Puritan Bride (7 page)

Elizabeth raised her fine brows. ‘Then she won’t be pretty enough for you to flirt with!’

‘Never fear! I am now betrothed to be married and so beyond the levities of youth. And, as you know, I never flirt!’

‘Well …!’ Lady Elizabeth’s views on handsome young men who were ruthless and arrogant enough to use flattery to gain their own ends would never be known for they were interrupted by a quiet knock quickly followed by the opening of the library door. Mistress Neale entered in her usual calm fashion, hands clasped before her over her enveloping apron, the jangle of keys at her waist marking her every step. She stopped inside the door.

‘Excuse me, my lord, my lady. I have brought the young lady. She says she is recovered sufficiently to rise from her bed—although I did tell her you would understand if she rested today, in the circumstances. In my opinion, she is far from well.’

Lady Elizabeth registered the faint expression—of what, anxiety or disapproval?—on her housekeeper’s homely features, but with a mental shrug presumed that it was merely concern for the health of their unexpected guest.

‘But yes, Mistress Neale. Please come in. Is she with you now?’

Mistress Neale turned, beckoned and ushered in the young woman who had been standing in the shadows in the hall. She paused, framed by the doorway, her own ruined and unsuitable clothing discarded, now clad in ill-fitting skirt and bodice, borrowed from Elspeth, tied and tucked to take into account her slender figure. Her harshly cropped hair was uncovered. The extensive bruising down one side of her face was shocking to see, but
the wound in her hair, covered by some neat bandaging, appeared to be giving her few ill effects. She held one firmly bandaged wrist awkwardly at her side. Exhaustion was printed on her face, the pallor highlighted by the plain white collar, and there was a faint frown between her brows, but she waited with apparent composure for her hostess to make the first move.

‘Come in, my poor child. What an ordeal you have been through. Come and sit with me.’ Lady Elizabeth stretched out her hand in instant compassion.

Mistress Neale curtsied and left. The lady remained standing in the doorway as if she had not heard the invitation. Viscount Marlbrooke saw the instant bewilderment in her expression and so rose and walked across the room, to take her hand. It was icy cold. She did not resist as he led her further into the room but neither did she respond to her new surroundings. His eyes searched her face, but he could detect no emotion. Perhaps she was unaware that she grasped his hand hard as he led her into the room. He felt compelled by he knew not what impulse to raise her hand and brush his lips over her rigid fingers in a formal salute.

‘There is no need to be anxious,’ he reassured her in a gentle voice as he applied a comforting pressure to her fingers. ‘I was at the crossroads and brought you here last night after the accident with your horse. I am Marcus Oxenden. This is my mother, Lady Elizabeth. You are at Winteringham Priory. Perhaps you know of it?’

Her eyes flashed to his face as she shook her head, wincing at the sudden lance of pain. If anything she became even paler, the blood draining from beneath her skin.

‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ Her voice was clear and steady but toneless as if her mind was engaged elsewhere.

‘Forgive me that I do not rise.’ Elizabeth held out her hand and smiled in welcome. ‘I find the cold weather difficult. You must tell me where you were going. I am sure that we can help you reach your destination. You must have a family—and friends—who will be concerned for you, to whom we should send a message. What is your name, my dear girl?’

The result of the concerned enquiry was devastating. It was not composure that held the girl in its rigid grasp but naked fear born out of blind panic. She pulled her hand from Marlbrooke’s light clasp to cover her face, to suppress a sob of anguish.

‘But what is wrong?’ Elizabeth struggled to gain her feet, ignoring the discomfort, moved immeasurably by the plight before her. ‘I am sure that whatever distresses you so can soon be put right.’

‘No!’

‘But what is it that causes you such despair?’ Marlbrooke raised his brows, glancing hopefully towards Lady Elizabeth, but she merely shook her head. ‘Surely it can be remedied?’

The eyes that the lady raised to Marlbrooke’s face were wide, stark with terror. ‘I don’t know where I was going,’ she explained, her voice breaking on a sob. ‘I do not know who I am. I cannot even remember my own name!’

