Marrying the Mistress (20 page)

‘Bear up, Miss Follet,' said Lord Stillingfleete in an aside that everyone could hear, ‘mothers are not supposed to know a thing about horses. Frances suffered in exactly the same way, convinced that Burl's first pony was far too large for him. It didn't do him any harm, in the end.'

‘I seem to recall,' said Winterson, straight-faced, ‘that a certain three-year-old
end
was rather sore for a day or two. As you say, I recovered.'

‘Burl Winterson,' his mother reprimanded, ‘there are ladies present.'

‘Yes, Mama,' he said. ‘Keep your hands together, Jamie.'

‘I've lost my stirrup, Uncaburl.'

Winterson drew on the leading-rein. ‘All right. Sort it out. Ready?'

‘Yes.'

‘My lord,' I said, ‘is it time for Jamie to take a rest now?'

‘Yes, and tomorrow he can practise riding bareback in the paddock.'

Mrs Goode's sidelong glance at me showed that her thoughts ran parallel to mine, that we had entered men's territory and that, from now on, Jamie's infancy was on the wane.

With a view to discussing what Jamie could and could not do tomorrow, I lingered near the pony's empty loose-box after the others had gone into the house, certain that Winterson would want a private word with me concerning Jamie's shifting allegiance and my sharing of him. New experiences, and not comfortable for a possessive mother.

He entered the stable, stopped, looked, and saw me. I had not expected to feel such breathless girlishness as he came slowly towards me, bare-headed, stripping off his gloves. Laying them with his whip along the top edge of the box, he steered me backwards by one arm into the thick brass-topped doorpost. ‘I suppose you
must go home this afternoon?' he said, not waiting for an answer. ‘Because if I have to spend another night without you, Miss Follet, I may be obliged to make violent love to you here. Would you mind that?'

‘Lord Winterson,
please
! I waited here to speak with you in private.' I was not as shocked as I pretended, and he knew it, but nor did I take his request at all seriously. What is it about stables, I wonder?

‘Sorry. It's the figure-hugging jacket that brings out my baser instincts.'

‘Then I'd better go and change into something looser.'

‘No. Stay as you are. You did well just now. It's not easy for you, is it, to watch him pass into someone else's hands? But don't worry about tomorrow. My father will be there, and my head groom, and Mrs Goode. They won't overtire him. They'll show him how to groom the mare. He'll be quite safe.'

‘Yes. Thank you. I know he will. He's beside himself with happiness.'

‘He's going to be good.'

‘Like his father,' I whispered, unable to avoid the ambiguity.

But his reply was to take me in his arms as I'd wanted him to, instinctively knowing which twin I referred to. ‘You were thinking, out there, of those other times. I know. I could see it. But there's no need to, sweetheart. It's all in the past. Let it go.'

‘I would, gladly, if I knew what it was all about.'

‘One day we'll talk about it. Give me time. It's hard for me too.'

‘I can wait. But don't turn cold on me again, Burl. Previously, if I'd had the courage, I could have walked
away from it all. This time, I shall not be able to do that, shall I?'

‘There'll be no walking away, lass. There'll be no cause. No more of those wild parties and loose women. Only people we both like.'

The wild parties were the least of my problems. ‘Were there many loose women?' I asked.

‘Only a few. No one I allowed you to meet.'

‘That sounds, my lord, as if you cared who I met, which I find hard to believe. Half the time you didn't even know I was here.'

‘Wrong, Miss Follet. I knew
exactly
where you were
all
the time. Particularly I knew where you were on the eighteenth day of April in 1802 during the hours of—'

‘Stop! We must go in, or they'll come looking for us.' I pushed myself away from him, but he pulled me back roughly by my shoulders and I felt the hard sting of his hands as his kiss demonstrated how his desire had not cooled. If he recognised the reasoning behind my queries, he had given me no hint of it, and though I was tempted to share my concerns with him about the Slatterly woman, those few snatched moments were too precious to spoil when I had so little evidence to go on, and even that was at third hand.

So I savoured the warm seeking thrill of his lips as well as the pain of his hands, then the dizzying shock of release that made my walk across the cobbled stableyard more dangerous than usual.

Hot chocolate and shortbread awaited us by the crackling fire, but I had sacrificed my sense of taste for the more powerful sense of yearning, and I might as
well have been eating sawdust while I smiled and chatted as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening to me. He knew, I'm sure.

