Wintercombe, page 74
part #1 of Wintercombe Series
Silence and her stepchildren had watched all this from the oriel. The bulk of the gatehouse shielded much of the confrontation from their intense gaze, but it was evident to Silence, merely from the set of Nick’s shoulders, that for some reason he was delighted at the outcome. Then he turned to speak to Wickham, and even from here she could see the flashing brilliance of his smile.
‘There goes the Roundhead leader,’ said Nat, pointing. Silence tore her eyes from Nick and saw the officer, resplendent in fine red coat with blue facings, his sword bright by his side and his hat pulled down, stumping along the track on the other side of the wall, followed by another officer, thin and orange-haired, and a drummer. He walks just like George when he’s in a rage, she thought, staring down at the distant figure, though he’s thinner by far than my husband.
She turned away from the oriel, wondering what had been discussed to make the Parliament man so angry, and Nick so elated. Surely, surely he was not going to subject Wintercombe to another siege, probably at the cost of much damage to the house, and almost certainly a great deal of bloodshed?
No, Silence thought, from the depths of her knowledge of Nick. No, he would not do that.
But she had to know for certain. She glanced round at Nat, Rachael and Mally, who were still peering avidly out of the window, and said, ‘I’m going down to see what’s happening.’
There was no one in the Hall, but a great many servants packed in the porch, jostling for a view. Silence, Mally beside her, stood at the back unnoticed for some moments, listening to their interested comments.
‘Do ee reckon as how there’ll be another siege?’
‘Ooh, I do hope not — I couldn’t abear they bursty great things a-going off bang.’
‘Good riddance to ’em all, that’s what I d’say, pack of ungodly hang-gallise trubagullies they be.’
‘Aye, sooner us d’get our own Sir George back to we, the better ’twill be.’
‘Nay,’ said another voice, that she recognised as Darby’s. ‘M’lady have done us proud, and I won’t have a word said otherwise, do ee hear?’
Silence was gratified to find that there were a number of assenting voices to this last comment. If I have done nothing else, this past year, she thought, at least I have earned their respect. Unwilling to surprise them, she turned as quietly as she could, and gestured to Mally to follow her.
The barton, when they reached it, was the centre of much activity. The light was already beginning to fade, and the young trumpeter was firing the torches in the sconces on the barn and stable walls. Others were leading in the horses, fat and grass-fed, from the fields, and a little group of men were sitting in the entrance to the barn, cleaning and polishing their swords. No one seemed to notice Silence standing by the kitchen door, her eyes, stricken, watching the preparations for departure. Then Tom Wickham saw her, and came over. He had long suspected that something lay between his Captain and this quiet, unassuming woman with the wide, beautiful eyes, and one look at her face; stark with sorrow, confirmed it. He said gently, ‘May I assist you, Lady St. Barbe?’
Silence had found that the effort of maintaining her usual calm façade was far greater than she had expected. Now, seeing the imminence of her loss, all the agony of parting from Nick had returned. And how could she bear to say goodbye to him now when, if she stayed at Wintercombe, her future bore nothing but grief and utter desolation, because of the babe she might carry?
She stared up at Tom Wickham, who was some inches taller than Nick, and said quietly, ‘When do you leave, then? I assume you are leaving?’
‘We are,’ he said, and grinned at her. ‘But not tonight. Nick struck a most advantageous bargain with the Roundheads, and we march away at sunrise, with all our horses and weapons, colours flying, free to go where we will.’
So, she had one more night with him. The uprush of joy and relief almost overwhelmed her, although it was but a few more hours to postpone the terrible moment of decision. She said, ‘Will the men require provisions, sir? They will surely go hungry on the march, otherwise.’
‘They will indeed,’ said Tom, gazing at her. ‘Are you suggesting, my lady —’
‘I am telling you that there will be bread and cheese for their snapsacks if Captain Hellier wishes it,’ Silence said firmly. ‘And also, I feel this occasion should be marked in some way.’ She paused for thought, for this idea had only just come to her. ‘I would like you and Captain Hellier and the other officers to join me in the dining parlour for supper. We have been enemies in the past — surely, now the war is all but over, we can be friends.’
