To Be Seduced (15 page)

“—is as dangerous as an illness.” Bethany finished the sentence with her and chuckled for the first time since she left Richard. “It must be something all mothers say. Mine certainly does.” Laughing with her, Glory’s amusement faded as she viewed the surrounding landscape.

“’Tis odd to return home and not be able to recognize the way.”

“Do you still think of Graymoor as home after so many years?” Bethany cocked her head, curious.

“Yes.” Her sister-in-law answered instantly and emphatically. “It was the only place my family was ever together. And happy.”

Neither spoke for a long time after that. Eventually, Glory dozed off, tucking her feet up under her skirts. Bethany gazed out the window, fascinated by the ever-rising hills spread out on either side of the coach. She fancied that they traveled on a vast green roof mounting higher into the bright blue sky.

Several miles later, the coach heaved over a ridge and stopped. The coach bucked as Lane descended from the box. Knocking on the door, he invited them to view the vista.

Bethany stepped out into the gusty wind that had blown most of the day, followed by Gloriana, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. Lane led them along the road a short way. It clung to a mild downward slope, through a village not a mile away. The narrow way crossed a stream and then wandered along to the far side of the small valley.

She saw a small, light-colored house against the rising wall of the far side of the dale. Even from this distance, it had an air of lifelessness. Lane pointed, but Glory spoke first.

“Graymoor.”

The closer they drove, the worse the house looked. Built facing the east, originally with two wings sheltering a courtyard, it appeared completely deserted.

“Richard said the Roundheads tried to pull it down.” Glory gazed out the window, her usual merriness extinguished. “I had no idea how close they came.” Bethany, peering out of hers, could only nod. A mountain of rubble marked the remains of one wing. The rest of the gray stone facing bore gouges from cannonballs and scorch marks.

To their relief, once the coach had negotiated its way through the rusted iron gates and around the rubble, a small welcoming committee waited. Richard must have informed someone of their impending arrival. After helping them down, Lane introduced an anxious old couple.

“This is Mr. Platt, what used to be the head carpenter, and Mistress Platt, the cook. His lordship hasn’t hired a housekeeper or bailiff yet, so they’ve been looking after the place since he came back.” The pair sketched a bow and curtsey.

“We’re pleased to meet your ladyship, and I hope you’ll understand if things aren’t just so in the house.” Mistress Platt did the talking while her large husband nodded sagely. “We just got word of your coming two days ago and there’s nobut the chickens for meat, although Platt did kill a coney yesterday in the garden.” Bethany held up a hand to cut off the nervous spate.

“Do I understand you have a hot meal prepared for us?” She beamed at the woman twisting her apron. “As we did not stop for dinner, anything sounds delicious.” Behind her, Glory chimed in.

“I don’t suppose you made any of the ginger parkins I remember so well?” The cook sighed.

“Bless me, Mistress Glory, but I did not. Master Rickon—Lord Harcourt, I mean—sends money every month, but with so much needed, there’s naught for spices.”

Her previously dour spouse smiled. “Unless I be mistaken, I did see a plate of oatcakes in the kitchen. We’re not likely to forget how you’d gobble down any sweet you could reach.”

Torn between jealousy at feeling so obviously a stranger and amusement at her sister-in-law’s crimson cheeks, Bethany chuckled. “By all means, let us eat. I should hate to deprive you of your oatcakes.”

Following the plain but tasty meal, she asked the cook to show them over the house. While it pained her to see the ruin of so beautiful a house, Glory’s face grew paler with every room they entered. She burst into tears at the sight of her mother’s bedchamber, with its shredded hangings and half-torn-off paneling.

“I’m glad she died in France. She loved Graymoor almost as much as she loved us!” The cook urged them to come down to the kitchen for a bit of cider.

“’Tis not proper,” she whispered as Glory sobbed on Bethany’s shoulder, “but she always liked visiting me there.”

Upon discovering the state of the kitchen, Bethany’s opinion of the cook soared. Mistress Platt kept it remarkably clean, but it, too, suffered from years of abandonment. The woman seemed to grow years younger under her praise and she confidently assured Bethany that she could present a full list of housekeeping needs the next day.

The first Sunday after their arrival, Bethany rousted her sister-in-law out of bed in plenty of time to breakfast and dress for church. Glory complied with relatively little grumbling, but to her dismay, Bethany discovered that the girl had ordered the coach hitched up for the short drive down the road and through Kilpenny.

In her turn, Glory objected to the idea of walking and possibly ruining her azure silk gown.