He knew enough of my strangely elevated status to escort me all round the house into places I had never had reason to visit before, opening up all the rooms to my inspection to show me, I presumed, what I would soon be mistress of. The kitchens, the extensive pantries and larders where game and poultry hung in furry bundles beside hams and sides of venison. Fresh fish waited for attention, baskets of eggs, shallow bowls of cream, shelves of cheeses and butter, wooden churns, racks of vegetables and bunches of pot-herbs. The beautiful frosted kitchen garden too, with glass succession-houses I had never seen before, and the wide lacy arms of fruit trees pinned against the walls. His roses, he told me, bloomed throughout winter and into spring.

He took me through the long gallery built in the sixteenth century for King Henry VIII's overnight stay at Abbots Mere. I had attended routs and balls here with Linas very occasionally, but Winterson must have guessed that I had never been introduced to their brooding ancestors who lined the oak-panelled walls. It was an omission he put to rights as we walked, finding yet another way to make up for his brother's lack of attention, which I knew better than anyone was more to do with his illness than deliberate neglect.

Perhaps, I thought as we joined the others, Winterson had at last begun to realise that it was not so much Linas's thoughtlessness that had hurt me most but his own icy detachment. For my part, it was not so much
being mistress of that beautiful house that would soothe my pride, but knowing that, for whatever reason, Burl Winterson wanted me.

W
ith no Jamie or his nurse for company, the evening felt oddly vacant. Yet although the house on Blake Street was almost back to normal, there were still a few things left to be rearranged and put away, and by bedtime I felt sure of being able to sleep soundly. The fresh air had done its work; riding was something I hoped to do more of, for Winterson had some very fine horses and some wonderful gallops too.

But as I lay in my bed thinking things over, I realised that the pile of Linas's notebooks I had last seen on the side table in the parlour had not been replaced. Nor could I recall where I had put them. They would be sure to turn up unexpectedly, somewhere.

* * *

Friday was the morning of Prue's parents' funeral and I was up early to the shop to place a notice in the window, to pull the blinds halfway down and to tie a large black satin bow over the coloured tassels. The wearing of black had almost become a habit with me,
these days, and I longed to wear colours other than greys and violet. But propriety was everything to Follet and Sanders, so I did my best to be worthy of Prue by adding a long black feather boa to my ensemble, a plume of ostrich on my bonnet and a fine edge of the same around my wrists. With black braid frogging down the sleeves and a narrow panel of it down the front of my pelisse, I felt that she would approve. Even at a time like this, Prue Sanders would be critical of what her staff were wearing.

For the second day, the rooftops shone with white frost, and the cobbles had been sprinkled with straw to make them less treacherous as Debbie and I walked down to Stonegate to pick up the phaeton. Having no reason to call at the front entrance, our approach through the ginnel into the rear stableyard was the most direct way to approach the phaeton and the groom who would accompany us. Winterson's coachman was there talking to the green-and-grey liveried young man, showing me, by the way their conversation lingered, that something had disturbed them.

‘Good morning,' I said. ‘Are we ready?'

‘Indeed we are, ma'am,' they said, touching their grey beavers.

‘Something wrong?'

A quick glance at each other told me there was. ‘Er…well…not exactly wrong, ma'am,' said the senior coachman, getting his word in first. ‘Mr Treddle's had a bit of a problem at the house just now. His lordship gave us all instructions, you see, not to allow anyone in while he's away, excepting yourself, ma'am. So it's a bit tricky when…well…' He touched his nose with a
knuckle, striving to be respectful in his bluff Yorkshire way.

‘When someone demands an entry? Anyone I know?'

‘Lady Slatterly, ma'am. She was none too pleased to find that his lordship's not here, you see. Didn't believe Mr Treddle when he told her. Kicked up a bit of a fuss, she did.'

‘He's gone over to Foss Beck,' I said.

‘Yes, ma'am, though we didn't tell her ladyship that. She drove out of here like the devil himself was after her. She'll ruin her horses if she drives 'em like that.'

I would like to have asked if she'd gone to Abbots Mere where my Jamie was, but that would not have been discreet. ‘Yes,' I said, looking away down the covered passage to the street beyond, imagining Veronique clattering through, desperate to see Winterson. Well, there was nothing I could do about it, but my first thoughts were for Jamie's safety rather than for Veronique's peace of mind.

