Reckless Angel (10 page)

“Aye,” he said. “Is all well at home?” His voice was sharp with anxiety, but Frances nodded instantly.

“All goes well. The girls are up to their usual mischief, driving Mistress Kierston to distraction, and your house and land have so far escaped Parliament's attentions.”

The tension left his face and his entire body seemed to relax. “Did Tom not pass this way yesterday? I gave instruction that he should prepare you.”

“Oh, yes, he did,” Frances assured him. “James is from home at the moment. He had business with the commissioners in Maidstone.” Her joyful ebullience died. “He has gone to compound. You will do the same, I imagine?”

“Aye,” he said heavily. “D'ye have any information…Oh, but there will be time and plenty later.” He became aware of his sister's eyes looking over his shoulder, astonishment in their depths. With a wash of remorse, he remembered Henrietta, who was still sitting on her horse, and appeared uncertain.

“Oh, Harry, I ask your pardon.” He came quickly to her, lifting her down. “Frances, may I introduce my wife…Henrietta, this is my sister, Frances, of whom I have spoken to you.”

“I give you good even, madam,” Henrietta said, curtsying to a tall, kind-eyed woman whose suit of flowered, ash-colored silk, the waistcoat trimmed with silver lace, bespoke an elegance and affluence with which Henrietta was unfamiliar, but which she knew would not find favor in Puritan eyes.

Frances recovered with admirable speed. Smiling, she embraced Henrietta, saying, “I take it most ill in my brother that he should have told you of me but have kept such a wonderful secret to himself. You are most welcome, my dear, to my house and into the Drummond family.”

Daniel's sister's voice contained in its smooth depths the same note of humor as his, and Henrietta seemed
to blossom under the warmth of this greeting. The anxious, preoccupied set of her face softened, her eyes glowed, her mouth curved into a broad smile. “You are most kind, madam.”

“My name is Frances, my dear. Come you in and warm yourself. You must be exhausted after such a ride.”

“More hungry than tired,” Henrietta confided as she was hustled into a candle-bright hall of rich oak paneling and warm red flagstones. “'Tis a very long time since breakfast.”

“Really, Daniel, have you not given the child any dinner?” Frances scolded over her shoulder, before calling to a maid who appeared from the back of the house. “Janet, bring the rabbit pie to the dining room, and a jug of mulled sack…oh, and the cheesecakes. Make haste, now.”

A bright fire sizzled in the dining room grate and Henrietta shed her cloak and the despised round hat with a sigh of relief, taking in her surroundings with an observant eye. The dull gleam of pewter and the brighter sparkle of heavy silver indicated a household of some affluence; the speed with which supper was brought and laid upon the table indicated a well-run household.

“I accept the charge of neglect, sister,” Daniel said, smiling as he watched Henrietta fall upon her supper. “But I was anxious to reach here before nightfall.” He sipped his mulled sack appreciatively. “I shall be glad to be done ajourneying.”

“And I also,” Henrietta said, her first hunger now satisfied, enabling her to concentrate on other matters “'Tis a powerful long journey from Preston.”

Frances stared. “You were at Preston?”

“Oh, yes,” Henrietta said cheerfully. “Daniel found me on the battlefield.” She helped herself to a cheesecake. “I was wounded by a pike.”

Frances looked in disbelief at her brother, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged in rueful confirmation of his wife's statement. “'Tis a long story, sister.”

“I rather imagine it must be,” Frances declared. “Are ye from the north, Henrietta?”

“No, from Oxfordshire,” she replied, failing to stifle a deep yawn. “I went to Preston to be with Will. We were to be wed, but Will decided he was not ready yet.”

“Harry, I think the story must be told in its entirety and begun at the beginning if Frances is not to become completely confused,” Daniel expostulated, torn between amusement at Henrietta's artless explanation, which had reduced Frances to stunned astonishment, and reluctance to explain the whole absurd business to his sister, whose approval he strongly suspected would be withheld.

“I think it can wait,” Frances said briskly, deciding that this story she would hear from her brother alone. “Henrietta looks in need of her bed.”

“I own I am a trifle weary.” Henrietta yawned again.

“Come, I will take you to your chamber.” Frances stood up.

Henrietta glanced at Daniel, who showed no signs of moving. “Get you to bed, child; I will be up later,” he said, refilling his goblet. “There are some matters I would discuss with Frances.”