“Then go and change into something more suitable for church.” Bethany unconsciously smoothed her hands over her sensible ensemble of camel serge trimmed with golden pins and ribbons of her favorite bright green.

“This is suitable for church.” Gloriana tied the ribbons of her hooded cloak under her chin. “’Tis just not suitable for walking.” In the end, both ladies voted for the coach when a soaking rain began.

Bethany found she enjoyed the service more than she had expected. In London, she had attended services with the Barkers as well as at the fashionable churches patronized by the Royalist aristocracy. Neither had quite appealed to her. Even the simplest of her new clothes stood out in the Nonconformist congregations, and they had not welcomed her. The services of the established church, with their altars barred behind a railing and their surpliced ministers, still struck her as alien at times.

This morning, she found the same ceremony, conducted in the confines of the small Norman church, much more comfortable. The vicar’s enlivening sermon on the subject of Rebecca at the well pleased her also.

Upon making his acquaintance afterward, she discovered that the Reverend Mr. Coker and his wife were also from outside the district.

“We are both originally from Lancashire, although our youngest two were born in Kilpenny.” He indicated a sturdy lad solemnly hanging on to his younger sister’s hand. They stood behind the rest of the congregation, which gathered in the doorway before scurrying out into the rain a few at a time.

He recognized their name, of course, and offered to take Bethany around the small church while the crowd thinned.

“Thank you, I would enjoy that, but our coachman will be at the door shortly. If you have time on another day, I would very much like to examine the church. I hope you do not mind, Gloriana?”

When she turned to address the younger girl, she discovered her several paces away, engaged in conversation with an elegantly dressed young man. They stood before a marble plaque in bas-relief, at a proper distance from one another, but Bethany misliked the coy expression on her sister-in-law’s face. Happily, the good reverend proved a font of murmured information.

“Sir Fothery Lambert. Twenty-five years of age, inherited the baronetcy from his father two years ago. The Lamberts have been the leading family in the parish since the Harcourts fled. Solid family. Royalist sympathizers, but chose to compound after seeing what happened to Graymoor.”

Somewhat grimly, she thanked him for this worldly assessment and crossed to join the two young people. Gloriana greeted her blithely.

“Bethany, you’ll never guess! I have already met an old friend. May I introduce Fothery—forgive me,
Sir
Fothery Lambert. Their estate is in the next dale over. Sir Fothery, my sister, Lady Harcourt.”

She accepted his bow with a curtsey, but said no more than manners dictated. She did admit to herself that he possessed a pair of striking brown eyes as well as an easy manner. Glory prattled on.

“He even remembered me! See, he is showing me a plaque dedicated to my grandfather’s memory.”

“Delightful, my dear, but the coach awaits. Come along.” She nodded at the young baronet, who tore his attention away from her sister-in-law long enough to beg her to wait upon his mother as soon as may be.

“I regret that she felt too unwell to attend the service this morning, your ladyship, but I am sure she will feel much better on the morrow. Say you shall come to visit?” He coaxed with such charm even she had difficulty resisting.

“I make no promises, Sir Fothery. I am sure we shall meet Lady Lambert at holy services next week if not sooner.” He and Glory both resembled small children who had just had a prime treat taken away. Stifling a smile, she relented.

“We are much occupied with rebuilding our house and estate, you know. But I shall dispatch a messenger to your mother to ask when she might find it convenient to receive guests.” Fixing her with a stern eye, she addressed the girl. “Make your courtesy, dear. ’Tis time to go.”

As she expected, Glory spent the drive home alternately pouting at her hard-heartedness and dreamily describing Sir Fothery’s fine eyes and handsome profile. Mercifully, the girl got out of the sulks upon the discovery that Mistress Platt had prepared her favorite meal of fricasseed chicken and asparagus.

Afterward, she sent Glory off to draft a note to Lady Lambert while she took advantage of the blessed silence to review the gigantic task of setting the household and estate to rights.

As days and then weeks passed, she tried to run the household as smoothly as possible in its damaged state. Bethany regularly spent hours poring over columns of figures in the household account books. Her day began simply enough each dawn with prayers, after which she listed each day’s tasks.

After she breakfasted, the meetings began. Where Abberly’s fields and pastures supplied its needs, Graymoor’s ruined state caused endless complications. Mistress Platt often had to wait on the day’s deliveries to discuss the day’s meals. Linens were so scarce, even she and Gloriana had started out sharing a bed to eke out the sheets.

Besides food and bed linens, the estate had little livestock left. Horses, cattle, and sheep could be bought, but breeders of good stock charged high prices for their animals. And those costs paled beside building materials and labor.

