Marriage Under Siege (3 page)

'At least she now has her
freedom. The lady should be rejoicing.'

'She should indeed. Ah...my
own rejoicing is over, Josh! I believe that I must brace myself. Sir William
Croft is striding in this direction and I fear I cannot escape. I think the
time is fast approaching when I must answer for my sins.' Mansell's smile was
wry. 'But I do not believe that I wish to be too apologetic!'

'When are you ever?' Josh
raised his brows in mock surprise. 'I will leave you to work out your own
salvation, Francis—meanwhile, I will go and talk to the widow and try my own
charms on her. If only to ruffle the
Rudhall
feathers, scruffy as they are. Just try not to shock your powerful relative too
much on your first meeting.'

Sir William Croft
approached, a tankard of ale clasped in one large hand. In spite of his
advancing years he remained robust and active, his broad features ruddy and
weatherbeaten
, a force to be reckoned with. Authority
wrapped him round like a velvet cloak and he wore it comfortably.

'I suppose I should say
that I am sorry about Edward's demise,' he stated brusquely, without preamble.
'But I have to admit to being even more sorry about your brother's death last
month. A terrible thing, to have lost James so young.'

Mansell's reply was
tight-lipped and curt. 'Yes. A great waste.'

'And your own tragic loss.
Both Katherine and the babe. More than a year ago now, isn't it? And then your
father...' He shook his head at the terrible unpredictability of life and
death. 'A desperate time for your family.'

'Yes.'

'Forgive me, boy.' Sir William
closed a large hand on Mansell's rigid arm, the warm pressure indicating the
depths of sympathy which he would not convey in words. 'I see you have no wish
to speak of it, but it would have been discourteous not to express my condolences—and
those of my Lady. Your mother wrote to her about Katherine. We never knew her,
of course.'

'No.' If Mansell's response
had been coldly controlled before, now it was glacial. The rigid set of his
shoulders discouraged further comment on the subject.

Sir William shuffled
uncomfortably, then took a deep, spine- stiffening draught from his tankard.
'Your mother. I suppose she is taking it hard?'

'Yes.' Mansell visibly
relaxed a little, and took a glass of wine from a servant. 'She is in London at
present with Ned and Cecilia. I fear she finds time heavy on her hands. And is
in constant despair that either I or Ned will also become victim of a stray
bullet, as James was.'

'And, of course, it has
handed you a lot of unexpected responsibility. How do you feel about it?'

'Uncomfortable.' Mansell
responded to the older man's obvious concern with more
honesty
than he might usually allow. And besides, the new direction held no vicious
memories, guaranteed to strike and tear at the unwary with cruel talons. 'I
suddenly seem to have inherited two titles. First my father's knighthood, and
now Edward's barony, making me responsible for not only my father's possessions
but also Edward's acres. It was not the life that I had planned.'

'Don't forget the
inheritance from Edward's bride,' Sir William reminded him with a sharp glance.
'She will have an excellent jointure as his widow from the estate, of course,
but Mistress Ingram must have brought great resources with her to the marriage.
The
Laxton
estates in Yorkshire themselves must bring
in a tidy sum. I can tell you, it was the talk of Herefordshire when Edward
suddenly upped and wed at his time of life. Why in God's name should he
suddenly change the habits of a lifetime? Not to mention the financial cost! We
had no idea—always presumed he would go to his grave with no direct dependants.
But no—and he must have beggared himself and his tenants in raising the funds
to buy Mistress Ingram's wardship from old Denham. As you will soon be aware,
Edward was the worst of landlords. From what I know of the matter, his
record-keeping was disorganised in the extreme, his collection of rents erratic
and his investment in the estate nil.' Sir William, a conscientious landlord
himself, shook his head in disbelief. 'His pockets were invariably empty, he
was always pleading poverty and living in a style worse than that of his
meanest tenant. His lands are widespread with great potential, but you would
not think it to look at them. Look at this place.' He waved his hand to
encompass the medieval gloom of the Great Hall. 'And to bring a new bride
here!' He huffed in disbelief.

