by Jane Feather
Henrietta shook her head. “I may be a thoughtless idiot, but I’m no coward, Will. But I’ll talk to Julie first. ’Tis only fair to prepare her. I can visit her in the morning.”
Daniel found his wife in low spirits that evening, resisting all his efforts to draw her out. He delicately brought up the subject of Will and his troubles, offering again to help, suggesting she might have more success than he in persuading Will to confide in him, since it was clear the young man was wretchedly miserable.
Henrietta nearly burst into tears. She did not deserve such a husband, indeed, never had done. Everything good she tried to do turned to dross beneath her touch. What could someone so kind and considerate and loving and humorous and…oh, so many other wonderful things as Daniel possibly find to love in her? No one else, except for Will, had ever found anything. Perhaps those others were right and Daniel and Will were mistaken.
She went up to bed early, pleading unusual weariness, looked in on the now peacefully sleeping and relatively cool Nan, and curled miserably under the covers in her own bed, hoping she would fall asleep before Daniel came up. She did not, and he was not deceived by the pretense, but when he ran an exploratory caressing hand beneath her smock, the immediate rippling response to which he was accustomed was not forthcoming. “Harry?”
“I’m asleep,” she mumbled into the pillow.
“Oh, that would explain it,” he replied, waiting for the chuckle that generally greeted that particular droll tone. It was not forthcoming either. “We could at least cuddle,” he suggested.
“I don’t know why you would want to cuddle me,” she muttered without volition. She had not intended making her confession until she had talked with Julie, but matters seemed to be running away with themselves.
The words took a minute to sink in, then Daniel sat up, twitched aside the bedcurtains and scraped flint on tinder. Candlelight flickered, then settled into a strong, steady glow.
“What have you done?” he asked with the calm of resignation.
“’Tis not so much what I have done as what I was going to do. Although what I have done is bad enough if you look at it in a certain way.” The balm of relief at the prospect of unburdening herself was more soothing than she would ever have imagined, and quite surpassed her apprehension as to Daniel’s reaction to the tale. She rolled onto her back, shielding her eyes with the soft curve of a forearm, ostensibly from the candlelight but more because it seemed easier if she did not have to look at him.
Daniel took her arm away. “Sit up. I don’t know what I am about to hear, but the sooner it is said the better.”
She sat up, hugging her knees, her beribboned nightcap askew on the cascading corn silk-colored mass, and looked at him anxiously. “I think perhaps you will not wish to be married to me anymore.”
He looked startled. “’Tis not that bad, Harry, surely?”
“Worse,” she said.
“God’s grace!” he muttered, getting out of bed. “Well, whatever mischief y’are in this time, I can safely promise you that I will never wish such a thing.” He shrugged into his warm nightgown and drew it tight against the night chill before throwing more logs on the fire, creating a roaring blaze. “Come, let us be done with this.”
She told him, her voice faltering as his expression went from resignation to disbelief, and then became utterly wrathful. But the storm did not break until she had fallen silent.
He did not raise his voice and the sleeping house around them remained oblivious of the drama, but angry words buzzed around the bedchamber like the troubles released from Pandora’s box. Henrietta remained huddled over her knees. Although she winced beneath the sting of his tongue-lashing, she was more conscious of relief than anything else. She had feared a repetition of that cold, silent contempt, but this was just the fury of a very angry man. He was also most eloquent in his anger, she noticed abstractedly. In her wide experience of such matters, wrath tended to render the speaker gobbling and incoherent, so he was obliged to resort to physical expression of that rage. There was no fear of that with Daniel.
She had given him the bald narrative, unadorned by excuse or explanation, and waited for the tirade to subside before venturing on either. When at last the castigation ceased and Daniel had swung away from the bed with a muttered “Hell and the devil!” she spoke up.
“I would like to say something.” Her voice sounded small and subdued in the crushing silence, but there was an edge of determination in it nevertheless.
