by Louise Clark
Lover’s Knot
Hearts of Rebellion Series
Book Two
by
Louise Clark
LOVER’S KNOT
Reviews & Accolades
“A blend of romance, conspiracy, and hidden identities… with just the right mix of action and seduction.”
~Susan Tanner, author of Winds Across Texas
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Dedication
To Muriel Whitlock Gillespie Allen
Great Aunt Boots
Chapter 1
Southwest England, 1659
“I think we should visit him.” Excitement, mischief and amusement colored Alysa Leighton’s voice. The person she was speaking of was Sir Philip Hampton, a relatively new arrival in the small town of West Easton. He had inherited the estate of Ainslie Manor on the death of his uncle, but had only taken up residence at the beginning of February, one month before.
“After all,” she continued, her vivid blue eyes challenging, “how will we know if he holds acceptable views unless we actually deign to speak to him?”
“Speaking to him is one thing, Alysa. Visiting him is another.” Abigail, Lady Strathern, Alysa’s stepmother, took a bite of ham from the well-filled breakfast plate before her. Plump and plain, Abigail enjoyed the everyday pleasures. She had learned long ago that life was too chancy to put off the little things. “You know very well that if your father condescends to visit Sir Philip, it is as much as admitting that the man should be accepted by the rest of the neighborhood.”
There was no denying that Edward, Baron Strathern, had considerable influence in the countryside around West Easton. Though his title was only third generation, having been bestowed by Queen Elizabeth some one hundred years before, the Leightons came of old stock. Moreover, Edward’s service to King Charles during the recent civil wars had further enhanced his prestige in this largely Royalist area.
“And why should he not be accepted?” demanded Prudence Leighton, Alysa’s half sister.
Prudence was headstrong, impulsive and tended to view life with a refreshingly simple naiveté.
“Because he might be a Roundhead!” Abigail retorted, smiling affectionately at her daughter.
She was wearing a dark blue gown of a finely woven, but sturdy cloth. The bodice was close fitting and came to a deep point in front. Decorative details were done in pale blue, while the petticoat that showed beneath the full skirt was a mauve silk. The colors didn’t enhance her mousy coloring, but they didn’t detract from it either. “Don’t you remember the story about the two nephews of Richard Hampton? When the war broke out one took service with the parliamentary troops, while the other followed the king. We’re not sure if the man who is at Ainslie is the Royalist or the Roundhead brother.”
“Why not ask him?” Prudence suggested practically. Unlike her mother, she wore a gown in magenta with the petticoat and details picked out in white. The bright color of the gown was typical of Prudence. Left to her own choice she would always select a vivid color, whether it complemented her sand-brown hair and hazel eyes or not.
Lord Strathern—a big, heavyset man of middle-age whose features were remarkably like those of his daughters—laughed indulgently. “I suppose we could, but I doubt it would do much good. If he is not the Royalist brother he will simply say that he is.”
Prudence, just over sixteen years old, sighed. “Politics. I am so tired of politics! The war has been over for an age. Does it really matter if Sir Philip was once a Roundhead? The king was executed over ten years ago and it is almost eight years since his son, Prince Charles, attempted to return to England and was defeated at the Battle of Worchester.”
“King Charles,” Strathern corrected absently, brushing a crumb from the dark brown cloth of his doublet. The suit he wore was well cut, but shabby from much use. The doublet, which covered a shirt of fine linen, was too long to be fashionable, and on this cool spring day Strathern was able to close all the buttons to the waist for warmth. His breeches were also too long for fashion and were adorned with only the minimum of ribbon loops at the cuffs to proclaim him a Royalist gentleman. The stockings he wore were wool, not silk, and his black leather shoes were tied with ribbon bows. It was the outfit of a practical man who saw no need to impress.
About to take a mouthful of eggs, Prudence paused, frowning. “Papa?”
“Even though he was in exile, the prince became king the moment his father died,” Strathern explained patiently. “When Charles Stuart returned to Great Britain in 1651 he was already king.”
“Oh.” Uninterested in politics, she added with daunting brightness, “Prince or king, it makes no difference! We are living under the Lord Protector now and so continue to be.”
“The new Lord Protector is not the man of strength and purpose his father was. Richard Cromwell has ruled England for little more than six months and already there are rumors that the army will not continue to support him. And the army is the pillar on which his power rests.” Strathern’s bright blue eyes were thoughtful. “I do not believe that Englishmen will allow Richard to rule simply because he is Oliver Cromwell’s son and designated heir.”
“Which means that change is coming,” Alysa added, her fine blue eyes, so much like her father’s, sparkling as she spoke. “And that is why it is important for us to know where the new lord of Ainslie Manor stands. Isn’t that so, Papa?”