‘I cannot remember my name,’ the lady repeated the statement in barely a whisper. ‘I don’t remember anything before I opened my eyes here this morning.’

She looked at the two strangers before her, panic turning her blood to ice, freezing her ability to assess her position with any clarity. The lady with her faded beauty, kind smile but awkward limbs. The gentleman, eyes intent, dark haired, with a distinct air of authority. Both offering compassion and support, but both total strangers. How could she be so dependent on them? She shook her head, wincing again at the sharp consequence, unable to take in her surroundings or the enormity of her predicament. In response to the mute appeal in the girl’s face, her pale lips and cheeks, Elizabeth put a gentle arm around her shoulders and steered her towards the fire. She was trembling, but obeyed as in a trance and sank to the cushioned settle. Elizabeth sat beside her, keeping possession of her hand, stroking the soft skin in comfort.

‘You must not worry so. You have had the most traumatic of experiences. You must know that you were struck on the head when you fell from your horse. I am
sure your loss of memory will be temporary and you will soon remember everything quite clearly.’

The lady looked into Elizabeth’s calm grey eyes, clinging to sanity as she clung to her hand. ‘But what am I doing here? Please tell me what happened last night.’

The Viscount had come to stand before the fireplace, leaning his arm along the heavily carved mantel, pushing the smouldering logs with his booted foot until sparks showered onto the hearth.

‘I am afraid that I can tell you very little. You were riding from the south, but from where exactly, I know not. You arrived at the crossroads on Winteringham Common at the time when my coach had stopped because of an incident. We waited to warn you of possible danger on the icy road. You were travelling fast.’ He frowned, watching her closely to see if there was any hint of recognition of the subsequent events. There was none. ‘When you came abreast of us, your horse shied badly on a stretch of ice and you fell, hitting your head on the road. I brought you here. And that is all I know.’

She nodded in thoughtful acceptance, head bent as she contemplated his answer and the blank spaces in her memory, which his explanation did nothing to restore.

‘Do I know you?’ The lady raised her eyes to the Viscount’s face, but without hope.

‘No, my dear.’ Elizabeth sighed in answer and shook her head sadly. ‘We can be of no help to you in that quarter. I do not think you live in the vicinity, although we
have only just returned to the area ourselves after some years’ absence. We can make enquiries, do you not think, Marcus?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did I have any possessions with me? Nothing to tell who I am?’

‘No.’ The Viscount had moved silently to a side table to pour a glass of wine. He handed it to the lady, who took it and sipped absently. ‘Your horse may have had saddle-bags, but it bolted out of sight. I have sent out word to recover it if it is found on the estate or in the village. I expect it will—horses rarely stray far, even when frightened.’

‘I … I understand from Mistress Neale that I was dressed as a boy.’ She lowered her eyes in some confusion as a faint flush stained her pale cheeks. ‘And I have cut my hair.’ She lifted her hand to touch in shock and disbelief the shorn strands that lay against her neck. ‘I think I had long hair. I do not understand any of it!’

‘Indeed.’ Elizabeth squeezed the cold hands. There was little she could say to comfort her. ‘You must have had a good reason for doing so.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

The door to the library opened to admit Felicity, who had completed her task and returned carrying the shawl. Her pursed lips and the closed expression on her narrow face indicated that she had, in her absence, made it her
business to become well informed of events by Mistress Neale and did not approve.

‘Here is Mistress Felicity, my cousin.’ Elizabeth made the introduction, her heart sinking as she read the condemnation in her companion’s stiff shoulders and tightlipped mouth. Uncomfortable at the best of times, Felicity could be a damning influence when her sense of morality was outraged. ‘This is …?’ She looked at the lady beside her in sudden consternation.

The fear had deepened in the lady’s eyes as her lack of identity had immediately presented its own problems.

‘We must decide what to call you, my dear child, until your memory returns.’ Elizabeth smiled and tried to keep her tone light.

