A Falling Star, page 27
part #3 of Wintercombe Series
They were in the middle of the first verse when there was a tentative knock on the door. Christian opened it to admit Charles, his handsome face pale and anxious, a small package in his hand. Lukas, sitting shoeless on the bed, singing in his high, rather tuneless child’s voice, had not seen him. Louise, in full flight, touched her finger to her lips briefly as she sang alternately with the boy:
‘Je te plumerai la tête.’
‘Et la tête.’
‘Et l’aile.’
‘Et l’aile.’
‘Alouette, gentil alouette,
Alouette, je te plumerai!’
‘Hullo,’ said Charles awkwardly, seizing his chance as the verse ended. ‘I was very sorry to hear of your accident, Lou. What a terrible thing to happen. Are you all right?’
‘As you can see,’ Louise told him, smiling. She seemed to remember his face, grey with horror, amongst the crowd in the courtyard as Alex helped her from the hurdle, and she was uneasily aware that this cousin, unlike the other, had an exalted and probably sentimental regard for her. But the silk nightrobe, in a soft blue with intricate embroidered designs that were allegedly Turkish, was perfectly proper, even if informal. She added, ‘I shall be stiff and sore in the arm and shoulder for some days yet, and I won’t be able to ride for a week or more. But it could have been much, much worse. Lukas was riding pillion behind me, and he escaped with just a bruise or two.’ She smiled at Alex’s son, who had retreated abruptly into his shell at Charles’s entrance. ‘I’m sorry you haven’t been able to choose your pony today, Lukas. Perhaps your father will take you tomorrow.’
‘He said that he might,’ Lukas told her, so quietly that she could barely discern the words. ‘I — I must go, Cousin. Can I come and see you again later?’
‘Of course you can — and we can sing some more songs,’ Louise said. She watched as the child slid off the bed, found his shoes, and made his usual faultless bow before leaving her chamber in subdued silence. It was plain that he was uneasy in Charles’s presence, and she knew why. She waited until the door had shut noiselessly behind him, and then said approvingly, ‘What a very pleasant child.’
‘Is he?’ Charles said curtly. ‘I haven’t taken much notice of him. Lou — this is for you.’
She caught sight of Christian’s surprised face. It was not perhaps quite seemly to accept a gift from a man who so evidently wished to court her. But she liked Charles, she felt sorry for him, and she knew that, compared with Alex, he was a sincere and honourable person. Yet despite his feelings for her, that he had never openly admitted, she had no sense at all of that dangerous, passionate and overwhelming desire that Alex, despite — or perhaps because of — all his vices, could inspire in her, Charles would always be a friend, but nothing more, and she did not yet have the heart to strip him of his illusions and tell him so.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and smiled at him. ‘That’s very kind, Charles. Whatever can it be?’
If her voice sounded false and even condescending to her own ears, he did not seem to notice it. ‘Open it and see,’ he said, with a rather hesitant smile, and handed it to her.
It was soft, and flexible, and light. She undid the ribbon one-handed, and folded back the cloth, and stared at a pair of riding gauntlets, beautifully made, of leather much too fine to be practical, embroidered sparely around the edge of the cuff.
Gloves. A lover’s gift. She felt an unworthy prickle of irritation. If his feelings were so strong, why could he not tell her plainly?
But of course he had, using the package on her lap instead of words. She looked up and saw his face, at once anxious and apologetic. ‘I hope they fit,’ he said.
She gave him her best smile, hoping that it would not encourage him too far. For how could she explain her own feelings towards him, when he would not, from caution or shyness or inexperience, reveal his own? ‘I’m sure they will,’ she said, laying her good hand over one of the gauntlets. ‘But I don’t think I can try them on until my shoulder mends.’
He looked disappointed, so she dutifully admired the workmanship and the softness of the leather. ‘Thank you so much, Charles,’ she added. ‘They’re lovely. I shall keep them for important occasions.’ She took a deep breath, acutely aware of Christian, the perfect servant, unobtrusive and long-eared in the background, and looked up at him. ‘Charles, I know that you hold me in high regard, and I hope that we will always be friends.’
