Wintercombe, page 49
part #1 of Wintercombe Series
Nat was peering down through the King’s mask: as Silence came softly up behind him, he turned and moved aside to let her see. In the dim light from the one small candle burning on the stool by the bed, she saw that his pale face was unwontedly grim, but he did not say anything. Apprehensively, she applied her face to the eyeholes of the mask.
Ridgeley’s voice suddenly bellowed out, so loud that she jumped and knocked her head against the stonework. ‘At last you condescend to visit us, Captain. I am waiting eagerly to hear your explanation for your unauthorised absence. If any of the men do likewise, they are flogged. What is your excuse?’
Nick Hellier moved into her view, to stand just below the high table. To her watchful eyes, he looked absolutely as normal, although her view of his face was from this angle a somewhat restricted one. His tawny doublet and breeches presented a slightly more dusty appearance than they had that morning, but he showed no other signs, bar that black eye, of the battle with Ridgeley and his horse, and no one could have guessed that he had spent some time lying unconscious in the dust of West Street. She could not see his expression clearly, but could imagine it so vividly, the calm, the glint of irony, and the sudden, reckless smile of defiance.
And so his answer, when it came, was still more of a shock to her. There was nothing but serious apology in his voice. He said quietly, ‘I am sorry for my unavoidable absence, sir. I can assure you, however, that it was undertaken entirely in the cause of duty.’
Within the boned, restricting confines of her bodice, Silence’s heart began to pound, slowly, ominously, like the rhythm of a passing bell. Her hands clenched together, she listened intently as Nick added, in response to a snort of derision from Ridgeley, ‘I have been conducting my own search for the St. Barbe girl.’
‘Oh? Really, Captain? And what has caused this sudden change of heart? You were very keen, as I remember, to prevent me from laying my hands on her earlier. That is also a crime punishable by flogging, if not worse. Since you are a commissioned officer, and supposedly a gentleman, I shall generously grant you the opportunity to persuade me not to reward you as you deserve.’
Silence did not know very much about the habits of Cavaliers, but she was sure that to impugn a man’s honour was an insult only redeemable in the blood of a duel. She waited, in terror, for the returning insult, the clash of swords, and heard only Nick’s voice, mild, reasonable, friendly. ‘That, sir, was a ruse designed to win the acceptance of the villagers. It worked exceeding well, to the extent that I now know where Rachael St. Barbe can be found.’
I am not, I cannot be hearing this, thought Silence. A tide of nausea threatened to choke her: she felt dizzy, and her throat was filled with bitter bile. It is not true — it cannot be true — not Nick — before God, he was my friend, I trusted him, we all did —
All, save for Mally. Mally had seen the truth, and warned her, and she, pathetic gullible fool, prey to the first smooth-tongued man to flatter her, had paid no heed.
Below, Ridgeley leaned forward, his black-furred fists planted on the table, his face thrust forward, unawares echoing her thoughts. ‘I don’t believe you. You’ve been a thorn in my side for months, thick as thieves with that whining Puritan bitch — planning to bed her, were you? Well, all Roundheads were born to be cuckolds. I don’t blame you for wanting to set the horns on her husband’s head, even if she’s too whey-faced and virtuous for my taste.’
‘Not so virtuous, I think,’ said Nick, and she could tell by his voice that he was smiling. Sick to her very soul, she leaned against the cold stone, feeling its clammy chill seep into her bones, filling her veins with a miasma of utter despair.
Ridgeley laughed. ‘Well, you can have the woman with pleasure — I’ve locked her in her chamber, along with her brats, until she tells me where the girl is. And now you say you know? How?’
‘As I said, by gaining the acceptance of the village people. Fine words and flattery win hearts and minds, Colonel, as I discovered long ago. They still think of you as the Devil incarnate, but they see me, poor fools, as a friend. And it was in conversation with them that I discovered where the girl fled this afternoon. I presume she is still there — unless she came here?’
‘God’s bones, man, I doubt even one of those Hell-spawned brats is so stupid! No, I don’t have her — yet, but all the others are under lock and key, and the house is. mine. There’s store of coin here somewhere, and I’ll lay my hands on it if I have to take the place apart to find it. And as for the girl…where is she?’
