The Master of Winterbourne Read online

  ‘Henrietta, you have come to me.’ The latch clicked as Matthew pushed the door shut behind him and crossed the room to stand before her.

  ‘No.’ Henrietta backed away from the bed, aghast at what he must think. ‘I came to bring some pot-pourri, and to tell you supper awaits you.’ In the wall-glass behind him she could see herself reflected, see her own wide eyes and the agitated rise and fall of her breast.

  Matthew's mouth tightened. ‘I had hoped you had come to me with an answer.’

  She scanned his lean face, seeing only the harsh lines of impatience, imagining only the urgency of a lawyer wanting to conclude a bargain. Could he not say something soft, make some move to woo her? Could she really give herself in marriage without some measure of affection, take her mother's place as mistress of Winterbourne beside this man who wanted only a housekeeper, a mother for his children, who offered no sympathy, no meeting of minds?

  ‘Alice!’ Robert called from the foot of the staircase. ‘Do you have the keys to the cellar?’

  It was enough to recall her to her duty. ‘I have your answer, sir. I… I am content to be your wife.’ There, it was done and there was no going back.

  ‘Madam, the warmth of your acceptance overwhelms me.’ He lifted one unresponsive hand to his lips and kissed it fleetingly. ‘This morning I put your rejection down to shock at the suddenness of the news of my existence. Perhaps when we have become better acquainted you will tell me what it is about me that repels you so.’ His voice was hard and flat, his hand guiding her towards the door impersonal. ‘Come, let us go down and tell the others our happy news.’

  Chapter Five

  Aunt Susan and Lawyer Stone looked up as Matthew and Henrietta came through the screens separating the staircase from the great hall. They had obviously had their heads together talking, and not only about their own marriage plans, thought Henrietta.

  Her acceptance of Matthew, his coldness at her reluctance, were too raw to allow her any composure. She could get through this evening somehow, but not if the others insisted on discussing betrothals and wedding plans.

  Aunt Susan looked at her and whispered something to Lawyer Stone. Henrietta caught the phrase, ‘Maidenly nerves…’ and felt her blush deepen. She removed her hand from Matthew’s arm, curtsied politely to him and sat down on a settle in a shadowy corner.

  The maids had laid a small table for supper instead of the long oak trestle which, with only four to sup, was too long for easy conversation. Henrietta suspected that her aunt regretted the decision now because she longed to make a fine show for the new master. Henrietta regretted it too. Not because of the show but for the forced intimacy of a cosy supper.

  Despite the warmth of the evening the fire burned brightly in the grate, sending the shadows dancing, animating the embroidered figures on the hanging tapestries as Letty moved around the room lighting the candles in the wall sconces, standing on tip toe to reach them with her wax taper.

  Henrietta watched her aunt re-position the candles on the table to set off the Venetian glass to its best advantage. Pewter gleamed with a dull sheen, reflecting colour from the bowl of apples set in the centre of the table, the last few from the autumn store.

  The big room had shrunk to a rich, glowing circle around the table. It should have been the perfect setting for two pairs of lovers, Henrietta thought. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she was unaware of Matthew’s closeness until he was standing by her side.

  Henrietta glanced up, startled. In her agitation in the bedroom she hadn't noticed that he had changed out of his riding clothes. He was still in black, but the light gleamed on the richness of silk and the severe white bands had been replaced by a linen collar bordered deeply with fine lace.

  The light was kind to his face, she thought, softening the angular cheekbone, sensually shadowing the uncompromising line of his lips. Her heart thudded uncomfortably as she looked at him, a half-smile trembling on her lips. In any other circumstances the thought of marriage with a man like this would have seemed the answer to her dreams, the lover that the poets spoke of. But Matthew wanted a sensible housekeeper, a good mother for his children. If he'd wanted her affection he would have spoken of love. The shade of his first wife, that unknown woman, seemed to fall between them again, and Henrietta realised her feelings must have shown on her face as she saw his expression alter.