“Yes, of course.” Feeling as if she had been dismissed, Henrietta followed Frances upstairs to a corner bedchamber, where a fire had been newly kindled and the bed was hung with warm velvet.

“Let me help you to bed.” Frances bustled around, turning down the quilted coverlet, trimming the lamp.

“Nay, 'tis not necessary,” Henrietta said swiftly. “I know you have much to discuss with your brother.”

Frances looked at her uncertainly. The girl was clearly very weary, her face pale, the brown eyes large and luminous, but a constraint had entered her voice, and she was holding herself stiffly erect, as if she had been hurt and pride would have her disguise it. “Are ye sure?”

“Quite sure,” Henrietta answered, slipping out of
her jacket, turning aside to place the garment over a chair, busying herself with the buttons of her shirt.

Frances wanted to offer comfort for whatever it was that had hurt her, but something about the way Henrietta was holding herself warned her that such an offer might not be welcomed. “I'll bid ye good-night then.”

Henrietta turned around and produced a brittle smile. “Thank you again for your kindness.”

“'Tis no kindness to welcome a sister-in-law,” Frances said gently. “'Tis the greatest pleasure.”

Henrietta nibbled her lower lip. “Will…will Daniel's children think the same?”

“Oh, mercy, yes!” Frances exclaimed. “They will be overjoyed, I promise you. They're a graceless pair, much in need of mothering, as Daniel will tell you, but they're very loving.”

“I would love them if they will let me,” Henrietta said slowly.

“They will let you.” Frances took Henrietta's face between her hands and kissed her brow. “Sleep now, child. Such fears will seem less in the morning.”

She left the chamber and Henrietta prepared herself for bed. That exchange had been reassuring, but she still could not banish the feeling of hurt at the manner of her exclusion from the conversation that would now take place in the dining room. She was supposed to be a married woman, and married women were not sent to bed like weary children while the adults had their adult discussions. Yet, at the same time she could acknowledge Daniel's right to be alone with his sister. Had he said this to her, in the manner of equals, she would have absented herself with instant understanding. But instead he had treated her as he was used to before last night. It was all very confusing and did nothing to relieve her unease as she hovered on the brink of this new life.

Downstairs, Frances reentered the dining room, sat down opposite her brother, and said, “Tell me the whole, Daniel.”

He did so with scrupulous honesty. At story's end she sat in silence for long minutes, then she said softly, “Y'are mad, you know that, don't you? To take on such a debt when 'tis inevitable ye'll face a horrendous fine for Malignancy.”

Daniel grimaced. “I could do nothing else, Frances. I could not leave her to that brute, even if I had not promised she should come to no harm.”

His sister cast him a shrewd look from her own pair of bright black eyes. “Ye'd not tell me this is a love match?”

Daniel shook his head ruefully. “I cannot imagine loving another after Nan. But I've a deep fondness for her, Frances, and she's no younger than you were when you married. I've hopes that Lizzie and Nan will find if not a mother in her then an older sister who could fill the same need.”

These were all good enough reasons for a widower to wed, Frances acknowledged without demur, but to wed a girl who brought only debt to the union was madness in Daniel's present circumstances unless it could be explained by love's passion. And into the bargain to wed a girl with such a penchant for falling into scrapes! It looked to Frances very much as if her brother had bought himself a mountain of trouble and aggravation in the interests of naught but a deep fondness. “You know your own business best,” was all she said, however. “James will tell you what he knows of the commissioners in these parts. They seem not too unreasonable. Perhaps you can negotiate your indemnity.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “If necessary I must sell off Barton Copse.”

“Our father will turn in his grave at the thought that you would break up any part of the estate.”

“What choice do I have?”

“None.” Frances sighed. “But 'tis one thing to use the estate to pay your indemnity, another to pay off some debt that rightly belongs to—” She broke off as her brother's face took on an expression she knew of
old. It was never wise to ignore the warning it contained.

“I think I'll seek my bed,” he said, pushing back his stool. “We'll make an early start in the morning.”

“Aye.” Frances accompanied him up the stairs, to the door of the chamber where she had taken Henrietta. “'Tis such a joy to have you back safe, Daniel. For all the way it has turned out, I cannot but thank God that this damnable war is at last done.”

“The land is wearied of strife,” he said. “We will live as best we may under Parliament's yoke.”

