The Licence of War (41 page)

“But, Mr. Beaumont, Catherine does not want to be married,” said Penelope, with a patient air.

“That’s not the point. She was allowed no opportunity to refuse me. And as for you, Mistress Penelope, though I might have taken you as my bride, I confess, I had grave doubts about our happiness as man and wife.”

She coloured. “Doubts, sir?”

“When, pray God, the war ends, and should I survive it, I intend to pass the rest of my days cultivating whatever is left of my father’s estate. You find the countryside dull, compared to the society you enjoyed at Oxford. I think you would be miserable leading such a life with me.” Laurence softened his voice. “You have youth, beauty, and charm to recommend you. You will have many other proposals of marriage. It would be unfair of me to continue my suit.”

“You would insult me if you broke it off,” cried Penelope.

“Mr. Beaumont, we cannot, at this late stage,” expostulated Sir Harold. “It will be imagined you heard of some stain upon Penelope’s honour, and that would sadly diminish her prospects. And we had considerable expense with our lawyer, sir.”

“True – as has my family.” Laurence pretended to reflect. “However, if I marry Catherine for the reason I’ve stated, there will be no aspersions cast. And I would satisfy myself and my family that there’s been no discourtesy on your part.”

“You
cannot
marry Catherine,” gasped Lady Margaret, as though Laurence had amorous designs on her husband.

“Why not, your ladyship, if she will accept me?”

“She is a … a shy, retiring girl whose health is affected by the slightest change.”

“Then the life to which I aspire could fit her very well.”

“She is impractical, sir: she could not manage a household. She has no conversation, no wit, and no womanly talents.”

“She can learn how to manage a household, my lady, and in our albeit limited acquaintance, she has lacked neither for wit nor conversation. And I’m not certain what you mean by womanly talents,” Laurence went on, “but if my supposition is correct, those can also be learnt.”

Sir Harold was scratching his beard, paying no attention to the horrified faces of his wife and daughter. “Should she accept you, she will bring with her the bridal portion that we offered you for Penelope. How will we provide for Pen, when it comes to her turn?”

“As I assume you will provide for the rest of your lovely daughters, sir.”

“But Pen wishes to marry this year.”

“I will accept Catherine with half her portion,” said Laurence, astonishing himself. As he spoke, he thought of his father and mother, and of all the careful negotiating that must have preceded the betrothal, and of what they might have lost to the rebels.

“What of Catherine’s … health?” quavered Lady Margaret.

“Mr. Beaumont is right,” Sir Harold said. “A quiet life in the countryside is exactly what her health requires. You have a bargain, sir. Fetch Catherine,” he told his wife.

Tears glistened in Penelope’s eyes as she watched her mother
obey. Then she sailed from the hall with a dignity Laurence had to admire. Her miniature scowled venomously at him, and followed.

Catherine came in wiping her hands on her skirts; she eyed Sir Harold warily. “Cat,” he said, “Mr. Beaumont has accused us of disrespect in not permitting him to address you, our firstborn daughter, before Penelope.”

“It is of no importance to me, sir. He is already betrothed to Pen.”

“Convention is important to
him
, and though we have apprised him of your many defects, he insists on addressing you all the same. You have our blessing to accept. So, what do you say?”

“Will you marry me, Catherine?” Laurence asked.

She hesitated, evidently stunned. Then she said firmly, “Yes, I will.”

Laurence raced across the courtyard towards the stables. Rain pelted from a bruised sky, and the roads would be a quagmire, but none of this dampened his mood. He would write to his parents after the wedding; by then he would have pleased them in one regard, and as to the bridal portion, he would find some way of making amends.

“Mr. Beaumont, wait! Please, please, wait!” He skidded round in the mud. Catherine was splashing to him through the puddles, her hair tumbling loose of its pins, her face distraught. “They kept the truth from you. You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“About
me –
I have the falling sickness,” she said, in an angry tone. “That’s why my family hides me from visitors and treats me as though I were weak-minded. I can never marry. I thought my father would have told you. His greed got the better of him, and everyone else was too ashamed and too frightened of him to speak up. I’d have told you myself, but I’m forbidden to talk of it. You are free, sir, to marry Pen.”

“Come here.” Laurence snatched her to him and pushed the wet hair from her forehead. “Was that how you got the scar – when you had a fit?”

“Yes, and how I broke my tooth. My father had to pry my mouth open with a stick so I wouldn’t choke on my tongue. Now you see: I cannot be your wife.”