‘Why, I … I don’t know.’

‘I do.’ The Viscount had been watching intently and now surveyed the delicate features and deep blue eyes with a light curve of his lips. ‘You are Viola, for sure. Master Shakespeare had the right of it in naming his masquerading heroine. We will borrow it for you, if it pleases you, if only for the short term.’ The smile that accompanied his words held great warmth and charm, guaranteed to put the lady at her ease. He reached down for her hand and bowed elegantly over it. ‘Welcome to Winteringham Priory, Mistress Viola.’

She tried for a smile, but it was a poor attempt, and pulled her hand away as if his touch embarrassed her even more. A shiver ran through her slight frame in
spite of the burning logs. Seeing it, Marcus took the shawl from the fussing Felicity and placed it round her shoulders.

‘Thank you. I cannot express how grateful I am for your kindness.’

‘Well, of course …’ he grinned ‘… we had planned to throw you out into the cold and wet to find your own salvation. We always treat our guests with such lack of consideration! Particularly when they are in distress.’

‘Enough, Marcus.’ Lady Elizabeth frowned at his levity. ‘Take no heed of him, my dear. Be assured you are welcome to stay here until we know what is best for you.’

The girl smiled at last with genuine warmth but Marcus had seen the flash of real fear and tried to remedy the effect of his light jest.

‘Indeed, Mistress Viola, there is no cause for concern. I have known cases such as yours before—in the war. A severe blow to the head can bring temporary loss of memory. It returns, sometimes gradually in increasing flashes of realisation, sometimes in one blinding revelation.’
And occasionally leaves the sufferer in devastating limbo for ever!
‘You need to rest. You will stay here as long as you need. Meanwhile, as my mother suggested, we will put out the word.’

‘I cannot express my thanks.’ She placed the almost untouched glass carefully on the table at her elbow. ‘I
have a headache a little. Perhaps, if you will excuse me, I will go and rest.’

‘Of course.’ Elizabeth saw the distress and weariness in the young face and understood the need for privacy. ‘Mistress Neale will provide everything you need. Perhaps, Felicity, you will show Mistress Viola to her bedchamber, until she becomes more accustomed to the house.’

Felicity moved to comply with bad grace and a sharp inclination of her head, leading the way from the room, leaving Elizabeth alone with her son.

‘Well, Marcus? She is so young and defenceless to be put in such a position.’

He shrugged as he returned from the door to pour out two more glasses of wine, handing one to his mother before stretching his limbs again with casual grace in the chair opposite her.

‘It is as I said. Her memory will probably return in its own good time. But what can have frightened her to such an extent that she would cut her hair, dress as a man and ride through the night with no companion or protection?’ He frowned down into the blood-red liquid as he swirled it in the glass, the light catching in the faceted stem. ‘Perhaps her fears are more deep rooted than from mere loss of memory. We must be circumspect in our enquiries. It may be that she does not wish to be found.’

‘I agree.’ Felicity stalked back into the room in time to hear the final comment. ‘A girl who is prepared to dress
in such an unseemly manner and take such precipitate action might have all manner of things to hide. I believe that you are too trusting, my dear Elizabeth. We do not know what she might be guilty of.’

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and caught the fierce challenge in her son’s eyes as he prepared to deliver a stinging rebuke. Felicity would only sulk and that would make everyone uncomfortable. She took up the challenge before he could speak.

‘Your lack of charity in the circumstances is unfortunate and does you no favours, Felicity,’ she chided in a mild tone, but leaving her cousin in no doubt of her sentiments. ‘I expect you to treat Mistress Viola with all consideration and compassion until we know for sure who or what she is! I would not like to hear that she has been open to insult in my home.’

Felicity pressed her lips into an even firmer line, if that were possible, and sniffed.

