The Master of Winterbourne Read online

  The villagers had turned out in force, forming in chattering groups along the church path, enjoying the spectacle and their rare holiday. Behind their parents' backs children played tag among the gravestones, dodging in and out of the lichened tablets until the sudden peal of bells brought them running to gape with the rest.

  A party of village maidens were giggling in their Sunday best, baskets of rose petals and rosemary on their arms. As the wedding party emerged they began to strew them on the path before them to be crushed sweetly underfoot.

  As they passed under the lych gate two small children, a boy and a girl, were pushed forward by their curtsying mothers to present tight nosegays of hedgerow flowers for both Henrietta and Matthew.

  ‘Your people are loyal,’ Matthew remarked as they turned to walk slowly up the hard-packed chalk road towards the house.

  ‘Our people now.’ Henrietta smiled up at him. No matter what happened in the future she would always have this in her memory as a perfect moment: her husband, tall and handsome at her side, the joyful faces surrounding them, the bells pealing out over a countryside at peace at last after eight years of civil strife and uncertainty.

  ‘I am glad we have married this year,’ Matthew said quietly. He saw her puzzled look and added, ‘Of course, you would not know, but there is much talk now of ending the ceremony we have just gone through and replacing it with a civil one.’

  ‘And you would not have welcomed that?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was suddenly vehement. ‘We have been married in the sight of God.’ Then almost to himself he added, ‘Sometimes I fear this fervour for reform has gone too far.’

  The last cottage on the outskirts of the village was Widow Perrott's. The wisewoman was waiting for them, a small sheaf of ripe wheat stems plaited into a dolly in her hands. ‘A blessing on you, Mistress.’ She curtsied before them, pressing the brittle figure into Henrietta's hands.

  ‘Thank you, Goodwife.’ Henrietta blushed as she took the traditional offering and met Matthew's quizzical gaze. ‘It is a token of fertility. Each village has its own design,’ she whispered to him. ‘Do you not know the custom?’

  ‘I have never been to a country wedding, although I appreciate the offer of assistance.’ There was laughter in his voice and Henrietta's blush deepened. ‘But I cannot but feel it is a matter you and I must discuss alone tonight.’

  ‘Matthew!’ But she was too full of this unexpected happiness to protest too hard.

  The slow procession continued down the dusty road towards the big house. Behind them rose the babble of happy conversation from the party on foot, the creak of wheels from the coach carrying Lady Willoughby and the older guests. In front, village boys skipped and hollered, revelling in the unaccustomed licence, mimicking the stately progress of their betters, secure in the knowledge that this was one day they could get away with such mischief without a beating.

  The gatehouse had been hung with swags of evergreen and myrtle and the stable boys who had been set the task were still on their vantage-point waving makeshift banners in honour of their newly-united master and mistress.

  Henrietta could make out Sim, freckles shining on a face unaccustomedly clean and pink. ‘I hope none of them falls,’ she worried.

  ‘A coin for you if you will come down for it.’ Matthew tilted back his head and called up to the youths above. The heads disappeared as if my magic and seconds later the lads piled out of the gatehouse door, palms ready for the largesse.

  The driveway was freshly raked, among the apple trees white ribbons fluttered like flags from the bee-skips and as the procession neared the house the household staff emerged, Letty at their head, to line the steps and strew more herbs under their feet. Aunt Susan had attired them all in new caps and aprons over their Sunday dresses and before leaving for the church Henrietta had given each girl a knot of ribbon for her hair.

  Henrietta had one foot on the bottom step when she was swept up into Matthew's arms, held hard against the broad strength of his chest. ‘This is one custom that holds good for both town and country weddings.’ For a moment he stood looking down into her face, his eyes bright with desire. ‘If I had my way I'd take you up to my chamber now, throw away the key and leave your aunt to entertain this throng.’ His voice was a husky whisper for her alone and for one breath-stopping moment Henrietta thought he would do it.

  He carried her over the threshold and set her on her feet in the hall to the cheers of the guests waiting to file through the door with their good wishes and gifts.

