Lament for a Lost Lover (24 page)

In the van of the processions were three hundred men of the Trainbands dressed in cloth-of-silver doublets; twelve hundred followed in velvet coats and then came the footmen in purple livery. Brilliantly coloured uniforms were everywhere—buff-coated soldiers, with sleeves of cloth of silver, wearing rich green scarves; there were men clad in blue, laced with silver, followed by the members of the City Companies in their black velvet coats and chains.

As this passed the great moment had arrived. There, between his two brothers, rode the slim, dark man, and as he appeared, shouts went up from thousands of throats: “God save the King.”

“A health unto His Majesty.” These citizens were in love with him. He had a natural charm which it was impossible not to be aware of. His happiness in being back was obvious to all. There could scarcely have been a man or woman in the multitude who did not believe that this was the day he or she had been waiting for all through the dreary years of Puritan rule.

His thirtieth birthday! Not too young but still young enough. He was tall, very tall, so that he towered above his fellows; some might judge his dark, rather saturnine face ugly, but none could deny his charm. If any man in that press of people had dared raise his voice against good King Charles, he would have been hung by his neck on the nearest tree. From every church the bells were ringing; people had hung tapestries across the streets, from windows girls and women threw flowers at the King as he passed. There were trumpets and music and banners fluttering in the light breeze. Never had a people shown its monarch such loyalty; and because he had come home and not a drop of blood had been shed to bring him to his rightful kingdom, they loved him the more.

People danced. They scooped up the wine which flowed from the fountains. That night some would be drunk and perhaps quarrelsome, but for the moment it was all joy.

How exhilarating it was! I was caught up in the euphoric joy, and I really felt, as I rode through the streets of London, that this was the start of a new life.

Then I saw her in the crowd. She was riding with Sir James Gilley and she was clearly the most attractive woman there. She was dressed in blue velvet and in her hat was a long curling feather. She looked pleased and happy, and I felt a pang of anger to think that she could as easily abandon her child.

I tried to push my horse through the crowd to reach her, when I felt a restraining hand on my reins.

It was Carleton’s.

“You can’t reach her,” he said. “You should not try. The daughter-in-law of Lord Eversleigh should not openly consort with harlots.”

I felt the colour flame into my cheeks.

“How … how dare you say that of …”

“Oh, good and loyal Arabella,” he whispered. “Dear, sweet, simple Arabella! That woman is no friend to you. You should stop thinking of her as such.”

“How can
you
know who is and who is not my friend?”

He brought his face close to mine. It looked mocking. “I know a great deal,” he said, “
I
was not born yesterday.”

“And nor was I.”

“Who shall say how long ago was yesterday?”

I ignored him, still looking at Harriet.

“You should send her bastard back to her,” he said. “Why should you be responsible for her mistakes?”

As I turned my horse away from him, I heard him laugh softly.

“Temper!” he whispered. “On such a day. Of course it may be that your good friend Harriet will soon be back, begging for admittance. It is well known that James Gilley doesn’t keep his women long. He’s a good husband, really, and does his duty by his wife. Now he is back he’ll keep her pleasantly in Shropshire with a growing family, which well gives evidence that he visits her when he considers it necessary. If she had been in London today, he would have ridden with her. He never thinks of his women as anything but what they are.”

“It seems,” I said curtly, “that he is a most cynical man.”

“You might say that of many of us. How, my dear, good Arabella, shall you adjust yourself to this wicked society?”

“I have no doubt that there are virtuous people even in …”

“Restoration London,” he finished. “Perhaps so. Well, it will be interesting to see …”

“To see what?”

“How you like the new life. Come. You are scowling. People watch us. It is not in the mood of today to quarrel. You must smile. Everything has changed. You must believe that now the King is home, England has become a paradise.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“No more than you do.”

“What is he telling you?” asked Barbary. “Don’t believe it. He’s a deceiver, you know.”

“There speaks my loyal wife,” said Carleton, raising his eyes to heaven.

They made me feel very uneasy, those two. I couldn’t stop thinking of what he had said about Harriet and her lover. And I wondered with an anticipation tinged with satisfaction when she would come seeking shelter from me.

