The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) (25 page)

To go with it, I chose a clean ruff, gold-embroidered slippers, and a pearl pendant with matching earrings. Once, I had had to sell my jewellery to maintain Meg, but since then, the money earned from watching Robin Dudley had enabled me to replace it with new pieces. Dale, who had cheered up a little after taking the wine, packed my hair into a gilt net. I touched my wrists with rosewater, and sallied forth.

The door to the empty schoolroom stood open, and from the gallery beyond the further door came a flicker of candlelight and the sound of conversation. Someone laughed, and there was a snatch of music from the spinet. Walking through to join the company, I saw that all the Mason family were there. Pen was wearing a very grown-up gown with a lace-edged ruff. I noticed with amusement that she was still being responsible and looking after her sisters. Now that the weather was not so bitter, the heat of the fire could reach the nearer window bays, and Pen had marshalled Jane and Cathy into a bay where they were all stitching away, with Pen overseeing the work, for all the world like a conscientious governess.

George and Philip, stiffly dressed in their best, were seated near the hearth. They had a chastened air. Crichton, in one of his gloomy black gowns, although this one did seem to have been brushed, stood by the fire, talking to a stranger, a heavily built man with grey hair. He too wore clerical black, and this, I supposed, was the boys’ prospective schoolmaster. The other man, presumably his friend, was seated at the spinet and idly picking out a melody. He had his back to me as I came in, but I could see that he was tall, a rather splendid figure
in a crimson doublet veined with silver thread. Hearing the Masons greet me, he turned, rising courteously to his feet.

“Ursula,” said Ann Mason, “this is Mr. Mark Lenoir. Mr. Lenoir, may I present Mrs. Blanchard, who is staying with us? And this,” said Ann, turning to the grey-haired stranger, “is Dr. Ignatius Wilkins, who keeps a school in High Wycombe, which we hope George and Philip will shortly join.”

Ignatius Wilkins, schoolmaster, of High Wycombe. There could hardly be two of him. So this was the man, and here he was at Lockhill. He bowed to me. “Delighted, Mrs. Blanchard.” He didn’t sound delighted and didn’t seem the kind of man to experience delight very often. He had a powerful voice, thick with phlegm, and brown eyes which were curiously watchful, looking out from a fleshy face scored with the harsh lines of pride and authority. Even if I had known nothing about him, I wouldn’t have taken to him.

“And I too am delighted,” said Mr. Lenoir, coming forward and offering me a strong right hand. It was over-strong: the grip of it almost crushed my bones. His voice, unlike Dr. Wilkins’ voice, was warm. He had a trace of French accent, and the dark eyes which looked so intently into mine were hot and hard. “You are charming to behold, if I may say so, Mrs. Blanchard. The court is sadly deprived while you hide yourself in the country. It is hardly kind to deny yourself to those who have a right to gaze on you.”

“Er . . . th-thank you,” I said.

Many ladies, especially those who pull their stays
too tight, are capable of swooning almost to order, and just then, a swoon would have been a pleasure, but although my knees felt so weak that it was mostly Mr. Lenoir’s powerful grip which held me upright, I did not actually faint. I was obliged to remain one of the gathering.

Dr. Wilkins’ too-watchful eyes were studying me, and inwardly, I recoiled. I was glad it was not
his
hand that I was grasping.

However, in the circumstances, Mr. Lenoir could hardly be described as a comfort. Mr. Lenoir was an even bigger shock than Dr. Wilkins.

I knew him, and his name wasn’t Mark Lenoir at all. His name was Matthew de la Roche, and since last October he had been my lawful wedded husband.

• • •

I don’t know how I got through the evening. I remember being invited to play the spinet, and having to decline because my hands were so unsteady. Whenever I spoke, I stammered. Matthew managed much better than I did, probably because he would have known in advance that I was here. He played the spinet instead of me, very competently, and the music prevented too much talk, but supper was another matter.

Leonard Mason obviously wanted to impress his sons’ future schoolmaster, and the meal was served in style in the big hall, where the hearth was lit. The antlers had been dusted, and the dishes—far more of them than usual—were assembled in the adjacent long room and borne to the dinner table in formal triumph by Logan and Redman, for all the world as though we
were at a court banquet. And, of course, there was conversation.

