Puritan Bride (2 page)

Raindrops ran down the window with icy monotony, blurring Elizabeth’s view of the formal garden and the distant skyline. She knew the landscape well, of course, had always known it. After all, the outer reaches of the Priory ran with the Old Hall on its western side. Once, before the war, their families had been close neighbours, friends even, enjoying each other’s company in hunting and evenings at home. She remembered Lady Philippa Harley, a gentle girl, perhaps a little weak, always afraid of criticism from those around her and with no real interest in the world-shaking events taking place in London and nearer to home. But pleasant enough for two young women to exchange girlish gossip. So how had it come to this—death and division between neighbours who once bought christening gifts for each other’s children? The War had a lot to answer for, and here they were, back with a King and Parliament, irrespective of the death of John, and of Sir Thomas.

The voice of Felicity interrupted her thoughts as it echoed along one of the corridors above, querulous and harsh in complaint against some hapless servant.
Elizabeth struggled to her feet to make good her escape before she could be discovered. Felicity was not the most amenable companion in the world, but without doubt she needed someone. Some days she could hardly lift her arm to brush her own hair. Or even push herself out of bed. The fear of increasing pain, of growing dependence, gripped her with sharp talons.
Oh, Marcus! Let me go back to London where it is easier to forget my infirmities, where I am rarely lonely.
She knew that she would never say those words to him. He would listen and try to make life more comfortable for her, but he was determined to make his home here at the Priory and she knew better than to voice her dissatisfaction. She understood the loss in his life, the devastation, the driving force within him, and loved him far too much to stand in his way.

She struggled through the doorway to avoid Felicity’s approach, and turned into the passageway to the kitchens. As for this marriage … Elizabeth pursed her lips thoughtfully. She could understand only too well the logic of her son’s decision. Katherine Harley was the true heiress to the property, even if her inheritance had been overlooked in the present political climate. It would certainly consolidate her son’s possession, not that he needed it with the courts and the King’s pleasure behind him. But marriage … How old would she be? About twenty years? Elizabeth vaguely remembered the birth of the baby just before Sir Thomas had died. A babe in arms when Philippa had been driven from the Priory to take refuge
with Sir Henry Jessop, her brother over at Downham Manor. What sort of upbringing would the child have had there? Little warmth and pleasure, Elizabeth imagined. Sir Henry had a name for staunch Puritanism, even though he might be a fair man. And Philippa would probably not stand against him in the matter of the upbringing of her child.

But nothing was settled as yet. It was all still in the hands of the lawyers. And what would the girl make of her profligate son? A slow smile eased the tension of Elizabeth’s face at the prospect. Perhaps Katherine Harley would be a true daughter to her, to replace the still-born child she still mourned after all these years. But what if she was a hymn-singing, Bible-reading girl, all duty and service with no love of music and pretty clothes? She shuddered at the prospect. Not all the legal intricacies would make her a suitable wife and daughter, whatever her promise to Marcus.

She hesitated outside the kitchen door and would have retreated if she had not experienced a particularly sharp twinge of pain from her hip to her knee. Did she really want to enter Mistress Neale’s domain? She was pleasant enough, a sturdy, capable body, elderly now but still able to run the household efficiently, but she was an old family retainer of the Harleys who had stayed put through all the upheavals and changes of ownership, like Master Verzons, the steward. Always polite. Always co-operative. But Elizabeth felt that, as a newcomer, a usurper
in fact, she was an intruder. They could run the house and did not need or desire orders from her. They smiled. They showed all due respect. But she sometimes caught a gleam in Mistress Neale’s eyes—not unwelcoming, exactly, but assessing, even after all these years.

There was no help for it—she could not stand here for ever in this draughty corridor. She pushed open the kitchen door.

‘Good morning, my lady. Can I be of any help?’ Mistress Neale broke off her conversation with the cook, wiped her hands on her apron and approached with a quick curtsy and a calm welcome. The kitchen was warm, a blessing to Elizabeth’s chilled flesh, and hummed with well-ordered activity. Something fragrant steamed over the fire. Lady Oxenden would have liked nothing better than to sit and exchange news and gossip with her housekeeper.