I could see problems ahead. It would be different in Eversleigh Court from what it had been in Congrève. I was still thinking of this during the banquet in the King’s honour, for belonging to two loyal families I was naturally entitled to be present at this.

I listened to the King, I was given his strangely appealing smile. He was a man whom women loved rather than men.

I heard him say in a musical voice which was not the least of his charms: “It must surely have been my fault that I did not come before. I have met no one today who did not protest that he always wished for my restoration.”

This was murmured with a sardonic look, and I saw the cynical lips lifted in a smile. I thought then that he would be immune from all the flattery, and that, though he liked this outward manifestation of his country’s approval, he suspected its depth. He could see below the glittering surface.

There in the banqueting hall I thought of Harriet, and I wondered what the future held for us all.

After the ceremonies were completed I went back to Eversleigh Court with Matilda, my father-in-law, Charlotte and Carleton. Barbary did not come with us. The days had been stimulating yet exhausting, and I hated to leave my son for longer than a few days. Even then he was in my thoughts all the time. Matilda laughed at me indulgently. “You don’t really trust anyone else to look after him, do you?” she said.

It was more even than my anxieties about my son which made me want to return to the country. It may have had something to do with my glimpse of Harriet. She had sat there on her horse, magnificent, flamboyant, her complexion glowing. I knew that it owed something to artifice now, for I had learned some of her secrets, but that made the sight of her no less beautiful. It was not how beauty was achieved, it was merely a matter of its being there. That gaiety, the belief in the future, how long could it continue? I kept thinking of Carleton’s cynical comment: “James Gilley doesn’t keep his women long.”

I hated to think of Harriet’s being in that position. But I fancied too that both she and Barbary had been somewhat condescending in their attitude towards me. They took lovers wherever they fancied. Let them, but should they despise me because I had no wish to do so? Yet I was sure they did.

I decided I would put them from my mind, and the best way of doing this was to devote myself to domesticity in my new home. There was a great deal to do at Eversleigh. Many of the treasures had still to be brought out of hiding and put in their rightful place. Matilda wanted to set up her stillroom where in the past she had made wines and simples. She loved sweet scents and I had to admit I did too. She liked to fill pomanders and bowls with herbs of her own combining, and sometimes the smell of her concoctions would fill the house and we called that “Simple Time.”

Charlotte shared my pleasure in the house, and there was no doubt that I was on happy terms with my husband’s family.

Chief of all my pleasures was caring for my baby. I had a nurse, Sally Nullens, who had nursed Edwin and Charlotte and had just been waiting, she said, for another little one who would need her. She was old, but I thought it was right to have someone who was trusted by the family, and Edwin showed a partiality for her which settled the matter. She tried to make no difference in her treatment of the two boys, but I knew that Edwin was her favourite.

Ellen was still in the kitchens and Jasper worked in the stables. It was pleasant to see little Chastity again. She came and stood shyly before me, and when I knelt down and put my arms about her, she hugged me tightly. She was clearly one who was glad I was back. I took her to see the babies and she laughed with pleasure. She seemed very happy that we were there, and no wonder. From now on it was not going to be sinful to laugh and play. Chastity seemed to believe that I was responsible for the new state of affairs and regarded me as though I were some sort of benevolent goddess.

Ellen was a little shamefaced. As for Jasper he was inclined to be sullen. Puritanism had been so much a part of him that he would not abandon it lightly. It was clear to see that Ellen was not displeased to escape from the yoke, and although she was loyal to Jasper and if she found herself laughing would stop suddenly and look ashamed, she was glad not to have to suppress her natural inclination to enjoy life.

Ellen liked to talk to me, and I soon had the notion that she was trying to tell me something. Once when I went into the kitchen and we were alone there she said: “It were a terrible tragedy … what happened to the young master.”

I nodded.

She went on: “We were not to blame. That’s what I want you to know. ’Tweren’t us. ’Twere nothing to do with us.”