  ‘A glass of wine might cheer you,’ he said coolly. He handed it to her, then remained where he was.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Henrietta gave herself a little shake. Common courtesy demanded she behave better than this or he would think her a sulky child. If only she could explain to him the tangle of emotions that tied a knot around her heart. In just one day she had lost her home and regained both it and a husband; been shaken by her own unwelcome response to this stranger…

  ‘You are in great beauty tonight, Henrietta.’ Matthew’s voice was too low for the others to hear him. ‘Come, we can deal better together than this.’

  Henrietta swallowed hard, her pulses fluttering as Matthew pulled up a low stool and sat in front of her, foiling her modestly lowered eyes by confronting her. He picked up the hand that was not holding the glass, turned it over and began tracing the fine blue veins in her wrist with surprising delicacy for so big a man.

  ‘You're not scared of me, are you?’ His voice was husky, his gaze compelling her to respond.

  ‘No…’ But she was, although not as he meant. He was only being kind, trying to soothe her fears, but if he seduced her now with these soft words, gentle caresses, she would be so vulnerable to him. And what she was doing was for duty only. To believe anything else was possible was purest folly.

  Matthew bent his head over her hand. His lips were warm on her wrist where the blood beat and they traced lingeringly over the sensitive skin. The wine slopped in her glass and she put it down quickly on the settle beside her, her breath tight in her chest. His hair curled crisply at the nape, inviting her touch, more than anything she wanted to taste the texture of it with her fingertips. Hesitantly she reached out her hand then snatched it back as his lips reached the sensitive crook of her elbow under the rich fall of lace.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Madam?’ His eyes glinted dangerously in the muted light. ‘What's amiss?’ As if he didn't know exactly what he was doing to her.

  ‘You are too hasty, sir.’

  ‘On the contrary, I am a very patient man. Especially as I suspect you do not find me as unacceptable as I first feared – or as you would have me believe.’

  Henrietta was saved from rebutting this dangerous assertion by Aunt Susan’s appearance at their side. The table finally set to her satisfaction, she must have realised that her niece was enjoying an intimate and unchaperoned conversation.

  Matthew regained his feet with unhurried ease. ‘Madam, I perceive you are about to rebuke me.’

  It was precisely what she was about to do, Henrietta realised, but his smile took the wind from her sails. ‘Sir Matthew, you are mistaken.’

  Henrietta realised incredulously that her aunt was simpering. Any other man caught kissing her niece's wrist in a shadowy corner would have received a sharp reprimand at the very least. ‘You are master of the house and must do as you wish. I merely came to tell you supper is served. Will you take your place at the head of the table?’

  Matthew offered Henrietta his hand to help her rise and for the first time she noticed the ring on his left hand as the light caught it, igniting deep purple fires in its centre. ‘What a beautiful ring.’ And how unexpected in a man with such severe taste in dress.

  ‘An amethyst, said to be a sure remedy against intoxication.’ His eyes on her face were warm, appreciative, as he led her towards the table.

  ‘Surely, sir, you do not need such protection? You are not given to strong drink, are you?’ Henrietta asked demurely over her shoulder as he pushed in her chair for her. Some of the tension seemed to have left her. Perhaps it was the wine warming her blood.

>   ‘There is more than one way to become intoxicated, madam. There is the intoxication of the senses, for one.’

  Henrietta knew she blushed, but she was saved from reply by Aunt Susan. ‘Indeed yes. The feel of a fine velvet, the scent of roses on a warm June day – why, they're enough to turn one's head.’

  ‘The smell of a good venison pasty, more like,’ Lawyer Stone riposted. ‘I could eat an ox.’

  ‘Then carve the leg of lamb, Lawrence, I'm sure we are all ready for our supper. Sir Matthew, may I help you to the fricassee of chicken, or some carp perhaps?’

  ‘Thank you, madam, the chicken would be admirable and I am sure some lamb would be excellent to follow.’

  As he leaned across the table to fill her aunt's wine glass Henrietta noticed how relaxed he had become, as though a spring had been released in that taut frame. The morning must have been an ordeal for him as well as for her and the realisation was strangely reassuring.

  ‘Is it to your taste, sir?’ Aunt Susan was watching him anxiously as he savoured the rich sauce.