“My God,” murmured Laurence, thinking of Will’s expression and of Jermyn’s when they had spoken of her; it was she who Will had called a poor thing. This would explain why her ears were bare of jewellery that might be ripped out during a convulsion.

“Please, sir, let me go.” She tugged away more forcefully, and they slithered and nearly slipped in the mud. “I’ve learnt to live with my unhappiness. I will not bring it on you.”

“But do you want me, Catherine? Do you?”

“From the day we met,” she said vehemently. “I still can’t marry you. Forget you ever asked, and marry Pen.”

“I don’t want her – I want
you
. Listen.” He clung to her and talked into her ear. “When I was a student at College, there was a boy afflicted with your sickness. At first it shocked us, but our tutor taught us that it was nothing to fear, and that the Emperor Caesar was subject to fits, and they didn’t stop him from ruling. And they won’t stop me from marrying you.” He kissed her hard on the lips. “Catherine,
is
there anything else to stop us?” She relaxed into his arms, and shook her head. And next, to his surprise, she kissed him back.

“What a brilliant disguise, Mr. Price,” said Lady Hallam, as she and her maid examined him up and down.

“Why thank you, your ladyship,” Price said. He was dressed in the soft cap, leather jerkin, and baggy breeches of a trooper with the Trained Bands. Gone was his peddler’s beard, which was no sacrifice, but Sarah had shaved off his moustache, cropped the shoulder-length hair he had been so proud of, and plucked his eyebrows to lend him a naive, doltish expression. His flattened nose was still swollen, although the bruising had paled to a primrose yellow. When he had knocked at the servants’ entrance and asked to see her ladyship, the old butler
had summoned Lucy instead, who would show him no further than the kitchen.

“I couldn’t tell who he was, until he spoke,” she said to her mistress.

He saw a change, too, in the former Mistress Savage, if less dramatic than his own. The candles burning in sconces over the hearth illuminated not just the flash of a great diamond on her ring finger, but also harder angles in her cheeks and jaw; and the tense set of her mouth and smouldering frustration in her eyes reminded him of Sarah’s words.
One of them lions caged in the Tower
. “How is my Lord Digby?” she inquired.

“His lordship was in health when I last saw him, as was Beaumont. Beaumont has left him to serve again in Wilmot’s Lifeguard.” Price had hoped for some sign of interest in her, but there was none. “He’s to marry soon,” he went on. “This past Christmastide he introduced me to his future wife. She’s young, and very pretty.”

“I am overjoyed for him. Lucy, keep an eye on the front hall, lest we have visitors.” Once the girl had gone, Lady Hallam said crossly to Price, “I expected you a fortnight ago.”

“An accident delayed me.”

“Might Veech know you are in London?”

“I pray not, but I’ve tempted fate too long – I’ll ride for Oxford tomorrow. You may send to his lordship through my recruit, Peter Barlow.”

“Who is he?”

“A trusted friend of mine and Beaumont’s. His nephew Jem will call on you within the week, in the guise of a baker’s apprentice. He can collect your messages and Barlow will arrange for their delivery.”

“Has Barlow memorised our cipher?”

“No: though he reads a little, he can’t write.”

“Then what use is he? We need more than errand boys – we need skilled agents. Do you realise, sir, that with no likelihood of His Majesty advancing on London, our allies here are isolated as never before?
They’ll be afraid to offer him their support unless we can supply them with accurate intelligence about what is happening, both outside
and
within the City.”

“As well I understand,” said Price, stung. “You don’t have to teach me my business.”

“Mr. Price,” she said, as though addressing a child, “Veech nearly caught my husband smuggling in that powder, Violet is lost to us, and I cannot work alone. Digby has let things slip, and badly, if he has no more capable agents here – and you had better make that plain to him.”

“You may depend on Barlow. It was he who got Beaumont out of London last autumn.”

Lady Hallam’s eyes narrowed; and Price felt he had scored a point. “Was Barlow then living in Blackman Street?”

“He is to this day,” replied Price, wondering what Beaumont had told her about the place.

“Is he a thief, like you?” Price could not answer, speechless with indignation: had Beaumont told her this, also? “Some
ladies
who resided at the house came to Oxford in November, to inform Beaumont of Mistress Edwards’ decease,” she went on. “Beaumont was away, but Lord Digby enjoyed a fascinating talk with them.”