But no more than that: her unspoken words hung between them. He frowned a little, and then his face cleared. ‘Of course we will, Lou, you can count on that.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Now, if you could be a real friend, Charles — I’m feeling very tired, and I’ve been told to rest as much as possible. Thank you for the gloves, and your visit, and I will see you tomorrow, when I hope I’ll be feeling much better.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said at once, looking stricken. ‘I didn’t mean to tire you — of course, I’ll go at once. I do hope you feel better soon. Goodbye, Lou.’
‘Goodbye,’ she said, and watched him leave, with a last wave and that tentative smile. Christian, attempting to set right the grass-stained, crumpled remains of her mistress’s riding habit, kept her head bowed and ostentatiously said nothing. With a sigh, Louise settled down amongst the pillows, and found herself wishing that she had someone, preferably a female of her own age, station and tastes, in whom to confide. Many years ago, her grandmother had enjoyed the service and companionship of a redoubtable woman, her maid Mally Merrifield, who had been a true friend, far more than just a servant. Louise had met Mally, who had married a Taunton merchant, and was now a respected mother and grandmother, and wished that she too had such a maid, loyal and reliable and yet unafraid to speak her mind. Christian was a pleasant girl, and very capable, but lacked Mally’s abrasive intelligence. Nor did Louise, whether justifiably or not, feel inclined to trust her with her deepest secrets.
For there was trouble coming, she knew it in her heart. She was caught between Charles’s yearning love and Alex’s open lust, and from soft-heartedness and her own desires, she would not discourage either of them: two men who despised and hated each other, despite the fact that they were kin. And she feared that, if Alex continued to taunt and belittle his cousin at every opportunity, he would push Charles to a breaking point whose effects would be completely unpredictable. For there were depths in Charles that she sensed, but had never begun to fathom. Goaded by Alex into proving, once and for all, that he was no feeble milksop, what might he do?
She could not tell anyone about her feelings for Alex: it was decidedly improper for a respectable young English lady to admit such desires even to herself, never mind to a friend or confidante. Any discussion that involved such matters would bring, inevitably, shock, horror and disapproval. Even Phoebe, with her dry dispassionate mind, would not understand. And Louise, who was essentially realistic and practical, had no intention of having to justify to any prim English cousin, or even to her grandmother, those unladylike urges that were accepted in France as a matter of course. In such matters she knew that discretion and secrecy were vital.
But Charles… that was another matter. For Charles’s intentions, she felt sure, were entirely honourable. For him, it would be marriage or nothing. And since he was, patently, such an unsuitable husband for her, because of his religion and his lack of wealth and prospects, she could probably discuss the problem with Phoebe, who, after all, had known him for most of her life, or even with Silence. Alex, and Charles’s hatred for him, was a complication that need not be mentioned.
But how to tell Charles, whom she liked, that she could not, would not marry him? However gently she broke it to him, he would be desperately distressed and hurt. And if he suspected anything at all about her feelings for Alex, she feared that her rejection of him might bring him to that breaking point sooner and more disastrously than she had feared.
It had all begun as an enjoyable flirtation, with a man who had been her childhood hero and who had turned into something much less heroic, and more dangerous, and almost irresistible. Now Louise looked back over her recent actions with a clear and unprejudiced eye and recognised, with foreboding that it was no longer a game. Carelessly, without forethought or any end save the gratification of her own pleasure and desires, she had sown the seeds of disaster for herself, and perhaps for two other people at least. If she was wise, she would return to Chard at once, tail between her legs, and stay there.
But she could not. No riding for at least a week, possibly two, so Silence had said. And so she must face up to her responsibilities and try to remedy her thoughtlessness before it was too late.
It was not a particularly enjoyable prospect, and she did not see how it could be done without hurt or unpleasantness. But done it must be, or more would suffer.
Something would occur to her, some way out, some method of rectifying the damage. Meanwhile, she had been ordered to rest, and Phoebe had sent her some books.