V
iola awoke next morning to the same complete absence of knowledge of her previous existence as when she had taken to her bed. She struggled to quell the all-embracing fear as she became aware of a maid who bustled about the room and drew back her curtains.
You must be calm. You have to accept. You will remember as your head heals.
At least the headache had gone. She smiled uncertainly at the maid, a young smiling person with quick, deft hands, and felt an immediate lift in her spirits as the pale spring sunshine flooded the room. Of course things would soon be back to normal and she would be able to complete her journey—wherever that was. Was someone, somewhere, concerned for her safety? She shook her head as the maid approached the bed.

‘Her ladyship has sent you this, mistress. To replace
Elspeth’s bodice and skirt which you wore yesterday. She thinks it will be a little large, but the length should be good—if we lace it tightly it should do well enough. Her ladyship no longer wears it. And it is too pretty to be packed away for the moths.’

‘How kind everyone is. It is beautiful.’

She scrambled from the bed to don shift and petticoats and the gown that the maid held and laced for her.

‘There, now.’ Bessie tied and twitched with experienced fingers and she was dressed. The deep-blue damask bodice, boned and laced, fit, if not as if made for her, at least adequately, emphasising her small waist and the swell of her breasts. The full overskirt was of the same deep colour, looped up to show a delicate cream underskirt, embroidered with flowers and leaves around the hem. The low neckline, which might have made Viola blush, was made more suitable for day wear by a fine linen-and-lace collar that matched the lace falling from elbow-length sleeves. Viola sighed at the sheer delight of it against her skin.

She stood before the looking glass, letting her fingers smooth down the figured brocade of the skirts. The reflected image shocked her. The dress looked well—indeed, she had the faintest suspicion, hovering on the edge of memory, that she had never worn anything as fine in her life—but she had no recognition of the lady wearing it. It was as if she were looking at a stranger. Then she gasped as she took in the short hair, roughly
cropped—hacked, rather!—and unflattering in the extreme to her critical eyes. It seemed to her that in the past she had had hair that curled in ringlets to her shoulders, not this stark crop which threw her face into cruel relief. For there was the matter of the large purpling bruise that disfigured her temple—and would for many days yet.

Her eyes met those of the maid and she flinched inwardly at the depth of pity she saw there. ‘I look terrible,’ Viola whispered.

‘That you don’t, mistress. You look so much better than yesterday—what with the colour in your cheeks an’ all. Your hair will soon grow. It is very pretty and, now that you have taken off your bandage, you look well.’

‘I suppose I do. At least it takes little time to run a comb through it.’ She grimaced as she did so, mindful of the tender wound on her skull. What terrible need had made her cut it so drastically? There was no point in idle speculation. She must be practical. Viola squared her shoulders and looked again at the maid.

‘Would you do something for me …?’

‘I am Bessie. Her ladyship says for me to take care of you. What would you wish for me to do for you, mistress?’

‘Thank you, Bessie. Would you trim my hair—to cut away the worst of the stray bits?’

‘My pleasure, miss. I will fetch the shears from Mistress Neale!’

*  *  *

Half an hour later Viola risked a second look in the mirror. Her hair now lay neatly against her neck and curled on to her cheeks and forehead in feathery wisps. She sighed. It was the best she could hope for. ‘Thank you, Bessie. I suppose it is some improvement!’ She smiled wryly as she swept herself a regal curtsy. ‘Do you suppose it will ever look passably attractive?’

‘That it will, Mistress Viola. And when the bruise fades you will feel more the thing.’

‘You are very good for my spirits, Bessie.’ They smiled at their achievements with the shears. ‘Now, where will I find Lady Elizabeth at this time in the morning? I must speak to her—thank her for all her kindness and this beautiful dress.’

‘She usually sits in the panelled parlour at the front of the house in the morning. The sun makes it warm and comfortable for her—with the pains in her limbs an’ all. I will take you there when you are ready.’

Lady Elizabeth sat in the wash of sunlight in the small parlour with a neglected piece of tapestry on her lap as Bessie ushered in Viola. Felicity sat beside her, head bent industriously over a similar pattern intended to cover a chair seat. Elizabeth’s face was solemn and pensive as she gazed out over the gardens, but brightened immediately with a welcoming smile as she stretched out her hand in greeting.

