Puritan Bride (13 page)

‘But who is she?’ Kate had waited with undisguised impatience and finally disturbed the train of thought.

The old lady sat back in her chair and glanced at Mason, who stared back and gave a brief nod. ‘Did your mother ever tell you about Isolde?’

‘No. My mother talked little about the family and never, I am certain, of anyone of that name.’

‘No, she wouldn’t, of course.’ Gilliver’s lips thinned in distaste. ‘She shut herself off when your father died and she lost the young baby. Well, Isolde was one of the Harley ancestors. A young girl. Way back, in the time of the Old Queen, I think. Is that correct, Mason? When did Isolde live?

Mason did not speak but nodded again, her eyes darting between Mistress Adams and Kate.

‘Whatever. I do not know the reason why—it was all hushed up, as you might believe—but one night she took it into her head to throw herself from the roof of the Priory and died on the front courtyard. She was not buried with the Harleys—not in consecrated ground, you see. And so her spirit did not rest. Or perhaps she did not rest because of the reason why she ended her life, if you take my meaning. She became troublesome, disturbing
the villagers, the livestock, and the family of course. And she grew bolder as if she absorbed energy from the fear she engendered. A traveller was killed when his horse threw him on the road across the Common. And there was some story of … Well, at the end the head of the family—I don’t remember who—asked the church for help. The bishop was persuaded—he brought out the clergy
en masse
and the spirit was reduced and confined for eternity. Not without a struggle, though—Isolde was intent on remaining free to wring her hands and weep sad tears—but it was finally done. I have heard tales that she appeared before them—twelve canting priests in all their finery with their candles and their Latin—in her own form, crowned with light, and then as a black cat, spitting and defiant.’

‘So how did they control her for a hundred years?’ ‘Well, my dear, the authority of the church would not be gainsaid and they reduced her spirit to the merest flicker of light, so small that it could be trapped inside a pottery vessel. Something like that one.’ Gilliver gestured with a nod of her head to the simple earthenware jug which stood on the hearth. ‘And they imprisoned her within it with a wax stopper.’ She snorted her disgust. ‘All holy water and ceremonial at the dead of night—just the stuff beloved by the church to keep us mortals in thrall! Rumour said she was kept somewhere in the Priory, but I never knew of its whereabout when I lived there. But now it would seem that she is released again.
How she came to be free I have no idea. Or what the end might be.’

‘It is a sad story,’ Kate agreed.

‘You can see her in the portraits at the house. Did you realise that they are mostly of your family?’

‘Why, no.’ Kate’s brows rose as the realisation struck her. ‘But then I did not know who my family were until yesterday when my memory returned.’

‘She is buried in the little copse beyond the village, on the edge of the estate.’

‘She is certainly not at rest, poor lady. There is a terrible heartbreaking desolation about her. I have felt it—and wept for her—and I know she disturbs Lady Elizabeth.’

‘Good. With luck she will frighten them into packing up their belongings and taking themselves back to London. Perhaps we should encourage Isolde.’ There was a wicked light in Gilliver’s eye.

‘Encourage her? If you had been touched by her as I have, you would not say that! It would be a sin to make use of such grief. We should pity her.’

‘Such a Puritan attitude, my girl! I detect your uncle’s influence here. Sir Henry always was too moral for his own good.’ Gilliver sniffed in disdain. ‘But see, Katherine, if it gets the Oxendens out of the Priory, it will certainly be in
your
interests to make use of Isolde.’

‘No. I cannot agree.’ Kate discovered that her hands were curling into fists. She hid them in her skirts as she fought to regain her composure and her good manners.
It would not do to antagonise Gilliver on such a short acquaintance, after all! But nevertheless she continued to argue her point. ‘Lady Elizabeth was more than kind to me, you must understand, Aunt Gilliver. I would rather do something to make life easier for her than bring her any further distress.’

‘Easier? Do I hear correctly?’ Gilliver rose to her feet in a swirl of agitation and a glitter of facets. ‘And from a Harley? Did you hear that, Mason? A week at the Priory and she is already thinking like a Royalist!’

‘Why not?’ Kate persisted with the determination Aunt Gilliver would have recognised if she had had a longer acquaintance with her niece. ‘Lady Elizabeth is not responsible for the events that led to our loss of the Priory.’

