Wintercombe, page 3
part #1 of Wintercombe Series
As one, the faces of Silence, the children and the two soldiers swivelled round and up to the source of the voice. Like a malignant gargoyle, the sour and wrinkled countenance of Dame Ursula St. Barbe peered over the gallery, her hands gripping its edge and her maid Ruth supporting her. Well pleased with the effect of her entrance, Sir Samuel’s widow cackled her amusement. ‘There’s nothing I miss in this house, Captain, as my daughter there knows full well. “The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are as bold as a lion.” Proverbs, twenty-eight, one. I am the owner of Wintercombe and all its lands, Captain, and if you do not believe me, you may go ask Master Harley, attorney at law in Stall Street in Bath, for it was he who drew up the will.’ She cackled again: the sound for once did not produce the usual feelings of nervousness and indignation which it inspired in Silence. ‘And now, Captain, will you be gone and leave these old bones in peace?’
The Lieutenant spoke, for the first time in some while. ‘They’re lying — they must be! Nick, you can’t let them get away with it — a more obdurate pack of Roundheads never breathed — for Christ’s sake, St. Barbe has been in Waller’s army for two years! What will Sir Thomas say?’
‘He has only to ask Master Harley, with whom I believe he is acquainted,’ said Silence, feeling some annoyance at her mother-in-law’s intervention. The old lady — if that was the correct title for someone so relentlessly tough-minded, malicious, domineering and unpleasant — had made her appearance in suitably dramatic manner, and had stolen some of her own thunder. Veiled sly comments on this unwelcome fact would probably be aired in her daily interviews with Silence for months to come, if not years. Sir Samuel, who had long shown an almost saintly forbearance in the face of his wife’s godly ill-nature, had been in Silence’s view unnecessarily pessimistic when leaving Wintercombe to his second grandson after his wife’s death… Dame Ursula had lived seventy-six years in the best of health, apart from the painful affliction of the joints which made it impossible for her to walk without assistance, and would doubtless attain her century with glee, assured of her place amongst the Elect in Heaven and of the certain absence of the rest of the family, saving her adored and only son George, from such bliss. She would surely see this war out, it being the crown of her hopes that the evil, papist war-monger who occupied the throne, would achieve his richly deserved bad end.
The soldiers stood irresolute in front of Silence. The sun, setting behind the further hill, lit now only the high, painted rafters of the Hall, leaving the rest in dim shadow. The fire was dying down to red embers reflecting the glowing rays above, and was in dire need of replenishment. She said, half her mind already inappropriately busy with domestic matters, ‘Are you satisfied? Will you now take your men from this house, Captain? Or must I go to Bath tomorrow, and make the strongest possible complaint to Sir Thomas Bridges?’
The lieutenant sniggered. ‘That will avail you nothing, madam. Sir Thomas is most anxious to seize the property of all disaffected persons, no matter what paltry pretext they may devise.’
‘Pretext? My dear husband’s last will and testament a pretext? May you answer in Hell for that wicked insult, you blaspheming, ungodly rogue!’ One of Dame Ursula’s claws left the gallery rail, and pointed unerringly at the two men. ‘“As smoke is driven away, so drive them away: as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God.” As you will assuredly perish and burn, as will all sinners and evil-doers — be sure, your sins will find you out, as it is written in the Book of Numbers!’
Captain Hellier touched his Lieutenant on the arm. ‘If it is indeed as they say, John, we can do nothing — yet. And since the King does not wish those who are innocent —’ he mockingly inclined his head to the gallery — ‘to be punished, we will withdraw, for the present. His Majesty would not want such injustice to be committed in his name, after all.’ He turned to Silence, standing immobile in the middle of the stoneflagged Hall, the children still about her. ‘I must bid you adieu, madam, if not farewell, for I do not think either you or I have heard the end of this matter. Master Harley must be consulted, and all seen to be in order — and I do not think that Sir Thomas Bridges will let such a prize as this slip so lightly between his fingers.’ For a moment, his voice became almost friendly. ‘So I warn you, Lady St. Barbe, you may see us again, and sooner than you might wish. Your servant, madam.’