There was a pause. Someone’s hand, probably Nat’s, crept across her shoulders, offering a comfort that could never be adequate. Then Nick laughed, a cold, unfeeling sound that reminded Silence suddenly of the day when she had first met him, and had thought him a callous, brutal Cavalier like his master. She had come to believe that he was in fact very different, and now, callously, brutally, the scales were being stripped from her eyes: for he knew, if Ridgeley did not, the significance of the masks high up on the walls above him.
She listened, her heart quailing, for the final, irrevocable betrayal, and found that the reckoning had been deferred.
‘Is that wise?’ Nick asked. He glanced around the Hall: for an instant, she had a glimpse of his face, knew that their eyes had met, as his gaze swept arrogantly across hers. ‘Many unsympathetic ears may be flapping. I’ll tell you in private, later, and we can plan how best to deal with her.’
‘Ah,’ said Ridgeley, and sniggered lecherously. ‘That I have already decided.’
She could not endure any more, to listen to that inhuman, monstrous man describe in prurient detail exactly what he would do to her fifteen-year-old, virgin, innocent stepdaughter. Her hands over her ears, she turned and stumbled away from the mask. Nat was there, steadying her, and Mally, all the brightness gone from her face, took her arm and led her from the closet, away from those dreadful voices.
But she could hear them still in her mind, even after Mally had shut the door on them, and in the gloom of her chamber there was no distraction from the pictures that leered in her mind to match the words. She saw Rachael’s face, white, terrified, driven screaming into madness, and covered her eyes with her hands.
She must not break down: for the children’s sake, she still had to keep calm and sensible, the rock on which they could all lean. Every one of her illusions cruelly shattered, she must yet preserve the appearance of normality, and plan their escape.
‘Be ee all right, m’lady?’ Mally whispered anxiously. With a greater effort of will than she needed at any time past in her life, Silence took her hands away from her face, and drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Yes. Yes, Mally, I will be fine. Let me sit down, please.’
The touch of her hands on the smooth oak of her favourite chair, the soft fur of Pye, who, sensing her distress, had left the kittens and leapt onto her lap, gave her strength. She lifted her tearless face to see Mally, Nat and Tabby staring at her: their own fear and horror was writ plain on their faces. Tabby’s cheeks were tracked with thin, silvery tears. She said furiously, ‘I thought he was my friend! And he’s worse than an enemy, he’s a traitor!’
‘Not to his own kind he bain’t,’ said Mally. She pulled up a stool and sat down on it, heedless of etiquette, and the children knelt on the floor beside her. ‘He ain’t never been your friend, Mistress Tabby, and don’t ee forget it. But your mother have a plan for all of ee, and she’ll tell ee about en.’
Very quietly, still mindful of the slumbering Deb and William in the truckle-bed, Silence gave Tabby and Nat a brief description of their escape route. Outwardly, she knew that she seemed quite calm, her hands still, her face unmoved, her voice level and reassuring: but behind the mask, her mind was a turmoil of grief and agony at her betrayal. She had trusted in the decency and honour of another human being, and, worse, she had trusted her fledgling emotions. She saw, with humiliating clarity, how by wooing her, however gently and wittily it had been done, Nick had demonstrated that he was not to be trusted. If friendship and help had been all that he wished to give, his integrity would have been undoubted: but the subtle attempt at seduction proved otherwise.
Did he think me such easy prey? she thought miserably, with wonder at her own foolishness. I am only a conquest to brag about in taverns and tippling-houses — the cuckolding of a rebel Colonel, a real medal of honour for him to wear.
Now, amid the wreckage of her misplaced belief, she could not weep, nor mourn, nor berate her own stupidity. Instead, for the sake of those who depended on her, she must ruthlessly suppress her feelings, and try to think rationally.
It was unbearable, when all her impulses were at the mercy of the emotions within her, their power undiminished by years of control, repression and duty. But she must bear it; and she did.
Nat, his mind as keen as ever, said as soon as she had finished, ‘But, Mother, what will happen to you? We can’t go without you.’