‘Hmm! You are more like your father than I realised. Perhaps you will be an uncomfortable guest in my house after all.’

‘I hope not, Aunt Gilliver. I would like to stay for a little while. Can we help Elizabeth? I am certain you will have the knowledge. The presence of Isolde in the house causes her great anxiety.’

‘If you wish.’ Gilliver’s scowl, tightening her wrinkles further, expressed her extreme reluctance. ‘But don’t expect me to do more than the basics.’ She changed the subject adroitly before Kate could make any more demands on her. ‘Do your family know you are here?’

‘They do now. Marlbrooke informed them.’

‘So I suppose we can expect a visit from Richard any day now. That should make life interesting.’

Kate ignored the twinkle in her aunt’s eye. Before she left the parlour to be shown to her bedchamber by a silent Mason, acknowledging a sense of relief in escaping from such an unsettling influence, she felt compelled to satisfy her curiosity.

‘Why are you doing this, Aunt Gilliver? Why speak out now about my father’s will after so many years of silence?’ Marlbrooke’s words about mischief-making echoed in her ears.

‘No reason, my dear.’ Gilliver’s smile was bland and innocent. ‘No reason other than that we would not like the Priory to fall permanently into the wrong hands, now would we?’

‘A
unt Gilliver has given me these. Forgive me, my lady. I would feel guilt if I used them without your knowledge—or your permission.’

Kate sat once more in the sunny parlour at Winteringham Priory, having ridden over from Widemarsh Manor on a return of the spring-like weather.

Elizabeth had welcomed her with genuine pleasure and found various errands for Mistress Felicity, of a trivial but very necessary nature, to allow them some privacy for conversation. Now she regarded with interest the corroding bunch of keys that Kate had placed on the table between them. She picked them up with a ripple of satisfaction at Kate’s amended apology.

‘I suppose that Mistress Adams kept them when she left—a final gesture of defiance.’ She looked up at Kate
with a wry smile and a shrewd expression in her clear grey eyes. ‘She does not like us very much, does she?’

‘No.’ There was no point in Kate hiding the truth. ‘She has no good to say about the Oxenden family, and has made it clear that she objects to my visiting you. But she does not care much for most of the Harleys either. Her comments on my mother are illuminating, if not complimentary.’

‘Then I am doubly pleased to see you again.’

There was no need to say more, and certainly not to discuss Gilliver’s vitriolic words on the forthcoming marriage between a Harley and an Oxenden. Kate had blushed with embarrassment but refused, for reasons that were not clear to her, to give Gilliver the satisfaction of agreeing with her.

‘Marcus has ridden to Glasbury, I believe,’ Elizabeth continued with an understanding smile. ‘I do not know when he intends to return. You are looking well—the bruising has vanished at last. Dare I say your hair appears to be growing a little?’

Kate laughed, unsure of whether she felt relief or disappointment at the Viscount’s absence. ‘Not as fast as I could wish it. Aunt Gilliver is far more forthright. She has given me some pungent concoction—she would not admit to its contents—which she says will encourage growth and strength. I dare not refuse to use it, despite its unpleasant aroma. If I fail to do so, Mason will surely report me and I dare not put myself further into her black
books. Mason is a formidable lady in spite of her silence and small stature.’

They smiled, sharing their experience of managing female dependants.

‘But how are you, my lady? Are my potions still effective?’

‘Why, yes. I have taken up my needlework again. It is not easy, but I find great pleasure in it once more and my fingers are more nimble. I have also walked in the gardens a little.’

‘I have brought this.’ Kate rummaged in a leather satchel she had brought with her. ‘My aunt has considerable knowledge and a great stock of dried and preserved herbs and roots. You would not believe! They even hang in my bedchamber and rustle when the draughts blow through the window frame! She says that this will be more effective than the liniment I made. If Mistress Felicity will rub it into the sore spots twice a day, you will feel the benefit.’

‘How did you persuade her to send such a blessing to an Oxenden?’

‘It was not too difficult—if I could put up with the comments about females who were just as hard headed and managing as she was.’

‘I am indeed grateful. So what do you intend now?’

Kate’s hesitation was slight. She knew Elizabeth would understand and so decided on honesty. ‘My aunt says that
my father may have hidden his will in this house before he left for the battle and was killed.’

