A Falling Star, page 68
part #3 of Wintercombe Series
‘She wouldn’t be at Wintercombe,’ Charles began, and then saw his grandmother’s face.
‘I think, I very much hope, that she will be,’ Silence said. ‘And she at least deserves your consideration, does she not? You claim to love her to distraction. You know that she can never, ever be yours, and all your dangerous, foolish, selfish scheming has collapsed around your ears. Very well. If you love her, remove yourself from her life for ever. In Virginia, you will be so busy that you will have no time to brood on your misfortunes — and in time, unlikely as it may seem, the agony will grow less. It may not cease altogether, but it will become more bearable, I promise.’
He had one last, desperate objection. ‘But I’m poor. I have virtually nothing left. How can I even pay for my passage, let alone establish myself in a new country?’
‘You have property worth four hundred a year. It can be sold, and your sister’s inheritance, and your mother’s, if they wish to go with you. It should not take long to raise the money, and Philip has many contacts — he will help you, and so will I. I have talked with my husband, and we are prepared to give you the further sum of two hundred pounds. It may not seem over-generous, but I understand that land and labour are very cheap there. Well? Will you go? Will you agree? Or must I summon the Watch?’
He had no choice. His heart sick and defeated, he knew it. Her anger, her vengeance, he could have defied. But to this generosity, unlooked-for, unwanted, he had no answer. And the sting of it was that his grandmother was offering him the chance to redeem himself for Louise’s sake, for his father, for Amy, even perhaps for his fat, foolish mother — but not for his own sake. He was to be cast out, denied, parted from the house and the woman he loved, for all time. And yet, cruel though this punishment seemed, it was gentle and forgiving and impossible to refuse.
He said, his eyes filling with tears of self-pity, ‘Can I see her? Can I say goodbye?’
‘Oh, Charles,’ Silence said, and a note of honest exasperation entered her voice. ‘Can’t you let her go, and accept defeat, even after this? She is with Alex now. She loves him with a passion that far exceeds what you feel for her, and I strongly suspect that she is carrying his child. Her future lies with him, at Wintercombe. You must accept that, or you will never be free of her, and your life hereafter will be warped and distorted into eternal misery.’
‘She may be infatuated with him,’ Charles said. ‘But he doesn’t love her…he’s only using her for his own lusts, just like all the others, and sooner or later he’ll tire of her.’
‘Will he?’ Silence said. ‘I wonder. In any case, do not delude yourself with hopes that she will be discarded and turn to you for solace. She may once have harboured friendly feelings towards you, but I fear no longer. Can you not understand that your actions have put you utterly outside the bounds of all decent, civilised behaviour? Even if your betrayal of Alex could be forgotten, your attempt at murder cannot, nor will it ever be, in this family. I’ll remind you exactly what you did. If our neighbours had not come into the court at the right time and raised the alarm, Alex probably would have died. And they tell me that, by some miracle, he managed to get the sword away from you, and then, although he had every chance to do it, he refused to kill you. That, that is the man whom you condemn as evil and depraved beyond all measure. Do you still think yourself so righteous? Or has a little sense of reality crept into your heart? If so, there may be hope for you yet.’
It was a question he shrank from answering. He said, avoiding her eyes, ‘I will accept your offer. I will go to the New World. I swear it.’
‘Good,’ Silence said, and her voice softened suddenly. ‘I’m glad you have seen sense at last. I wish you good fortune in your new life, little though you deserve it, and I will pray for you always.’ She rose to her feet, and Cousins followed. ‘We will not meet again, I think, and so I will say goodbye, and Godspeed.’
The light kiss on his cheek was cold, but her face, as she looked at him, was suddenly sad. ‘Farewell, Charles,’ she said. ‘God give you a safe voyage, and a happy future.’
And as he left the parlour, shepherded by Philip Cousins’ firm, uncompromising hand, he did not see the tears beginning, uncontrollably, to pour down her face.
*
‘Louise?’
She had almost fallen asleep. She sat up in her chair with a jerk, and the sewing with which she had been attempting to while away the hours, and calm her fears, fell to the floor. She ignored it, and stared at the man in the bed. He was looking at her, his eyes open and alert, and a faint smile on his face. ‘You look as if you’d been tapped on the shoulder by a ghost.’
