Puritan Bride (22 page)

Kate grimaced. ‘There is no need to warn me, Aunt Gilliver. For there is nothing Mistress Felicity would enjoy more than to find me dealing in spells and witchcraft! It would indeed be an answer to her prayers!’

Kate rode to Winteringham Priory next morning, her saddle-bags carefully packed, containing the witch bottle, the rowan loop and Gilliver’s secretly prepared bottle of salt and water. The parting between aunt and niece was tense and serious—what they were planning was not to be undertaken lightly. The joy of riding Goldfinch on a bright April morning, even with the ever-attendant Josh, would normally have distracted Kate, but not this morning. She rode oblivious to her surroundings and tried to quell the nervous flutters in her belly. The sooner she arrived at the Priory, the sooner she could complete and turn her back on this unsavoury task. And if Elizabeth could sleep easily and regain her strength, then it would have been worth Kate’s guilt and anxieties.

It had been easy for her in the end to avoid Richard, with Gilliver’s help, as she left Widemarsh. But he had given her a few uneasy moments.

‘Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you on your ride to the Priory this morning, Kate?’ They sat at breakfast and Kate was immediately lost for words. Richard’s presence was the last thing she had wanted in the circumstances. Indeed, Richard’s presence and her feelings toward him were beginning to trouble her considerably. She promised herself to give it serious consideration as soon as Isolde had been dealt with. Yes, she loved him—of course she did—after all, he was her cousin, and had she not always known and loved him? Had she not hoped to be united with him in marriage? But Marlbrooke dominated her thoughts as he had claimed her body as his own. It was all too complicated. She could not think of it now.

‘There now, Richard.’ Aunt Gilliver came to the rescue. ‘And I was hoping to make use of your strong arms this morning. I have an oak chest that I need moving. It is far too heavy for myself and Mason.’

‘Of course, Aunt Gilliver. I am at your service.’ Richard had not looked pleased at the prospect. Surely Gilliver could make use of one of her servants for such a task. He opened his mouth to suggest it, caught Gilliver’s eyebrows, raised in amazement that he should even consider refusal, and lifted his hands in acquiescence. He glanced wryly at his cousin. ‘Perhaps, Kate, you could
postpone your visit until later in the day when I shall be at leisure again?’

‘I am truly grateful for your concern, Richard, but I feel I must go immediately.’ Kate hid a smile. ‘I hope to see how Elizabeth has fared during the night. I would not wish to wait.’

Richard had bowed his head, accepting retreat before a superior force, hiding his dissatisfaction behind a light smile. And Kate had escaped. All she prayed now was that Marlbrooke was somewhere out on the estate, giving her unobserved freedom to limit the extent of Isolde’s power.

She left Goldfinch in the stable yard where Jenks informed her that, unfortunately, she had just missed his lordship, who had ridden out towards Stoke Lacey and would probably not return before noon. She hid her guilty sigh of relief. Perhaps fortune would be with her after all.

Her first visit was to Elizabeth. She was asleep, with Elspeth sitting sewing beside her bed. In a whispered conversation she informed Kate that her ladyship had slept poorly through the night, leaving her irritable and anxious. But she had broken her fast and was sleeping peacefully now. She was much improved on her condition of the previous day and would no doubt wish to see Kate when she awoke.

Kate smiled, registering the improved colour in Elizabeth’s cheeks, and promised to come back later. If Gilliver was correct and accurate in her preventative knowledge,
that would be the last sleepless night that Elizabeth would suffer due to Isolde’s anguished presence.

Outside the bedchamber, she placed her saddle-bag behind one of the wall hangings for safe concealment from any passing servant. Satisfied with this precaution, she walked quietly from one end of the corridor to the other, listening, senses stretched to pick up any sound or movement. She lingered nervously outside Felicity’s room and listened. Nothing. No sign of Verzons or Mistress Neale either, or any of the other indoor servants. This was the best opportunity she could hope for. If she could manage only ten minutes of uninterrupted solitude, all would be accomplished.

She stood with her back to the wall opposite Elizabeth’s bedchamber, took a deep breath and assessed the oak door and wood panelling of the corridor. No difficulty here. There was a carved ledge above the door, intricate with incised roses and leaves, a perfect place to secrete a small glass bottle out of the view of all, even an industrious maid who might feel the need to clean and dust.