‘Well, Mistress Viola. You look charming this morning. I knew the dress would suit. Turn round for me.’

Viola did as she was bid, enjoying the swish of damask skirts against the polished oak boards.

‘I do not know what to say. You have given me more than I deserve.’

Felicity’s curled lips suggested that she might agree, but said nothing and continued to ply her needle with little vicious stabs at the tapestry.

‘Nonsense, dear girl. Come and sit and entertain me a little.’

Viola did as she was bid and bent to admire Elizabeth’s embroidery. ‘Your tapestry is beautiful. The stitches are so even.’

‘I could do better.’ Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in self-disgust. ‘My fingers are so swollen and painful. Can you do tapestry work?’

‘Yes, of course. I remember …’ She stopped in some consternation.

‘There now. I knew your memory would return when you stopped trying so hard. I expect your mother taught you.’

‘Perhaps. I certainly know that I have worked tapestry—and needlework—and I remember patterns. One very similar to Mistress Felicity’s cover with flowers and leaves, but in darker greens. But I am not sure that I enjoyed it.’ Her lips were touched by a faint smile. ‘I feel that I applied myself reluctantly and only because I must.’

‘It is indeed amazing how your memory is beginning to return.’ The sour note in Felicity’s voice was unmistakable.

There was a silence in the room for a long moment. And then, ‘It is not a situation that I would wish on anyone, Mistress Felicity,’ Viola replied in a quiet voice.

So she has spirit.
It pleased Elizabeth to hear her young guest stand up for herself against Felicity’s unkind sniping.

‘Perhaps you would fetch us some wine, Felicity?’

‘Of course, dear Elizabeth.’ Felicity simpered in Elizabeth’s direction, but with a scowl for Viola as she flounced through the door.

‘You said, my lady, that you had recently returned to live here.’ It seemed to Viola an innocuous subject that would not require any reminiscences on her part.

‘It is a complicated story,’ explained Elizabeth, willing enough to find a neutral topic. ‘We used to live at Glasbury Old Hall—you probably do not know it, but it is only a few miles from here. I went there as a young bride. But it was damaged beyond repair in the war—and then we came here.’

‘Do you never go back?’

‘Too sad. Too many memories of what might have been.’

‘But why did you come here in the first place—and then not remain here?’

‘I warned you it had its complications. The Priory
became ours after a siege and the original family fled. So we moved here when our own house was destroyed. But then we were on the wrong side after 1649 and the King dead, so it was confiscated by Parliament and the rents used for their own policies. In effect, we lost both houses—I think it helped to bring about my husband’s intense melancholy and ultimate death. We went to a property in London, which I had brought to the marriage in my jointure—and this place stood more or less empty except for a strange lady from the original family who stayed on as a sort of guardian, with our steward, Master Verzons, and Mistress Neale. When King Charles was restored, my son petitioned for the return of the Priory—and the King granted it back to him. So we returned. Not an edifying story!’

‘And the lady—the guardian? What happened to her?’

‘She would not stay. I cannot blame her. She was very angry.’

Felicity returned, followed by Verzons bearing a tray. He poured the wine, handed the glasses to the ladies and arranged a small table conveniently beside Elizabeth. As he presented Viola with her wine, she looked up at him in thanks to surprise an intent look on his face as he studied her. He immediately dropped his gaze and became once again the self-effacing steward, but it left Viola uncomfortable. It was not a casual look at all.

As Elizabeth reached to put down the glass, she caught the stem with a clumsy hand and the glass fell to the
floor, smashing the fragile vessel and spilling the wine in a spreading puddle. She cried out in distress as Felicity leaped to her feet to mop up the mess. ‘I am so clumsy,’ she fretted. ‘Some days it is insupportable.’

Viola was horrified to see tears gather in Lady Elizabeth’s eyes and only sheer effort of will prevent them from spilling over down her cheeks.

