Seacliff (4 page)

“My dear.” He was at the door, his smile meant to be reassuring. “Bradford will be serving in fifteen minutes.”

And when he left, she sagged against a bedpost, almost ready to weep.

Morgan closed the door behind himself and started down the hall. But before he got far, he suddenly turned onto the rear staircase landing and reached into a dark comer, snaring Gwen’s arm. She gasped and tried to pull away, but he yanked her to his chest, his other hand gripping the back of her head. When she tried to free herself, he quickly released her arm and put his hand around her throat.

“Spying again, are we?” he rasped.

She shook her head vigorously, unable to speak.

“Welsh bitch,” he sneered. “I know what you’re trying to do, you know. Trying to turn the woman against me so she’ll complain to her father and have him annul the marriage.” He leaned closer, and her eyes widened in terror. “It won’t work, gel. It bloody won’t work. There’s a lot more at stake than your feeble brain could manage to uncover, and I won’t have you disturbing my wife with all manner of lies!”

Gwen fell against the wall when he took his hands away. She rubbed gingerly at her throat and tried to restrain herself when he suddenly plunged a hand into her square-necklined dress and roughly fondled her breast. He pinched it until she yelped, and then slapped her for making the sound.

“You’re all alike,” he whispered harshly. “All of you. If you’re not fouling yourselves in the mines, you’re pretending to be civilized in miserable stone huts. By God, if it weren’t-—”

He stopped suddenly and pulled away. Drawing himself erect, he glared down at her.

Gwen swallowed several times and brushed her dark hair away from her eyes.

“You will say nothing of this, of course,” he told her confidently. “If you do…Well, you do love your mistress, I’ll say that for you. And you certainly don’t want anything to happen to her, do you? Of course you don’t. You’re almost smart, little Gwen-me-gel. Almost.” He laughed softly and stepped back into the hall. But before she could loose the tears building in her eyes he turned back to her, glaring once more over his shoulder at Caitlin’s door. “Your tongue,” he said. “Be sure you mind it when you go back in there. It won’t be long, little one. It won’t be long now.”

And when he was gone, she reached out for the wall, bowing her head as she tried not to retch. She would have to bathe now, to get the stench of him off her. She was thankful he had never carried out his threats to come to her chamber while the others were sleeping. She shuddered, and coughed. Below, she could hear Mrs. Thom and Mary bustling about the kitchen, and Bradford holding forth on some topic or other, most likely the barbarians in America who were causing so much trouble. The man never failed to equate barbarians with the Welsh either.

And when she thought she was ready, she straightened her bodice, brushed at her plain brown skirts, and wondered how long she would be able to remain silent.

C
aitlin brushed her black hair over one shoulder and checked her reflection. The color contrasted nicely with
her
honey dress, but she couldn’t help wishing she did not have to wear the high neck with its stiff collar of lace. Whenever they attended receptions and parties Oliver encouraged her to dress in the latest fashion, no matter how daring. But here at home he was curiously against it. As if, she thought, he did not wish to be overly tempted.

When Gwen returned, she sighed and laid the brush on the vanity. “Why didn’t you tell me the old hag was a Scot, Gwen?” She expected a humorous reply and frowned when she saw the woman’s expression. She turned and faced her friend. “He was at you, wasn’t he?”

“He scolds,” Gwen said, avoiding Caitlin’s gaze by hurrying to the vanity to open a velvet-lined jewelry box.

He
presumes;
that’s what he does,” she snapped angrily. “I don’t tell him how to handle that worm, Bradford, and he has no right—”

“It’s all right, Cat,” Gwen assured her, turning with a string of pearls in her hand. “I don’t mind it.”

“Well, I do!” she said, stooping slightly to allow Gwen to put the pearls around her neck. “I’ve only you and Davy Daniels here, you know. He wouldn’t let me bring anyone else.”

“It’s all right,” Gwen said again, more firmly.

“I should have a word with him is what I should do.”

“No!”

Caitlin was astonished at the vehemence in her response, but before she could press Gwen for further information the clear sound of the dinner gong reverberated through the house. One last check in the mirror—well, she thought, he just doesn’t know what he’s missing—and she swept out of the room, praying that his ill humor would not be exacerbated by Mrs. Thom’s cooking.