Coldly, Silence watched his insolent bow, copied with an even greater flourish by his Lieutenant. As they turned to go, the Captain glanced up to the gallery where Dame Ursula still stood, and his face suddenly flashed bright with mischief. His parting words echoed clear and loud, all round the Hall. ‘Goodbye, Dame. You have made very free with your lines from Holy Writ — think you on the words of Paul’s first epistle to Timothy, the second chapter, verse eleven. Good day to you all.’ And with a tramp of booted feet, the jingle of harness and spurs, they were gone.
Silence knew that quotation. It had been a part of her childhood, the exhortations flung at her because she, despite all her despairing efforts, could not fit the mould her father had made for her. But to hear it referred to by that unpleasant malignant Cavalier Captain, of a blasphemous and heathen breed, was startling to say the least. Astonishingly, his words even seemed to have silenced Dame Ursula.
Rachael’s lips moved in a whisper, only just audible to her above the sounds of the soldiers riding away under the gatehouse arch, and back to Bath. ‘“Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.”’
‘You have it exactly,’ she said softly, knowing that Dame Ursula would be well aware of the insult. Outside, the noise of many horses died away into the distance. It was as if Wintercombe, and all within it, had been holding breath for the past half hour, and only now could relax.
‘They’ve gone!’ Tabby cried, her glee spilling over. ‘You sent them away, Mama — we’re safe, we’re safe!’
‘You’d do well to hold your tongue, girl,’ said her grandmother from on high. ‘They said they’d most like be back — and they will. “As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.” Rachael! Give me verse, and chapter.’
‘Proverbs, Grandmother,’ said Rachael, sullenly, after some thought. ‘Chapter twenty-six, verse…five.’
‘You have never conned your Bible well,’ said the ancient tyrant, her gaze as hard as flint. ‘It is the eleventh verse, as you should well know. You will recite all that chapter to me, after supper, and I’ll have it perfect, or know the reason. I grow weary, Ruth — pray assist me back to my chamber.’
With her mother-in-law’s malign presence gone, and the soldiers vanquished, Silence stood, weak-kneed and shaking from her own reactions. Rachael, her pale face sulky at Dame Ursula’s rebuke, turned rudely and ran from the Hall: the screen curtains billowed in her precipitate wake, and the door to the garden slammed behind her with an ill-tempered crash.
It was a trifle foolish to make such an overt display of her annoyance, for there were three squints, disguised as masks, around the upper wall, through which everything that went on below could be heard and, to a limited extent, seen. One, hidden most inappropriately by a laughing face, gave directly into Dame Ursula’s chamber, and her chair stood just by it. Any transgression or departure from her rigorous standards of behaviour would inevitably be ruthlessly detailed in the agonising interrogations she conducted twice a day with her daughter-in-law and her grandchildren. In the morning, as to their planned tasks and duties; in the evening, as to the performance and assessment of the same. Any release of childish feelings would be severely reprimanded, and such was the force of Dame Ursula’s personality, despite her age and infirmity, that the entire household still tended to defer to her rather than to Silence, even though Sir Samuel had made it quite clear when she and the children had come to Wintercombe, two years ago, that his daughter-in-law was to assume the running of the house. Much though she loved the place, it had been a struggle to assert herself; and still more of a battle to hold on to her hard-won authority, now that Sir Samuel was dead.
But at least she had faced up to the soldiers: she had not been cowed; she had kept her dignity and won her argument, before her mother-in-law had even entered the fray. She heard the whispers and scurryings that would herald the arrival of the maids, all doubtless wanting soothing words of reassurance, but there was one child left in the Hall whose need of comfort was greater than all of them. She said softly to her troubled daughter, ‘What is it, Tabby?’
The little girl turned abruptly, like a startled fawn. She was a striking child, with that mass of abundantly curling hair that could never be fitted into any cap, the wide, level, brown eyes, the pointed chin and sensitive face. One day she would be beautiful — as I never was, Silence thought, with no regret, for vanity had never had any place in her life; but with misgivings, for loveliness of feature was a dangerous gift, a snare for the wicked and the foolish, and a temptation to self-love. Dame Ursula had muttered often that those sinful curls must be cut off, as if Tabby were personally responsible for them. But Silence, whose own God was more generous, and more kindly by far, held the view that her daughter’s looks were a gift from Heaven, and therefore an insult to Heaven to abuse or disguise them.