“I have heard that there is talk of bringing the king to trial. Did you hear aught of it in London?”

Daniel's face darkened. “Aye, I heard such treason. 'Twill be a crime to stink to the heavens if they do such a thing.”

“Perhaps-'tis just talk.” Frances kissed him. “I will see you in the morning, brother.”

Daniel went quietly into the bedchamber. The hangings were drawn around the bed, the fire low in the grate. He mended the fire, undressed, and quietly drew back the bed curtains. Henrietta was a small, curled mound on the far side of the bed, her hair tumbling loose from the lace-edged nightcap. She did not stir as he slipped into bed beside her, yet he had the feeling she was awake. But he was tired, and there was a darkness in his soul engendered by his talk with Frances, and by the memories flooding in of sharing this bed with Nan on the many occasions when they had visited Ellicot Park. He turned on his side, away from the still figure, and slept.

Henrietta let out the breath she had been holding while she had waited for him to make some movement toward her. If he had reached for her as man to wife, she would have felt less bereft, less afeard. Instead, she finally fell asleep with salt-wet cheeks and a forlorn sadness in her heart.

“S
tand still, Elizabeth.” Mistress Kierston shook her head in exasperation as her charge wriggled impatiently, hindering the governess's attempts to straighten the lawn kerchief at the neck of the child's best gown of apple green cambric.

“But Daddy will be here soon and we must be at the gate to greet him.” Lizzie tried very hard to be still, knowing full well that only thus would she be done with this irksome business.

“Tom said he was coming yesterday,” put in little Nan, who had already received the attentions of Mistress Kierston and was sitting very upright on the window seat in order not to disturb perfection.

“I 'spect he stayed with Aunt Ellicot last night,” Lizzie pronounced with the importance of the elder, “if he was longer upon the road than he thought to be. 'Tis a mighty long way from London, is it not, madam?”

Mistress Kierston responded to the question with a nod, pursing her lips as she examined Elizabeth for flaws. It was hardly worth the effort, of course. The child might leave the chamber as neat as a new pin, but within two minutes her hair would have escaped its ribbons, her cap would be askew, her apron smudged. And Nan, plunging headlong after her sister, would be no better.

“May we go now, madam?
Please!
” begged Lizzie, hopping on one foot. “I would be there when he
comes, and the morning is half gone already. He cannot be long now.”

“Very well, but try to keep yourself tidy. You have on your best gown and I would not have you present yourself to your father after such a long absence in your usual disarray. He is entitled to expect some improvement in your decorum.” An expectation that would be sadly disappointed, reflected the governess with resignation as the children disappeared from the room. “Walk, do not run!” she called after them, but with little hope of being heeded.

The two slowed just until they were outside the rambling, red-brick Tudor manor house, then they scampered down the gravel driveway between lines of tall oak trees whose leaves, already turning russet, fluttered in the sharp autumnal breeze. They reached the gate set between massive stone posts and there stopped. It was strictly forbidden to venture beyond the gate without escort, and if their father should turn the corner of the lane and find them waiting outside the park, the homecoming could well turn sour.

So they hopped from one foot to the other, shivered in the wind, and peered, impatient and eager, around the corner of the gatepost.

Having made a very early start from Ellicot Park, Daniel and Henrietta were in fact but a mile away when his daughters reached the gate. Henrietta's heavy eyes and wan complexion had not escaped Frances, although Daniel seemed not to notice. His sister had waved them off with an unquiet heart, her concern of the previous evening increased rather than diminished.

Henrietta did her best to control her rising anxiety as they drew ever closer to the place that she must now call home. Daniel, despite his sister's reassurance that nothing untoward had occurred on his land, could not shake off his own sense of foreboding, which only the thought of seeing his children again could alleviate. It made them a silent pair, lost in their own preoccupations, until they turned a corner of the lane and two
small figures appeared suddenly, with great shrieks of “Daddy…Daddy!” as they leaped into the lane the minute their vigil was rewarded.

Daniel was off his horse in the beat of a bird's wing, bending down to enfold the two little girls, who flung their arms around his neck, still shrieking their joy.

Henrietta slipped from her own horse and stood to one side, watching the reunion. It brought a lump to her throat; there was so much loving being expressed here in the middle of a Kentish lane. The thought of her own childhood, so barren of love, of even a smidgeon of affection, made her want to weep with loss.

