She looked down the long, lonely corridor of her future. It was worse than tears would have been, that silent acceptance, thinking of the man she had trusted so completely and who just as completely had deceived her. She must force herself to believe that their embraces had never happened, that everything was the same as before. But she knew that the despairing pain she felt would always be there. It might dull with the years, but it would never leave her and she would grieve for his loss as though he were dead.
Suddenly she was overwhelmed with bitterness and frustration because so many men had taken control over her life. Staunchly she decided at that moment that it was time she took charge of her own life and started thinking for herself. The idea of going to Wilsden Manor appealed to her more than ever—though it would mean selling Oakdene to do so. Only there would she find the peace and solace she craved.
* * *
When she arrived back at Oakdene, Mrs Coleman was in the kitchen supervising the cooking for the evening meal. Hearing Catherine, she hurried out.
‘Oh, my lady, thank goodness you’re back.’
‘Why, what is it, Mrs Coleman? Has something happened?’
‘It has. It’s the master. He’s taken a turn for the worse—another seizure—a bad one this time. I’ve taken the liberty of sending for the doctor. He should be here any time.’
A coldness settled over Catherine like a suffocating shroud. ‘Is—is he conscious?’
Mrs Coleman shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Thank you. Is there anyone with him?’
‘One of the servants.’
‘I’ll go and sit with him until the doctor arrives.’
Entering her father’s room, she thanked the young maid and waited until she was out the door before she moved to the bed. Her father was shrunk against the pillows. His face was white, one side of his mouth pulled down. His life was drawing to a close. There was nothing she could do other that sit beside the bed and wait and look at his paralysed face. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, each breath more difficult than the last, and she knew he was slipping away.
The doctor came and went. There was nothing more he could do. It was just a matter of time—perhaps a day or just hours. Catherine continued her silent vigil, reluctant to analyse how she felt just then. That would come later. The shadows of evening darkened the room. Eventually, exhaustion claimed her and she dozed in her chair. Her father’s breathing grew more laboured, but he did not wake. His face was transparent, his eyes sunken. Catherine sat still and watched as he passed away. She shed no tears at his passing and felt no pain at his loss, only a strange sense of release. Getting to her feet, she went to inform Mrs Coleman.
* * *
Catherine wrote to Blanche informing her of her father’s death. After all that had transpired before she left Oakdene, she didn’t expect her to return, but she invited her to do so if she so wished. She sent a letter to army headquarters at Windsor for John, but she imagined he’d left for Sussex. If so, Blanche would give him the news.
The arrangements were made for her father’s burial in the local churchyard, where her mother had been laid to rest. She carried it out quietly and efficiently. People from the surrounding neighbourhood and acquaintances came to pay their respects and offer condolences. It was the second funeral she had organised in six weeks and she was vastly relieved to get it over with.
To take her mind off everything she busied herself with sorting out her father’s papers and legal matters. His lawyer came to read the will and finally it was over. It was as she expected. Everything had been left to her—the house and his wealth. There was nothing for Blanche. Bitterness at his cruelty ate at her. Blanche and Catherine might have had their differences, but Blanche had been his wife for eight years. She had deserved something.
The pain of the past days grew worse in Catherine, filling the days ahead with an inner despair which she strove to hide, burying it deep inside her. She had not seen John or heard from him since the day at Windsor, but she knew, no matter how hard she tried to think otherwise, that since then nothing had been the same. The pleasure and the intensity she had experienced on John’s last night at Oakdene were now too painful to think about.
But they would not go away. She was haunted, too, by the memory of the passionate night she had spent in his arms and the response of her body. A look from him could steal her breath and rob her mind of all reason. Her mind became a battleground of conflicting emotions. She wanted him, but a stubborn part of her held back. Still the memories gave her no peace. She was plagued by the whispering echoes of the rapture she had tasted and his kiss and the passion which his touch had ignited. There was no denying the pleasure John could give a woman. If that was all a woman wanted, then he had no equal. But her ideals had changed. Now she needed more than a frenzied affair that engaged her body and mind, but not her heart.
News came to Oakdene that the captive King Charles had arrived at Windsor Castle just two days before Christmas. He had returned to the capital, not in honour, as he desired, but as a prisoner. He stubbornly refused to negotiate with Parliament or the army, so here he would remain while his opponents discussed his fate. There was encouragement from the people who cheered him as he passed towards Windsor, some even crying out for God to bless him.
* * *
There was no good cheer at Oakdene that Christmas. It was a house in mourning, but Catherine did not mourn her father. Oakdene was no longer the home she had known as a child and never would be again. Her father’s presence, even though he no longer inhabited the house, could be felt in every room. She had the strange sensation that she was being watched by a silent shadow that chilled the air like winter ice. Depression settled round her shoulders like a leaden cloak.