Thanks to Sir Fothery and his mother, she had found a talented builder in York who had agreed to oversee Graymoor’s repairs. Mr. Quintan had studied buildings in Italy and France, and presented an attractive design for the house that included a handsome façade for the courtyard and an extended terrace and loggia for the western side of the house.

In a letter to Richard she had detailed his plans and the projected expenses, asking for his yea or nay, but she heard nothing back. When he did not reply even after a month of queries, she engaged Mr. Quintan herself. Feeling obligated to keep her husband informed of the progress of his home’s repairs, she wrote him each week, careful to keep the letters as impersonal as possible. He never wrote back.

Meanwhile food, cloth for linens and hangings, animals, and building materials had to be ordered and shipped at tremendous expense. Mr. Leafley proved his usefulness once more by sending a clerk by horseback to her with a pouch of gold and a letter of credit for a bank in York. Thanks to him, Graymoor had a steady supply of cash at hand within a week of their arrival.

Going over the accounts, Bethany came to understand Richard’s chagrin at her insistence on keeping half her fortune. Seeing the dilapidated tenant farms, she realized that little income from rents would come in for the foreseeable future. She asked Richard, in a tentatively worded letter, if he would permit her to forgive the rents for the next six months. Receiving no answer from him, she did so on her own, and expected to extend the grace period through the next twelvemonth.

Richard crumpled up the most recent letter from his wife. He stopped just short of throwing it onto the fire, pacing the length of the study in the small house he had recently rented. His correspondence still went to Saint Clement’s Lane, but he found his uncle’s house unbearable without Bethany.

Tossing the wadded-up paper onto a side table, he picked up a bottle of claret and poured a glass. After a muttered curse on wives in general and his own stiff-necked termagant in particular, he resumed pacing.

Harsh yearning suffused his loins. A sensible man would relieve his wants with a clean whore or one of the many unhappily married women in London. Bitterly, he cursed himself as well. A sensible man would not have married a woman with Bethany’s hot blood and cool head.

The discarded missive proved his point. Other than a perfunctory wish that he continued in good health, it contained not one word to indicate that she missed her life with him. It merely detailed the repairs to Graymoor she had authorized, with requests for his opinions. His wife apparently embraced her return to country life.

He saw no point in answering questions he assumed were rhetorical. Her letters bespoke a shrewd mind for management even in her indifference to him. The vixen could do as she thought best.

He looked down at the wineglass in his hand, surprised to find it empty again. Settling himself in a chair, he filled it once more. He placed it at his elbow and tried to read a book he had already lost interest in twice. Normally he joined his friends for a night’s carousing when this kind of restlessness possessed him, but even that would not ease his foul mood. Light danced across the book in his lap as he gazed into the fire.

Lord Thomas showed no sign of a man deprived of a lover, which both relieved and irritated Richard. If he could but be certain he had jumped to the wrong conclusion about his wife and Tom, he would apologize immediately. He feared his own pride had driven Bethany away, however. Envisioning her, eyes closed as Tom pressed kisses onto her neck, he hurled his book across the room. He leaned back, fighting the combination of anger and despair that ate at him.

Did she pine for Tom at Graymoor, while that gentleman played in London? Only the knowledge that it would destroy her reputation prevented Richard from challenging Lord Thomas to a duel.

A fine thing when a husband missed his wife more than her lover did.

Someone pounded heavily on his door, one floor below. Richard laughed mirthlessly. He had dismissed the servants for the night, and he felt no desire for the company of others.

“God’s teeth, go away!” His shout would not be heard from up here, but the continued thumps annoyed him mightily. He gave an exclamation of satisfaction when it finally stopped.

A moment later, the unmistakable crack of axes on wood reverberated through the house.

“What the devil!”

Richard pushed himself out of his chair and strode out onto the landing to peer over the banister into the modest entry hall. The remains of his front door burst open. It slammed back on its hinges as several soldiers boiled through. They paused, gripping pikes and halberds, as their officer followed them.

Richard’s furious voice filled the lull. “What is the meaning of this?”

Arthur Loring’s dark eyes glittered mockingly up at him as he swept his hat from his head and bowed. “What a pleasant greeting, Harcourt.” He pointed up the stairs with his drawn sword. “Arrest him.”

Unarmed, Richard had no chance against the four men who raced up the steps, but he clipped one behind the jaw and nearly booted another over the railing. Lights burst behind his eyes when one churl hit him alongside his face. Thrown back against two attackers, Richard found his arms pinned to his sides. He tried, unsuccessfully, to brace for the fist he knew would drive into his midsection. Nearly retching from the blow, he found himself dragged down to the hall.