‘You can,’ said Silence. ‘And you will — I insist on it. You are in danger from Colonel Ridgeley, deadly danger. You heard what he said to me earlier — you know what he has threatened. He may only be bluffing, Nat, but I don’t think he is. And I cannot take the risk with your lives.’
‘But then he’ll — he’ll punish you!’ Tabby said. Silence shook her head. ‘No. He will not dare. And I cannot run away and leave Wintercombe and all the household, and your grandmother, to the mercy of the Cavaliers. I can’t, Tabby — you see that, don’t you?’
Tabby’s head moved up and down, reluctantly. Then she leapt up and flung her arms around her mother, holding her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. Her mass of hair tickled Silence’s face, and her voice whispered passionately in her ear. ‘Please let me stay too, let me stay, I don’t want to go!’
‘You must, chicken, you must!’ Silence felt her eyes prickle with the tears she had held back too long. Once allowed to flow, she knew that she would never be able to stop: she would weep for ever, for herself, her children, the house she loved, the people whom she was duty-bound to protect; and above all for someone who did not exist, who had attained reality only within her imagination.
‘Don’t worry, Tabby-cat,’ said Nat, his voice serious. ‘Mother can look after herself very well, you know. And she’s right — we’re the ones who have to escape. Think about Deb and William — they can’t protect themselves, so we’ll have to do it for them.’
Tabby’s hold relaxed, and Silence could breathe freely again. She said, ‘Don’t be difficult, please — I want you safe, I don’t want to have to worry about you any more. Please, Tabby, go with Mally and Nat.’
She had won the battle. The child drew back, slowly. She was crying harder, quietly, the tears flooding her face, but her distraught eyes held acceptance. In the light from the few candles, Silence saw her take a deep shuddering breath. Then she said, very low, ‘Yes. I don’t want to, but I’ll go. When do we start?’
‘Not until they’re all so roaring drunk they wouldn’t notice if we walked across the tables,’ said Nat, with a feeble attempt at a grin.
*
It was Mally who kept watch by the mask, her lips tight, listening to the progress of the supper below. Silence could not bring herself to do it, to listen to the noises of debauchery, to see Nick, whom she had once erroneously thought to be different, carousing drunkenly with the rest. Nor did she want to hear again the plans for Rachael’s rape, and her own, discussed with greedy, brutal anticipation in public. She made Nat and Tabby lie down on her bed, covered with blankets, and bade them try to rest: they would need all their strength, later. It seemed incredible, amidst all this turmoil, that Deb and William still slept, but they did, utterly oblivious. She would not wake them until all was ready.
She went hesitantly to the other closet, candlestick in hand. The night was cold: outside, the moon would ride full and high among the stars, clear and cloudless. The children wore only their thinly woven spring clothes, and they would need something extra, to warm them.
She opened the door. The noise from the Hall below hurled itself at her: drunken singing, the smash and clatter of furniture and pewter, yells and talk, the smell of spilt cider and beer and tobacco smoke. Unwillingly, as if pulled by an invisible rope, she moved closer to the listening-mask, disguised by the Queen’s head, and peered down at the chaos below.
It was as well that she could see only a little, and that was quite enough. There were women there, all known and reviled in the village as whores of a discreet kind, and several of similar sort whom she did not recognise, and who must hail from Wellow or even from Bath. In varying stages of drunkenness and undress, they dallied with the soldiers strewn about the benches. The floor was littered with food, plates, tankards and other debris, and several comatose figures. Silence averted her gaze and found herself looking at the top table. There was Byam, Bessie lolling against him, a hunk of meat in her fingers: foolish girl, she thought angrily, to allow her child to be fathered by such an unsavoury young man.
Beside her, Silence saw to her disgust, was Leah, in a blazing red gown, being pawed by Ridgeley. Probably, the girl had decided that her mistress’s reign was ended — and she could therefore cease to be circumspect.
Silence, watching her entwine herself around the Colonel, wondered what enticements he had offered her. The gown, for a certainty; money, jewels, a privileged position as a gentleman’s mistress had probably also swayed Leah from her nicely calculated path of virtue.