When Thomas had died she had sought freedom from the constraints of her sex. Now, after her experience with John, she found herself tied by her own imagination. She would give anything to escape the agonising heartache tearing her apart. She wanted to love and to be loved, to experience the impossible dream of romance. But then she laughed and mocked herself for the absurdity of it all. Better for her peace of mind if she stopped dreaming and fantasising about such things.
* * *
It was early in January when a visitor rode to up to the house. The hour was late and she was about to prepare for bed. Catherine heard the knocking at the door. When no one answered, the urgent knocking came again. Eventually one of the servants opened it and the caller was admitted.
Catherine went out to see who it was and was surprised to see John removing his cloak and hat. Mechanically going through the motions of existence and survival, she was unsure how to receive him after their last angry encounter. The memory of their last meeting was still fresh in her mind and, as far as she was concerned, nothing had changed. They stood and looked at each other. Catherine’s face was pale but composed, her emotions well in hand.
‘I had to come and see you. I can understand why you may be reluctant to see me, but there is too much that has been left unsaid between us.’
‘You mean there is more?’
‘Much more. Now if you would be so kind as to listen, I think we should retire to the parlour.’
Without a word Catherine went back inside. John followed and closed the door.
The parlour suddenly seemed too small for John’s towering height as he stood facing her. His close presence emanated a sense of controlled power straining beneath the surface. She stood motionless, acutely aware of her nerves stretching to breaking point. Just when she thought that she would not be affected by him he appeared and all her carefully tended illusions were dashed. No matter how hard she tried to appear calm and in control of her emotions, her heart set up its familiar, wild beating as she looked into his face. The lines were heavy about his mouth and cheeks and there were signs of strain and fatigue under his blue eyes. He gave her a long, thoughtful stare. Th
e silence between them seemed to stretch into infinity.
‘I’ve ridden from London,’ he said at length. ‘I have to get to Windsor, but I wanted to see you.’ He studied her, relaxing slightly as his gaze caressed her lovely features. She did not seem herself, which he put down to her father’s death. ‘I heard about your father. I’ve come to offer my condolences. I’m sorry I wasn’t here and that you had to deal with it alone.’
‘Yes.’ She moved towards him, but then she checked herself and drew back, putting distance between them. ‘He had another seizure that proved fatal.’ She saw sympathy in his eyes and she remembered the John Stratton she had known, cool and self-confident. Now he stood before her, dignified in the face of death.
‘And you, Catherine? How are you?’
‘As you see. I am well.’
‘If there is any way I can be of help, you only have to ask.’
‘Thank you. I do not think there is anything you—anyone—can do. Will you have some wine or something else, perhaps?’
‘No—I won’t. Time is of the essence.’
She did not press the issue. ‘You have been down to Sussex for Christmas?’
His gaze searched hers, but their depths were deliberately shuttered. ‘No. It was what I intended, but military duties meant I had to remain here. The King was on the move from the Isle of Wight and I was called on to go to Hampshire to assist in escorting him to Windsor. I’ve been gone over two weeks and only recently returned. I came as soon as I read your message.’
‘I see. That’s a shame. You will have been missed by your family.’
‘They’ll understand. My youngest brother and his family were to be there. They have young children which will have been good for James. I understand he’s had very little interaction with other children.’
‘He was a lonely little boy living here. I’m sure Blanche will have been glad for him to have the company of other children. I didn’t expect her to come back for the funeral. I do not blame her for not doing so. What is to be done with the King? Is he to remain at Windsor?’
‘For the time being. He has always been happy there. Negotiations have come to nothing and the Commons have voted that he be summoned for public trial on the grounds that he has levied war against Parliament and the Kingdom.’
‘When will it be?’
‘The twentieth of January.’
‘So soon? How has he taken this blow from fate?’
‘With quiet dignity. He is ready.’
‘I cannot help thinking that it is a tragic thing that a King must stand trial for his life.’
‘And it will be his life that they demand. There are many supporters of Parliament and the Army that shrink from either the trial itself or the consequences. Many eminent and respected lawyers have retired from the capital. The King is convinced that afterwards his son Charles will be King of England.’
‘You imply that he has already been tried and condemned.’
He nodded, his expression grave. ‘I know how this sorry business must end.’
They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts as the fire crackled and snapped when it caught the wood Catherine had fed into its glowing heart earlier.
John’s gaze settled on his companion. ‘Enough talk of King Charles, Catherine, for where he is concerned what will be will be with not a thing you or I can do about it. I have come to see you. I was concerned following our meeting at Windsor. You were clearly upset by what your father had told you. I fully intended on coming to see you until I was called away.’
‘Why, John? Why did you want to see me? I thought everything had been said between us.’
‘Not everything. Understandably, in the circumstances you were already hurt and suffering and I compounded that by keeping the tragic circumstances of Thomas’s death from you. If I had wanted to destroy your self-esteem, I could not have made a better job of it. Your father did not tell you all of what happened in Newcastle. Indeed, he did not tell you the whole truth. I want you to hear my account of what happened.’
