Wintercombe, page 75
part #1 of Wintercombe Series
‘“A man hath no better thing under the sun, than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry”,’ Nick said, smiling, and his lover, smiling in answer, supplied chapter and verse. ‘Ecclesiastes, eight, fifteen. I never could think that the Lord delighted in misery.’ She walked round the end of the table towards him, and he watched her approach with desire suddenly plain in his face. ‘Shall we to bed, my lady?’
And, for the last time, she assented.
While, still unknown to her, George’s soldiers watched the dark bulk of Wintercombe, they walked separately through the sleeping house, taking care even now that suspicious eyes would not fall on them. She found her chamber warm, the fire glowing, Pye playing with her five-week-old kitten on the bed. Seven or eight days after its birth, they had become lovers: and now this was the only time left to them, the brief hours till sunrise.
With a tenacity that surprised her, she held fast to this final shred of happiness, wringing what she could from it, not letting thoughts of tomorrow’s parting spoil the delicious pleasure that she enjoyed in her lover’s arms tonight. With desperate urgency, they clung together, not even undressing in their haste, while the cats scampered and Lily, ears pricked, watched curiously from the bed. But when their first hunger was slaked, amid soft laughter he carefully took off her garments, his hands lingering over each fastening, raising desire in them both until, entwined and giggling like children, they stumbled to the bed.
Silence lay afterwards in dreamy contentment, her head on his shoulder and his arms about her. Like this, drowsy and sated, she could almost deceive herself into thinking that the moment would go on for ever. Better, surely, to pretend, to sink into sleep, to preserve the illusion for the last few hours, for tomorrow, no, today, he would be gone.
But she could not forget the stark choice she faced. To forsake her children, and her husband, and Wintercombe, and go with him to bear his child, if there was a child, apart from everything else she had ever loved? Or to let him ride away, leaving her to bear her baby in disgrace, the subject of George’s justifiable fury, almost certainly separated from her children and from Wintercombe as a punishment for her wickedness?
She had never been one to worry over what might happen tomorrow. Her grim childhood had taught her to cling on to her joys, and by so doing assuage, just a little, the pain that was sure to come. But the choice must be made, and whatever she decided, she was assured of terrible grief.
‘Where will you go, tomorrow?’ she said softly.
Like her, Nick had been on the edge of sleep, but her words roused him. He sat up, looking down at the beloved woman lying beside him, and saw the white edge of tension in her face. He spread his hands, brown and calloused from handling sword and reins, yet so light and gentle and subtle when he touched her. ‘I have no idea. I don’t particularly want to fight any more — as you have taught me, there is no point, and certainly no honour, in struggling on. No force the King has left, and probably no force he has ever had, could withstand this New Model Army. They will make their peace soon, and then all the fighting will be amongst themselves. I think Parliament will discover that they have created a monster, which will turn and rend them when it has disposed of the King’s men.’
‘All the King’s horses…’ Silence whispered. ‘You haven’t answered my question. Where will you go?’
‘To the Low countries, perhaps, or France — experienced soldiers are always useful,’ said Nick. ‘Or to the New World, or the Indies. I am not the sort, my love, to settle tamely back into ordinary life. I have tasted too much of adventure.’
And she knew now which choice she must make, the kinder decision for the children, all of them, both the living and the unborn. She said, on a sob, ‘Nick — take me with you.’
The silence threatened to stretch out into eternity. She waited rigid, shuddering with tension. She had finally said it, at last she had given voice to the temptation that had tortured her for days. Now, however, it did not seem like foolishness. Better that the children should remember their mother as a woman who, however misguided, had left them for love, than sent away amid pointing fingers, the buzz of horrified scandal and gossip, the shame and degradation. Better that she should vanish from their lives.
Nick, too, was in the grip of temptation so strong that it almost overwhelmed him. Despite all the sensible arguments against it, he wanted her, wanted her beside him, to love for all his days. But, like Mally, he was a realist, enough to know that his dream was inevitably doomed to diminish into ashes. He had no money, no resources, no means of living save by selling his sword. And his mind’s eye, clear and anguished, saw the certain consequences if he succumbed to that temptation. The poverty, the struggle to survive, the squalid rooms, the cold and the misery and uncertainty of such an existence, would surely destroy the strongest feelings of love and desire. And he wanted desperately to remember their brief affair as something perfect and beautiful, something to illuminate, even with sadness, the rest of his life. What they had shared was too wonderful, too precious and rare, to hazard to the chill winds of fortune and knight-errantry.