‘Is it …?’ She hesitated, unsure of such a personal enquiry. ‘Is it the rheumatic disease that causes your suffering, my lady?’

‘Yes. So painful! For some little time now—and the cold and damp aggravates it.’

‘I believe I can make things easier for you if you would allow me.’

‘I doubt anyone can,’ Felicity intervened, still on her knees where she dealt with the spilled wine and glass. ‘Lady Elizabeth has suffered from such pains for many years and nothing helps. We must pray for deliverance.’

‘But I know how to ease the pain.’

‘Do you really?’ The spark of hope in Elizabeth’s eyes and voice touched Viola’s heart.

Yes, because …’ She hesitated, frowning, as if the reason had slipped away from her grasp. ‘I do not know why I know,’ she continued, ‘but I know that I have the skill and knowledge to ease the pain and reduce the swelling. Someone must have taught me. I remember a number of potions and balms, and a pain-relieving draught, that would be of use.’ Viola took a deep breath, eyes closed in
frustration. ‘Why can I remember such trivial details and yet not know my own name?’

‘I know not. But you could make such a potion for me? You could make the pain go away?’

‘I believe I can ease it. Do you wish for me to try?’

‘If only you would.’ Hope illuminated Elizabeth’s face. ‘What would you use?’

‘Herbs and hedgerow plants. Dried leaves mostly at this time of the year when little is growing. It is not difficult to prepare something that should give you relief.’

‘But what if her memory is wrong, dear Elizabeth?’ Felicity came to stand protectively beside her cousin, one hand on her shoulder as if in warning. ‘Her so-called remedies could have disastrous consequences. You could be poisoned and we would not know what to do for you. I advise very strongly against it.’ Her eyes, fixed on Viola, were cold and full of implacable hatred.

‘Felicity—’ Elizabeth’s voice was weary in the extreme, but she recognised the jealousy that afflicted her companion and understood it even as she would have condemned it ‘—I appreciate your concern—and your motives—but some days I would accept a remedy from the devil himself if I thought there was only the smallest chance of success.’

‘I never thought to hear such blasphemy from you, dearest cousin!’

‘It is not blasphemy.’ Elizabeth remained calm, although her eyes snapped with temper. ‘It is desperation.
Nothing else has any effect. Perhaps Viola is an answer to our prayers.’

‘As to that, I know not. But I will use the skill I have. Do you have a still-room?’ Viola enquired, rising to her feet. ‘And I presume there is a herb garden.’

‘Yes. Sadly unkempt, but I make you free of it.’ Lady Elizabeth looked at her hands with swollen joints and ugly reddened knuckles, and clenched them in her skirts to hide them from view, even from herself. ‘If you could take away only a little of the pain I would be everlastingly grateful. And vanity would hope that you could improve this unsightliness.’ Her smile was a little twisted. ‘I used to have fine hands once.’

Some time later, Viscount Marlbrooke followed directions from his mother to find Viola ensconced in the dust-shrouded still-room, her slight figure with its fashionable gown wrapped in one of Mrs Neale’s large white aprons to protect the delicate material. The streaked glass in the small window was pushed wide to allow in as much light as possible and a fire burned on the hearth. Various pots, spoons and dishes, borrowed from the kitchen, littered the bench and a pot bubbled over the fire. Viola wielded a pestle and mortar clumsily with her bound wrist, the small dish clasped by her arm against her body, but none the less effectively.

He stood in the open doorway to watch her concentration and neat movements. She was unaware of his
presence, but hummed softly, almost under her breath. It made a pleasant domestic scene if it were not for the disfiguring bruise. His memory of his first knowledge of her swept back, surprising him with its intensity. He remembered her fragility, her total vulnerability, aware of the tightening of the muscles in his gut and thighs in response. And yet here she was, wielding pestle and mortar, unconcerned with the painful sprain, in his still-room. His mouth curled a little in admiration of her, content to stand and watch.