He turned and came to the foot of the bed. He braced his arms on the wooden bar that was used to smooth the surface of the feather mattress when the bed was made, and surveyed her, his black eyes thoroughly intimidating. “If you are about to tell me that you were only trying to help, I will do you a favor, Henrietta. If I ever hear that excuse for trouble on your lips again, I shall really lose my temper.”
Henrietta swallowed. In the light of the last fierce minutes, that was an appalling prospect. “I was not going to say that,” she denied, plucking at the coverlet pulled tight around her knees. “I was going to ask you if you thought Julia’s parents have the right to prevent her marrying Will for such a stupid reason…or for any reason, for that matter.”
Daniel frowned and snapped, “That is no more my business than it is yours.”
“But I think it is,” she insisted, a note of vehemence entering her voice. “They love each other deeply, and you said yourself only last night that it would be criminal to keep apart two people who really love each other.”
His black eyebrows nearly met across the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you dare put words into my mouth, Henrietta. That was said without thought and at a particularly susceptible moment.”
“You still said it,” she persisted stubbornly. “And you meant it. I refuse to accept that Lord and Lady Morris have the right to keep Will and Julia apart simply because they know nothing of Will’s family and think he is not good enough. Julia has no fortune now that they are exiled. What can she bring him except love?”
“That is no excuse for your reckless and unwarranted interference! Julia is underage and her father’s responsibility…just as you are mine, God help me!”
“You and Lord Morris and Will may all be dead in a few months,” she said fiercely. “What is the point of adhering to the old rules? Why must they be denied the chance for happiness because of some outmoded convention, when the world has already fallen apart?”
She had lost the subdued mien of a scolded child; her eyes were now bright with passionate indignation, her voice strong with conviction, her back straight with purpose. Impatiently, she knelt on the bed. “I realize I have put you in the most abominable position, Daniel, and I do most truly beg your pardon. ’Twas thoughtless beyond belief. But I will not stand aside and see Will and Julia made unhappy for no good reason. Not when there are so many good reasons for despair. Who’s to say where we will all be in six months?”
Daniel could find no satisfactory answer to that question. Instead, he took off his nightgown and bent to snuff the candle. “I have had enough of this for tonight. Lie down and go to sleep. God alone knows what I am going to say to Lord Morris on the morrow.”
“I said you would not wish to cuddle me,” Henrietta declared, sliding down the bed and pulling the covers up to her nose.
“Mmmm,” Daniel said into the darkness and made no attempt to dispute that either.
He woke first and hitched himself on one elbow to look at the sleeping face on the pillow beside him. The hair escaping from her nightcap glistened silver and gold under a finger of early sunlight. The soft curve of her mouth, the rosy flush of sleep on the high cheekbones, the pertly snubbed nose had become such a wonderfully familiar sight for his newly opened eyes. Usually, he would lean over and kiss the paper-thin, blue-veined eyelids, and the golden crescents of her eyelashes would sweep up and those big brown eyes would gaze up at him in sleepy wonderment as she came to a realization of the new day. She would reach up and put her arms aro
und his neck, drawing him down for the first kiss of the day, and he would revel in the warm, fragrant pliancy of her sleepy skin, the languid invitation of her body, the mischievous little chuckle with which she greeted his acceptance of the invitation.
Such love and companionship was a God-given blessing, he thought, for all that she was on occasion the most exasperating creature he had ever had dealings with. He had given up believing that she would grow out of these troublesome impulses. They seemed to be a part of her nature, and he supposed one must take the rough with the smooth. The joy of her far outweighed the annoyance.
He thought of Will and Julia. They were so young, on the threshold of life—of a life that, as Henrietta had pointed out, could come to an abrupt close very soon. His could also, but he would have had much joy and love, been thrice blessed in the two women who had shared his bed and in the benediction of his children.