  Henrietta schooled her face to composure but her heart beat wildly and her fingers tightened on Matthew's sleeve. With a shock of self-discovery she realised that she would have gladly gone with him, abandoned their guests, scandalised convention to be in his arms alone.

  Surely it was immodest to think like this even though he was her husband now? Henrietta cast a quick, upward glance at his face and was scorched by the heat of his answering look. All the anger and mistrust of the day before had left him and the message in his eyes was unmistakable. Then she turned back to her guests and gradually the trembling subsided.

  A late dinner would be served in an hour, at five o'clock, then the servants would retire for their own celebrations, leaving the wedding party to dance in the long gallery. As Henrietta kissed her guests, opened and exclaimed over gifts of scented gloves, gilded gingerbread, embroidered kerchiefs and several pairs of scissors for good luck, she was aware of the smooth organisation around her.

  She took advantage of a moment's lull to seek out Mistress Clifford. ‘Aunt.’ She hugged her fiercely, regardless of crushed silks and lace. ‘Thank you so much for today and for all the past years. My own dear mother could have wished no better, nor been more loving for me.’

  ‘And I could have wished for no better daughter, lacking children of my own.’ Sentimental tears were standing in her aunt's grey eyes. ‘And soon, God willing, you'll be giving me grandnephews and nieces to love.’

  ‘Lady Sheridan, forgive our lateness.’ One of their more distant neighbours was waiting at her elbow, and Henrietta turned from her aunt, realising with a thrill of surprise that she was Lady Sheridan, no longer Henrietta Wynter. Everything was changing and now she was no longer the unmarried keeper of her dead brothers' patrimony, but the wife and helpmeet of the master of Winterbourne.

  The wedding feast was set out down the burnished length of the oak table. Aunt Susan had ordered the best silver retrieved from its hiding-place behind the casks in the cellars where it had spent the long, uncertain years of war. Now, polished and gleaming, it caught the late afternoon light illuminating the big chamber, reflecting off the jewels and silver lace of the guests.

  Matthew took Henrietta's hand and escorted her with due ceremony to the mistress's place at the foot of the table before assuming his own at the head. There was a moment's silence while Mr Halsey said grace, then the wedding party sat down and fell to with a will.

  There was a rich variety of pies and pasties, baked and roast meat and fish, sallets served warm, possets and custards. Aunt Susan and Lady Willoughby had had their heads together for days, poring over family kitchen books, considering the latest French receipts. Thanks to Robert's good husbandry wine and ale flowed in abundance and the voices diminished to a conversational buzz while the guests, most of whom had not eaten since they broke their fast, ate and drank heartily.

  Henrietta looked up and found Matthew’s pensive gaze on her. Uncertainly she smiled and was rewarded with one of his rare, warm smiles in return. She felt reassured. All would be well later, when they were alone. He would make it so.

  *

  As he swept her a low bow at the end of the third dance Henrietta drew her husband to one side, leaving their guests to form sets while the musicians retuned for a country measure. ‘Now would be a good time for us to visit the household. They will be at their feasting and ready to drink our health.’

  Alice, swung by on Robert's arm as the musicians struck up a rumbust
ious tune and paused to whisper, ‘Is all aright? I could wish the master would send that long-faced Puritan out of the room – I expect him to stand up and announce we are all damned at any moment. His face could curdle milk and I vow he quite spoils my pleasure.’

  Henrietta followed Alice's nod. Nathaniel Cobham stood by the window, his face as black as thunder as he watched the swirl of dancers. ‘Forget him, Alice.’ She shrugged. ’He finds as much satisfaction in his disapproval as we in our dancing: he shall not spoil my wedding day.’

  A servant came and whispered low to Robert, who excused himself and followed the man below. One of the local farmers immediately claimed Alice as his partner and Henrietta and Matthew left as she was swept off laughing.

  Away from the hubbub of the long gallery Matthew caught her arm. ‘We are but a step from our bedchamber, no one will miss us if we slip away now.’ He pulled her to him, his breath warm on her neck, his arms holding her hard against the length of him, then his lips claimed hers, possessive and demanding as they had never been before. Henrietta responded immediately, her guests, the servants, everything forgotten in the heat of the moment.