* * *

I cannot say I enjoyed the drive to Osbaldwick, being forced to concentrate fully on the frozen mud ruts that knocked the phaeton about in a most uncomfortable fashion. I was obliged to walk the horses for most of the way, to save their hooves. The countryside was white, the dried grasses laced with cobwebs that shimmered in the sun, and soon we caught up with other carriages travelling towards the sound of tolling bells, then groups of black-clad people walking from cottage to church. It was obvious that Prue's parents had been well loved, for there were several phaetons and car
riages already lining the narrow street, and crowds passing through the lych-gate into St Thomas's Church.

Inside, I sat with our staff from the shop, and because I was placed to one side of a thick stone pillar, I doubt that Medworth Monkton knew I was there. But it gave me the chance to watch him closely, to see how he fluffed his lines and almost dropped his prayer book as he turned the pages with shaking hands. Something, I thought, was wrong with the man, usually so amiable and at ease. The traipse out to the burial site was, as always, a sombre affair that reminded me too closely of my late lover and his winter resting place, and had it not been for my promise to support Prue, I would have chosen to stand some distance away so as not to see. As it was, I stood with my arm around her shoulders as she had done for me, which appeared to do nothing to ease Medworth's trembling, and he hurried through the service of commital as if he too would rather have been elsewhere. Perhaps, I thought, this was too near his brother's burial for him to distance himself.

I looked for him after that, while Prue greeted her friends, but he had disappeared. This was very odd behaviour, for a curate ought to stay with the bereaved as a matter of courtesy, if not duty. So I slipped quietly back to the church ostensibly to congratulate him on his forthcoming advancement, though in fact to remind him where he was needed most. He had offered me the benefit of his advice; I would offer him some of mine.

The sound of voices from the vestry ought to have made me turn about and return to Prue, having only recently eavesdropped on a private conversation. I was
not at all comfortable with the underhandedness of it, but while it was not in my nature to enjoy such a thing, my curiosity was at once alerted by Medworth's unusually sharp tone and by the answering one, in some distress, of Lady Veronique Slatterly. Yes, I was quite sure it was her because it was her name that Medworth snapped out, impatiently.

‘You should not have come here, Veronique, on such a day. You
must
know I cannot see you. Go back home.'

There was a sound like a cough or a sob, and I froze, hating myself for staying, half-turning to go, but held back by my heart that told me I was in some way involved, willing or not. This was undoubtedly not a good time for her to seek counselling from her adviser, and his tone must have convinced her of his lack of sympathy, in case she had other ideas.

‘You're avoiding me,' she whimpered from the vestry side of the curtain, a heavy purple thing with a fringe along the bottom meant to conceal the changing of vestments rather than conversations. ‘Everybody is avoiding me. And you lied to me about Mrs Monkton.'

‘Shh!'

She ignored his command. ‘You told me you and Mrs Monkton were not intimate any more, but you were, weren't you? And you let me find out about her condition at the ball, of all places, when I couldn't…couldn't…' The sobbing voice faded and choked. ‘So…so unkind of you. I don't suppose
she
knows about
my
condition, does she?'

‘Hush, for pity's sake, Veronique. Of course she doesn't. Why would I tell her
that
? It has nothing to do with Cynthia. And I did
not
lie about not being… well…affectionate. It was true at the time.'

I heard again the sanctimonious tone he'd used to me, excusing, validating, squirming with righteousness. I wanted to burst through the curtain to take her side and demand a proper hearing, but perhaps I had no need, for he had made her angry too, and she was unwilling to be brushed aside simply because he had a funeral party to attend.

‘Stop! Don't go!' she insisted. I saw the curtain billow. ‘You'll
have
to tell her, Medworth.
This
is your doing too, you know.'

If I had not been told of her condition beforehand, I would not have guessed that she must be pointing to herself, the connection never having occurred to me after what he'd told me on Wednesday. Her accusation hit me like a thunderbolt. Not Winterson, but Medworth himself, taking advantage of those advisory sessions with his patron's unhappy daughter.