  ‘Excellent, Mistress Clifford. You keep a fine cook at Winterbourne.’

  ‘I cannot claim the credit, sir. Henrietta supervises the kitchen as she does all the household. I believe the chicken is a French receipt, with tarragon. Is that not so, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Willoughby told me of it.’ Henrietta was well aware of what her aunt was doing, praising her housewifely skills to point out to Matthew what an excellent wife she would make. ‘My aunt is too modest.’ She met Matthew's eyes and lifted her chin. ‘On the death of my mother ten years ago she came to look after me. If I am a good housewife it is entirely due to her kind and loving tutelage.’ And if I stay, she stays, her gaze told him. For as long as she wants.

  ‘You are obviously a mainstay of the household, madam.’ Matthew raised his glass to Aunt Susan. ‘And this will remain your home for as long as you wish to make it so.’

  Lawyer Stone cleared his throat and Mistress Clifford blushed rosily.

  The meal progressed well enough. The chicken and carp were removed to be replaced with pies and jellies and Henrietta was content to sit quietly, listening to the talk flowing across the table as her aunt questioned the two men about the latest news and gossip from London. Inevitably the talk turned to politics and recent legislation and Henrietta collected her wandering attention and listened with rising indignation.

  ‘Are there no voices raised in Parliament against such radical measures?’ Lawyer Stone demanded after a while. ‘What of my Lord Hargraves? Has he not in the past spoken out for moderation and sense?’

  ‘I do not know his present thinking,’ Matthew responded carefully. ‘But come, Stone, we are boring the ladies.’ But it was not fear of boring them, Henrietta could tell.

  ‘But your connection with him – is it now broken?’

  ‘Not broken, no.’ The conversation was obviously not to Matthew's liking. His body was tense, a frown-line between his dark brows. ‘But the future is more important to me now than remembering the past.’ His tone was brusque and the older man's expression reflected the snub.

  An uneasy silence fell across the table. Henrietta glanced at the shuttered faces of the men and sought for a way to turn the conversation, but her aunt was before her. ‘And the latest fashions? Lady Willoughby tells me necklines are becoming rounder and sleeves fuller. I must be sure my wed…er, new gown is in the mode.’

  ‘I don't notice such frivolous trifles, madam.’ Lawyer Stone's besotted smile belied his testy words, his irritation at Matthew forgotten. ‘A handsome woman such as yourself has no need to fuss and titivate. You look splendid whatever you are wearing, and it's no good looking to Sheridan, he's too busy a man for such nonsense.’

  ‘On the contrary, I believe I can help you, Mistress Clifford.’ Matthew had pushed back his chair and sat at ease once more at the table-head, rolling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. ‘From my observations, the French influence is on the wane. The rounder neckline you speak of is, I believe, a Dutch notion, but the style you wear now is still much in favour. As for sleeves, and the cut of necklines, I believe one can detect a new plainness and modesty in their styling.’

  Lawyer Stone's jaw dropped at the revelation that his companion-in-law should exhibit such a frivolous streak, but Henrietta sat simmering. The hypocrisy of the man! To talk of plainness and modesty with such approval while all evening his eyes had rested on her low-cut neckline, her fine lace… Why, only an hour before his lips had been tracing lines of fire along the inside of her bare arm.

  ‘The Puritan influence, no doubt,’ she snapped, suddenly thoroughly out of temper.

  ‘No, madam,’ Matthew's eyebrows rose at her tone. 'Merely a diminution of the extremes of French style which prevailed at the late court. And, whatever your political views may be, you would surely not deny the beneficial influence of General Cromwell on the moral tone of the country. Drunkenness and debauchery have reduced significantly on the streets of London and it is safer by far for virtuous women.’

  ‘I will not have that usurper's name uttered at my table.’

  ‘May I remind you, madam, that this is both my table and my house and I will not tolerate expressions of disloyalty to the Government here.' Matthew was sitting upright, both hands clenched on the table, no amusement in his eyes now.

  ‘Your table it may be,’ Henrietta flared back, ‘but if it were not for my father and my brother dying for their loyalty to their King you would not set one foot within these walls! How dare you lecture me on loyalty and disloyalty? We have paid the price here for our faithfulness and others' perfidy.’