“Merciful heaven! But what great girls you are become,” Daniel said when the noise had died down sufficiently for him to be heard. Laughing, he lifted little Nan onto one hip and took Lizzie's hand in a warm clasp. “I have brought you home a surprise. There is someone very special I want you to meet.” He turned with his children toward Henrietta, still standing by her horse.

“This is my wife,” he said quietly. “She will be a new mother to you, and you must revere her as you would your own mother.”

Henrietta swallowed, searching desperately for the right thing to say to these two children, who were regarding her solemnly with the bright black eyes of the Drummonds. Nan's thumb had disappeared into a rosebud mouth; Lizzie's button nose was wrinkled and her forehead creased as if with effortful concentration as she struggled to grasp what her father had just said.

Henrietta stepped forward. “I hope you will love me,” she said, “as I will love you.” Bending down, she held out her hand to Lizzie. She did not have to bend too far because Lizzie was tall for her age and Henrietta was small of stature. “You must be Elizabeth.”

“Yes, madam.” Lizzie remembered her manners and curtsied.

“Nay, you must call me Henrietta!” Henrietta cried, horrified at being given a title she had never thought
to receive. “And you too, Ann.” She straightened to smile at the child in Daniel's arms.

The little girl took her thumb from her mouth. “I am always called Nan. And Lizzie is always called Lizzie.” The thumb went back in.

Henrietta nodded. “They are very pretty names. Most of my friends call me Harry, which is easier than Henrietta.”

“Does Daddy call you Harry?” inquired Lizzie, who seemed to have recovered from her surprise, although she hadn't taken her eyes off Henrietta.

“On occasion,” Daniel said. “But I do not think you should. It is not respectful. Let us go up to the house.”

Henrietta bit her lip. She had made her first error, it seemed, but if she was to establish a friendship with Daniel's children she must do so in the way that made her comfortable.

“May we ride?” Lizzie tugged her father toward his horse.

Daniel resisted the tug. “Are ye not wearing your best gown, Lizzie?”

The child pouted, flicking disdainfully at her lace-edged apron. “'Twas Mistress Kierston who said we should.”

“I trust I shall be receiving only good reports from Mistress Kierston.” Daniel smiled teasingly as he looked down on his daughter.

“Lizzie had two switchings in one week,” Nan said. “For climbing the great oak tree in Barton Copse twice and tearing her petticoat when Mistress Kierston said she should not.”

“Tattler!” accused her sister, a crimson tide flooding her cheeks.

“Well, I do not think we need go into that,” Daniel said pacifically. “What's past is past, and 'tis to be hoped you have learned the unwisdom of tree climbing. Ye may lead my horse, Lizzie, and we will all walk up to the house.”

Henrietta was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Lizzie Drummond was afflicted with a nature very sim
ilar to her own. It made her feel a great deal easier, and when she smiled at the girl as they both led the horses, Lizzie returned the smile with a reassuring promptness.

Glebe Park, Henrietta's new home, was a house that immediately welcomed one with its mullioned windows, soft weathered red brick and timbered walls, warm slate roof, and a curl of smoke from each of its three chimneys. The gardens were formal, but there were signs of neglect in the untidy box hedges, the overlong grass, the weeds in the flower beds. Men had had other things to do than gardening in these last years. Beyond the gardens stretched the park land, fields, orchards, woods, all Drummond land for as far as the eye could see. And so far, all intact. But for how long?

Daniel forced the question from his mind for the moment and allowed himself to enjoy his homecoming. He loved his house and it still stood unravished by Parliament's pikes and staves. His daughters were bright-eyed and healthy, and Glebe Park would have a mistress again. Housekeepers were efficient, but they could not lavish upon a house and household the care and attention of a mistress. Henrietta, for all her ramshackle ways, would have been well schooled in the management of kitchen, stillroom, linen-chamber, washhouse, and dairy. She would know what constituted a well-run household, and once the great bunch of keys hung at her girdle, Daniel was confident she would put childhood behind her as she assumed her new duties and responsibilities. She could teach the girls, too, as her stepmother would have taught her.

Now that this war was finished, life could assume its accustomed patterns again. There were bound to be difficulties and differences under the new order, but they would learn to adapt. It was in a much more cheerful frame of mind that he entered the great hall of the manor, one daughter in his arms, the other holding his hand, his wife at his side.