‘Of course, my lady,’ he said, surprised but pleased. ‘I am sure we will all be most happy to attend. And may I say this, my lady, that whatever our past differences, I am sure every man here is deeply appreciative of your courage and your gracious conduct under very trying circumstances.’
Silence found that she wanted to laugh. Her voice sparkling with it, she said drily, ‘I have never before heard your late and unlamented Lieutenant-Colonel described thus, sir.’
His face broke into a cheerful grin. ‘Neither have I. Most people used less mild epithets. If you will forgive me, my lady, there is much to do before we can be free to partake of your generous invitation. What time do you expect our company?’
‘At eight,’ Silence told him, and, still buoyed up with that unjustified delight, acknowledged his courteous bow and went indoors to tell Darby of her plans.
The vast man stood in a clean apron at his table, and listened to her instructions with an impassive face. Then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled. She did not think she had ever seen such an expression on his face before, and stared at him in amazement. ‘If ’tis the last meal I cook for them,’ he said, ‘I’ll be sure and make it a fine one. We’ll surely do better without them, m’lady, and I’ll be happy to see them on their way with a memory of what good cooking ought to be.’
*
Two hours later, Wintercombe vibrated with rich and delicious aromas, as the rose of a lute quivered with sound. Eliza, begrudgingly, had set the table for fourteen, seven officers, six St. Barbes, and Mally. Silence put her head round the door when she had finished, and let her eyes linger on the crisp, white cloth, the neatly folded napery, the polished spoons and knives, the pewter dishes and wine cups. Bowls of dried rose-petals scented the air, and waxen candles burned on table and mantel and court-cupboard, flooding the dark-panelled room with soft yellow light. She drew the heavy, red damask curtains across the three windows, and went to change into a garment more fitting for such an occasion. This, after all, was a celebration — or a wake.
When all was ready in the barton for an early departure, the officers of the sadly diminished company and troop left their men in the charge of the corporals, and made their way to the quarters which they had occupied since arriving at Wintercombe, in the east wing below the chamber belonging to Silence. There, they donned their finest clothes, rubbed the surplus mud from boots or shoes, made sure that swords and buckles sparkled, and returned to the Hall to stand before the fire and await the arrival of the lady of the house.
Nick, in the room that had once been Ridgeley’s, dressed with care. He had no servant to assist him, for Harris had fled soon after Ridgeley’s death, but he was used to the lack. Deliberately, he put on his tawny suit, slung his sword from its broad embroidered sash, cleaned his boots with a damp cloth and finally, smiling, laid the vivid scarlet cloak over a chair, ready for the morrow. His books he had left with Silence: he would carry away nothing but his fiddle, and a small bag of clothing.
And, of course, a memory.
He wondered if he should tell her that the commander of the forces outside the gate was her husband. He did not wish to leave her to discover it in the morning. Neither, however, did he want to spoil their last evening together with unwelcome thoughts of the bitter future. He had ordered his officers to say nothing of it, and decided to choose his moment carefully, if at all.
One more night, and then a lifetime to look back on it. Honestly, he acknowledged that he would not always think of her: indeed, he planned to assuage his grief and loss in adventure, new countries, even a New World, just as she would lose herself in domestic activities and the humdrum life of Wintercombe. But she would always be with him, as he knew that he would go with her, inside her soul for ever.
In the Hall, his officers stood waiting. Tom Wickham, tall, friendly, pleasant. Solid and unimaginative Bull, who never saw anything that was not thrust under his nose. Combe, a very quiet young man, originally given a commission because his father, a clothier, had supplied Sir Thomas Bridges with enough cheap material to outfit his entire regiment. Parset, wordy, tedious and intentionally amusing. Hodges, the Quartermaster, like Bull much older than the rest, a weathered, hard-drinking man who by the look of him had once been a farmer. And the young Cornet, Hunter, raised from the ranks after Wickham had taken over Byam’s duties, an eager boy, one of William’s friends, with the makings of a good officer if he ever obtained the experience.
