Puritan Bride (8 page)

He knew the moment she became aware of him. She stiffened slightly, halted in her ministrations and turned her head to glance nervously in his direction. The flash of tension in her face vanished almost immediately when she recognised him.

‘I’m sorry, my lord. I was only—’

‘Why should you apologise? I had not intended to distress you.’ He strolled forward into the room.

‘No. I had thought there was someone behind me. On a few occasions I have felt … But perhaps it is simply the close confines of the room. That is why I had left the door ajar.’

‘Perhaps.’ He picked up a bunch of herbs from the bench and sniffed the pungent aroma. ‘Do you realise that you are giving my mother hope for the first time in months—years, even? Will it work?’

‘Yes.’

‘It would be a relief, for her and for myself.’ He
frowned unseeingly at the empty dust-covered shelves before him. ‘She believes that she is a burden to me, you see. And I cannot make her accept otherwise. If she were free from pain, could rest well at night and take up her previous interests, she would regain her old spirits. Nor does she enjoy being dependent on Felicity.’

‘I can assure you the relief from pain will be effective.’ Viola smiled a little nervously, flustered by his close proximity in the small room. But Marlbrooke did not appear to be aware, for which she was grateful.

‘You are very confident. What is it?’

‘Willow bark. It was easy to collect from the grounds—Mistress Neale sent one of the lads from the stables. If you make an infusion with boiling water, strain it and drink … but I doubt you want to know all the details,’ she finished as she caught the guarded expression on his face. She laughed. He was instantly transfixed by the sparkle in her violet eyes and the faint flush the heat in the still-room had brought to her fair skin. And a lightening of mood from the fact that, for a short time, she had forgotten the weight of uncertainty surrounding her existence in this house. He would have liked to touch her short hair where it curled on to her cheek in front of her ear.

He pushed his hands firmly into his pockets.

‘There. This is done.’ She lifted the pot from the flames with a cloth in her good hand. ‘Would you like to take it to her, my lord? If she would drink a little now, it will begin to give relief.’

‘Yes. With pleasure. What are you doing now?’

‘Making a liniment to rub into sore joints. I cannot make the most effective—it is not the season for many of the best plants, such as angelica or meadowsweet—but thyme is an excellent remedy, readily obtainable. Your herb garden is in a dreadful state and much overgrown, but it contains all the most useful and sweet-scented herbs.’

He accepted her innocent criticism of the state of the gardens with an amused smile and a shake of his head. He picked up a jar and sniffed, investigated the contents of a bowl and frowned down into them.

‘If you can make her life worth living again, I will be completely in your debt.’

Suddenly she put down the dish and the sprigs of thyme and grasped the edge of the bench with tensed fingers, fixing the Viscount with a direct gaze.

‘Well?’

‘Do you suppose that I worked in a kitchen somewhere? I seem to be very good at this. And I know my way round a still-room.’

‘Not a chance!’

‘Why not? How can you be so sure?’

He took possession of both her hands in his, and before she could pull away, he turned them over, palm up.

‘This is how I know.’ He smoothed his thumbs over the slender fingers, the soft palms. ‘You have not worked
in a kitchen. No burns, no abrasions, no calluses. Does it worry you?’

‘Yes … I don’t know … If I were a servant in a kitchen, it might explain why no one has enquired about my whereabouts. But the
blankness
fills me with dread,’ she admitted with sudden candour. ‘Do you know what it is like to look in a mirror and not recognise the face that looks back at you?’

The anxiety that he read in her violet eyes moved him unutterably and he could say nothing to ease it. He kept possession of her hands and raised them to his lips. He felt an urge to do more than kiss her fingers and so acted on the impulse. He turned one hand in his and pressed his mouth to the palm and then to the wrist that was bound against the sprain.

‘Perhaps you are indeed a godsend, Mistress Viola.’

She shook her head, the pulse leaping where his mouth had rested, the glow in her cheeks deepening. ‘I do not know. But it would please me to be able to repay Lady Elizabeth for her generosity and her kindness.’ She tried to pull her hands free, and failed.