He accepted the likelihood of death on the battlefield; it could as easily come from the scourge of plague or smallpox, from a broken limb, or from a severe chill. Such hazards were woven into the fabric of life. But the transitory nature of existence was surely easier to accept if one had experienced the joys adult life had to offer. Henrietta had been saying that last night, offering that wisdom as the powerful, motivating force behind her actions. If only those actions did not so frequently tend to the questionable, he thought, not for the first time. And almost certainly not for the last time, either! With a wry grin, he swung out of bed, shivering in the early morning chill.
“Are ye getting up so soon?” Henrietta sounded disconsolate as she blinked dopily at him over the bedcovers. The absence of the waking kiss seemed to indicate that a night’s sleep had not brought pardon.
“I have some most disagreeable business to attend to, or had you forgotten?” He kept his voice uncompromising, revealing nothing of his earlier thoughts, as he bent to mend the dying fire. “You have also a part to play, so I suggest you rise with all speed.”
She sat up. “How long are you going to be vexed?”
“I have no idea. ’Tis not something I can control,” he replied unhelpfully. “Now, get up and fetch my shaving water.”
Henrietta pulled on her nightgown over her smock and padded barefoot to the kitchen, where Hilde was already at work, stoking the range. “Sir Daniel would like his shaving water,” she said to the maidservant. “Would you take it up to him? I wish to see how Nan is.”
Nan and Lizzie were both awake, huddled together beneath the quilt. “Can I get up today?” Nan asked.
Henrietta shook her head, bending to kiss both children. “Nay, Nan, ye must rest after a fever, otherwise it might return.”
“I would rather stay in bed than learn psalms,” Lizzie grumbled. “And ’tis very cold, Harry. The fire has gone out.”
“I’ll tell Hilde to light it again when she has taken Daddy his shaving water,” Henrietta promised. “You may stay in bed until then.”
She returned to the bedchamber and addressed her husband’s back. “Nan seems quite better, but I said she should remain in bed today.”
Daniel wiped lather off his face with a damp towel. “I’ll look in on them now. Mistress Kierston will have to forgo her morning’s devotions, I fear, since she must take charge of them both today. Do you dress and come downstairs straightway. You have a task to perform.”
Henrietta made a face. Whatever did he mean? But his present attitude did not invite questioning. Presumably Daniel would reveal all in his own good time.
She dressed with more than usual care, choosing the most demure gown of pale blue linen, a white lawn neckerchief its only adornment. The ribboned sleeves of her smock revealed by the gown’s full elbow-length sleeves and the frill of her petticoat showing beneath the hem offered the only frivolity. She braided her hair and fashioned the heavy plait into a knot at the nape of her neck. A few undisciplined, feathery tendrils curled on her forehead, but they would not lie flat whatever she did. However, despite them, her appearance was as modest and unassuming as that of any Puritan on her way to church. She composed her expression to one matching her dress and went down to the dining room.
Daniel was not fooled, but he contented himself with a skeptical raised eyebrow that she had no difficulty reading. “Hilde has forgotten to bring the bread,” she said. “I will fetch it. Where are Lizzie and Mistress Kierston?”
“Breakfasting abovestairs,” he told her. “They are best out of the way for the moment.”
It was not at all reassuring. She went into the kitchen to fetch the bread.
Breakfast was an utterly silent meal. Daniel’s appetite did not seem in the least impaired by the present state of affairs, but Harry merely nibbled on a slice of barley bread and sipped a beaker of chocolate while she waited.
Finally, Daniel swallowed his last mouthful of deviled kidney, drained his ale mug, and rose from the table. “If you have sufficiently broken your fast, Henrietta, I would like you to go and fetch your friends.”
“Will and Julia?” She stared in surprise. “Here?”
“That is what I said.”
She stood up, plaiting her fingers in the way she had when she was uneasy. “I do not think it right for you to be horrid to them,” she said slowly. “’Tis all right for you to be so to me, because I belong to you in some sort—”
“Aye, and I have spent half the night trying to fathom what I could ever have done to deserve it,” he interrupted.