They were none of them bad men, in the way that Ridgeley had been evil: they had followed where he led, that was all, but then they had feared his unpredictable and vicious rages. Under Nick’s command, there was more comradeship, and more respect on all sides. At least, he thought wryly, they smile when I approach.
And then there were children’s voices, footsteps behind the screens, and Silence entered with her brood around her.
She was wearing the golden-brown silk, the colour paler than his own, that she had put on for the Prince of Wales, and never since. But this time, no lace collar hid the pale smooth lines of her shoulders and the soft full swell of her breasts behind the embroidered, old-fashioned stomacher, and Mally had dressed her hair to fall in loose, tawny ringlets about her face. She wore no jewels, but her eyes sparkled in the firelight and candlelight, and he saw the other men look at her in astonishment, as if the dowdy brown Puritan sparrow had suddenly cast off her feathers to reveal the brilliant beauty of a kingfisher.
The children clustered about her, the younger ones hopping with excitement at what they sensed to be a special occasion, the twins standing dark and solemn behind. The mourning worn for their grandmother had been put off in favour of fine silk in muted but glowing colours: yellow for Rachael, dark red for Nat, amber and hyacinth blue and sea green for Tabby, Deb and William. In a great lord’s house, Nick had once seen a family portrait by the master Van Dyke: and only such an artist could do justice to the vivid and delightful children before him, and their mother, whom he loved so much. And he knew that, whatever came after, he would always like to remember her thus, in the colours of earth that suited her best, and with her beloved offspring around her like flowers.
‘Are we all ready?’ she asked, smiling, and as Nick assented, led the way to the dining parlour.
It was indeed a merry evening, considering that one half of the party would be ejected on the morrow, to make their way in defeat to Oxford, and the other half were sad, and more than sad, to see them go. But there was wine, though it was made by the lady of the house from elderflowers and cherries, and beer if that did not suit. And Turber, tremulous and bent, entered at the head of a procession of servants, Eliza, Joan, Christian Merrifield, Margery, bearing the dishes that Darby, with the pleasure of a true artist, had spent the past two hours creating. There was a fine pottage of mutton flavoured with chicory, spinach, cabbage and parsley, with country wine in the broth; a carp from the pond, netted by Diggory not an hour since, flapping almost as it went in the pan, boiled and served up with a sauce of lemons and verjuice; a dish of roast chickens, basted with sweet butter and cinnamon and accompanied by a sauce of onions, breadcrumbs, wine, oranges and lemons; a carbonado of beef, and buttered eggs with anchovies and toasts. Silence, aware of the chaotic state of the store-rooms, where some of the rarer and more exotic items had almost run out, gazed at the feast with appreciation. Once more, Darby had done his duty magnificently.
No one spoke much during the first course: they were too busy filling hungry stomachs. Soon, each platter was almost clean, and Lily, hearing the scrape of knives and spoons, looked up hopefully, expecting scraps or bones. Silence nodded to Turber, who was waiting by the door, and the table was cleared in preparation for the next course. This was simpler, with neat’s tongues, a brawn with mustard, a piece of boiled gammon, and cheesecakes, tansies, and pies of quince and plums, with a plate of dark, spicy gingerbread for the children.
‘And you are not to fight over it,’ Silence told them, seeing their round, greedy eyes. ‘Darby has cut it into exactly fifteen pieces — so how many each, Tabby?’
Tabitha, surprisingly, was already showing a facility for numbers that equalled her gift for music. ‘Three,’ she said, grinning.
The gingerbread was solid, heavy stuff, specifically intended to keep small, chattering jaws busy with chewing rather than talking. The end of the table accordingly relapsed into quiet, even Nat, who had claimed to dislike the stuff, being not so far from childhood as to spurn such a sticky and delicious treat.
Silence, at the head of the table, sipped her wine and watched as the men who had once been her enemies demolished the second course with enthusiasm. Memories of the past year came to her, pictures of Ridgeley at Christmas, the man whom Nick had shot in the orchard, Nat running up West Street untying the cattle that would block the Colonel’s path to Rachael. And Nick, smiling, absorbed, playing carols on his fiddle. He had brought the instrument down from his chamber: she had noticed it lying on the small table. She said softly, ‘Will you play for us, Captain, when the meal is ended?’