‘And you wish to look for it. Well …’ Elizabeth sighed ‘… you are welcome to try.’ She pushed the keys back towards Kate. ‘I know of no rooms that are still locked and have no keys—but if you wish to satisfy yourself … And apart from that—’ she smiled with quick sympathy ‘—I think you would wish to explore your own home.’

‘You would not mind?’ Kate’s face lit with anticipation. ‘I would like it above all things.’

‘Of course I do not mind. As long as you come and see me again before you leave.’

So Kate found herself exploring the house which was hers by right of birth. As she had confessed, she had no childhood memory of it. She found it faintly unsettling to stand in rooms filled with furniture that had once been owned, used, polished and cherished by generations of her own family, and yet she herself had no sense of ownership. How should she, indeed? Her earliest memories were of her uncle’s cold and loveless home. Even so, as Kate moved from room to room she hoped for some lingering echo from the past. Her mother’s withdrawing room. The bedchamber where she was born. The Long Gallery where she had probably taken her first steps. But nothing. Her only memory of the Long Gallery was of learning to dance under Marlbrooke’s eagle eye and the
terror of Isolde’s controlling power. And yet, despite the lack of any
frisson,
Kate still felt that she had come home.

She knew the history of the house of course. Sir Henry had ensured that she be word perfect in her knowledge of her inheritance. Some parts of the house were very old, remnants of an Augustinian priory that had stood on that spot from medieval times. For the rest, it had been built by an ancestor, Sir Francis Harley, a courtier in the days of old King Henry who had been rewarded for serving his master well. He had received his patronage and the granting of the estate, Winteringham Priory, now in the King’s gift after the dissolution of the monasteries. In his old age, Sir Francis had taken himself and his family from Court to the Priory and proceeded to build a house that would reflect the increased wealth and his status as an elder statesman.

This was Kate’s home. An Elizabethan mansion of some presence. She explored it eagerly. As she climbed to bedrooms and attics, she realised how neglected the house was. In these distant reaches dust and mice competed and so did the damp and mildew. The structure was sound enough, it merely needed to be loved and lived in. The Oxendens had commandeered the house after the siege in 1643, laying claim to it as one of the fruits of conquest, but had spent only a few short years in residence. With the death of the King and the supremacy of Parliament, they had returned to London, leaving the Priory, its rooms closed up, its furniture shrouded in
holland covers. The Harley retainers had stayed put, with Mistress Adams moving in to keep as tight a hold as she was able in the name of the Harleys. Kate now realised that Master Verzons had played a major role in holding the estate together. In 1643 he had been a young, inexperienced indoor servant. When his predecessor died in the siege, he had the initiative and ambition to take over the stewardship. And the estate had prospered since old Viscount Marlbrooke had not chosen to bleed the estate dry in the name of the King. During the Interregnum, Verzons had exercised careful husbandry, steering cautiously between all disputing local factions and keeping a firm hand on the purse strings so that Kate, on her personal tour of inspection, quickly saw that she had inherited a smoothly run operation. Why had Lady Philippa not returned? Kate shook her head in disbelief that her mother should not have insisted on returning to her home, but perhaps the more ordered, secure life at Downham Hall with her brother to take on all responsibilities was more to her taste. But not for her daughter. She stood at the top of the oak staircase with mythical beasts carved into the newel posts and vowed that she would open up the house again and banish its chill neglected air. And if King Charles saw fit to gift the house to Viscount Oxenden, then Kate would do all in her power to thwart him! With such treacherous thoughts in her mind Kate came across Verzons in the Great Hall. He bowed, his face as usual stern, expressing no emotion.

‘Good morning, Mistress Harley. It is good to see you returned to the Priory.’

‘Thank you, Verzons.’ She smiled shyly before this austere figure. ‘It feels strange to be here. You must remember my father and mother well.’

‘Indeed.’ His eyes met hers directly. ‘May I say, mistress, that you can have every confidence in my desire to be of service to the Harley family, now and in the future. At any time.’

‘Surely you mean the Oxendens, Master Verzons?’ Kate frowned a little, unsure of the purpose of this affirmation of loyalty.

‘But of course. How could it be otherwise?’ The steward remained solemn and respectful and his voice held nothing but calm and reassurance.