  ‘Henrietta.’ It was a groan. Once more he bent and swept her into his arms, starting down the corridor towards the master bedchamber. Henrietta let him carry her, unresisting, her fingers twining in his hair, her lips urgent against his.

  A voice echoed up the back stairs, ‘Martha? You seen the master and mistress, girl?’

  ‘Not come by me,’ a female voice answered from the main guest chamber. ‘They be in long gallery dancing, surely?’

  ‘They are awaiting us in the yard,’ Henrietta hissed, slipping from his arms and smoothing down her hair. ‘We cannot just disappear, leave all our guests.’

  ‘I can.’ Matthew pulled her to him again, his lips in her hair. ‘These country weddings last far too long for my liking.’

  ‘Come on.’ She tugged him by the hand while her resolve was still strong. ‘Our guests have come from afar to be with us and we owe them hospitality. It's not like a town wedding, where your neighbours are all to hand. And,’ she added, seriously, ‘you are master here now; you must learn our ways.’

  Matthew dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘We both have a lot to learn, a lot to teach each other.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  They were greeted with a rousing cheer as they entered the yard hand in hand. Shadows were lengthening across the cobbles, but the enclosed space was warm with the heat of the day and the press of bodies. Flights of swifts still swooped overhead, their high, piping calls piercing the laughter and joking below. Kitchen maids were constantly on the move fetching flagons of ale from the dairy where it had been cooling on wet stone slabs to quench thirsts raised by the fine spread now completely demolished.

  ‘A health to the master and mistress!’ John, the head groom, stood on the bench and raised his wooden flagon high. ‘Here's to long life and many fine sons for Winterbourne!’

  The party surged to its feet, mugs and flagons clanking, their voices echoing the toast. Only Sim, the worse for cider, slumped off the end of the bench and slid, snoring gently, beneath the trestles.

  Matthew climbed the stone steps of the mounting block and held up a hand for silence. Gradually they subsided, shushing the unruly, nudging each other while they waited for him to speak.

  ‘Friends – for I feel I may address you so, so welcome you have made me in the short time I have been at Winterbourne – my wife, your mistress, and I thank you for your good wishes and hard work this day. Now we are all together I pledge you that I will protect Winterbourne and its people, so long as you repay me with your loyalty…’

  As Matthew spoke Henrietta watched the rapt faces, attentive to the speech. He was imposing, his long, lean authoritative figure dominating the yard, the garnet-red of his clothes glowing in the dying light, his trained lawyer's voice reaching every corner without effort. This was her husband and it was a strange new sensation to be watching him, proud of him and proud too of her people.

  ‘Mistress.’ Robert was at her elbow, low-voiced. ‘A package has come for you by messenger.’

  ‘Put it with the others.’ Henrietta paid him scant notice.

  ‘From Oxford.’ The quiet words brought him all her attention.

  ‘From Oxford? From our friend in Oxford?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is the man? No one must see him.’

  ‘Gone, do not fear, Mistress. If anyone saw him they would think him just another servant with a gift.’

  ‘Where is the message? Is it safe?’

  ‘I have it here.’ Robert handed her a limp package. ‘It feels like a pair of gloves.’

  Her fingers closed round it as Matthew jumped down from the block and joined them. ‘Another gift, Henrietta?’

  ‘Er…yes. I was just asking Robert if he had made the messenger welcome, but he tells me the man has already left.’

  ‘Will you not open it and see who sent it?’

  ‘I shan't trouble now, I want to get back to the dancing.’ Henrietta wove her way back through the throng of servants, stopping here and there to receive congratulations or to admire a new gown.

  ‘No, let us see who has sent you this kind gift.’ The bantering tone held the faintest edge of suspicion at her haste and Henrietta shrugged carelessly, ripping open the unstamped sealing wax with sinking heart.

  Inside, as Robert had predicted, was a pair of kid gloves, the cuffs heavily embroidered with bullion. ‘Very fine,’ Matthew commented. ‘Is there a message?’

  There was. Henrietta could feel it through the thickness of the left-hand glove, a page, not a brief note of greeting. ‘How strange. The card must have fallen off.’