‘Why, no. I thought …’ Why did she feel so inadequate? ‘I might take a look at the still-room.’
And Felicity will not find me in there!
‘I do not have the key. Perhaps you have it, Mistress Neale?’

‘Indeed, my lady.’ She took a ring of keys from her belt and selected the appropriate one. ‘Was there anything in particular you were needing? I can always send Elspeth.’

‘No, indeed. I am sure you have an inventory, but I would like to see what is still of use. I doubt that anything has been bottled or stored for a good number of years.’

‘No, my lady. It has been sadly neglected since the
house has stood empty. My own preserves are kept here in the kitchen larders. Mistress Adams never used the still-room—she thought it too small and inconvenient for the storing and drying of herbs—and she had no interest in preserves.’

‘No. I do not suppose she had.’ Elizabeth sighed and avoided the opportunity to discuss the likes and dislikes of Mistress Gilliver Adams. Some of them were most disturbing and did not bear close contemplation.

She took the key and, since there was no forthcoming invitation to stay in her own kitchen, she closed the door quietly and retreated.

A blind passage led off from the corridor to the still-room. With stiff fingers Elizabeth applied the key and found to her relief that the lock had received some recent care and opened smoothly. The door allowed her entrance to a small room, lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, with a work bench along one wall and an old cabinet fixed to the wall in one corner. The only window was small, mullioned, letting in a poor, grey light. How long since anyone had ventured in here? she wondered. Dust and cobwebs covered and draped from every surface, as did the spiders, and she tried not to notice the mouse droppings along the surface of the bench.

For the most part the shelves were empty, but there were a few jars at one side, some with faded labels, most without. Elizabeth remembered enjoying this little space
in happier days to store the products of the kitchen garden and the orchard for the onset of winter. Presumably it had not been made use of any time in the past decade. Above her head hung bunches of herbs, perhaps collected and put there by herself. They were dry and brittle now, too dusty for use, but the scent of sage filled the air as she crumbled a sprig in her hand and allowed the leaves to drift to the floor. She had seen that the herb garden was totally overgrown, but it would be pleasurable to resurrect it on warm afternoons in spring—if she could find it physically possible.

The bottles had dark, sinister contents. Possibly plums … or damsons—she remembered a particularly fine specimen by the wall in the kitchen garden. She would not care to risk sampling them after all these years. Perhaps she could get Felicity to help her take stock and clear out. It would give her something to do other than complain and read pious passages from her limited collection of books. Her eyes closed, the aromas of herbs around her, Lady Elizabeth wished with all her heart that she had her health back.

Finally Elizabeth opened the cabinet. On one shelf was a pestle and mortar. Beside it a sheaf of yellowed pages, perhaps a collection of old recipes, but nothing she remembered. Otherwise there was a general clutter of spoons, dishes and a cracked glass container.

She was about to turn away, somewhat disappointed at the cabinet’s meagre treasure, when it caught her eye,
tucked into the bottom corner of the cabinet. It was a handsome pottery jug, quite old, undecorated and cloaked with dust, but with an elegant neck and handle. She had no recollection of this. There was no label that she could see, so she bent carefully to lift it out and place it on the bench. It was well sealed with wax and there were traces of an official seal stamped into it, but it was brittle enough to begin to disintegrate at her touch. She carried it to the window to squint at the imprint. Impossible to tell. She moved to replace it in the cupboard. Perhaps Mistress Neale would know more about it.

Felicity’s voice calling her name from close at hand caught her attention. It was enough to herald disaster. She fumbled, the pottery too smooth in her grasp and her swollen knuckles unable to keep a firm pressure.

She dropped the pot. It shattered on the tiled floor at her feet, sending shards of painted clay in every direction.

Elizabeth groaned in frustration and self-disgust. Now she would have to clear it up, whatever mess it contained—apart from having wilfully destroyed a handsome jug. Relief and some surprise swept through her, however, when she realised that, in spite of the stopper and the seal, the jug was, in fact, empty. All she could see around her feet were broken pieces of pottery.