‘Of
course
it isn't,' he rasped, half-whisper, half-yelp. ‘And I have not been avoiding you. I have duties to perform that I've already neglected for your sake. And I told you before that it
must
be Winterson's. You know the reason, Veronique. He's free and I'm not, and with enough pressure from you and your father, and from me, and eventually from Miss Follet, he'll be obliged to accept it. Think of that. You'll be Lady Winterson. That's what you've always wanted, isn't it?'

‘No!' she snapped. ‘Not at
that
price, Medworth. He would not give in to that kind of pressure when he knows as well as I do that it cannot possibly be his.'

‘Cannot? What nonsense is this? Of course it can.'

‘No. I lied to you too.'

‘What d'ye mean, lied? About what?'

‘I've never been to bed with your brother. It's
your
child, not his.'

There was a pause, then the shocked, disbelieving reaction that I was fortunate not to have received from Linas when I'd told him about Jamie. That was something that had lain heavily on my conscience ever since, that I had been obliged to lie to everyone about the child's father for
his
sake, not for my own. It had been unforgivable, even while sparing me the gossip.

‘I don't believe you,' Medworth said, coldly. ‘You told me—'

‘Of course I did. It was what you wanted me to say, wasn't it? That your brother and I had been lovers too. Well, now I'm telling you the truth—I have never been to bed with him, not ever. He would never be alone with me, and, yes, I
did
want him, have always wanted him more than anyone, but you didn't want to hear that, did you? You said you could offer me your comfort for his offhandedness, and now you don't want to know about it. But you can't foist it off on to your brother, Medworth. It won't work, and he knows it. It's his twin's woman
he's
always wanted, not me.' Her voice wavered and, at that point, I almost turned and left, for my guilty heart was not so well seasoned that I was immune to her anguish. She had felt his indifference too.

‘You're lying again. I thought you and my brother would surely have…'

‘I'm not lying. It's the truth. Why d'ye think I needed your comfort? Because you're irresistible? I've resisted better men than you, Medworth.'

‘The father must be one of those you didn't resist, then. There have been plenty of them, I'm sure.'

‘Not recently there haven't. You'll have to accept it because you're the only one responsible and there's no reason why I should pretend otherwise.
You
told me Mrs Monkton was ill and that you'd always wanted me. You said you loved me more than anyone. You didn't say she was ill with morning sickness, as I have been, did you?'

‘Oh, God, this is terrible. It will be the end of me.'

‘Have you told anyone about…about
my
condition?'

‘No, of course not. I have to go, Veronique. I have people to see. I've done all I can for you. Really…no… let me go…
please
!'

The curtain billowed again as I watched, horrified, imagining the tussle that was being enacted in that confined space, her desperation, his determined cowardice, the terrible spinelessness that convinces men that black is white, that up is down, that no means yes if that is what will serve their purpose best. Guiltily, I shrunk back into the shadows, expecting one of them to emerge like a bullet within the next moment.

But it spoke volumes for Veronique's mettle when her shape appeared with arms outstretched, bulging across the curtain, preventing his escape. ‘Oh, no,' she whispered, growling with menace, ‘oh, no, Medworth Monkton. Don't you walk away this time and pretend innocence just because you think your word will be believed above mine. This time, there's your brother's word too, isn't there? Tell him about it, if you wish, and see what
he
tells you when he's stopped laughing. And tell my father too.
He
knows that Winterson isn't stupid enough to get
me
pregnant while he's hoping to catch Linas's woman, even if
you
are.'

‘You
tell your father,' he replied, cuttingly. ‘You tell
him and see if he can't come up with half a dozen names who could easily have fathered your brat, Lady Slatterly. Why, you could have had a stableful by now with the kind of generosity
you
practise. How else could it have happened but by your own stupid carelessness?'

The bulge in the curtain disappeared, and a loud crack swayed it in the draught. Then, after a hiss of pain from within, the curtain was thrown aside with a rattle and Medworth stumbled through the gap with one hand pressed to the side of his head, bent very low.

Pressing myself back against the wall, I saw him pause and cling to one of the pews, take a look at his hand, then continue on round the corner to the small north door, the way he had apparently entered. Inside the vestry, the low sound of sobbing tore at my heart and filled my lungs with the painful beginnings of a wail. I could have gone in to her; I could have offered her whatever comfort a rival has to offer, but I had to choose between her and Prue. And I chose Prue because that was why I had gone there.