‘She has an unfathomable depth of compassion,’ he agreed gently. And then, brows meeting fiercely in a sudden frown, ‘Do you realise that such skills as you wield here could be misconstrued as witchcraft? In the present climate that could be dangerous.’ He did not release her hands. ‘In the circumstances you deserve more
than my thanks.’ He watched her carefully as he awaited her reply.

‘I did not think of such an interpretation.’ Her eyes widened, but were clear and guileless and her voice was calm. ‘I do not know
how
I know or where I obtained my knowledge, but I would wager it was not from a witch! Besides, I will do no harm to anyone.’ She trembled under his hands and her eyes fell from his. ‘I do not need your thanks—it is I who am entirely in your debt.’

And then the words were wrung from her. ‘What will I do if no one ever claims me—and I never remember who I am? What will I do?’

‘Why, then …’ He hesitated only a moment before speaking what was in his heart, for once thoughtless for the consequences, for himself, for the lost girl who stood before him and for the absent Mistress Harley. ‘Why, then I would have to claim you for myself.’

Without another word he closed her fingers over the salute on her palm, picked up the cooling bowl of fragrant liquid and left.

The weather lapsed into winter again with rain and gales, severe enough to keep the inhabitants of Winteringham Priory imprisoned within their four walls. For Viola it was a time of intense frustration interspersed with bouts of sharp-taloned fear. Her memories of her past life refused to resurface, deluging her, at the most inopportune moments, with shattering moods of total
desolation that she fought against and tried to hide from her concerned and watchful hosts. Any tears that she shed were in the privacy of her bedchamber.

Apparently no search had been instigated for her by anxious relatives. No messages arrived at the Priory, in spite of enquiries made by Viscount Marlbrooke. No one appeared to lay claim to her to put her mind at rest.

It was not all fears and anxieties, of course. Her wardrobe extended as Lady Elizabeth found pleasure in giving her gowns that she decided would be far more becoming to a young girl than to herself. Viola found herself the possessor of satins and velvets, decorated with ribbons and point lace, which seduced her eye and her touch.

But her hair was slow in showing any growth and caused her severe mortification when she looked hopefully in the mirror every morning. It still framed her face in dark wisps and curls. She sighed with Bessie as she tried to coax it into a more becoming style and hide the worst of the short ends with a length of ribbon threaded through them.

Mistress Felicity continued to watch her closely with suspicious eyes and a frequent sneer on her thin lips. Never outwardly hostile—she was too intent on preserving Elizabeth’s favour—she was adept at asking innocent questions that just might catch out an impostor who was hiding her murky past for her own devious reasons.

Master Verzons also kept a discreetly watchful eye on Mistress Viola. Silent and unobtrusive, manner always
impeccable, she would look up to find his pale eyes fixed on her face.

As for Lady Elizabeth, the wet weather could not dampen her spirits. She blossomed. The willow-bark infusion, drunk daily, spread its calming, insidious fingers through her body, gradually, slowly but undoubtedly relieving the worst of her pain. She was tentative at first. Afraid that she was imagining the ease in her limbs. Certain that it could not last. But it did. She walked with more fluidity. She could brush her own hair. And the oily, aromatic liniment that Viola rubbed gently into her inflamed knuckles was so soothing. And perhaps, although she hardly dared contemplate it, the swelling was less. Certainly less
sore.
She even dared to hope that her fingers looked more slender and elegant as they had in happier times.

And she could sleep. Well, certainly better than for many months past. In fact, she decided in a moment of introspection, she felt a certain happiness and contentment with life. That is, if only she could rid herself of the feeling of … of
sadness
that seemed to linger in the house. The suspicion of something, a cold aura, watching and waiting, sometimes in utter despair. She decided that it was simply her imagination, closed her mind to it and told no one. Thus she was ignorant of the private and detailed conversations whispered between Mistress Neale and Master Verzons concerning the return of a definite
presence
to Winteringham Priory.

The Viscount found himself increasingly aware of the dangers of a man drowning in a pair of trusting violet blue eyes.

On the fourth day of storms, when hail battered the windows and the spring flowers unmercifully, Marlbrooke set himself to entertain.