Henrietta looked at him from beneath her lashes. “Oh, I expect it was because you were an exemplary little boy, a credit to your parents. I am sure ye never fibbed, or played truant from your lessons, or dug in fox holes—”
“Harry!” Daniel exclaimed, halting this revolting description of perfection. “Of course I did.” Then he realized what she had done. “Y’are the most unscrupulous, duplicitous little wretch!” he pronounced savagely. “Just go and fetch them!”
She wanted to ask why, but decided she had ventured far enough for the time being and went meekly abovestairs for her cloak.
Will received the summons in gloomy resignation.
“I expect he’s going to tell me how dishonorably I’ve behaved. ’Twould be true enough in the old days, but now, when nothing is certain, when there is so little chance for happiness, ’tis surely not wrong to seize it when one can. Oh, Harry, how can I explain how I feel?”
“I think Daniel knows how you feel,” she said. “I do not know what he is going to do, but I think he is going to help.” She did not know quite why she should be so sure of that, except that she did know her husband. Last night’s ferocious scolding had been entirely genuine, and she would not argue about its justice, but it was finished, for all that he was apparently still with-holding pardon.
She left Will to make his own way to the house and went to fetch Julia. She had expected to find her friend relieved and happy, since presumably she knew of Daniel’s invitation, but instead Julia was pale and drawn, her eyes heavily ringed. Lady Morris, however, was all affability.
“I am delighted Julia will be staying with ye, Lady Drummond. ’Twill be so much pleasanter for her than racketing around with her father and myself. Indeed, after this last news from Scotland, there’s no knowing where we will be; but His Majesty has demanded my husband’s presence.” She adjusted her neck ruff and smiled with a hint of self-importance. “’Tis such an honor.”
“Indeed it is, madam,” Henrietta concurred. She found herself quite unable to resist the urge to prick that purblind smugness. The woman was a fool with her obtuse preoccupation with honors and position at such a time. “And ’tis an honor that leads to the battlefield.” Her gaze met Lady Morris’s. “For all those embracing the king’s cause.”
The older woman looked for a second both startled and annoyed at this bold and definitely challenging statement from one who, despite her married status, still owed her elders all due deference and respect. Then shadows gathered in her eyes. She sighed heavily. “Aye, ’tis so. You speak o
nly the truth, my dear. But Julia will be a comfort to you, I trust.”
Henrietta extricated herself as expeditiously as she could. If she could have withdrawn Daniel’s invitation in correct and convincing fashion at this point, she would have done so, but it could only be withdrawn by the issuer. Any bumbling attempts she might make would only make matters worse for Daniel. So she simply begged Lady Morris to permit Julia to bear her company for the morning. A generally silent Julia received permission, and the two of them left.
Henrietta was too exercised with the present situation to have time to question her friend’s air of utter dejection, and since she had nothing but ill news, she was hardly surprised at Julia’s continued silence. “I do not know why Daniel said I must bring you,” she concluded as they hurried down the street. “But Will is to be there, also. If ye would agree to an elopement, Julie, I am certain Will can arrange it. I must not take further part, you understand why not, but Will does not need help. He will take you to his mother, who will love you. She has always stood my friend, and can be a most powerful one when she chooses. Will’s happiness is of the greatest importance to her.”
They turned into the square, and Henrietta became aware that Julia had showed not the slightest interest in this desperate yet feasible solution to the situation. “Are ye afeard of Daniel?” She looked up at her friend. “There’s no need to be, Julie. He will not consider it his place to reproach you…Will, mayhap, since he has known him for so long, but not you.”
Tears stood out in Julia’s eyes and she shook her head inarticulately. Henrietta, reflecting that Julia did not always bear up well when circumstances became a little difficult, said nothing further. As they reached the Drummonds’ house, the door swung open. Will, a little pale, stood aside to let them in.
“’Tis all right, love,” he said, taking Julie’s hand. “I am here.” He bent to kiss her in gentle reassurance. “We will find a way out of this maze, sweetheart.”