If ever we return to something like normality, my first act will be to send her packing, Silence vowed to herself. She wondered where the other servants were: from this narrow view-point she could not see them, but that was not to say they were not there. She could not, though, imagine Eliza, Doraty and Hester taking part in such a debauch, and hoped that somehow, perhaps under the protection of Darby and the groom, Tom Goodenough, they were safe — for the moment.
Something, some impulse to further self-punishment, made her twist her neck to see more of the high table. Nick sat next to Leah. No female hand fondled him in the appallingly wanton manner in which Leah was toying with Ridgeley — and where did she learn that? Silence wondered, shocked despite herself — but even in the brief glimpse she allowed herself, he seemed to be drinking as heavily as the rest. I hope his conscience troubles him, she thought savagely — if, indeed, he has one.
Sickened, she turned away from the mask, retching, and stumbled over a stool. The pain in her shin reminded her of what she must do. There was no profit in crying over what could not be altered: she must learn from that experience, dreadful as it was, and accept her punishment. She had looked upon Nick Hellier with adulterous eyes, the gravest sin, and now her wickedness had reaped its just reward. This agony, not yet come to its flowering, this pain that was almost physical in its intensity, was proper retribution for her crime, and she deserved no less.
She found the clothes-press, raised the heavy lid, and searched through it. Old garments, outgrown or threadbare, lay at the bottom: she picked out what she wanted, moving calmly, while her mind, remote, watched her hands sorting ancient doublets and outmoded gowns as if they belonged to someone else. And ever afterwards, to the last day of her life, the scent of damask roses and orris root, laid in bags to sweeten the clothes and keep away the moth, had the power to induce bitter feelings of nausea and despair.
Burdened, she shut the lid, picked up the candle and left the closet, closing the door behind her with a swift kick. If only the agony in her soul could be so easily shut out.
The waiting was the worst: she had nothing to do but think, and she dared not let her mind dwell on the Hall below. She tried to read her Bible, but the light was too dim: in the end, she sat on the floor by the dead fire, stroking Pye, her eyes open on darkness, while the children slumbered and Mally watched from the other mask.
She had not realised how exhausted she was until Mally woke her, gently shaking her shoulder, and she found that she had gone to sleep with her head resting on the seat of her chair, cushioned in her arms. Stiff, weary, unrefreshed, she stared in bewilderment at her maid’s face, evilly lit by the candle she held: all the others in the chamber had gone out. ‘I reckon as how ’tis safe to be gone,’ said Mally. ‘They villains all be snoring drunk down there, and that Ridgeley have gone to his bed — and he’ll be too busy to hear ought less than a thunderclap in his chamber, by my way of thinking. Shall I wake the little ones, m’lady?’
Tabby and Nat were easy to rouse: the excitement of their impending escape was still with them, lightening their sleep, and they struggled out of bed quickly and quietly, their hair and clothes rumpled and their eyes brilliant with anticipation. But waking William and Deb proved almost impossible: it seemed, after several failed attempts, that they would have to resort to violence. But at last Deb, yawning and bewildered, stood in her smock by the truckle-bed, rubbing her eyes and staring round at her mother and sister and half-brother. Silence knelt by her side, slipping the hyacinth-blue gown over her head, lacing it up the back with sleep-fumbled fingers, all the time explaining, slowly and clearly, what was happening, and hopefully instilling in her younger daughter the necessity of absolute quiet and instant obedience.
The strangeness of it all made an impression on Deb as no mere words could have done: her eyes vast, she nodded earnestly. With luck, she would give no trouble. Nor would William: he remained obstinately asleep, his round face angelically fair, his hair curling over his soft cheeks.
‘’Tain’t no good, m’lady,’ Mally hissed, when cold water had failed to have any effect whatsoever. ‘I’ll have to carry en.’
They stared at each other doubtfully. Silence had no idea of what the roofspace looked like, whether it would be possible to carry a heavy, sleeping three-year-old across it quietly and safely, and there was only one way to find out. ‘I’ll carry him, as far as Dame Ursula’s chamber,’ she said.
They were all ready: she hugged Nat, and Tabby, and Deb in turn, took the comatose William in her arms, feeling the inert weight, smelling the sweet, peaceful aroma of a young child. Dear Lord, she prayed, with a fervour she had never felt before, please keep my children safe: do not punish me through them.