But she would not understand, he knew that already. In some ways so wise, she was an innocent in these matters. Despite her stern childhood, she had never wanted for comfort, and she had lived all her life cushioned unthinkingly by a wealth that the vast majority of people never attained. She could have no comprehension of the dreadful tedium and worry, the weariness of grinding poverty, the sadness and waste of it, the impossibility of relief. She would not complain, she would do her best, buoyed up by the belief that love, this unlooked-for, joyous emotion, could solve all her problems. And one day, in a year, or two years, or four, she would wake up beside him and wish, too late, that she had never left her husband, and her beloved children, and regret most bitterly her foolishness in following her lover.
And that was something that in truth he would never be able to bear.
Unable to look at her, he clasped his hands and said, in a voice so low that she could hardly hear it, ‘Oh, my dear love… I can’t.’
She did not believe it. She had been so certain that he would assent with joy, that she would not after all be parted from him, that even if she abandoned her children there would be another, as greatly beloved, to console her for her loss. And now he had taken her gift, her love, and flung it back in her face.
‘Why?’ she whispered at last. ‘Why? Why can’t you?’
Another woman would have claimed that he did not love her: Silence only stared at him, utterly stricken, her eyes wet with helpless tears, and almost, despite his resolution, he put his arms about her and told her that he did not mean it, that he had changed his mind, yes, she could follow him into exile and penury and death, the death of their love, the most valuable thing that either of them had ever possessed, all their lives long.
He did take her in his arms then, and hugged her and rocked her as if she were one of the children, and his own eyes were wet. She wept on his shoulder, on and on, as if she could not stop, but quietly, no sobs or cries, just the endless tears and the hopeless tremors that shook her body. And at last, when he thought that she had calmed a little, able at least to understand what he was saying, he spoke softly. ‘You may hate me for this. I have told you very little of myself, and to purpose. What I said just now, about going to foreign parts when I leave Wintercombe, was a lie. I lied to you, because I knew that the truth would hurt you very much. And now that I must tell you, you may be very angry with me for deceiving you. But I tell you this — my love is no lie, and I will love you for the rest of my life.’
‘And I will love you likewise,’ she said, her voice muffled in his shoulder. His whole chest was damp with her tears. Suddenly, she pulled away from him and stared into his eyes. Her face was red and swollen and ugly with weeping, she had lost any beauty she had ever possessed, but she was still, and always would be, infinitely dear to him. And with the desperate courage that he had always loved in her, she said quietly, ‘Tell me.’
‘I have a wife,’ he said gently. ‘I have a wife in Worcester, and an apothecary’s shop, and two children.’
She had not thought that anything he said would have had the power to hurt her further. But this, this, struck her heart like a knife, so that she almost felt the blow. Appalled, struck dumb, she stared at him, her tears drying on her cheeks. A wife: he had a wife, and children. And suddenly, much of the mystery was explained: his knowledge of medicine, his ease in the company of small children, even the secrecy about his past, all became clear to her. And she thought about his wife, who had the right to that neat, strong, scarred body as George had the right to her own, and said, ‘What is she like? Does she love you?’
‘She is, as they say, a good help-meet,’ he told her, praying silently that she would believe him. ‘Her father owned the shop — she is his only daughter. I married her five years ago. I like her, but I do not love her.’
‘But does she love you?’ Silence cried, unable to hide her anguish: and Nick said softly, ‘Yes.’
‘And the children? Tell me about your children,’ said Silence, thinking with agony of their own child, perhaps curled minute inside her, a means of destruction every bit as devastating as one of Nick’s grenadoes.
‘John would be five now. He was just beginning to walk when I went away to fight. And the little girl, Sarah, she is William’s age. I only remember her as a tiny baby.’
It did not occur to Silence to disbelieve him. It explained so much, seemed suddenly so likely that she did not doubt what he said. And Nick, who had described his elder brother’s wife, and his brother’s shop, and his brother’s children, looked at her stricken face, and hated himself for this necessary, yet heart-breaking deceit.
‘So that is why you are so good with my children,’ Silence said at last. She was shaking, her whole body disturbed by the tremors that ran through her. But in the face of this, the ultimate disaster, the strength that she had always denied in herself, until the soldiers had forced her to call on it, was seeping into her heart. So, she had chosen, and her choice was rejected. Now, she must begin to make what she could of the other, the dark path of truth, shame and loss.