She was surprised.

Though the meal was simple—beef, wine, and fresh bread, with fruit for dessert—Oliver did not make his usual show of displeasure at the barely adequate talents of his cook. Instead, once she realized that his mood was changing, she was able with just the right touch of innocence and interest to prompt him to brag about his conquests. And brag he did, for nearly an hour; and she laughed and exclaimed as she always did, relaxing as she saw him as he wished to be—a retired and honored major whose civilian interests permitted him to work for his country, even if they did not involve the danger and excitement to which he’d grown accustomed. Now, as he gestured and regaled her with tales of intrigue and high hilarity, she could also see the rough but elegant man who had courted her at her father’s urging. A man with a purpose, a man she hadn’t thought she’d mind living with.

By the time the bottle of port had been drained and Bradford had brought Oliver’s walking stick and gloves, the two of them were seated beside each other at the long oaken table, he covering her hand, she eagerly listening to his snippets of court gossip.

“Sir,” Bradford said, “your carriage is waiting.”

Reluctantly, Caitlin followed him outside and waited on the flagstone steps as Bradford lowered the carriage steps and gave orders to the driver, Davy Daniels. Oliver entered with a flourish and a wave, but suddenly poked his head out the window and grinned. “My dear,” he said, “I nearly forgot to tell you my secret.”

“Secret? What secret?” She looked up at Davy, who was leaning over from his post and smiling, his white-powdered wig slightly askew. When he shrugged, she looked back to her husband. “Oliver,” she said, feigning a pout.

“Well, m’dear,” he said expansively, “it seems I’ve had a communication from… from…” He put a finger to his chin as if trying to remember. “Damn and blast, who was that woman?”

Caitlin stomped a foot and folded her arms across her breasts. “Oliver, you know full well who ‘that woman’ is. Please tell me, before I freeze to death out here.”

The air was actually quite mild for early June, but she hugged herself tightly and rocked from side to side in mock discomfort. Oliver laughed and slapped the coach’s side. “From someone named Charlotte Sophia, I believe her name is.” He thumped on the coach’s roof with his walking stick, then. “Is that her name, Daniels? Have I the woman’s name right?” Davy could barely contain his laughter and rolled his eyes, his dark brown tricorne waggling atop his head.

“Oliver—” She caught her breath in the middle of the warning. The name had sunk in. Her eyes widened, and she put her hands to her cheeks. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Oliver told her, his humor fast fading. “I do not jest about things like that.”

“But Oliver, she’s the queen!”

“The last time I saw the king, yes she was.”

“You spoke to the queen?” Her voice rose to a shrill note, and she descended the steps. “You actually spoke with the queen?”

Oliver nodded, clearly regretting having started the game. “There’s to be a gathering at Windsor the day after tomorrow. A number of the king’s friends will be down from London, and we have been asked to attend.” He raised an impatient hand to cut off her exclamations. “Two days to prepare yourself, my dear. And to practice holding your tongue.”

He did not wait for a reply but stabbed at the roof again with his stick. Davy jumped, grabbed the reins and long whip, and cracked the four black horses into a practiced smooth motion.

The queen, Caitlin thought, nearly forgetting to wave. My God, the queen!

She turned to the house, but suddenly its dimensions seemed too small. She could not go in until she’d found a measure of calm, so she moved off at a brisk walk, following the sweep of the drive to where it banked sharply toward the Windsor road. Then she stepped onto the lawn, her hands fluttering over her skirt and the ruffles of her blouse. Pulling at a thick handful of hair, she stroked it as she would the back of a cat.

Above, the moon and the stars glowed and turned the dark heavens silver. She heard the hoot of a hunting owl, the twilling of insects in the trees. All around her the grass sparkled with early dew, and the sculptured gardens glowed with the moonlight as if touched by a wand. In the stables a horse whickered and kicked at its stall; a dog barked; and from somewhere back on the main road, the evening’s orchestration was enhanced by the clarion call of a horn—a long warning blast, as a nobleman’s coach thundered through the village. The sound lingered on the same breeze that rustled the leaves, lingered until she’d found her own place for thinking.