She dragged a heavy, straight-backed hall chair to stand to the left of the door. What should she do first? Did it matter? Aunt Gilliver had not said, so she must presume it to be irrelevant. She took out the salt solution, unstoppered the bottle and dipped her linen handkerchief in the liquid. She hesitated again. No sound. The dust motes hung motionless in the sunshine that bathed the corridor
in gold. Quickly, she wiped the handkerchief along the door sill, whispering Gilliver’s words. Then, re-wetting the linen square, she did the same for each side of the door. Finally she removed her shoes, climbed on to the chair and anointed the door jamb. Finished! She would have to be content with the door—the windows would be too difficult. She could not imagine what Elspeth would think if she began to anoint the window ledges in Elizabeth’s room. Besides, Isolde seemed to have her feet planted firmly on the floor. To Kate’s knowledge, she did not fly through windows. She prayed it would be enough.

She swallowed, relief flooding through her as she returned the linen and bottle to their hiding place. Now for the rest. Climbing once more on to the chair, Kate stood on tiptoe, reached up and carefully placed the witch bottle on the wooden ledge, and anchored the rowan twig behind it. It seemed secure enough. Not even a draught would dislodge it. And if it did, then Kate could claim ignorance along with the rest of the household. After all, it was only a collection of decomposing twigs and leaves. Perfectly innocent. She took a another deep breath and closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the cool panelling, before climbing down.

‘Treasure hunting again?’

She froze in horror, still perched on the chair.

‘Any lost wills? Priest holes?’

He had moved like a ghost himself, silently, to stand behind her. She had no idea how long Marlbrooke had
been there, watching her. She turned on her chair to face him, looking down from her height advantage, trying to compose her face and her thoughts to bland indifference.

The expression on his face reduced her to helpless silence. Her mouth was dry and any excuses she might have used for standing on a chair outside Lady Elizabeth’s bedchamber were still-born. What she saw was anger, cold deadly anger.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for my father’s will.’ Her voice sounded raw in her ears as she told the blatant lie. Better that he should believe that, than realise that she was conniving in Gilliver’s witchery.

‘The will, of course.’ He laughed harshly, his grey eyes ablaze. ‘Are you never going to give up this ridiculous search? The Priory will be yours, to live in, to enjoy, to pass on to your descendants, through our marriage. Do you really need to constantly throw the gift back in my face?’

His words revealed to her the depth of hurt there as well. How could she have been so blind to it?

And she could not tell him the truth. She must ignore the ache that began to spread in her heart as she saw his pain. It was better that he blame her than that he investigate more closely what she had been doing. The prospect of his future wife on trial for witchcraft was not to be contemplated.

She deliberately set out to stoke the anger, to turn his
attention from her actions. ‘I do not want the Priory as a gift. It should be mine by inheritance. And you only want me because you know that it should be mine.’

‘I do not understand why it should matter so much to you when you will have what you desire.’ He remembered the softness of her body in his arms, her submission to his caresses, her willingness to respond. And yet here she was, only twenty-four hours later, behind his back even, doing all she could to undermine his position as owner of Winteringham Priory. He thought she had accepted their union. But she had not. Self-mockery washed over him, biting deep. How could he have allowed himself to do something so foolish as to fall in love with her?

‘You clearly continue to have a very low opinion of me, and of my motives in taking you as my wife.’ There was no hiding the bitterness in his words. ‘Perhaps I must finally accept that it is impossible for me to win even your respect, much less your love.’

‘What do you care about my opinion? You have everything. Look around you, my lord Marlbrooke!’ She knew that she was being outrageously unfair, deliberately cruel, but could not stop, must not stop. ‘How would you understand how I feel? The restoration of King Charles has restored to you everything your family lost, and more. A house in London, the Priory, the power and wealth that goes with it. And the King’s personal favour, of course. How would you understand what it is to lose everything, to have your property and inheritance destroyed, to be
seen as traitors and outcasts in society? You need only listen to Mistress Felicity’s opinions of me to see how true Royalist families regard traitorous nonconformity.’