‘Alex!’ Her joy spilled over, and a smile, huge and delighted, cracked across his face. ‘You’re awake!’
‘Well, I’m not asleep,’ he said, and grinned suddenly. ‘My leg hurts like the devil, and my chest too — who patched me up? Aunt Silence?’
‘Of course.’ Louise stood by the bed, looking down, the vastness of her relief and happiness like an aura glowing all around her. ‘But at least you’re alive, and well.’
‘Hardly that — I’ve barely the strength to speak, let alone move.’ He belied his words by bringing his hand out from under the blankets. She sat on the edge of the bed to take it, and smiled. ‘Your fingers are cold.’
‘It means a warm heart, so they say.’ Too late, Louise remembered all her efforts to seem light-hearted, uninvolved, still a stranger to the agonies of love. She tried to withdraw her hand, only to find it gripped with surprising strength. ‘You can’t gull me,’ Alex said softly, his blue eyes brilliant in his ashen face, compelling a response. ‘How long have you been in love with me?’
‘I — don’t know what you mean,’ Louise said, with a brittle laugh.
His hand still gripped hers; slowly, his head moved from side to side on the pillow. ‘Oh, yes, you do. Since the cowshed, I suspect — and have fought against it, and tried to hide it, ever after. Am I right?’
To her horror, her eyes were filling with tears. Helpless, and hating it, she nodded at last.
‘Good,’ Alex said. His grasp slackened abruptly, and he closed his eyes. Free, not wanting to be, she stared at him in sudden anxiety. ‘You see,’ he added, in a voice hardly above a whisper, ‘I was determined to ask you something this evening, if that thrice-damned Charles had not intervened, and nearly put an end to me. And I too have an admission to make.’
She waited, holding her breath, hardly daring to move. His eyes opened, creased with reflective amusement, and found hers. ‘Sweet Louise…you do not have the monopoly of love, you know. Like you, I ignored it, saw it as an inconvenient complication in an affair based on honest, unashamed desire…and I was wrong. I will make no promises, for I know myself too well. I do not know if my love for you will last a month, or a year, or a lifetime. I sincerely hope that the last is most accurate, for if it isn’t, I will have done you a terrible wrong…but I want, very much, to marry you.’
She could not believe it. Her breath released at last, she said in amazement, ‘You — want to marry me? Why? Why?’
‘Why not? Let us be practical for a moment. Your mother sent you to England to find a Protestant husband of wealth and birth. I could be said to fulfil all those qualifications quite adequately, even the first — at least I’m no Papist, and I’m as willing as any man to snore my way through Parson Pigott’s sermons every Sunday. I have to admit that in seeking a wife, I thought that a nice meek, biddable virgin would be the most suitable, but somehow you have caused me to abandon that idea altogether. And since the very sight of you inspires my lust, even at this moment, and I cannot imagine that life in your company will ever be tedious, or quiet, or devoid of passion, I have decided, to coin a phrase, to make an honest woman of you.’ He smiled. ‘And in addition, Lukas likes you, and so does Phoebe, and I value their judgement above anyone’s… Well? Are you really quite lost for words? That in itself is something of a miracle.’
‘Are you sure?’ Louise asked him urgently. She found that the tears had begun to flow copiously, and swept them impatiently away with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t — I don’t want you to feel obliged to marry me — I’d rather you had me willingly for your mistress than reluctantly for your wife… Please, Alex, tell me the truth. Do you really love me?’
His eyes met hers, and they gazed at each other for a long, wordless moment, and she saw the answer in his face, before he spoke. ‘Oh, yes, I love you,’ he said. ‘With all my selfish, debauched and reckless heart, I love you, sweet Louise. So — will you marry me, as soon as I am fit to stand before a parson?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Before I answer — there is something I must tell you. I didn’t think it would ever happen — I thought I was barren — Alex, I am expecting your child.’
He did not move, but an expression of such love and tenderness crept into his face that she nearly wept again. ‘Are you sure?’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ she said, and added, trying to return to her usual down-to-earth manner, ‘I think it will be born some time next August, if all goes well.’
‘You must have known for a little while…why did you not tell me before?’
Louise shrugged. ‘Because…because I knew that, if I did, you would feel that you had to offer me marriage, whereas now, you have asked me freely, and you love me — and the baby is not the reason.’