‘I didn’t like them,’ said Tabitha. ‘The soldiers — they were horrible! And the way they talked — as if they didn’t like us — and they didn’t even know us!’
Silence reached out and hugged her daughter, feeling the slender arms wrap around her in response. ‘That’s war, chicken — war does that to people. It makes them hard, suspicious, brutal, greedy. It’s an evil thing, civil war. Probably before it began they were ordinary folk, like you and me and Father, living quietly and breeding cattle and horses, and farming their lands — and now they can think of nothing but how best to grab the fruits of some God-fearing man’s hard work.’ She smiled sadly. ‘But for the war, those men might be our neighbours, our friends — like poor Master Flower, or Sir John Horner.’
‘I don’t think I could ever like them,’ Tabby said, her voice muffled because her face was pressed against her mother’s stiff, black bodice. ‘I didn’t like the fair one at all, and the other one, the autumn-coloured man, he was hateful!’
‘Autumn-coloured?’ said Silence, struck by the aptness of the description. Tabby had a felicity with words which delighted her mother, and often such phrases would emerge casually without, it appeared, much thought, and yet strangely poetic. In her mind’s eye she saw Captain Hellier, his brown and tawny colouring, and smiled. ‘What a good description — “the autumn-coloured, man”! Much too good for the likes of him, though, chicken — you’ll have to call him something foul, something more appropriate for him.’ She gave Tabitha a sudden, flashing grin, crackling with mischief. ‘Take your time, and think of a good one.’
‘I’ll try,’ Tabby promised, with an answering grin the image of her mother’s. She paused, the smile fading too fast, and then said slowly, ‘Was it true? Will they be back?’
Silence wanted to lie, but could not. She thought for a moment, selecting her words with great care, and then said honestly, ‘I don’t know. Men like that aren’t so easily discouraged. We may have to pay them, as your grandfather used to do. But the house is safe, Tabby. It belongs to your grandmother now, and they can’t turn us out.’
‘I’m glad,’ said the child. She shivered suddenly. ‘I hope they don’t come back — ever, ever, ever! I hate them!’
‘You shouldn’t hate them — unpleasant as they were, they were only doing their duty. But I hope they won’t come back, as well,’ said Silence firmly. ‘And, the Lord willing, they won’t.’
But she could not forget the soldiers’ words, and knew that Wintercombe, bereft of the protective presence of Sir Samuel, would not so lightly escape Royalist attention. She watched Tabitha, her worries more easily calmed for the moment, running out to rejoin the other children in the orchard, and wondered, with apprehension, what the next few days would bring.
Chapter Two
‘A man of wickedness is hated’
(14:17)
The soldiers, of course, were not so easily discouraged when a prize of Wintercombe’s richness lay like a ripe, untouched windfall in the grass, there for the taking. And the day they chose to return, nearly a week after their first visit, had begun so badly, so full of harassment, that for Silence their arrival seemed merely the inevitable climax to a more than usually disastrous series of events.
The mood of the day had been set by the weather. That unseasonable sunshine had indeed been the last flicker of summer. The following morning, Wintercombe had woken up to a depressing, relentless downpour, and it had rained more or less steadily ever since. The children, as a natural consequence, were becoming increasingly restless and fractious, given to futile squabbling and outbreaks of temper. Nat, who was taught by Master Willis, the vicar, was unable to go to his lessons: such was the precarious state of his health that any chill or soaking might bring on a congestion of the lungs, and Master Willis, a tired-looking, perpetually hurried man in early middle age, was perforce a daily visitor, every morning earnestly taking Silence aside to ask what she could suggest for his wife’s current ailment. Silence, who felt sorry for Mistress Willis, a woman brought very low by the burden of bearing ten children and losing all but two of them, did her best to oblige. Privately, however, she felt that, as Sir Samuel had been used to say, what poor Mistress Willis really needed was a good dose of happiness, pounded up with a little cheer and comfort and sprinkled with the laughter of a brace of healthy babes. Since thoughtless, busy, godly Master Willis was unlikely to provide such remedies, his wife’s prognosis was not good.
