The King's Man (37 page)

Thamsine leaned out of the coach window as they rounded the bend in the driveway that gave the first view of Hartley Court. It seemed a lifetime since she had fled its solid red brick walls leaving Ambrose Morton lying in a pool of blood on the parlor floor.

She sighed and turned back to look at her sister's ashen face. The journey had been a trial, but the dying woman had been insistent. She wanted to end her days at Hartley. Thamsine's gloved hand tightened on the sash of the coach door. Soon there would be another death to mourn. Thamsine felt numb, too numb to grieve, as if the high tide of her suffering was yet to come. With Jane's death, would it all be unleashed?

In the meantime there were other, more pressing issues. She had the problem of her stepmother to deal with. Isabelle, Ambrose Morton's mother. She could already picture Isabelle's mean, pinched face, the thin lips dragging down at the corners. She hated her father for leaving Isabelle as her problem.

She had sent word ahead that they were to be expected but to her surprise, it was not Isabelle who stood on the doorstep to welcome her home but her steward, Stebbings. He stepped forward and opened the door to the coach.

"Welcome home, Mistress Thamsine,” he said with a broad smile. Then he flushed. “My apologies, Mistress Lovell."

"Thank you, Stebbings. Is everything prepared for my sister?"

"It is. Mistress White has set aside the best bedchamber. Allow me ... Mistress Knott...” He turned to Jane, assisting her from the coach and then supporting her, half carried her inside the cool house.

Thamsine let her servants and Roger settle Jane into the bedchamber. She wandered through the familiar rooms, savouring the familiar smell of beeswax and lavender. Everything had been kept well in her absence. She supposed she should be grateful to Isabelle.

Isabelle? She frowned and sent for Stebbings.

"Where is Mistress Granville?"

Stebbings’ eyes widened. “You hadn't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Mistress Granville got caught in heavy rain in the spring time and caught a chill. She's been dead these three months past."

One should not speak ill of the dead,
Thamsine thought and bit her tongue against the cry of jubilation that rose in her throat.

"What happened?"

Stebbings’ lips tightened. “She was, as you know, rather partial to a little canary wine in the evening..."

And the morning and at lunchtime
, Thamsine thought.

"She took it into her head to walk to Beverstock to see Mistress Anne. She went without a hat or cloak. We reckon she must have slipped and fallen into a ditch. We didn't find her until morning and she died within the week."

"Where is she buried?"

Stebbings coughed discreetly. “As there was no one to make a decision, we had her interred in the family plot at Beverstock."

Thamsine nodded. Stebbings and her staff had no great love for Isabelle. She would have died unmourned by anyone except possibly her son and daughter. She wondered if Ambrose even knew of his mother's death. Isabelle had exerted a strong influence over her son. He would feel her loss.

A commotion could be heard on the stairs. Thamsine flung open the door and a wild figure broke free of the housekeeper and flung herself on the ground at Thamsine's feet, wrapping her arms around her ankles as if she intended never to let go. Thamsine looked down at the head of tangled black hair as the housekeeper and the steward both ran forward.

"It's all right,” Thamsine said.

She bent down, afraid if she tried to move she would topple over.

"Annie, please let go of me. I'm going to fall."

Annie Morton just tightened her grip.

"No one is going to hurt you. Give me your hand."

Annie looked up. Slowly she extended a thin, dirty hand, releasing her vice-like grip on Thamsine's ankle. Thamsine pulled her upright and the girl snuggled against her, her stick-like arms wrapped around her waist.

"I'll have her sent back.” The steward stepped forward and took Annie's arm. Annie cowered closer to Thamsine, shaking off his hand.

"Where's she been living?"

Stebbings looked embarrassed. “Well, ever since...” He coughed. “...after Colonel Morton's unfortunate accident, he had her sent back to Beverstock. She's been there ever since."

"She's supposed to have been there but she's been coming around, looking for you,” the housekeeper put in. “We keep sending her back. They promise to keep her under lock and key but she keeps escaping."

"Look at the state she's in,” Thamsine said.

She tilted Annie's face towards the light, showing up the scabs and sores, the pitiful thinness and the dirt.