Well. She certainly achieved her objective. His eyes were lit with ripe fury, his lips compressed into a thin line. But she was still taken by surprise when he reached up, grasped her wrist and pulled her ungently from chair to floor. His grip tightened, to prevent her stumbling, oblivious to her sudden squeak of shock.

‘So you think I do not know loss and pain and destruction! You think I have lived a charmed life of comfort and privilege!’ There was a white shade around his lips from hard-held fury, at her unwarranted attack and at himself for allowing her opinion to matter so much.

‘Put on your shoes.’ The order was snapped out.

She did.

‘Now come with me.’

He half-dragged her along the corridor, down the staircase and out along the terrace and into the stable yard. She had to run to keep up with his long stride, but he showed her no mercy, keeping his hold on her wrist. He was beyond the usual consideration in his dealings with her, but she had to acknowledge that it was her own fault.

‘Where are we going?’

He ignored her, but ordered Jenks in clipped tones to bring out Goldfinch and his own dark bay stallion.

‘Get up. This will not take long.’

He threw her up into the saddle, mounted, and set
off down the avenue at a brisk canter before she could find her stirrups and arrange her skirts. She encouraged Goldfinch to follow after, as much intrigued now as concerned.

They rode for perhaps half an hour. In silence. Kate dare not break it and Marlbrooke had no inclination to do so. The delights of the spring day made no impression on either of them. Kate concentrated on keeping up with the punishing pace set by the Viscount.

They rode away from Widemarsh Manor and the village of Winteringham and soon left the confines of the estate. Kate did not know the countryside, but took no heed until Marlbrooke reined in at a spot where the path they were following passed between two small rounded hills and wound down into a gentle depression. The horses blew and tossed their heads, still eager to run.

‘Do you know where you are?’ They were his first words since they had left and his expression was no more compromising than when they had cantered from the stable yard.

She shook her head and looked about her.

It was an idyllic scene. The sun shone on the small wood before them, filtering through the bright new leaves to highlight the jewel colours of new grass and shy primroses. Tree trunks of young birch gleamed white in the soft light. There was the glint and splash of running water below, beckoning them on, and through the branches to
the left, where the slight valley flattened out, Kate could see the mellow golden stonework of a large house.

‘This is Glasbury Old Hall. You would not remember it. It is the inheritance—the home—of the Oxenden family—
my
family.’ His face was set and cold although the anger had faded. ‘I do not care to come here, but today I think it is necessary.’

She did not understand but, when he nudged the bay into a walk, followed him down the slope. But then, as they emerged from the shelter of the wood, into the parkland and formal gardens surrounding the house, she understood only too well.

The Hall was a ruin.

The setting was beautiful, a bright frame for an elegant and valuable treasure. But the jewel in the setting was a terrible outrage. The sunlit stone that Kate had seen, golden and welcoming, was simply the remains of what once had been a gracious house. Dismantled, robbed out, disfigured by cannon fire, engulfed by flames, the walls were tumbled around them. Blind windows were open to the elements, the glass long shattered, and the roof had collapsed inward to fill the interior with a hopeless mass of rubble. There were still remnants of wooden timbers and beams, but charred and rotting, like the broken ribs of a skeleton. The balustrade along the terrace had for the most part collapsed into the garden below. And as for the garden—it had reverted to wild and uncontrolled nature. Paths had disappeared, the box edging of the knot garden
had grown ugly to overwhelm the delicate plants that had once thrived, the lawns were choked with weed and rank grass. The abandoned state of the orchards and kitchen gardens glimpsed behind the ruined frontage Kate could only guess at. Here was no romantic reminder of past ages, but a hopeless remnant of a once beautiful home. Desolation and sadness pressed down on her with the oppression of a thundercloud. And she had accused Marlbrooke of not understanding loss.

Marlbrooke dismounted, leaving his horse to graze on what had probably once been a well-tended flower bed, and strode up the broken steps to where a great oaken door, now lying in riven pieces on the floor, would have given access to his home. The Oxenden coat of arms was still visible above the stone lintel, the three falcons spreading their stone wings in perpetual flight. The symbol of power and dominance mocked the reality of collapse and depredation. Kate hesitated, then followed the Viscount to where he stood below the carved escutcheon.