On that inauspicious morning, Silence, as was her custom, rose at dawn, dressed with the help of her maid, and went first to greet her three children, and two stepchildren, who occupied chambers on the other side of the house. As was, unfortunately, all too common, the sounds of furious infant dispute reached her as she climbed the stairs, interspersed with admonitory noises from the two nurses. And waiting for her at the top, his pale face twisted into a humorously rueful smile, was her stepson Nat, Rachael’s twin.
‘Trouble,’ he said succinctly. ‘William hit Deb, and Deb is complaining about it.’
Silence returned his grin. Nathaniel St. Barbe was a slender, fragile-looking boy, much too small for his age, with an unnaturally thin face and dark hair, dressed in sober black. In character, he was made in his grandfather’s mould, wise beyond his years, with the same sharp, pragmatic mind. Since the departure of his father and elder brother to the wars, and more especially now since Sir Samuel’s death, he could be termed the man of the house, and Silence knew that she should not rely on him so much. But in a household composed almost entirely of women, children and old men, in such troubled times, there was no one else whom she could really trust as she trusted Nat, whether on the farm, in the house, with the children, or amongst the workers and tenants.
She drew breath to answer him, and was forestalled. A child’s voice shrieked, ‘Mama!’ and along the passage from the nursery, half dressed, her honey-coloured hair flying and her stockinged feet banging the floorboards, her second daughter Deb came running. She pushed past her half-brother and hurled herself at Silence, the small head thumping into her stomach with a force that drove the breath from her lungs. ‘Mama! William hitted me, he did!’
Silence noted that even in her usual extravagance of grief, Deb had made sure that her complaint was adequately aired: indeed, it would have been surprising if the entire household had not heard it. She gently detached her weeping child from her skirts, seeing the absence of any genuine tears, and said calmly, ‘You should say “he hit me”, Deb, not “hitted me” — that’s baby talk. It was very wrong of him to hit you — why did he do it?’
Deb’s chubby, scarlet face turned indignantly up to her mother’s. ‘He did it for nothing!’ she announced belligerently. ‘I wasn’t doing anything to him and he just hitted — hit me!’
By now the nurse, Doraty Locke, a cheerful and capable woman well-used to Deb’s ways, had appeared, the small, furious figure of William held firmly by the hand. She bobbed a curtsey to her mistress, and said briskly, ‘Do ee tell your Mama why you hit her, Master William.’
William was two and a half, and clad in encumbering petticoats which could not disguise his sturdy masculinity. Tears of rage spurted down his plump cheeks and his hands were clenched into tight fists. ‘Deb’s got my ches’nuts! She stole them!’
Deb’s face fell; she stared at her feet, and a tear dropped onto the dark polished floor. Her mother sighed heavily, in a passable imitation of Sir George St. Barbe’s stern, paternal manner. ‘Oh, Deborah. Did you truly take his chestnuts? Show me.’
Her expression invisible, Deb thrust out a grubby hand. Bundled inside an even dirtier kerchief were seven chestnuts, four fat and ruddy, and the rest so flat that not even a starving squirrel would deign to touch them. Her voice came very low. ‘He had all the best ones and he wouldn’t give any to me.’
‘And so you took them from him? For shame, Deb, he’s scarce more than a baby, and you a great girl of four — five, next April. You can’t really complain of him hitting you, now can you? But you must both say you’re sorry to each other. Go on, Deb, apologise to William.’
Deborah had ample faults, but this at least she had learned: Silence suspected that contrition came much too easily to her. It certainly never seemed to affect her subsequent behaviour. ‘I am very sorry, William,’ she said immediately.
William glared at her, unappeased. ‘Want ’em back!’
Ungraciously, Deb thrust the disputed nuts into his fat, sticky paw. ‘You’re supposed to apologise too, you know, Mama said so!’
Her brother, his normally cheerful disposition abruptly restored with his chestnuts, gave her a beaming smile. ‘’Ank ’oo.’