Nick, on her left opposite Mally, raised his cup to her and smiled. ‘Of course. Shall we dance, on our last night?’
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate,’ Silence pointed out drily. ‘I know we are celebrating your departure, but that’s hardly seemly. What would the New Model say?’
‘There’s only a dozen of them out there, they’ll not disturb us,’ said young Hunter, gulping down his wine. But Nick shook his head. ‘Lady St. Barbe says no dancing, so there will be no dancing. But music, yes, that you shall have.’
And they did, laughing and clapping in time as he gave them rounds and catches and jigs, unseasonal carols and drinking songs whose words, sung in a cheerful roar by the other officers, were sometimes hastily muted, with guilty glances at Silence. She found it impossible to keep her fingers still: they beat a tattoo on the cloth, and William and Deb, perhaps remembering that other evening when Tabby had played, and Nick and Silence had danced, leapt down from their stools, seized each other in a fervent embrace, and bounced up and down giggling until they fell in a happy heap at the fiddler’s feet. To his credit, he did not falter: but Silence knew, reluctantly, that she must bring this supper to a close.
She got to her feet as the notes of the tune died away and Nick, flexing his fingers, lowered his bow. Immediately, the laughter and talk diminished, and they all looked expectantly up at her. It was very difficult, suddenly, to say anything; her throat felt dry, and somehow the words she wanted seemed inadequate. But she had to speak, she could not just sit down again. She took a deep breath, and said, trying to smile, ‘I think that it is time the children were in bed — it’s almost ten. And you all must be up betimes.’
They looked up at her, enquiring, polite, as she struggled to find a way of saying what could never be openly expressed. Finally, she said quietly, ‘I feel that you depart as friends, all of you. And I thank you for that, because you could so easily have become my enemies in truth, over the past year. If this sorry war is ever brought to an end, you will always be welcome as guests in this house.’
Tom Wickham leapt to his feet. ‘No, my lady — it is we who should thank you. You have kept us alive here for nearly a year, and with small thanks for it — well, now we can show our appreciation. A toast, gentlemen, to Lady St. Barbe!’
And she stood, deafened by their cheering and the wild hurrahs of the children, as they filled and drained their cups. Outside, the Roundhead guards that George had left to huddle under a hedgerow all night, heard the noise and muttered to each other enviously of the Cavaliers’ debauch.
With a gesture that touched Silence deeply, they came to her, one by one, to bow over her hand as if she were queen of Wintercombe, and they her courtiers: gruff Captain Bull, shy Combe, cheerful Tom Wickham, even stout little Parset, she knew them all now, and bade them farewell, and William was lifted and petted until his face was cracked wide, smiling, and Deb and Tabby clustered round, each begging a last kiss as if these men were cousins, not enemies. Mally collected them up, clucking at them like a mother hen, as soon as the officers had filed from the room. ‘I’ll take ’em up to bed, m’lady.’
‘Goodnight,’ said Silence to each of her children, and to Nat, who had grown so tall over the last year, and Rachael, whose eyes were filled with the tears that betrayed her first, tentative feelings of womanhood. She watched them leave the room — Nat, impertinently, had winked at her as he closed the door — and then turned to face Nick.
He had stood all the time in the shadows, his bow and fiddle put aside, and she had seen him hug Tabby as if she were his own daughter, with a poignancy that had brought a lump to her throat. Now, she held out her hands, and he came into the light smiling, her autumn-coloured man, brown and russet and chestnut, the colours of earth in which her soul had flowered. He did not embrace her immediately: instead, he stood by the table, littered with the scraped, gnawed and sticky debris of the meal, and said quietly, ‘I want to remember you as you are now — in that gown, with your hair loose. You may not be a Court lady, my dear love, but you are surely no Puritan either.’
‘I know I am not,’ she said ruefully. ‘That is another thing you have taught me — that it is no shame to take delight in music, or laughter, or even dancing, because all these things gladden the heart.’