  They were both on their feet now, facing each other across the remnants of the meal. ‘Have a care what you say, madam.’ Matthew’s coldly measured voice sent a shiver down her spine. ‘Your words verge on treason. I do not demand that you change your colours, but you will hold your tongue, keep your opinions to yourself. Beside any other consideration you bring danger to this household with your foolishness.’

  ‘It has been a long and surprising day, and everyone is tired.’ Aunt Susan got to her feet, ostentatiously ignoring the crackling hostility that surrounded her. ‘We would all be better for a little music. Come, Henrietta. Gentlemen, will you join us in the parlour?’

  Lawyer Stone hastened to follow. He was a pragmatic man and Henrietta knew he thoroughly disliked confrontation, being a believer in keeping his thoughts to himself and his head, like those of his clients, firmly attached to his shoulders.

  Stiff-backed, she swept out of the room in her aunt's wake. The last thing she wanted was to sit and entertain the man who had spoken to her like that. If this was what he was like now, heaven help her when they were married. If he still wanted her after this evening…

  ‘Sit in the window-seat, Henrietta,’ Aunt Susan suggested. 'I always think you look so pretty sitting there with your lute.’ As she handed her niece the instrument she added under her breath, ‘And curb your tongue, show a maidenly demeanour. You sound like a rash youth, not a well-bred young woman.’

  Biting her lip, Henrietta stepped up on to the low platform in the window embrasure and settled herself on the cushioned seat. ‘I will need the low stool for my foot, Aunt, if you would,’ she said, trying to school her temper.

  ‘Allow me.’ Matthew, sounding as if nothing untoward had occurred, knelt to place the stool so that she could support the lute. As he did so the bare boards rattled hollowly. 'This is loose,’ he remarked, his fingers running over a knot-hole. ‘I must get the carpenter to attend to it.’

  He stood and returned to his seat as Henrietta felt the blood leach from her face. How could she have be so careless as to sit there? She ran her fingers over the strings at random, pretending to tune the instrument while she fought to calm her thoughts.

  Automatically her fingers took over, plucking out the wistful air of a traditional country tune she'd known since childhood, while her mind was absorbed with the recollection
s of that night three years ago. The listeners might construe her absent expression as concentration as the music filled the intimate chamber, but her eyes saw only her brother James kneeling where Matthew had just knelt, his fingers hooking into the knot-hole to lift the loose boards and reveal the priest's hole below.

  ‘You need know nothing about this package until a messenger comes for it,’ he'd whispered as the long-case clock struck two in the silent house. ‘It's safer for you to be ignorant, Sister, but you must know its whereabouts in case anything happens to me.’ She'd clutched his arm in denial of the thought that he might not return, uncaring about the contents of the casket he'd placed on a ledge below the boards, but he brushed aside her fears. ‘Swear you will reveal this to no one but the messenger sent to fetch it.’

  Henrietta had sworn, one hand clasped on the plain gold cross at her throat, before she'd tiptoed back to her room through the sleeping house. The next day James had gone, never to return.

  Since then she'd hardly spared a thought for the casket or its hiding place. She'd supposed, in time, someone would come for it but no one had and James's death and the responsibilities it thrust upon her left no room for speculation, save to guess that it was undoubtedly something to do with the King's cause.

  She struck a discordant note, jerking herself from her reverie. This was neither the time nor the place for such thoughts, especially after what had passed over supper. Matthew Sheridan was no crop-headed Puritan, but he was a Parliamentarian and master here now.

  She must speak to Alice tonight, send word to Robert to fix the board before Matthew had the carpenter lifting half the floor. Robert was her father's man and, even if he was ignorant of the casket and its contents, as a loyal Royalist he would know the best thing to do.

  ‘Sing for us, my love,’ her aunt urged. ‘That pretty air you sang for me the other evening.’

  ‘Excuse me, Aunt, but I am quite out of voice tonight. If the gentlemen will forgive me, I will retire.’ She laid the lute on the window seat beside her and stood up as both men rose, Matthew crossing to take her hand to conduct her to the door.