“Don’t let’s talk of it, Ellen,” I said. “It distresses us all and nothing can bring him back.”

“But I think, mistress, that you may blame us. I want you to know it was not through us …”

“Ellen,” I interrupted, “it was my fault. I was careless. I did not consider that it would be thought irreligious to give a child a pretty button. It seemed such nonsense to me.”

Ellen flushed with a certain shame. “It was thought to be, mistress. And Jasper, he was of the opinion that it was bad for Chastity.”

“I understand, Ellen. And it was my carelessness that was to blame. Then that man came asking questions, and I betrayed us. We can talk of it now. There is no longer need for secrecy. Because of my carelessness my husband was killed.”

“’Twere not because of your talk, mistress. ’Twas not one of us that killed him. ’Twas something else.”

“I don’t understand you, Ellen.”

“I shouldn’t speak of it. But I know that you blame yourself. ’Twere known before. ’Twas not as you thought.”

“You mean it was not one of your friends who killed my husband?”

“I mean, mistress, that it was not because of what you said. They were growing wise to why you were at Eversleigh and there would have been trouble in time. But it were not because of you that he was killed.”

“Ellen, you are trying to comfort me.”

“You should be comforted, mistress. ’Twere no fault of yours. I tell you that. I can say no more. But you should not fret. You had no hand in it.”

I pressed her hand warmly. Ellen was a kindhearted, good woman now that she was at liberty to show her true nature.

“You must be happy, mistress,” she went on looking searchingly into my face. “You have the dear baby. He will be your strength and comfort. And as for the rest, you must say it was as the good Lord meant it to be, and perhaps he was saving you sorrow in one way while giving it in another.”

When I was in my room that night I thought, as I always did, of the nights Edwin and I had spent there. I remembered how he would often come in late at night and would sometimes leave early in the morning. I had not realized then the danger of his mission. I thought of Ellen’s words. It was almost as though she knew something and was holding it back.

It was not they who had killed him, she implied. Not the band of Puritans who had grown suspicious of our presence in the house. Who then?

I dozed and fell into a half dream. Carleton was in that dream, with his wife beside him. She was laughing at me for my simplicity. They both were. Then Ellen was there. We did not kill your husband, mistress. ’Twere not us.

Barbary’s voice, rather shrill and strident, broke into my dreams. “I have heard of you. You have a fine son, I believe.” And she was laughing at Carleton, and suddenly he brought something he had been holding behind his back and placed it over his face. It was a mask, evil, horrible and frightening. I screamed and woke myself up.

“Edwin?” I cried. “Edwin …”

I was calling to my son and I had to get out of bed to assure myself that he was safe.

He was lying in his cot, smiling seraphically in his sleep. In the next cot was Leigh, one chubby hand clutching the coverlet.

All was well in the nursery. I had had a bad dream but the memory of it would not be dismissed. It stayed in my mind like a sleeping snake waiting to uncoil and strike. A vague uneasiness had come to me.

I was very reluctant to leave my son, and for that reason I remained at Eversleigh Court and did not go to London and the King’s Court, which I could so easily have done. If I went away even for a day, I would be uneasy, so that I could never have enjoyed any of the jaunts which had been arranged for me, in which case, as I explained to my mother-in-law and Charlotte, I was best at home. They agreed with me. Charlotte had no desire for society. She loved to be with the children and I was delighted that she seemed to have a special devotion for Leigh. In the beginning she had not wished to see him, which was understandable; then her mood changed, and she really began to look on him as hers. This was good, because I was afraid that the little boy might begin to notice that Edwin was specially favoured, and I thought it might give rise to jealousy. Leigh had a strong personality, vociferous and demanding—taking after his mother, I thought. He had inherited her lovely eyes and was going to be very handsome, there was no doubt of that. He did not seem to notice that he was of any less importance in the nursery than Edwin and had a habit of pushing himself forward as though it was his right. This was amusing, while he was so young, and Edwin was of such a gentle nature that he loved everybody and seemed to be of the opinion that everyone loved him … which they did. But perhaps not everyone. … I often wondered what Carleton thought of him.