In a daze, I partook of roast pork, and beans in a piquant sauce, and fresh manchet bread, and listened to Dr. Wilkins describing the studies that George and Philip would undertake at his school. I entered into a polite conversation with Matthew and Mr. Mason, about spinet music.

I received the odd impression that although the two of them were travelling together as friends, Wilkins and Matthew were not in charity with each other. They virtually ignored each other, and I did not think this was just because Matthew, who was opposite me, hardly ever took his eyes off my face.

Dale was present, although, having supped with Brockley, she did not sit at the table, but waited to one side, ready to attend on me if I needed her. Her eyes had widened at the sight of Matthew. I knew I could trust her not to speak out of turn, but I was aware of her, watching us, all through the meal.

Last year, I had married Matthew and then run away from him. Had he not fled the country almost at once, he would have died a traitor’s death.

The marriage was forced on me. I had chosen to abandon it, and with reason, yet the parting had grieved me so deeply that I had written, asking if we could begin again. He had replied and said yes, but his anger, his sense of betrayal, had been there in his answer, all the same. Now that we were face to face, that betrayal hung between us, uncompleted business which must be resolved before we could hope to come together.

Nor was it the only uncompleted business. There
was also the matter of a lying message in Matthew’s name, and the incarceration in that boathouse. No doubt Matthew had much to say to me, but I in turn had questions to ask of him.

The tautness in the air grew like a gathering thunderstorm, until I felt that at any moment, lightning would fizzle down from the ceiling of the hall. Ann, sensing the atmosphere and puzzled by it, tried to set things right with ordinary conversation and remarked on Mr. Lenoir’s excellent command of English.

“You are a Frenchman, but you speak our tongue so well that I wonder if you were brought up in England. You must have spent time here, surely?”

“My father was French and my mother English,” said Matthew. His eyes were still on my face. “I was brought up in France but I learned English from my mother. After my father’s death, I brought her back to England, but she did not live long and I returned to the Loire valley. I do still have . . . business interests in England and occasionally visit, but not often. I am a supporter of the same religion as yourselves, and perhaps my views are somewhat stronger.”

“Oh, but surely!” Ann exclaimed. “Is that really a difficulty? We live very happily, in accordance with our own beliefs. No one has persecuted us.”

“I still feel that England is not the right place for me. I would prefer not to be faced with a direct clash between loyalty to the Queen and loyalty to my faith. A traitor’s death is a very horrible one.”

That was meant for me, but I had thought about that horror many times, in dread and grief, until I knew for sure that Matthew was safe out of the country.
I knew that in coming back to England, he had put himself once more in that danger. Tender pork and fresh bread turned in my mouth to a mass of woolly fleece. I had to force myself to swallow.

“I saw a man hanged and drawn once,” said Dr. Wilkins conversationally. “The sounds he made . . .”

I wanted to stop my ears, but as a guest at someone else’s table, I was constrained by good manners. Dr. Wilkins on this subject was as hateful as Aunt Tabitha and Uncle Herbert on the subject of death by fire. It came home to me then, more powerfully than ever before, that not only had I endangered Matthew, but the work I now did for Cecil and the Queen might send many others to the terrible fate which Dr. Wilkins was describing.

And them, the expected flash of lightning came, but not from the hall ceiling. It sprang from me in a crackle of anger. I interrupted Wilkins. “Would you say that a traitor’s death is worse than a heretic’s?”

I threw it out as a challenge, but he was unmoved. “It is not the same. Heretics are damned to an eternity of flame unless we see that they pay their debt here on earth. It is for their own sake that they must burn.”

He spoke with complete assurance, as though he had just had a personal interview with the Almighty, and a guided tour of Hades. It silenced everyone, with the exception of Philip, who exclaimed, “It must be quite a sight to see!”

“I wouldn’t want to see it. You’re horrible, Philip,” Pen declared.

“Please!” said Ann. “This is not suitable talk for a mealtime. Both of you will be good enough to be
quiet.” On the rare occasions when Ann was decisive, she was very decisive indeed. Philip and Pen subsided at once.

Leonard Mason changed the subject. “Yes, let us speak of pleasanter matters. I must tell you, Ann, that our friends were most interested in the new gliding engine. I am making good progress, even though Crichton here says his injured thumb won’t let him help me any more!”