Louise selected the first in the pile, found it to be Gervase Markham’s treatise on horses, and was soon so utterly absorbed that Charles St Barbe and his rakehell cousin Alex might never have existed.
PART TWO
‘The madness of rebellious times’
11
‘The Good Old Cause reviv’d’
At the same time as Louise was accommodating herself to her enforced rest, some seventy or eighty miles to the south, in the little Dorset port of Lyme, there was a certain amount of curiosity amongst those with the opportunity to survey the sea. Three unfamiliar ships, one large, the others little bigger than fishing vessels, had appeared off the coast. They flew no colours, but the men of Lyme, whose livelihood lay in shipping, could tell from their appearance that they were of French or Dutch build.
All day, the three strange ships hovered a league or so off the shore, while rumours swept the town. News came that two men had been landed on a beach a few miles away, spoken mysteriously of rebellion, and then vanished inland. Nor had the customs officer, who had earlier been rowed out to investigate the ships, returned for his weekly bowls match, an occasion he never normally missed.
The mayor of Lyme was unfortunate in being loyal to the present King, James II, and to the established church, in a town as famous as was Taunton for rebellion and dissent. The arrival of a newsletter from London containing an account of the three ships which had left Holland on the first day of June, believed to be carrying the Duke of Monmouth and his adherents on their way to launch rebellion in England or Scotland, confirmed his suspicions. But he could do nothing for he had virtually no support for his views in Lyme. When boats full of armed men put out from the ships and began to row to shore, the mayor chose the better part of valour, and rode hastily out of the town to warn those in authority that Lyme had been invaded.
Close to sunset, borne in on the high tide, the seven boats landed on the pebbled beach near to the Cobb, and disgorged their passengers. The curious, eager people who had come to investigate, fired by rumours and hope, saw a tall, dark-haired man, splendidly dressed, kneel on the round stones of the beach to pray. Above him, unfurled and drifting gently in the dying breeze of evening, the motto on his deep green colours glittered plain in the sharp gilt light of the sinking sun: ‘Fear Nothing But God’.
Rumour had not lied. The crowds gathered, mobbing him, laughing and crying and shouting as he and his intrepid band of followers made their way up the track to the town. ‘Monmouth! Monmouth, and the Protestant religion!’
He had come at last, their saviour, their rightful monarch, to free them from persecution and from the terrible future presaged by the accession of a Papist king, and to bring once more to the West Country, for the second time in forty years, the dread spectre of civil war.
*
Bram Loveridge had books to deliver, newly arrived with the carrier from London. Men and women in Pitminster, Corfe and Stoke St Mary were eagerly awaiting a miscellaneous collection of works on history and affairs of state, the latest romances, and three copies of a recent and rather scurrilous pamphlet, printed in Amsterdam, concerning the past and present occupants of the throne. These last had been slipped discreetly inside his shirt, in case he was stopped and questioned. Ever since the last rebellion scare, two weeks ago, the militia had been garrisoned in Taunton, filling the taverns and alehouses to capacity and making a nuisance of themselves to no discernible purpose. Even such an innocuous errand as delivering books to the local gentry might earn the scrutiny of those set to watch the highways, but Bram was confident that he could talk his way out of trouble.
As usual, he had hired a lively chestnut cob, feather-footed and willing, from the Red Lion, the inn opposite the bookshop, whose landlord, William Savage, was a friend of Jonah’s and a well-known republican. Savage had been one of those rounded up as a precaution after letters had been found in the Taunton postbag hinting at imminent rebellion. He had been languishing in the Bridewell by the River Tone for nearly two weeks, while his wife and his son John managed the Red Lion in his absence. Bram, well aware that only his father’s extreme care and discretion had kept him from a similar fate, hoped that the militia, notoriously bored, incompetent or just drunk, would live up to their reputation.
He was challenged twice, but his explanation satisfied them, and even if they had discovered the pamphlets, he doubted if they could have read them, let alone realised their import. It was near to dinner time when, the last books delivered and his bags, and his person, once more quite innocent, he turned the cob’s head for home and the baked mutton he had smelled from the kitchen before he set out.