“What are you playing at, Loring?”

“Only a fool jests before God.” Loathing distorted his rival’s face. “I do no more than arrest a traitor.”

Richard tried to lunge at him, but his captors jerked him back. “On what possible trumped-up charge?”

“It seems your absence hard on the heels of Venner’s rebellion in January has aroused suspicions at Court.” Loring chuckled unpleasantly.

“You know damned well my absence had nothing to do with—” Richard broke off. Loring knew perfectly well that he had done nothing any more treasonous than elope.

“Yes, I know who you kept company with.” The malice in the other man’s eyes deepened to hatred. “Plead guilty and take your execution, and it may be that no one ever hears of your—accomplice.”

Richard’s heart froze. Loring implied far worse than social ruin for Bethany. He threatened her very life. His gut clenched at the thought of his wife’s broken body dragged to the stake for burning.

Loring stepped close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I beg you, send word to Yorkshire. If the little jade shows her face in London, believe me, I shall arrest her, too.”

Richard swallowed his rage. If he disclosed that Bethany had been in his company, he had no doubt that Loring would drag her into prison as well. And her Nonconformist upbringing would make her an all too easy target for his accusations.

Neither man nor woman accused of treason had a right to counsel or witnesses in their defense. Unless a miracle occurred, he would face execution within the month. But he had sworn to protect Bethany body and soul when he married her. And so he would.

A few days after his arrest, Richard paced his cell in the Tower. His rank entitled him to await almost certain death in a pleasant, if simple, room. Furnished with a narrow bed, table, and cupboards of dark wood, it surpassed the lodgings he had first brought Bethany to.

The thought of her ached like a sore tooth. Perchance it would prove a blessing in disguise that they had parted in anger. At least this way, she would have no desire to come to his aid and her life would be saved. He wondered what he would write her before his execution.

The rattle of the key interrupted his musings. Custom permitted him to bring in food, wine, clothing, and books, provided he paid for their delivery. Today, he expected a chest of his possessions. A guard opened the door and entered, stepping to one side.

Unable to bear the inevitable stares of the draymen, Richard moved to stare out the window at the Tower Green. “Put it at the foot of the bed.”

“If you insist, but it would make more sense to use the table.”

Richard jerked his head around to face the speaker. The guard bowed and reminded him that he would be just outside the door, leaving him alone with the visitor.

Lord Thomas uncorked the bottle of ale and poured out two tankards. “I thought you’d be missing your lady wife by now, but getting yourself arrested seems excessive.” He held one out to Richard.

“What are you doing here?” He ignored the proffered drink.

“I had hoped to ask you to stand up for me.” Thomas swallowed heavily. “But it seems you may be unable to attend my nuptials.”

Richard sank into a chair, rubbing his forehead. “You’re to be wed? Oh God, Tom.” He lifted his head with a bitter smile. “Unlike my wife, at least I am able to beg your forgiveness in person.”

The other man waved his words aside. “We’ve saved each other’s lives too often for either of us to hold a grudge. In your shoes I might well have thought the same.”

A breath of laughter escaped Richard. “’Twould be a lie to say I don’t wish you could help me with this mess. Never mind that, though. Tell me about your lady.”

Thomas did, and his obvious delight in his intended bride amused Richard no end. Eventually, however, his friend leaned forward. “Richard, why do you not send for Bethany? She could clear you.”

“No!” The word exploded out of him. He explained Loring’s threat. Tom argued that if she arrived in secret, the captain would be unlikely to insist on her arrest during the trial itself. Richard flatly refused to risk her life.

If she had to spend one more minute with these account books, Bethany thought she would go mad. She massaged her neck and closed her eyes for relief. Her dinner tray sat all but ignored on a rickety table under a window.

Mistress Platt’s annoyance would set off the entire kitchen if she did not eat something. She wandered over. As usual, the cook had prepared chicken and bread for the midday meal, but she had stewed some rhubarb from the garden for something different. Bethany had a few bites of bread and cold meat and started on the sweet. Her mouth watered as she chewed the tangy rhubarb.

She hoped the kitchen boy would catch a few fish today for their supper. Graymoor’s pool of livestock remained too small to provide for the estate’s needs, and they ate beef, veal, mutton, or lamb only when the herds needed culling.

Looking out the window, she sighed. This side of the house overlooked the courtyard and gate. The ruined end of the southern wing lay partially hidden by the bulk of the house stretching along her right, while to the left, the newly repaired stables stood with their doors open to catch the afternoon sun.