A hundred yards from the house, through a narrow stand of chestnut and birch, was a pond. It was meant, she’d been told, to be admired for its symmetry, and for the hundreds of goldfish swimming lazily below the surface. English ladies — she’d learned three years ago shortly after the wedding ceremony—did not remove their boots and stockings and go wading. But the temptation was always strong. It was stronger during daylight when she knew she might be caught; less so after sunset, when she did it nonetheless.

Tonight, however, she only walked to a marble bench set a yard back from the water’s edge and sat, hands folded in her lap. In the pond’s water, she watched the moon’s reflection as the breeze drifted by.

She still felt dazed. The queen. At any other time she might have remarked caustically about the wife of the king. It was almost a national pastime in Wales, and one she had mastered so well she could set her friends laughing for hours on end. Yet now… she grinned at herself, shook her head slowly. The English considered the Welsh something less than human; the Welsh, with their hot tempers, lashed out at the English as frequently as they could. And here she was, Caitlin Evans Morgan, stunned as a schoolgirl over the prospect of attending a party at the castle. And not just any party. She’d been to the Hanover residence before, but the royal family had never been in attendance. But now—now!—she had a royal invitation. The likes of Lady Coming and her shriveled sister could sink into the moors for all she cared.

The water rippled and lapped quietly at the white pebbles bordering the pond.

She felt a brief surge of guilt: for all his shortcomings, and for all her frustrations, Oliver certainly knew how to ignite her excitement. Would he could do it privately as well, she thought.

The queen—and before she could banish the thought, another struck her: would Griffin be jealous if he knew where she’d be in forty-eight hours? Would… would he even care?

She scowled. This was no time to fall back into girlish fancies.

The king and queen were ahead of her, and this would be her chance to show that the Welsh did not parade around in pelts and black-charred faces. It was a matter of honor, and it was—

With a sudden shriek of joy she yanked up her skirts and raced back toward the house, shouting Gwen’s name.

3

T
he orchestra’s spritely pavanne was high, lilting, and sweet, and was dispersed over the valley by a late spring breeze that had risen shortly after sunset. Banners and colored standards, so bright the dark could not dim them, pointed the way to the eastern horizon from poles set atop the castle’s central Round Tower. The flickering of torches in elaborate ironwork brackets made the gray stone walls appear gold, and added dizzying depth to the polish of the coaches waiting patiently in the courtyard. The horses, finely curried and beribboned, were stamping anxiously now as midnight’s chill approached the high walls. They shook their heads and snorted, while the grooms and coachmen leaned casually against their charges and traded gossip about their families, their exploits, and their slowly dawning fear that some of them might soon be impressed into the army to fight again—not against France this time, but against people of their own kind.

The castle itself was a massive, dynamic structure begun by William the Conqueror and later added onto by subsequent generations of English monarchs. Its lower wall fronted Windsor’s High Street imposingly, and across the cobblestone road were rows of taverns and inns that faced the royal residence like urchins pressing close to a rich man. And on every comer were bands of infantrymen at the ready, their red-coated uniforms gleaming with polished brass, their hats white-plumed and catching the wind. Passersby joked with them, brought them ale and fresh bread, while their officers carefully looked the other way. It was going to be a long night, by all accounts, and they knew their men would stay more alert if they felt they were as important as the townspeople made them out to be.

Within the wall was a narrow courtyard lined with stables, a farrier’s shop, and several deserted stalls used during the morning market. Farther up, as the hill gently ascended, was the medieval splendor of St. George’s Chapel, followed by another open stretch of cobblestones and hard earth. The residence proper began at the base of the Round Tower, a structure that thrust high above the surrounding walls to give guards and visitors alike an unobstructed panorama of the valley rimmed by low hills.

And behind the tower was the warren of apartments housing the royal family. The most splendid of these rooms was directly in back. Ceiling-high windows and dark oak paneling, portraits and tapestries, a balcony for the musicians and a broad-pegged floor for those who came to see as much as to be seen and to dance. Just outside the ballroom, touched by the gay lights filtering through the French doors, was a vast garden of shrubs and flower islands, gravel paths and solitary benches—a trysting place for lovers, a thinking place for the king’s ministers, a place where the king himself could walk without an onlooking populace.