"She looks like a ragamuffin from the poorest streets of London, not a gentleman's daughter. Stebbings,” she addressed the steward, “send someone to Beverstock to let them know she is here."

Stebbings nodded.

"Annie, you can only stay here a little while,” Thamsine said. “Then you must go home."

Annie shook her head. “No,” she moaned. “Not there..."

"Go with Mistress White.” Thamsine pointed out the housekeeper. “And you are to have a bath. Mistress White will give you some clean clothes."

"Poor girl,” Mistress White said with a sniff of disapproval as she took Annie's arm. “'Tis shameful the way you've been treated. Come with me and I am sure cook will find some dainties for you."

But Annie wasn't listening. She reached out and fingered the black stuff of Thamsine's gown. “Tham, sad...?” she said.

Thamsine drew the girl to her and stroked the dark head. How could it be possible to feel so much affection for this girl and yet hate her brother so very much?

"Yes, I am sad,” she said, disengaging Annie. “Someone I loved very much has died."

"Is ‘Brose dead too?” Annie's large, grey eyes filled with tears.

Thamsine felt a cold prickle at the back of her neck. Did Annie think Ambrose had died that night she shot him?

"No, Annie. Ambrose isn't dead."

Tears trickled from Annie's eyes. “Mama is dead. They told me, Mama is dead. Are you sad because Mama is dead?"

Thamsine swallowed. “Yes, I am sad your mother is dead."

It was easier than trying to explain that she was a widow. Annie had loved her mother and her brother. She had to respect that.

"Now, Annie, go with Mistress White."

Mistress White straightened and held out a hand. “Come on then. Don't waste Mistress Lovell's time. I'll make a lady of you yet!"

As the evening drew on, Thamsine stood by the wide, bay window looking out on to the terrace at the three girls locked in rapt concentration in a game involving dolls. Two small girls and one grown, but with the mental age of a three-year-old. She thought she had never seen Annie looking so happy.

"She's Morton's sister,” Roger hissed in her ear. “She can't stay here. If he has word that she's with you, there'll be nothing more guaranteed to bring him running than his sister."

Thamsine shook her head. “What can I do, Roger? Stebbings says Beverstock is deserted. There is no one to care for her. In the name of Christian compassion I have to keep her."

"She's addled,” Roger said. “Perhaps an institution where she will be cared for?"

Thamsine looked at him with utter loathing.

"You forget, Roger. I spent three days in Bedlam. She's not mad, or bad, just different. She didn't ask to be dropped by her nursemaid. If God was merciful she should be a beautiful young woman, maybe married with a family of her own. I'll not turn her away. She's welcome to stay."

"She'll bring you trouble, Thamsine,” Roger said.

"Well that is my concern, not yours, Roger."

In the well-kept gardens of Eveleigh Priory, Kit played hide and seek with Daniel and his sister, Frances. Daniel was always the last to be found. It was as if he knew no fear, often having to be retrieved from the tallest oak tree by a hot and impatient brother.

"Catch me, Kit!"

Kit heard Daniel's challenge and turned to see the boy's fair head disappearing behind a hedge. He set off after him, running hard, his booted feet sinking in the soft lawn.

Every so often Daniel's head would appear from behind a tree or a hedge with a cheeky grin that split his freckled face from ear to ear. “Catch me, Kit..."

Kit ran on. The well-kept grass gave way to tussocks and mud. He stumbled and looked down to see he had tripped over the body of a man, his dead eyes staring sightlessly into a grey sky. Around him were the bodies of other men and horses. A heavy pall of powder smoke hung over the battlefield.

"Daniel!” He scoured the field looking for his brother.

"Catch me, Kit."

Daniel was just ahead of him, running for his life as two burly foot soldiers bore down on him, their muskets raised like clubs.

"Daniel!"

Kit tried to run but his legs would not move, his feet seemed pinned to the ground. He screamed the boy's name again but the soldiers had caught up with Daniel, an upswung musket carrying him to the ground with a dull thud.

Moving as if his feet had become anvils, Kit reached his brother, who lay face down in the crushed grass, his fair hair lifting in a slight breeze. With shaking hands he turned him over, to find himself looking into the face of a rotting corpse.