“It’s too painful,” said Crichton. He displayed his right thumb, with its empurpled flesh and blackened nail.

“I got Thomas to lend a hand instead,” Leonard said. “Now, don’t look like that, my dear.” He shook a reproving head at Ann. “I know that you worry, but believe me, so do I! I’m not sure how to achieve a soft landing. I have decided to make the first attempt at flight with a dummy man in the machine, so you needn’t fear I shall break my neck!”

“Oh, thank God,” said Ann, and crossed herself in an excess of relief.

“I shall use a sack of meal, about the same weight as myself. Of course, the sack won’t be able to use the controls, but if there is a steady wind I may be able to get some idea of whether or not the device will work, and how to overcome the problem of the landing. The catapult is finished now, too. Mr. Lenoir, Dr. Wilkins, how long can you stay? If you can remain with us for a few days, you may actually witness the experiment.”

“Alas, we have business elsewhere,” Wilkins said, “and cannot put it off. I would have been delighted to stay, otherwise, and so would Mark, no doubt.”

“Yes, that is so,” Matthew agreed, “but we must both ride on tomorrow. Some of the affairs I had in hand in England have not speeded as I wished. They need my attention.”

And what, I wondered, might those affairs be? Just what was Matthew doing here, in Dr. Wilkins’ company? I finished my supper in a bleak mood.

Afterwards, we returned to the gallery where Pen and George, who could both play the spinet reasonably well, provided music. The Masons rose to dance, and Matthew came to me, holding out his hand to me, to lead me on to the floor.

At court, when we first met, I had been in mourning for Gerald and I had not been taking part in dancing. It was Matthew who had persuaded me to begin again and Matthew who was my first partner since Gerald. I had been glad to dance again for I was tired of sitting still: the rhythms of the music constantly got into my feet. With Matthew, I surrendered to them once again, joyously.

Now, as I paraded down the gallery with my hand in his, my feet moving in time to the melody, those happy days came back to me. I could almost pretend that the intervening months hadn’t happened; that we were still courting, with all our hopes ahead. Memories flooded back, not only of dancing, but of riding with Matthew in Richmond Park, on a hot summer’s day, with the dust blowing up round our horses’ feet; of cheering him proudly on at tennis or tilting; of walking with him in a July garden full of the scent of roses and lavender, and the sleepy sound of bumble bee and dove.

But this was the first chance we had had to exchange any private words, and those words had to be said.

“Matthew, what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to collect my wife, what else?” He made an arch of his arm and I twirled under it, turning at the end of the twirl to face him. “You wrote that you wanted to come to me,” he said, “but when I answered yes, what do I receive but a letter saying you cannot come until May! As it chanced, business with Dr. Wilkins brought me across the Channel, and the next I hear is that he is to visit Lockhill, and that Ursula Blanchard is staying there! I invited myself to Lockhill too. I wanted to see you.”

We separated, drew apart, came together again, and once more took hands. “What a coincidence!” I said.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Saltspoon. Yes, it is a coincidence, but a useful one. We must talk properly. Wilkins and I are in the tower suite. Where is your room? I’ll come to you tonight.”

I was afraid of what lay between us; afraid of waking the past and very afraid indeed of the present. I had longed for him so much, and now I feared to be alone with him.

Yet I wished for it, too. At my first sight of him, every bone in my body had leaned towards him. I told him where he could fine me.

“Until tonight,” he said.

M
y soothing evening posset quite often failed to encourage sleep, but I didn’t want it that night, all the same. As luck would have it, of course, Dale remembered for me and went to fetch it. Jennet came up with her, carrying my warming pan.

“I had your drink mixed ready,” Jennet assured me proudly. “I remembered how much cinnamon you like. I’ve a good memory—even Mr. Mason once said so.” As she spoke his name, she went pink and her calf-brown eyes glowed. She was as transparent as air.

“And I was glad of a chance to come upstairs,” she added confidentially. “That Thomas is on the prowl. He keeps putting his head into the kitchen. He wants to marry me, but I won’t have him, and that’s that. He’s idle and he’s not kind. I’ve seen him get really rough with the horse sometimes.”