It took no time for Elizabeth to accept that her hips and knees would not allow her to stoop to the floor to sweep up the pieces, however much she might like to hide the
evidence. Never mind, Mistress Neale would see to it. Or even Felicity. After all, it was her fault, calling out in such a fractious voice that Elizabeth had dropped it in the first place. At least the vessel would not have been worth very much. It was not as if it was a family heirloom. Old, yes, but surely not of any great value.

As she closed the cabinet, Elizabeth was touched by a prickle of ice all the way down her spine. She shivered, experiencing a sudden desire to leave the still-room and take refuge in the warmth and familiarity of the kitchen. Nothing tangible. Just a natural discomfort, brought on by the cold and damp. And guilt, probably!

She closed the door, locked it, and retraced her steps to the kitchen—but she was unable to throw off the faint chill of unease. She resisted an urge to look behind her.

T
he formal gardens of Downham Hall were awash with spring sunshine, the clipped box hedges spangled with diamond raindrops. An attractive prospect after the gloom of winter months, but the chill wind and threat of further showers was sufficient to deter any but the hardiest of gardeners or the most determined seekers of natural beauty. Or solitude.

The lady, protected by a hooded cloak, was oblivious to the perfect symmetry of neat flower beds or the impressive vista of rolling park land. Her attention was clearly fixed on the man kneeling at her feet.

‘Kate! Will you marry me? You must know that I love you. It cannot be a surprise to you after all these months—years, even.’ The urgency in his tone surprised her: her cousin could usually be relied upon to remain calm and unruffled in any eventuality.

‘I … Oh, Richard! Do get up! If my uncle sees us, it will only make matters far worse than they already are. Besides, you are kneeling in a puddle.’

Richard rose to his feet, but kept a tight clasp of Kate’s hands.

‘Be serious, Kate. Marriage could solve all our problems, whatever Sir Henry believes. Besides, I know that you love me. I am certain that I have not been mistaken in this.’

Releasing her hands abruptly, Richard pushed back her hood so that Kate had no choice but to look at him when she answered. There might have been traces of tears on her cheeks, but she raised her eyes to his with no shadow of uncertainty.

‘You know how I feel, Richard. I have always cared for you. When we were children, you were my magnificent cousin. In recent years … I have come to rely on you far more than I think you realise.’

Richard returned her smile, but grasped her shoulders insistently. Kate became intensely aware of the pressure of his fingers through the worn velvet.

‘Then if that is so, why are you so anxious?’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Why will you not give your consent to wed me? To allow me to approach your uncle?’

Kate sighed and turned away, forcing him to release her. She appeared to survey the distant landscape, but her violet-blue eyes were focused on unseen horizons.

‘You know it is not possible.’ she explained patiently.
‘Come. Let us walk a little. I feel that walls have ears and there are too many people in this house who are willing to carry tales to my uncle. And none of them would wish us well.’

Richard offered his arm with a graceful bow. They crossed the paved terrace and descended the shallow steps to stroll amongst the wintry flower beds. By mutual agreement they came to a halt at the centre. Kate wrapped herself more closely into the heavy folds of her cloak and seated herself on the stone edging of an ornamental fountain.

‘Are we far enough from the house now to be out of earshot? We only have these underclad nymphs for company.’ Richard raised his hand in the direction of the marble mermaids and sea horses, silent witnesses who continued to release sprays of water from their conch shells. There was a teasing note in Richard’s voice, but Kate did not respond to it. Instead there was an unexpected depth of bitterness in her immediate reply.

‘No! We are not! I can never be far enough away. I know that I should be grateful, but gratitude has a finite quality—and I have been everlastingly grateful for twenty years!’

‘Then marry me. That will enable you to live sufficient distance from this house to give you all the freedom and independence you desire.’

Kate shook her head. ‘But don’t you see, Richard? Independence is the crux of the matter. I owe everything to
my uncle. So does my mother. Since the day Winteringham Priory was besieged and overrun by the Royalists we have been dependent on Sir Henry for everything. From the food that we eat to the clothes that we stand up in.’ She smoothed her fingers over a worn patch of velvet and pushed a frayed ribbon edging out of sight. ‘How old was I when it happened? Three months? I have no recollection of my own home. My father’s death at Naseby simply complicated an already impossible situation. For twenty years Sir Henry has fed, clothed and housed my mother and myself. His plans for my future can not be lightly disregarded. And then, of course, there is the question of money!’ Kate’s eyes sparkled with anger. ‘And the land settlement!’