'As you say.' Mansell did
not need to follow Sir William's gaze to know the truth of it. 'I was unaware
of either the marriage, or the extent of the property that now falls to my
care. Or the state in which I find it. I could wish, for the most selfish of
reasons, that my brother James had lived to take on the inheritance.'

Sir William nodded. There
was nothing to say. He took a contemplative draught of the ale, his thoughtful
gaze resting on the lady in question at the far side of the Hall. 'Poor girl,'
he muttered as if to himself.

'Why do you say that?'
Mansell realised that it might be in his interests to hear Sir William's more
knowledgeable assessment of the match.

'Did you know your cousin
at all?' The rough brows rose in exaggerated query.

'Not really.'

'I thought not or you would
not ask. I would not wish to speak ill of the dead, and certainly not on the
day of his burial. But let me just say this—Edward had few friends to respect
or mourn him, as is obvious from the paltry turn-out here. Local unrest would
not normally keep friends and neighbours away from a good funeral! And his
merits as a sensitive and caring husband for a young girl? Well, all I can say
is that Denham must have been out of his mind—should never have allowed it.'

Francis watched Lady
Mansell as she eased an elderly lady to her feet from a settle by the fire and
restored her stick to her gnarled hand. His lips thinned a little in sudden
distaste. So his own thoughts on the marriage were confirmed. Poor girl indeed.

'It will be difficult for
you to enjoy your gains in the circumstances, my boy, although we are quieter
here than many areas,' Sir William continued, interrupting his younger
relative's thoughts, sure of his subject now. 'Most of the families hereabouts
are loyal to the King or have the sense to keep their mouths shut and their
doubts to themselves. Connections between families are still strong—much intermarriage
has strengthened family ties over the centuries of course. Your own family has
close connections with many apart from us at Croft Castle. The
Scudamores
, of course. The
Pyes
,
the
Kyrles
of
Walford
—none
of them here, you notice. And the
Rudhalls
—the son
was at the church earlier but—ah, yes, there he is by the screen, looking as if
he has lost his best hunter as usual. You will have noticed that the
Coningsbys
did not put in an appearance?'

'I had. Is there a reason?
Your knowledge of my family intricacies is much greater than mine.'

'No marriage connections
with the
Coningsbys
, of course—but a deadly feud
between Fitzwilliam Coningsby and Edward going back many years; I have
forgotten the details. But a lot of history there.

You might find that you
inherit it along with the property. You might want to watch your back, my boy.'

'I am sure I shall soon
discover. But tell me, Sir William, how did my cousin's loyalties lie in
present politics?'

'Royalist, of course.
Hereford is well under the command of Coningsby as Governor in the city. He and
I muster the trained bands as required. There has been little unrest so far.
The nearest Parliamentary garrison is Gloucester under Colonel Massey and that
is too far away to be much of a threat in everyday matters. So we organise
affairs to our own liking with little interference from those self-serving
blackguards such as John Pym in London.'

Mansell took a deep breath.
It really would not be politic to remain silent longer on such a crucial issue,
however difficult the outcome. His eyes held Sir William's in a forthright
stare. 'Perhaps I should tell you clearly, Sir William. My own sympathies lie
with Parliament. I cannot in all conscience support a man such as Charles
.Stuart who would bleed his country dry, ignore the advice of Parliament—or
even its very existence—and would have used the Catholic Irish to invade and
subjugate his own people. I am not a Royalist—and nor would I be content to
keep my mouth shut and my head down, as you put it. I will speak up for my
beliefs, and act on them if necessary.'

Silence. As sharp as the
honed blade at Sir William's side.

Sir William took another
gulp of ale. 'Well, my boy.' He eyed Mansell quizzically, perhaps a hint of
respect in his fierce eyes under their grizzled brows. 'That will put the
hunting cat amongst the local pigeons. I like a man who knows his own mind and
is not afraid to state it. But are you sure? I had never expected your father's
son to speak such treason. And neither would he! He will be turning in his
grave to hear you!'