The next hour passed in a blur for Henrietta. Mem
bers of the household appeared from everywhere—steward, bailiff, housekeeper, governess, menservants and maidservants—all welcoming the master home, and all covertly examining his young bride, who tried to remember all the names and finally gave up, knowing that it would come later. As the introductions were made, she stood on the stone-flagged floor of the oak-paneled hall, dimly lit by the diamond-paned windows and the great blaze from the enormous hearth. A carved oak staircase curved to the upper stories, and heavy oak doors opened on either side of the hall.

“We will take Henrietta around the house,” Lizzie announced when at last the introductions were finished and only the governess and the bailiff remained in the hall.

“Aye, that's a good thought, Lizzie. I have need to talk with Mistress Kierston and Master Herald.” He smiled at Henrietta. “You look a little bewildered, elf.”

“I am,” she replied frankly. “But I daresay it will fall into place soon enough, and Lizzie and Nan will be able to help me.”

She could see that Daniel was pleased with the way matters were progressing between herself and the children, and she began to feel much more at ease. Chattering merrily, the girls took her upstairs first, showing her their own chamber with its cushioned window seat and pretty dimity hangings to the bed. There was a spinning wheel in the corner, reminding Henrietta of her own girlhood labors, labors that in general had not been crowned with success. Nan showed her the handkerchief she was hemming. A spot of blood stained the fine cambric where the child had pricked her finger in her efforts. Henrietta had spent an afternoon locked in a pitch-black cupboard once for just such an accident.

She put the dark memories aside; they had no place here with these children who were so clearly loved, so clearly trusting. “Come, what else is there to see?” she said briskly, moving to the door.

There were some eight bedrooms on this floor, and she was shown them all. They were all well furnished;
some were guest rooms, the others occupied by the senior members of the household, Mistress Kierston and her like. At the end of the corridor, Lizzie threw open a door.

“This is Daddy's room. 'Twas our mother's also.”

Henrietta stepped into the large chamber and asked the question no one had thought to ask her. “D'ye miss your mother, Lizzie?”

The child frowned, wrinkling her nose again as she considered. “I do not think so.” She sat on the window seat, smoothing her apron. “I did, but 'twas a very long time ago.”

“Daddy does,” Nan piped up. “He told me so.”

He had told Henrietta that he was lonely, she remembered. That he was lonely and he needed a mother for his children. It seemed suddenly a very great responsibility. She looked around this chamber that had witnessed the loving, the birthing, the death that lay in her husband's past. Would the life he shared with her ever overlay the memories of that past? How did one compete with memories? How could that great bed with its carved tester and rich embroidered hangings fail to remind him of all that he had lost?

Henrietta had been married for three days to a man who had treated her with the utmost gentleness and understanding. She had thought she knew the man she had married. They had spent upward of four weeks in each other's close company with no constraint. But there had been no constraint because the nature of the relationship hadn't invited it. When she had been cross and stubborn, Daniel had simply treated her as if she were one of his daughters in a cross and stubborn mood. It had never occurred to her to resent the treatment because she had not questioned the nature of the relationship. But matters were very different now, and they must deal together in very different fashion. Unfortunately, she did not know quite how to do that, just as she now realized she knew almost nothing about the man she was wedded to until death should part them.

“Shall we show you downstairs?” Lizzie interrupted Henrietta's reverie. “We cannot go into Daddy's study because he will be closeted with Mistress Kierston and Master Herald—”

“D'ye think she will tell him of the fishing?” Nan interrupted, an anxious look on her small, pointed face.

“What fishing?” Henrietta said, instantly diverted.

“With the village boys,” Lizzie explained. “They were tickling trout and taught us how to do it too.”

“Oh, yes, that is great play,” agreed her new stepmother with unstepmotherly enthusiasm. “Did you catch any?”

“Not trout,” Lizzie said with a rueful grin, “but a deal of trouble.”

“Well, tickling trout is not very sportsmanlike,” Henrietta said thoughtfully.

Both children regarded her with some amazement. That was the only objection their father's new wife would have to their tickling trout? They conducted the rest of the tour in great amiability and were the best of friends by the time they were summoned to the dinner table.

Henrietta had had only the briefest glimpse into the kitchen regions and retained only the sketchiest images of the housekeeper and the cook. But such matters had always been of little interest to her, so she entered the dining room without fully realizing that the next meal to appear on the long mahogany table would require some involvement on her part.