‘Not the reason — but very glad news, all the same. And you still haven’t answered me. For the third time, will you marry me?’
She looked down at him, and her expression was suddenly mischievous. ‘Well… I shall insist on certain conditions before I agree.’
‘I’m trembling with apprehension — come on, woman, for God’s sake put me out of my misery. What conditions?’
‘That you come to my bed sober at least two nights in a week…that you do not dally with my maidservants under my nose, although I do recognise that the attractions of the ladies of the Cock at Walcot may sometimes prove irresistible…and that you never, ever complain about my riding, or about the amount of time and money I spend at the mantua-maker’s,’ Louise said, grinning. ‘Well? Do you accept?’
‘You know damn well I’m in no state to resist — and in no state either, alas, to make love to you, much though I want you… You have defeated me, sweet Louise, you see before you a helpless slave — ah, don’t make that very unladylike noise — and I accept all your conditions, but for God’s sake answer me. I won’t ask again — will you marry me? For I love you immoderately, and I don’t think I could bear it if you reject me now.’
She looked down at him, and the mischief drained slowly from her face. He lay there, uncharacteristically defenceless, all the strength and vigour and energy that had so attracted her vanished, although she had no doubt at all that within a few weeks he would be fully recovered. And she saw love, and need, and desire in his face, and knew that at last she had won him, heart and body and soul.
‘Did you ever think that I would?’ she said softly, and bent her head to kiss him. ‘Of course I’ll marry you — I love you so much.’ And at last, overcome, she bowed her head on to his shoulder and wept, for joy for the future and sorrow for the past, and his warm arm held her close with the tenderness that had once seemed so alien to him, and his voice whispered comfort and endearments into her hair.
Phoebe knocked, gained no answer, and peered cautiously round the door. With sudden alarm, she saw Louise, sobbing, her arms around her brother. Then, his hand moved, soothing and stroking her back, and she relaxed, with relief. He had innumerable faults and vices, but he was her brother, and she supposed that she must love him.
He must have sensed someone’s presence, for he moved his head to see who it was. At once a smile, gloriously and hugely joyful, spread across his face, and she understood. Very softly, she withdrew, and closed the door on their happiness.
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Historical Note
Paradoxically, Monmouth’s rebellion is extremely well documented, with several eye-witness accounts on both sides, and yet is still the subject of considerable controversy, particularly concerning the roles of the protagonists, and its gruesome aftermath. How many rebels were actually executed? Was Judge Jeffreys really the infamous monster of legend? And did the Duke of Monmouth’s personality contribute to the rebellion’s failure, or was he a misunderstood and maligned hero?
Of necessity, I have had to steer my own path through these quicksands, using the available evidence as my guide. I have tried to depict the course of the rebellion as it actually happened, despite, at times, being forced to choose between conflicting accounts. The St Barbe family, in all their ramifications, are fiction, but many of the situations in which they find themselves are not. Alex’s plight, for instance, is similar to that of Edmund Prideaux of Ford Abbey, who was accused of supplying money and horses to Monmouth, imprisoned and threatened with trial for treason (for which a second hostile witness proved hard to find), and eventually freed on payment of nearly £15,000 — which went straight into Jeffreys’s pocket. And the Maids of Taunton were eventually pardoned, at considerable cost to their parents, although one of their teachers died in prison.
I am indebted to the many people who have helped me in various ways with this book, and who are in no way responsible for those errors which may remain. The staff of the Somerset Record Office, and the London Library; Mrs Pat Lawless, of Norton St Philip, who took the time to discuss the course of the skirmish in the village, and supplied several rare books, and local legends; Dave Ryan, of the English Civil War Society, for his advice, and sundry useful volumes; my sister, Vicki Hunt, who corrected my schoolgirl French, and Mrs Katie Mitchell, who helped me with the snippets of Dutch; Mr and Mrs Robert Floyd, of Great Chalfield Manor, the original of Wintercombe, for their continued interest and kindness; and last, but never least, my mother, and Steve, whose unfailing help, faith and support over the years have been beyond price, and without whom much less would have been possible.
PDAB
2nd March, 1990
All the quotations heading the chapters and parts are taken from Dryden’s political poem, Absalom and Achitophel, published in 1681, which tells the story of Monmouth, the Earl of Shaftesbury, and the Popish Plot.
Pamela Belle, A Falling Star