Mansell laughed, but
harshly, and the bitterness did not escape Sir William. 'Oh, yes. I am sure.
Will this situation—your family connection with a
traitor
—make
matters uncomfortable for you?'

'Yes. It will. No point in
beating about the bush. My wife will expect me to welcome you for the sake of
your father and mother. My political associates will damn you as spawn of the
Devil. So what am I expected to do?' Sir William finished the ale and wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand as he contemplated the future. The lines of
authority and experience around his eyes deepened as he weighed the situation.
Mansell simply waited for him to come to a most personal decision, hoping that
he had not totally alienated this proud but honest man. He was not
disappointed.

'I will try not to forget
what I owe to family. Or the strength of historical connection. I owe that to
your family and mine. But I never dreamed... Did your father know of
your...your political inclination before he died?'

'Yes, he did. And although
he could not support me—he remained true to the Stuart cause until the end—he
did not try to dissuade me. But our relationship was not easy in the months
before he died.' Man- sell's eyes were bleak as he remembered the pain and
disillusion which had marked his father's last days.

'Well, then. It has indeed
been a day of revelation.' Sir William hesitated a moment. 'It could put you in
a dangerous position, you realise.'

'How so? I am hardly a
threat to my neighbours, outnumbered as I am.'

'So it would seem. But a Parliamentarian
stronghold such as this in a Royalist enclave? A severe weakness, many would
say, particularly as some of your neighbours might believe that your potential
influence is now too great, given your fortunate increase in wealth and
property. Some might decide that it would be best policy to divest you of some
of that influence. Permanently!' He showed his teeth without humour. 'Some such
as Fitzwilliam Coningsby!'

'You are surely not
thinking of a physical assault, are you?' Mansell did not know whether to laugh
at the prospect or to be horrified.

'I hope not. But put your
mind to your other properties. It would do well for you to see to their
security before word of this gets out. As it most assuredly will.'

'And you would give me that
time, Sir William?'

'I could. For the sake of
family, you understand. But don't expect too much of me. I am not enamoured of
the work of Mr Pym and his rabble of supporters who would oust the rightful
monarch—and replace him with what? God only knows. It would put all our lives
and property in danger if we allowed such a thing to happen. Yours too, my
lord.'

'Now is not the time for
such a discussion. But I am grateful for your advice and tolerance, Sir
William. I hope that I can repay it.' His features were softened a little by a
genuine smile. 'And not put you into too great a difficulty with Lady Croft.'

Sir William grunted,
turning to collect his cloak and hat from the chest against the wall. 'I must
be going. What will Lady Mansell do now?'

'I have no idea. Although I
expect that she is more than well provided for. I presume, given the wardship,
that she has no family to return to.'

Sir William shook his head.
'These are not good times for young women, particularly wealthy ones, to exert
their independence.'

'I am aware. That, Sir
William, is the next problem for me to consider.'

'I wish you good fortune.
And if you will take my advice, you will mention your allegiance towards
Parliament to no one, at least not until you are certain that you can hold your
property. I would hate you to lose it before you have taken possession!' He
laced his cloak and pulled his hat low on his brow. 'Take care, my boy. Take
care.' Sir William clapped Mansell on the shoulder. 'Local politics run very
deep.'

The guests had all gone at
last. Honoria, Lady Mansell, stood with her back to the smoking fire, listening
to the silence around her. Absently she stroked the coarse shoulders of
Morrighan, the wolfhound, who pressed close. Now what? Until this moment there
had been so many necessary tasks for her to supervise or undertake, so much to
fill her mind. Now there was nothing—until the business dealings with Mr
Wellings, Edward's lawyer, on the following morning. No one had taken up the
offer of hospitality. How would they, in all honesty, wish to stay in this
dismal castle, the very air redolent of despair, of hopelessness. Even Sir
Joshua had gone to pack his' few possessions prior to making the short journey
to Ludlow before night fell. What should she do now? Her brain seemed to be incapable
of coming to any sensible decision. All she wished to do was retire to her room
and sleep for a week. Or weep from the relief that she was no longer governed
by Lord Edward's demands. But she would not! Tears solved no problems.