Lord Strathern cast her an affectionate look. Alysa was the daughter of his first marriage and she and her sister were as unlike as their mothers were. Blond hair the color of old gold, so like her mother’s, was drawn away from Alysa’s forehead, but allowed to fall in frothy curls on either side of her face, framing her features. Blue, heavy-lidded eyes, a short, straight nose and a chin with a determined jut to it had all come from him, but her sweetly bowed mouth was the image of her mother’s, as was her creamy complexion.
Unlike her sister, Alysa chose elegant colors for her clothes. Today she was wearing a gown that was the color of fine wine with an underskirt of soft rose. The details of the gown were picked out in white.
Intelligent, intuitive and shrewd, Alysa could be trusted to find ways of interpreting the facts that came before her with uncanny precision. In the absence of his son, Thomas, who was in exile for his participation in the attempted rising in fifty-one, Strathern relied heavily on Alysa as his sounding board and second-in-command. “Exactly, my dea
r. In these troubled times it is well to know what each man believes. One can never be too cautious.”
Caution was a virtue that Royalists in England had long ago learned to cultivate. Punitive taxes and ruthless suppression of their rights had taught them that defying the rule of the Lord Protector was a risky venture. Most Royalist families were like the Leightons, once wealthy and powerful, but now subsisting on reduced income because they had the misfortune of choosing the wrong side in the war. Indeed, the room in which the family sat was a good example of how circumstances had changed.
Small and cozy, the breakfast parlor was paneled in the carved oak so popular a century before. Sunlight flowed in through the leaded glass windows, warming the paneling, but emphasizing the scars on the old mahogany dining table and the worn upholstery on the seats of the straight-backed chairs. Though the furniture and faded carpet covering much of the oak parquet floor were of the finest quality, there was no money to replace the aging fabrics or repair the damaged furniture.
Too young to remember the way of life before the war, Prudence was more content than the rest of her family to accede to the changes that had come about. Her main concern was to find a husband and so acquire a household of her own. “I hope that Sir Philip is an acceptable gentleman, for he appears to be unmarried and the neighborhood will be better off with another eligible bachelor.”
“Prudence!” Abigail said, scandalized. “Where do you get your ideas from! What a dreadful thing to say.”
Prudence thrust out her jaw. It had the same stubborn jut as her sister’s. “Alysa has the only gentleman of interest in the area languishing at her feet. Perhaps if there is a new man of marriageable age about she will decide whether or not to accept Master Ingram’s courtship.”
Alysa blushed. Uncomfortably, she fiddled with her sleeve, where the soft wine-colored cloth was slit to show off the fine linen of her chemise. “I find Cedric Ingram to be an amiable man, but I am glad he has not asked me to wed him, for I could not give him an answer.”
Abigail’s eyes twinkled. “When the man asks, you will know how to answer him, my dear. In the meantime, you must show him what courtesy you can, just as you would any other gentleman.”
“Including Sir Philip Hampton.”
Once again Prudence reduced the rest of the family to silence.
Finally Strathern said slowly, “Especially Sir Philip Hampton. If he is the Royalist brother, he will be an asset to our community. If he is not….” The statement hung ominously. There was no need for him to finish it.
“A Roundhead at Ainslie!” Alysa murmured. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“We must proceed cautiously.” Across the table, father’s and daughter’s eyes met. A message passed between them. Ainslie was one of the great houses of the area. It would be dangerous to have one of the enemy ensconced there. “Very cautiously indeed.”
*
Later that day, Alysa followed her father to the stable yard, where he had gone to inspect a young mare who was about to foal for the first time. While he discussed arrangements with the head groom, she waited patiently, wandering from stall to stall to pat the heads of the horses stabled there. Only about a third of the stalls were in use—yet another reminder that the Roundhead regime had decimated Lord Strathern’s finances.
As a punishment for his loyalty to the king, all but a tiny portion of his estates had been sequestered at the end of the war. He had been allowed to keep Strathern, the property on which his title was based, in order to provide for his family, but the rich lands from which he had once drawn most of his wealth were no longer his.
Strathern was a small manor compared to the one the family had used as their principal residence before the war and it was shockingly old-fashioned. It had been difficult to adjust to such reduced circumstances when they had relocated there after the king’s execution. As well, there were other, more serious, problems. The lands had been ravaged during the war, the cattle stolen to feed the Roundheads, the horses requisitioned to mount Oliver Cromwell’s formidable New Model Army. Rebuilding was a slow process, especially when there was little money to go around.
And so, the roomy loose boxes housed plebeian workhorses as well as the bloodstock used by the family for riding. To Alysa it made no difference as she patted the out-thrust noses while waiting for her father.
When he had finished his inspection, she said eagerly, “Papa, have you had word?”
Lord Strathern patted the mare’s nose before saying carefully, “I have, Alysa. Come, let’s walk over to the pasture. I want to view the cattle grazing there. We can talk while we go.”
Though there was no censure in her father’s voice, Alysa was reminded of the constant need for caution, because supporting an exiled king was a dangerous matter. Silently, she waited until he was ready to speak.