He rode into Taunton along Eastreach, whistling, and noticed something unusual at once. Everywhere, on street corners, in doorways, even, perilously, in animated conversation in the middle of the highway, were knots of people. Someone was running along in front of him, shouting something that he could not catch. Plainly, news of considerable importance had arrived in Taunton that morning: but what was it?
There were a number of possibilities, but Bram had his suspicions. He saw a friend, who had been at the Grammar School with him, and called to him. ‘Tom! Tom, what’s happened?’
Tom Dinham, the son of a brewer, waved in acknowledgement and ran across, his pale, pockmarked face flushed with excitement. ‘Haven’t you heard? Everyone’s talking about it!’
‘I’ve been out on errands since an hour after dawn,’ Bram told him, leaning down from the saddle, his hazel eyes eager. ‘What is it, Tom?’
‘Monmouth!’ said his friend, and a huge, involuntary smile suddenly split his face. ‘The word is that Monmouth’s landed at Lyme, and raised his standard to overthrow the King!’
It was wonderful, amazing, too good to be true. Bram found an answering grin stretching his mouth, and he gave a shout of pure joy. ‘Monmouth! Oh, Tom, are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ Tom said indignantly. ‘News came three hours ago, and several have confirmed it since then. He landed at Lyme yesterday evening, and they’re saying men are flocking to join his army.’
Bram was thinking, calculating. It was obvious that Lyme, well known for sedition, had been chosen for that very reason. And it lay only twenty-five miles or so south of Taunton. Surely, surely, the rebel army would march this way, through the country where Monmouth, beloved and fêted on his last visit to these parts, would be assured of greatest support?
‘Where will he go, do you suppose?’ he asked. ‘Any word of that?’
‘He’s bound to come here,’ said Tom promptly. ‘He knows how loyal Taunton is to the Protestant cause. And we’ll give him a welcome fit for a king, you can be sure of that.’
‘Even though there are two regiments of militia here?’
Tom laughed. ‘And the whole of Taunton against them! You’ve seen them — they’re little more than a rabble of peasants, and half of them favour Monmouth anyway. There are supposed to be thousands gathering at Lyme, and the whole country will rise, you can be sure of it. What can two regiments do, in the face of that?’
‘Or the King’s army,’ said Bram, his eyes shining. ‘Are you going to join them, Tom?’
‘Of course I am! Are you?’
Bram looked down at him. Tom was impulsive, and young for his age, which was the same as Bram’s. As a boy, he had been so regularly beaten that, the joke went, he had taken to wearing leather breeches for better protection against the justifiable wrath of his elders. Where trouble went, there followed Tom Dinham: and despite his own passionate opposition to the Papist, absolutist King, and his espousal of Monmouth’s Protestant cause, a small, alien voice in Bram’s mind urged upon him his father’s natural caution and discretion.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, unwilling to commit himself to Tom. ‘But I’ll wait till they come here. Apart from anything else, I expect the militia will be on the lookout for people going to Lyme. By the time Monmouth reaches Taunton, he’ll have an army with him, and with luck the militia will just melt away like snow in summer.’
‘That’s not like you to be so faint-hearted,’ Tom said indignantly. ‘If everyone thought as you did, Monmouth would have no army at all. If you believe in a case, you must be prepared to fight for it, or you’re just another windbag who talks loud enough in the tavern, but won’t back his fine words with action.’
Bram stared at him for a moment, and the sudden fierce fury in his face made Tom blink. He had forgotten their schooldays, when Bram, small for his age and with those embarrassingly girlish looks, had been taunted unmercifully by a group of bigger boys. In rage and self-defence he had learned to fight back, to use words and fists and heels as his weapons, and once his strength had caught up with his intentions there had been no more trouble. Now Tom, seeing his friend’s suddenly whitened face and compressed mouth, regretted his hasty accusations. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, rather sheepishly. ‘I didn’t mean to imply — of course you’re not a coward.’