‘My aunt, Mistress Adams, has told me of your assistance to her in the Interregnum years.’

‘I kept faith. If you have an interest, Mistress Harley, the portraits in the Long Gallery are all of your ancestors. The Oxendens never moved them—having none of their own to hang there in their stead, of course. You might care to study them.’

So Kate walked the Long Gallery to peruse the stiff figures and unfamiliar faces of her Harley ancestors. If she wondered why there were no Oxendens, it was a mere fleeting thought and of no matter. Most of the portraits were Elizabethan figures, stern and solemn in
farthingales and ruffs, velvets and pearls. There were fewer from the recent past. Most of them held little interest, even the names were unfamiliar. But Kate was drawn back to look again at two. One was a large portrait, a family group of Sir Francis Harley, his wife and children, painted a century ago. They stared down at her in unblinking scrutiny. The children were for the most part small, the boys still clad in the petticoats of their infancy, playing with a small monkey and a goldfinch. But beside them stood an older child, a girl. Kate knew immediately, without doubt, that this was Isolde. She was dressed in a deep blue gown, square necked, tightly waisted and with a farthingale. Around her neck was a string of pearls. Her face was a clear oval, her eyes a deep blue, which reflected her gown, and her hair was long and dark. For so young a girl, her expression was most solemn, no hint of a smile or pleasure, but perhaps that was the whim of the artist. Her slender-fingered hands were loosely clasped before her and she held a small sprig of apple blossom. A charming portrait. And what, Kate asked silently, made you take your own life and return to walk these corridors in such wretched misery? The painted eyes and unsmiling mouth kept their own secrets. Other than this picture, Kate could detect no hint of Isolde in the Priory on this sunny morning.

The second portrait before which Kate returned to stand in profound thought was that of her father and mother, painted to celebrate their marriage. Sir Thomas
had her own dark hair and deep blue eyes. She also recognised the hint of determination in his straight nose and firm chin. Perhaps she had inherited that too! His mouth looked as if he would laugh easily. Lady Philippa was simply a young and pretty girl with none of the querulous nature that was to develop through loneliness and loss and dissatisfaction. They stood hand in hand, ignorant of the pain and separation of the future, in a knot garden with the Priory dominating the background, dwarfing the two figures. Kate stretched up to caress the painted face of the father she had never known.

Shrugging off the faint shadow of melancholy, Kate turned from the portrait to see and acknowledge the one new addition to the Long Gallery. It was dominant, making a statement, as it was intended to do. Above the main fireplace had been set a hatchment of the Oxenden coat of arms. Its fresh colour, set against the sombre portraits, blazed in the room. The silver falcons, fierce and predatory, caught the light as they soared majestically, their wings confidently spread. There was no doubting who was master here. She stood before it, contemplating that the falcons were very like their owner.

It was here that the Viscount found her. She heard him first and turned to see him stride down the gallery towards her. He was dressed for riding in a plain coat and breeches, a leather jerkin over all, gloves and hat in hand, the glossy waves of his hair tied back with a black ribbon.
She felt her heart pick up a beat and admitted to herself that she had missed him. But she would not show it.

He swept her a bow, as elegant and composed as ever. ‘Verzons told me I would find you in the Gallery. How did you come here?’ His glance was sharp.

‘I rode, of course. You left the horse at Widemarsh when you escorted me there.’

‘Did you ride alone?’

‘Yes. It is no great distance. And within the bounds of the estate.’ Her brows rose at his implied criticism. ‘Do you disapprove?’ Those dark, expressive brows dared him to do so.

Marlbrooke looked at her as if he intended to say more, then shook his head slightly, thinking better of it. Any expression in his eyes was instantly veiled. ‘It is no matter.’ He turned to study the portrait beside them. ‘Your parents?’

She nodded.

‘You have the look of your father.’

‘Yes. So I believe. Aunt Gilliver will be here somewhere in the portraits, but I do not recognise her.’

‘If you find the portrait, tell me—and I will burn it to rid us of a malign influence.’

She could not resist a smile at the dry comment. ‘Come and look at this, my lord.’ She led him to the family portrait of Sir Francis. ‘That is Isolde. She, according to my aunt, is the uncomfortable presence in the house.’

‘Do we know why?’ He studied the image of the young girl with some interest as Kate had done.