The cattle were pastured away from the house and main outbuildings. There was no one about to overhear Strathern disclose, “My contact in the Sealed Knot has confirmed that the emissary from King Charles will be your brother.”
Alysa’s breath caught with excitement. “Oh, Papa! How wonderful. When is he to arrive?”
“Soon. I was not given the exact date for security reasons, but I am sure it will be within the month.” After ten years of republican rule, the Royalist cause was fragmented in England. There were those, like Lord Strathern, who accepted the Sealed Knot, a secret council of six men, as the coordinators of rebellion in England. Lately, however, other groups claiming to represent loyal Royalists and offering contrary opinions had arisen. With no clear voice on whether rebellion in England was possible or not, King Charles had decided to send envoys from his own court to acquire firsthand information about the country’s state of readiness. Thomas Leighton was one of those men.
A pleased smile curved Alysa’s mouth. “It will be wonderful to have Thomas home again.”
Strathern turned from his thoughtful contemplation of the field of dairy cattle. Fixing a steady gaze on his daughter, he cautioned, “Thomas is not coming home for good, my dear. Nor will his visit be an opportunity for family rejoicing. The time he is able to spend with us will be brief.”
Alysa refused to be daunted. “I know, Papa, but Thomas has been in exile for nigh on eight years now and I miss him. Just to see and speak to him again will be a treat.”
“Yes,” Strathern said, a little wistfully. “This wretched war has turned all our lives topsy-turvy. A pox on Oliver Cromwell and all Roundheads!” He turned back to his pensive study of the grazing cattle.
For a moment Alysa stood silently beside him. Then she tilted her head so she could watch him as she said, “Papa, when Thomas arrives, I will of course be there.”
A muscle at the corner of Strathern’s mouth twitched with amusement. It was typical of Alysa to announce her participation in a potentially dangerous activity, rather than to ask permission. As he had expected that she would want to be involved in her brother’s welcoming party he had already thought the question through. “Yes, my dear, provided—”
Alysa bristled. “Conditions, Papa?”
Strathern nodded, his expression serious. “Conditions, Alysa.”
Her lovely features twisted into a pout, but she sighed with resignation. “Very well, Papa.” Suddenly her eyes twinkled. “I trust they will not be too onerous?”
A faint smile curled Strathern’s mouth. “I do not think so, but you may, daughter.” At Alysa’s scandalized look, he laughed. “My dear, we must remember that Thomas is a wanted man. Should the Roundheads come to hear of his return to England, they will try to capture him. That would put Thomas, and all those meeting him, in danger of arrest. I would not like you to see the inside of a prison, Alysa.”
“So,” she said slowly, “I will only be allowed to go if you believe I will be safe.”
“Correct, my dear.”
“How will you know?” she asked simply.
Edward rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “In a small community like West E
aston, it is difficult to keep news of any moment from becoming public knowledge. Anyone with a mind to pave his way into the good graces of our current rulers could supply information of Thomas’s return, but I trust the people of West Easton not to do so. All, that is, except Sir Philip Hampton. His loyalties are a question.”
“Even if he is the Royalist brother?”
Strathern nodded. “Yes. He has been allowed to inherit a valuable estate by the Roundheads. There is usually a price to be paid for such generosity.”
Alysa’s eyes narrowed. “You think he has been sent to spy on us?”
“I cannot say for sure, my dear, but I think it is possible. In any event, he might have had to compound in order to inherit. If so, he will not want to be involved in our activities.” The Roundhead government levied a heavy estate tax on all Royalists. In order to inherit, or retrieve his estate from the government, a Royalist gentleman had to pay the hated tax. This was called compounding. If a man compounded, it usually meant that he would be reluctant to participate in any further attempts to restore the king. “I want to know more of the man before Thomas arrives.”
A gleam of mischief appeared in Alysa’s eyes. “I would be happy to engage in discourse with the gentleman, Papa. After all, he is unmarried and so eminently eligible. What could be more natural than for me to show an interest in him?”
Relief and consternation fought in Strathern’s expression. “Cedric Ingram could become jealous. Or he might decide that you are too flighty for his taste. I would not want to see your chances with him ruined because of this, Alysa.”
She cocked her head. “You do not intend to tell Master Ingram of your suspicions?”
“A man is entitled to be given the benefit of the doubt, until the crime against him can be proven. I would not like to voice my suspicions of Sir Philip Hampton to anyone until I feel certain that he is not what he claims.”
Alysa nodded. The sentiment was typical of her father’s attitude toward his fellow man. He acted honorably whether others did or not. “Master Ingram may assume that his suit would be accepted should he choose to proffer it, but he has not offered for me and I have not agreed. Until we are betrothed we are nothing more than friends.” Her chin rose a little, emphasizing the jut in the gentle rounding, and the sparkle in her eyes became more pronounced. “Besides, I believe it would do Cedric Ingram good to recognize that he is not the only gentleman considered to be a catch in West Easton!”