‘But surely our marriage would help to smooth over the inheritance problem?’ Richard joined her on the parapet and once more took possession of her cold fingers. ‘You are the direct heir to the estate. We know that a female claim brings its own difficulties but, after my father, I have the most direct male claim. Our marriage would ensure that Winteringham Priory returns to our family where it rightfully belongs. I can not accept that Sir Henry will be so antagonistic to our union. It would also be an excellent opportunity to get you off his hands for good!’

Richard’s persuasive argument did little to calm his companion. ‘Oh, I agree. I know all the arguments. How should I not? I have heard them so often over the past
three years since the King returned. But I’m not at all sure that what is legal and rightful will play any part in the final outcome. My uncle certainly does not think so. Oh, Richard! Why does it all have to be so difficult?’

‘Politics, of course. And, as you so rightly said, money.’ In spite of Kate’s obvious distress, Richard rose abruptly and walked away from her. She watched him as he strode to the balustrade which separated them from the sunken garden. He leaned his hands upon it, his back to her. The rigid set of his shoulders spoke of his frustration at his inability to solve the problems of a financially ruined and disgraced Parliamentarian family in this time of revival of Royalist for tunes.

Her heart went out to him. Her own father had declared for Parliament, but his death in battle in 1645 had effectively removed the Harley family from the political scene. Her brother Edward, a baby, had died of the sweating sickness before she was born. Except for local events her uncle, Sir Henry Jessop, had deliberately remained uninvolved throughout the Interregnum. ‘A sensible man stays at home and keeps his head down!’ became his frequently expressed opinion.

Time had proved him to be right. For Richard, of course, it was an entirely different matter. The Hothams had always held to strong views and strong actions, in both politics and religion. Simon, Richard’s father, had a reputation for uncompromising Puritanism and, as a military man, had become a figure of significant importance
in Cromwell’s New Model Army. Sir Henry even suspected him of supporting the execution of King Charles back in 1649. The new King would assuredly recognise the name of Hotham as that of a sworn enemy.

And now the Royalists were back in power, which promised little in the way of restoration of wealth or political advancement for any of those who had chosen to stand for Oliver Cromwell. The pardon for all sins committed in the name of Parliament was the most they could hope for.

As if aware of her scrutiny, Richard turned and walked back towards Kate. The fitful sun glinted on his fair hair, which he wore curling on to his shoulders, and highlighted the worn patches on his severe black coat. He no longer wore the distinguishing white collar of his youth, but no one would regard him as any other than an impoverished country gentlemen of a Puritan persuasion. And as such, he could not possibly figure in Sir Henry’s plans for his niece.

Once more standing before her, Richard demanded, ‘What of your mother? Has she no views on your marriage? Has she no influence with her brother?’

Kate’s immediate laugh expressed anything but amusement. ‘How can you ask it? I love my mother dearly, but I can expect no help from that quarter. She is entirely dominated by my uncle. She will go along with exactly what he plans and will be far too timid to voice even the
slightest objection. She fears argument and dissension more than anything.’

‘You clearly do not take after her!’ Richard observed with more than a hint of irony.

‘No.’ Kate sighed with a wry smile and tucked her wind-blown curls back into her hood. ‘It might be more comfortable for everyone if I did. I am, my uncle frequently states, a true Harley. All self-will and determination, and a refusal to listen to good advice. He does not, of course, intend it as a compliment.’

‘My lady!’ Richard swept a mock bow with his broad-brimmed hat. ‘I would not love you half so much if you were a meek little mouse. And were you aware that you have the most charming smile?’

‘Thank you, sir!’ Kate stood and swept him a regal curtsy, extending her hand for him to kiss, which he promptly did. Her troubles were momentarily swept away, a smile lighting her face with an inner glow.

‘You shine as the sun in my life, dear Kate.’

‘And you, sir, are a flirt,’ responded Kate with a delightful chuckle. ‘What would your severe parent say if he could hear you?’

‘He would say that it is God’s will that you become my wife and that we restore the Harley fortunes together.’