They settled themselves at one end of the Long Gallery with screens to ward off the worst draughts. A fire of fragrant and spicy apple logs provided warmth. A chessboard, counters for draughts and a pack of cards were produced, together with a flask of wine, and Felicity was persuaded to pick out part songs and madrigals on the spinet, which she did with surprising efficiency.

Viola sat silently within the music and singing.

‘Have you no ear for music, Mistress Viola?’ Felicity enquired in sweet tones when she did not join in a fashionable ballad.

‘I believe I have—but I fear I lack the knowledge. I recognise neither the melody nor the words.’

‘Did you not then sing when you were a child?’ Elizabeth enquired.

‘Why, yes. I can sing hymns!’

‘Ah! Definitely a Puritan family.’ Marlbrooke surveyed her with some speculation. ‘That confirms it. I fear that we are leading you astray, Mistress Viola, and that, at some time in the near future, we shall be called to account by your austere and God-fearing parents.’ She had already proved to be knowledgeable at draughts, but had
never played cards. Marlbrooke had taught her to play primero and piquet with much enjoyment at her sweet if minor successes and her equally disastrous failures.

‘I think that must be so. I know that we had no musical instruments. And I have never played a spinet—but I am very skilled in salting fish and pickling mushrooms.’ She met his eyes with mischief in her own.

‘Well, I can do neither, nor can I play the spinet, so it seems that we are even.’

‘I think not! I am in no doubt which skills have most value. Where would we be without salt fish?’

‘I could wish that we were, but Mistress Neale had a liking for it!’ Elizabeth joined in the conversation.

Viola laughed aloud, shyness forgotten, for perhaps the first time since her arrival. Her eyes sparkled, her face flushed prettily. Marlbrooke was charmed at this unlooked-for vein of levity in the otherwise solemn lady.

‘Would you perhaps wish to become equally skilled in playing the lute? Now there I can claim some expertise.’ He experienced a surprising desire to teach her, to watch her slender fingers pick out the notes and pluck the strings. To see the vulnerable curve of her slender neck as she bent to the task.

‘I would like to try,’ she responded gravely. ‘I expect I would find it far more satisfying than plucking and drawing a chicken.’

‘Then I will teach you, if it pleases you. But only if I do not have to tackle the chicken later.’

‘It would please me considerably.’ The shy smile of delight ensured that the Viscount’s enslavement was complete.

‘So much for your future musical education.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Can you dance? You should know that my mother is an excellent dancer.’ He advanced purposefully towards the lady. ‘And perhaps since she is feeling more sprightly, she will stand up with me.’

‘Marcus. I cannot. I have not danced for years—and certainly I have no wish to dance now.’ But Lady Elizabeth’s eyes told a different story. ‘You know it is impossible.’

‘I am sure that it would be unwise for dear Elizabeth to exert herself.’ Felicity frowned her displeasure at the Viscount, her fingers stilled on the keys. ‘You know that it will only lead to a recurrence of the pain. She will probably be crippled for days. I am perfectly willing to sit with her—’

‘I know no such thing.’ He glanced at Felicity with a warning in his eyes, but spoke directly to his mother. ‘I have seen you moving with increased ease these past days. You can certainly join me in a pavane. Play something slow and stately if you please, Felicity.’

Elizabeth, with the colour in her cheeks and gleam in her eyes of her younger days, allowed herself to be pulled to her feet by her determined son. The steps came easily to her and she was able to move with only the slightest of twinges, stepping out the stately measures with almost
as much grace as she had ever shown. Not for as long as she had once been able, but enough to reawaken the pleasures of youth. Along the extent of the Long Gallery she experienced once again the thrill of music and elegant movement, woven into one beautiful thread. With a final curtsy and a satisfied smile, she sank back into her chair and accepted a glass of wine from Viola.

‘You are good for my spirits, Marcus. I never thought that I would ever—’ Her voice broke a little on the words. She shook her head and applied her handkerchief, waving her son away. ‘Now let me rest a little.’

He bowed over her hand with courtly grace and, to give her space in which to recover her composure, turned to Viola, a wicked grin warning her of his intent. ‘Your turn, Mistress Viola.’

‘But I cannot flaunt my ignorance in public!’

‘This is in private. If I am willing to risk the health of my feet, so can you.’