  She drew on the right-hand glove, turning her wrist for Matthew to admire the workmanship, hoping to distract him from the missing greeting. ‘They are a good fit, perfect for riding.’

  Suddenly she shivered. ‘Can we go in now? It is cool here in the shadows.’ The goose-flesh crept on her arms, but the fine hairs were rising through nerves, not chill.

  Matthew put his arms around her shoulders, drawing her against the warmth of his body. ‘Come inside, have a glass of Canary wine and warm yourself with a dance.’

  Passing the cloak chest at the foot of the stairs, Henrietta sat down abruptly, one hand at her ankle. ‘Ouch! I have a pebble in my shoe. Go up to our guests, Matthew. I will follow directly I have shaken it out.’ As soon as he had disappeared round the half-landing she was on her feet, her heart in her mouth, the message pulled from the glove. Quickly she scanned it: someone would come as soon as maybe, but the message was so oblique that no one who did not know of the casket's existence would understand it.

  Hurriedly she lifted the lid of the chest. With a swift glance round she bent and tucked the gloves under the topmost winter cloak. No one would touch the contents of the chest until the autumn so the message was quite safe until she chose to retrieve it. Now she must get back to Matthew before his vague suspicions hardened and he came to seek her out.

  The party in the long gallery had become boisterous while they had been away. The consort of viols were refreshing themselves with a well-earned tankard of ale but one young man among the guests had appropriated a fiddle and was scraping out a tune for his less inhibited friends in a corner.

  Aunt Susan, pink-cheeked, was head to head with Lawyer Stone, obviously deep in her own wedding plans, and a group of the older guests were dissecting the gossip from London over several bottles of Canary.

  Henrietta stood just inside the door, unnoticed, surveying the scene. She jumped as Matthew came up behind her, girdling her waist with his hands, each warm finger tangible through the thin silk. ‘You see, no one missed us. We could have gone to our chamber after all.’

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose in a sensual frisson at his plain speaking, the promise in his voice. Matthew's hands moved slowly upwards until they just cupped the lower swell of her breasts. He stepped
backwards, pulling her gently towards the door. She melted back against him. Perhaps, after all, this was best, to slip away quietly before anyone noticed them…

  ‘Ah, there they are!’ Too late – or just in time – Aunt Susan had found them. ‘Time is getting on. Come, Henrietta, ladies.’ She beckoned to the female guests. ‘Leave Sir Matthew to the menfolk, we have our own matters to attend to.’

  Blushing furiously, Henrietta was swept on a giggling tide of femininity to the master bedchamber, pursued by the masculine laughter of the groomsmen bearing a protesting Matthew off to the Spanish chamber.

  Aunt Susan shut the door firmly on the gawping maids, leaving Henrietta closeted with Alice, Letty, herself and the female guests. The maiden cousins from Aylesbury, flushed with wine and excitement, bustled forward with silver scissors to snip off the knots of ribbon sewn around the hem of Henrietta's wedding gown. As each was freed she handed it with a kiss to one of the unmarried guests as a token to be sewn on their own wedding gowns. The girls took them with much teasing, giggling and speculation as to which of them would be next at the altar.

  Then Alice and Letty began to undress her, unlacing the primrose silk, lifting the heavy skirt over her head, leaving her standing in a flurry of silver-embroidered petticoats.

  ‘Time for the stocking-throwing!’ Alice declared gleefully.

  Laughing, Henrietta pulled up her skirts and untied her ribbon garters, rolling each silk stocking down her leg and over her foot. Alice, as most recently married, picked them up, turned her back on the assembled women and tossed the stockings over her shoulders. Shouts of muffled laughter from the chamber beyond showed that the men were following the same ritual.

  Shrieking and scrambling, the unmarried women pounced on the stockings; Aunt Susan emerged victorious with one, to cries of ‘Unfair! Unfair!’ and Serena Willoughby, Marcus's younger sister, captured the other.

  ‘Who is he, Serena?... Own up, it's William Latham, isn't it?... Oh! You flirt!’ Poor Serena blushed scarlet under the teasing onslaught, but no amount of cajoling could persuade her to admit her young man's name.