Surrounding the courtyard and stables, the dale sloped down to Kilpenny in the distance, rising in long slopes crisscrossed with low fences. The green folds and hilltops met the sky in a blurry line of smoky blue. In only a matter of weeks, she had come to love the land and people here.

One of her favorite tasks on the estate was to ride the circuit of tenants, shepherds, and cowherds. She and Glory both owned riding horses now, having commissioned Sir Fothery to obtain them from one of the stud farms along the River Rye.

Riding over the estate gave her a chance to escape the constant noise and dust caused by house repairs. It also enabled her to miss the arguments between the itinerant laborers and the permanent household staff, although she inevitably had to adjudicate them upon her return.

Today, however, she had spent so many hours with the books that she would have to assuage her wanderlust with only a stroll through the flower gardens. She slipped down a narrow stairwell near this end of the house. It ended far below in the cellars, but she only took it as far as the kitchen.

Handing her tray to a kitchen maid, she smiled at Mistress Platt on her way out the door. This wing of the house had suffered nothing but neglect. After the workmen completed the improvements to the kitchen, they had focused on the rest of the edifice.

She turned the corner and mounted the steps to the new terrace. It extended past the house on the far end, for Mr. Quintan had pronounced the damage there irreparable. Workers had to tear the weakened walls down to the ground before rebuilding them. Crews of men had removed the rubble already, sorting stones and timbers into piles for reuse or further destruction.

Replanting the gardens proved far more encouraging. Even after weeding the parterres below the terrace, the beds remained too overgrown to discern their patterns. Then Bethany found a thin leather-bound journal tucked behind the drawer of one of the writing tables. It had belonged to Richard’s mother, a gifted amateur designer, and included several sketches of the gardens.

Based on that information, she ordered the gardens planted and trimmed according to her predecessor’s plans. As Glory had said, her mother had loved Graymoor, and Bethany felt somehow obligated to carry out her wishes.

A few pages of the late Lady Harcourt’s journal held drawings of her family. Richard’s father stared up from one page, darker than his son, but with similar features. Next to him sat a sprite-like Glory, whose sunny disposition showed even as a small girl.

Bethany lingered longest over a page marked “Richard, age twelve.” He still had some of his sister’s elfin charm in his thin face, but the proud carriage of his head and brilliant eyes had developed as well.

She strolled past the formally clipped hedges toward a small banqueting house at the end of the main walk. Often she brought a book or some needlework to enjoy a quiet hour in it. Today she would just sit and enjoy the view of Graymoor for a time.

As she approached the small white structure, she heard whispers through its open door. Her lips thinned. She recognized her sister-in-law’s voice easily, which meant the low masculine voice answering was Sir Fothery’s. The young baronet grasped at any pretext to visit. Her skirts snapped about her feet as she strode up the steps, intending to give both of them the trimming of their lives for meeting clandestinely.

She took one look through the door and nearly fainted with horror.

Mercifully covered with a cloak on the floor, but clearly in a state of complete undress, Fothery propped himself on an elbow, his face serious as he brushed a golden strand from Glory’s cheek. She stretched out beside him, her gown and petticoats to one side, neatly folded.

“Dear God in heaven, what have you done?”

Glory squealed and grabbed the cloak more firmly around her, while Fothery put his arms around her protectively. Bethany staggered out to the top step.

A frantic rustling of cloth came from inside, along with a few imprecations, before the guilty couple emerged. By then she had collected herself as well.

“Explain yourselves!” Her thunderous voice even startled herself. Fothery’s normal suaveness deserted him, but Glory’s brazenness remained unimpaired.

“Fothery and I are in love and wish to be married.” She met Bethany’s glare firmly.

“Married! ’Twill be a miracle if Richard doesn’t run him through on the spot!” She turned her rage on the pale young man. “And as for you, what kind of man would besmirch a woman he claims to love? Shame on you!”

“I am not besmirched!” Glory grew as angry as she. “I am not even with child!” Bethany had to clench her hands to keep from shaking the foolish chit.

“And how do you know that?”

“Exactly my point, dearest.” Fothery found his voice. “Lady Harcourt is right, we don’t know. And I am tired of waiting for your brother to arrive. I shall go to London and ask for your hand there.”

Bethany regarded him with an icy stare. “Then I suggest you do so at once, sir. For you shall not see Gloriana again without his permission.” Another dreadful thought hit her. “What if you are with child? Richard will destroy me for being so careless with you.”