand me the carrots, please?”

  The remainder of supper passed, if not exuberantly, at least with amicable politeness. Joe appeared with the information that Master Filbert was to be found beside the sign of the Golden Cock on Cheapside, and Daniel left soon after.

  Henrietta piled up the dishes from the table and ventured toward the kitchen with them. It seemed somehow wrong in this house, where they were neither family guests nor formal lodgers, to take herself abovestairs, leaving the table uncleared.

  “Goodness me, Lady Drummond!” exclaimed Dorcas as she came timidly into the kitchen. “There’s no call for ye to be a-doing such work.”

  “I wished only to help,” Harry said, yielding the pile of plates to her hostess. The kitchen was cheerful and warm, Joe and Dorcas’s goodman sitting at their ease in the inglenook, the smell of baking coming from the bread oven set into the wall beside the range. “I did not mean to intrude.”

  Dorcas looked at the girl and did not miss the wistful shadow in her large eyes. For all her married status, she rather resembled a lost child, and Dorcas’s soft heart banished whatever reservations she might have had. It was lonely in the chamber abovestairs, and still early for bed. “Sit ye down,” she said. “I’ll be bringing some apple tarts out of the oven in a minute or two. They’re at their best when they’re fresh baked. And a mug of hypocras will not come amiss, I’ll be bound.”