‘I fear that it will depend more on the influence of Sir Henry than on God in the end!’

‘Katherine! But that’s blasphemy!’ The glint in Richard’s eyes did not quite rob his words of criticism of her
flippant attitude. ‘Indeed, my father is very strongly in favour of our marriage. He would welcome you as a daughter-in-law, as would my mother. Let me approach Sir Henry,’ he urged once more. ‘We cannot plan for the future unless we give him the opportunity to accept or reject me.’

‘You are very determined, sir. And persuasive.’ She took his arm and they continued their perambulations, abandoning the nymphs to their watery frolics.

‘Why not? I can see nothing but advantage for us. Do you agree?’

‘I find the idea of marriage to you most acceptable, dear Richard,’ Kate assured him. ‘It’s just that …’ She hesitated, then turned towards him as she made up her mind to speak. ‘If my uncle disapproves, he could rake over all the old bitterness of past years. And he might forbid you the house. How could I exist if I could never see you again? I have no confidence in Sir Henry’s compassion or tolerance.’

Before Richard could respond, they became aware of footsteps crunching on the gravel walk. Swynford, Sir Henry’s steward, approached. He studiously ignored the closeness of the pair and their joined hands. With an impassive countenance, he bowed to Richard and then Kate. His words were for Kate.

‘Forgive me, Mistress Harley. Sir Henry has sent me with a message. He and Lady Philippa desire your presence.
In the library.’ He hesitated and then added, ‘Sir Henry would wish to see you immediately.’

‘Thank you, Swynford.’ Kate smiled her gratitude, picking up the note of warning in the steward’s demeanour through long custom. ‘Tell me … is Sir Henry aware that Mr Hotham has called on me … on us?’

‘No, mistress. I believe that he is not aware of this circumstance, although Mr Simon Hotham is with him now. I do not believe,’ he continued imperturbably, ‘that there is any need for his lordship to know.’

‘Thank you, Swynford.’ The steward returned to the terrace and Kate faced Richard for a final farewell.

‘I think that you should not speak with Sir Henry now,’ she stated. ‘I don’t know why he desires my presence so urgently, but I have a premonition that it will not be an agreeable experience. It rarely is! To discuss marriage now would be to stir up a viper’s nest.’

‘So you wish me to leave you to face Sir Henry alone?’

‘Indeed, it would be better.’

Richard was reluctant to release her. ‘Remember that, whatever happens, I love you more than life itself,’ he assured her. ‘I promise that I will always stand by you and protect you.’

The garden was suddenly silent, magnifying the tension between them. Even the blackbirds in the adjacent cherry hedge stopped their scufflings. Whatever encouragement Richard read in her eyes, he drew Kate firmly towards him and kissed her, first on her forehead and
then, as he received no rebuff, on her lips. It was a gentle, undemanding kiss, a mere promise of future passion. Her hair, whipped into a tangle of ringlets by the persistent breeze, caressed his face as his arms encircled her waist beneath the folds of her cloak. She felt a flicker of response surge through her body as his hands stroked her sides, her arms and then reached to smooth her hair. It was an intimately possessive gesture, leaving Kate in no doubt about her cousin’s feelings towards her. Then, before she could respond further—and, indeed, she was unsure just how she wished to respond—he let his arms fall from her and stepped back, releasing her, leaving everything between them once more unresolved.

‘Then I will say good day, Mistress Harley.’ Richard had himself firmly under control and spoke formally. ‘Or perhaps I should say adieu.’

He bowed once more with one hand on his heart.

‘Adieu, Mr Hotham,’ Kate whispered in like fashion and held out her hand.

Richard raised her palm to his lips in a final salute, aware of her trembling fingers. ‘I give you my word,’ he affirmed in a low voice, ‘one day you will be my wife. You will belong to me. I will not allow anything or anyone to stand in my way.’

With that, Richard released her, turned on his heel and strode through the flower beds towards the distant stables. Kate was left to follow him with longing in her eyes, her heart beating a shade more quickly than usual.
She had never believed Richard to be capable of such intensity, such determination. She traced the outline of her lips with one finger and smiled as she remembered the firm pressure of his mouth on hers. He was so certain. She wished with all her heart that she could be equally so.