And kept it secret, Price thought. “Barlow isn’t thieving any more,” he said defensively, “and nor am I.”

“Why would you, now that you are in his lordship’s pay. It was a mistake to lie to him, Mr. Price: although he does not care that you were a thief, he will always remember that you lied.”

“Beaumont suggested it,” said Price, which was not exactly the truth.

“So it was Beaumont’s mistake – unless he had a good reason to cultivate his lordship’s mistrust of you. Beaumont is clever in that regard, as you should be aware. You may report to his lordship that I am making some progress with Mr. Veech’s associate, the lawyer Draycott. Mr. Draycott is a man of hitherto spotless morals, but his
eldest son recently died, his marriage is strained, and I doubt he is happy serving Mr. Veech. He has become a kind of … friend to me.”

“It sounds as if you’re plotting his seduction,” Price said, to insult her.

She smiled at this. But her smile vanished as Lucy hurried into the kitchen. “My lady, Mr. Draycott is at the door with a militiaman! Should Greenhalgh turn them away?”

Price swore under his breath. “Draycott knows me – he might recognise me even in this disguise. Let me escape through the back.”

“No – there could be more troops outside,” said Lady Hallam. “Wait with Lucy.” She murmured something in Lucy’s ear and glided towards the front hall.

Lucy snuffed out the candles over the hearth and drew Price into the shadows. He heard Lady Hallam announce loudly, “Mr. Draycott, and … Corporal Stanton of the Strand detail, are you not, sir?”

“I beg pardon for disturbing you, my lady.” Price recognised Draycott’s genteel accents. “We spied a man skulking around to the rear of your house, and the Corporal thought we should investigate.”

There was a pause; Price squinted at the back door, calculating.

“Gentlemen, I believe I can explain – please follow me. Lucy?” she called.

It was a signal: Lucy grabbed Price and jammed her mouth onto his, blocking the men’s view of him with her head as they walked into the kitchen.

“Dear Lucy, when will you learn: you must not receive your paramour without my permission,” Lady Hallam scolded her. “And it is almost curfew.”

Lucy twisted about in Price’s arms. “It may be our last kiss, my lady. He’s off to march for Lord Essex’s camp on the morrow.”

“Nonetheless, what nuisance you caused Mr. Draycott and Corporal Stanton.”

“Lovelorn creatures, we can’t blame them.” Stanton’s voice had a Cheapside ring. “Which of the Bands do you serve with, young man?”

Price saluted, feigning bashfulness; he did not venture out of the shadows. “The Southwark brigade, sir,” he said, in his old, London accent.

“May God keep you safe, my lad, and you give those malignant dogs a right drubbing.”

Lady Hallam wagged a finger at the pair. “Half an hour, and not a moment more.”

“I am sorry we alarmed you unnecessarily, your ladyship,” Draycott said.

“Gentlemen, my husband and I are indebted to you for your vigilance. We were to take a glass of wine upstairs in the gallery. Might you join us?”

“I’d be honoured, my lady, if I wasn’t on patrol tonight,” said Stanton, with audible regret.

Price listened to their retreating steps, and waited for the front door to shut. Then he whistled between his teeth. “That was close. I thought she’d never get rid of them.”

“Oh she hasn’t, yet,” said Lucy.

He next heard Lady Hallam saying, sweetly, “I must apologise to
you
, Mr. Draycott, for practising a feminine deception: Sir Montague is abed – he was in pain from his gout. I so appreciated your company the other night. Would you stay, for a little while?”

“I ought not to, my lady,” said Draycott, “but …”

Their voices faded as they carried on up the stair. Price was aroused: by his narrow escape and Lucy’s charms, and most of all by Lady Hallam’s ruthlessness. How vividly he could imagine her seducing Draycott, the lucky bastard.

“You stop that,” Lucy said; without noticing, he had pressed his hips up against hers.

“Give us one more cuddle,” he teased, “before your brave lad goes to the wars.”

In answer, she unbolted the door and pushed him out.

Under an azure sky scattered with thistledown clouds, courtiers, soldiers, and townsfolk had assembled in Abingdon’s Market Place to witness the King and Queen bid each other goodbye. Digby generally eschewed public displays of grief, but he was sniffing and dashing water from his eyes along with everyone else: today the royal couple were like any other man and woman in love, about to be separated in dangerous times. He would also miss his friend Jermyn, who was to accompany the Queen on her travels.