Kit woke with a shudder, his heart pounding, his breathing ragged. He sat up in the bed and tried to steady his racing pulse. He put his hand to his face and it came away wet. Kit ran the sleeve of his nightshirt over his face, fell back on the bolster and stared up at the faded, red bed hangings.

He was alive. His head felt clear and no longer hurt to move. He put a hand to his throat, touching the bruising, remembering.

"So, ye're back with us?” Nan's voice came from the doorway. She set down the tray she was carrying and stood over him, her hands on her hips. “I'll be honest,” she continued, “we thought we was going to lose you all over again."

Kit swallowed. He started to ask how long it had been but all that came out was a croak. He frowned and tried whispering. This was marginally more successful. Nan leaned forward to hear, affording him a good view of her ample bosom.

"Five days, lover,” she said in answer to his question.

"Where's Thamsine?"

Nan straightened and considered him a moment, biting her lip.

"Well it's like this, lover, we sent May's Tom to Turnham Green but when he got there, the house was all closed up. He asked around and someone told him the whole family had gone but they didn't know where. The maid thought it were somewhere in Hampshire they was going. Anyways by the time Tom came back, it,"—she pulled a face—"it didn't look too good for you and we thought it would be cruel to tell Thamsine you was alive just to have you die again, so we thought we'd wait until we was sure you were going to live before we went looking more."

Kit ran a weary hand over his eyes, trying to remember the name of Thamsine's home in Hampshire. Hartley? Where was that? Hampshire was a large county. He had no idea where to look for her.

He briefly considered sending Jem with a note but decided against it. Breaking the news to his wife that he lived was something better done in person. For the moment he needed time to recover his strength. He doubted he could sit a horse as far as Ludgate let alone Hampshire.

Nan held out a cup. “Here, drink this. ‘Pothecary said it would help."

Kit lifted up his right hand to take the cup. When he saw his fingers, misshapen and useless, a red mist of anger flared. The twisted fingers represented everything that had been done to him in the last year, things over which he had no control and that had left him broken and crippled.

Exhausted in mind and body, he had passed beyond the point of endurance. With an animal cry of rage and frustration, he struck the cup from Nan's hand. It flew against the wall, shattering and spraying its contents. He had a brief impression of surprise and hurt in Nan's face before turning away from her, hunching down in the bed with his back to her.

Jem slapped a jug of wine down on the table so hard the ruby contents slopped over the edges.

"That's it!” he declared. “That's the last ye'll have of me."

Kit raised his head and without responding refilled his cup. “You don't mean that, Jem."

"I do! Two weeks of watching you drinking yourself into oblivion. Two weeks of your foul tempers is all the gratitude we get. It's time you pulled yourself together and went looking for your wife."

"She's better off without me,” Kit downed the cup of wine in one swill. “I'm no good to her."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh Christ, Jem.” Kit's mouth twisted. What did the truth matter now? “Why do you think Thurloe had me cut down from the gallows?"

Jem shrugged.

"Because I've been in his pay for the last two years. Because I was the one who sent the rest of them to their deaths."

Jem stared at him. “You were the turncoat?"

Kit picked up the wine jug. His hand shook as he tried to pour the wine. When his cup was full, he looked up at his old friend, meeting Jem's incredulous eyes.

"I was the turncoat. I turned them all in."

"You turned her in too?"

Kit nodded.

A massive fist swung at him, catching him on the jaw and knocking him off the stool. He lay on the floor, stunned. When he opened his eyes, Jem stood over him. Kit flinched, bracing himself for another blow or a boot to his still aching ribs.

Instead Jem's hand reached down. Tentatively Kit extended his left hand and allowed the big man to pull him to his feet. He returned to his stool, ruefully rubbing his jaw. Jem sat down.

"I've known you these ten years past,” he said. “You don't do anything without a good reason. Are you going to tell me what it is?"

"My brother...” Kit began. “...I was promised his release."

"Lovell.” Jem leaned forward. “The boy's dead. Ye must know it in your heart."

Kit shook his head. “No. They sent him to Barbados but under Thurloe's protection. He's still alive."

But even as he said the words, the nightmare that haunted him came back. What if Daniel was dead and it had all been for nothing?