Catherine nodded and indicated that they should sit. ‘Then you’d better tell me,’ she said as they took a seat on either side of the hearth where the glowing embers of the fire provided a welcome warmth against the chill of the winter’s day. ‘If there is more, I would be glad to hear it—and no half-truths. I want to know all of it.’
‘I will tell you. When you came to me at Windsor you were angry and upset—and rightly so. But I am not inhuman. You were correct in saying that Thomas deserved better. By the time I reached Newcastle where Thomas and other Royalists were captured, it was already too late. The sentence had been carried out. You should also know that, despite what he told you, your father was not to blame. He wanted him taken to London to stand trial, but tempers were running high and no one would listen. There was criticism in many quarters at the handling of the brief trial and the passing of the sentence. You were correct when you said that as a peer of the realm—whatever his crime—he should not be treated like a commoner. That has ever been our English precedent. Thomas himself protested—he had not really dared hope for pardon, but he had hoped to die with dignity.’
‘Did he deserve to die at all?’
‘That is no easy question to answer. Thomas carried letters for the King. He knew there was a price on his head. In short, Catherine, he was no saint.’
‘Were any of the men who took up arms on either side?’ she said quietly.
‘No. But most of them followed their beliefs. Thomas knew what he was doing, that it was dangerous and that he faced the death penalty if caught. After the battle at Marston Moor, even the King’s most ardent supporters were reluctant to carry on fighting for what they could rightly see as a doomed cause and that the price for supporting the losing side would be enormous. Few were willing to risk what they had left.’
‘But not Thomas.’
‘No. He continued to seek out support for the King among his old friends, but even had he succeeded there was little of what was needed—arms and money.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Thomas and I may have fought on opposing sides, but he was a brave man, Catherine. Never doubt that. Young James must be told of the part his father played during the conflict and be proud.’
‘And my father?’
‘Whatever you have been told, he did not pass the final judgement on Thomas. He was extremely ill and anxious to get back to Oakdene. You may be surprised to learn that he suffered not only from ill health, but also a deep regret when the sentence was carried out. Yes, he wanted to wreak his vengeance for Thomas’s crime against himself, but that was personal, a separate matter that had nothing to do with the war.’
‘My father was so bitter and angry, driven by wrongdoings against him. I think the pain caused by his illness and what had been done to him had crippled his mind and impaired his judgement and pushed him to extremes. But what of you, John? Where were you while all this was happening?’
‘I had duties elsewhere in the north. Where Blanche is concerned, I have given the matter much thought. The best thing for all concerned is that she takes James to Carlton Bray. It is his rightful place. It is what Thomas would have wanted. James will be told of his father. A boy should hear about his father’s courage—about loyalties and convictions, whatever they may be—and be proud. Blanche also has to be taken care of. For the present they are being well taken care of in Sussex. When the time is right I will go with them to Carlton Bray. Do you approve of that?’
‘It is only right that you should be concerned for James and his well-being. Carlton Bray is no longer my concern, but I do think it would be appropriate for James to grow up there. Have you discussed this with Blanche?’
‘No. I haven’t been down to Sussex as yet, but I cannot imagine she will object.’
‘No matter how hard you try, John, you cannot legitimise James.’
‘I realise tha
t.’
‘Unless...’ She faltered, biting her lips, reluctant to make a suggestion that was abhorrent to her and wishing she hadn’t started.
Frowning, John glanced across at her. ‘Unless? Unless what, Catherine?’
‘I am sure you have considered all possibilities for Blanche and I would not presume to suggest otherwise. I think you will deal with the situation very well without my input.’
‘Anything you say, Catherine, I will consider seriously. Tell me what you’ve thought of—and are unwilling to voice should I find it not to my liking.’
‘That’s just it, John, you might like it very well. I was about to say that you could marry Blanche and adopt James at a later date. Blanche is a widow—an attractive widow. She is free to marry again sooner than you expected.’
He looked at her closely, studying her face, but unable to see past her cool façade. ‘Do you think that would be appropriate, Catherine?’
Shaking her head, she leaned forward and picked up a log from the hearth, setting it on the fire and making a point of keeping her face low. ‘How would I know? I am sure you will do what is right where Blanche is concerned.’ If she was able to make herself accept it, to believe it, to be unconcerned that he might very well make Blanche a part of his life, she would have to wallow in the pain of it—like salt in an open wound that was agonising, but healing—and then she must learn to suffocate all her feelings for him, not think of him.
‘Catherine,’ he said, his tone soft, ‘I have no wish to marry Blanche. There are other ways of securing Carlton Bray for James. Now I am back at Windsor I will make the time to go and see Thomas’s lawyer—to get some advice on the legal side of things. I would like to have it made over to James—that’s something I will look into in the future. It would not bode well at present, James’s father being a Royalist. Before the war Carlton Bray was a splendid estate—and it will be again, I am certain of it. It has been too long without a master.’
Resisting Her Enemy Lord Page 18