Make, do, mend: the litany pulsed in her head. And because in the end she had no choice, had never had any, she lifted her face, shiny and disfigured with grief, with a ragged and desperate pride. She said softly, ‘Oh, Nick…nothing you could say to me would ever change my love for you. That poem…“love is not love”…’
‘“Which alters when it alteration finds”,’ he said with her, his deep voice chiming with hers. ‘So all the books I lent you were not wasted. Keep them, my dear love, keep them — I know it’s a poor substitute for my self, but there may be some comfort there. And you will still have Wintercombe, and the children, and perhaps one day you will find that the pain grows less.’
She knew already that she would not tell him about the baby: it would only add to his own pain. Let him ride away thinking that their secret was for ever safe, and that a small measure of happiness might in the end be waiting for her. She said slowly, ‘I will survive without you, because I must, but I will never, ever forget you…you made me realise that I am alive, Nick, you have given me great grief, but also a happiness I had never even dreamed could exist, least of all for me. And Tabby…you have given Tabby her music.’
‘And William will doubtless grow up to be a soldier,’ he said, smiling. ‘And no one’s lives will ever be the same — but we are not unique in that,’
‘At least we have been happy, even if for too brief a time — think of how many people have lost so much — I must think of that,’ said Silence. She found that she could even essay a smile, for she must not make him feel guilt at his rejection of her; nor could she give him any indication that her future was so much more bleak than he believed.
Yet, she thought in despair, perhaps it was not so bad. She might be mistaken about the baby: or perhaps in the end, she would weigh her living children in the balance of the unborn, and sacrifice the child in her womb for her sake, and theirs. She did not know. She only knew that in a few hours, Nick would be gone for ever: and suddenly she could not bear to be separate any longer, and flung herself into his arms.
They made love again, with renewed urgency, because they did not have much time left to them, and at last she slept for a little. He sat for a long time looking at her, the closed eyelids still reddened with tears, the mass of golden-brown hair spread across the pillow, the face calm and peaceful, like that so very deceptive mask that she showed to most of the world. He hoped that he had not misjudged her, that she would have the strength to endure, and survive, and to live without him, if not in happiness, at least not in utter misery. He did not think that she was so faint-hearted: she had the courage, the sense of humour, and the greatness of spirit to accept their fate, and even, eventually, to see the inevitability of it.
There was something else he must tell her, he remembered suddenly. He touched her gently on her face, and saw her eyes open, dreaming, and the sudden change as she mistook his reason for waking her. He shook his head, smiling. ‘No, you have only slept for a few minutes — we have time yet. But there is something I think you should know.’
The serious note in his voice alerted her: suddenly awake, she sat up and stared at him. ‘Nick — what is it?’
He said nothing for a moment, not looking at her, but into the shadows beyond the bed, still wondering if he ought to tell her, after all the grief of this night. Finally, he said, ‘The Roundhead Colonel who will take over the house tomorrow — Silence, he is your husband.’
For a moment she did not believe him. She said in astonishment. ‘George? The men outside are George’s? Why didn’t he come marching straight in this afternoon?’
Nick produced a grin that could only be described as wicked. ‘Because I said I’d blow up his house if he did.’
For a long moment she stared at him, and then suddenly burst into rather helpless laughter. ‘But — but you wouldn’t blow up Wintercombe.’
‘I know that. You know that. But he doesn’t. And that is why he agreed to everything I asked, in return for his house, and his children, and his wife, safe and undamaged on the morrow. He didn’t have any choice, really. You could see that he was furious, but there was precious little he could do about it.’
‘I saw him,’ said Silence thoughtfully. ‘I saw him from the window, walking away — he walked like George, but he was so much thinner, I didn’t recognise him. He must have lost a great deal of weight.’ She glanced at her lover. ‘Do you think he suspected anything?’
‘He looked the kind of man who wouldn’t suspect anything till it hit him on the nose. I’m sure in his self-satisfaction he’s never even considered that you might want anyone else but him in your bed.’
She thought suddenly of the baby, and hope struck her, flooding her with relief. Tomorrow, George would take possession of his house, and his wife, and he would assuredly lie with her. Her flesh quailed at the thought of once more having to endure his unpleasurable love making: but she must, would even invite him into her bed if he seemed unaccountably reluctant. For if she was indeed pregnant with Nick’s child, it was so soon since its conception that, with luck, George would never know that it was not his.
And so, she, and the baby, were safe from vilification, and calumny, and pointing fingers. She had deceived her husband in his absence, and taken a secret lover: now, she was preparing to foist another man’s child on him without his knowledge.
A year ago, she would have been horror-struck at the very thought. Now, made devious by the necessity of survival, for the sake of all her children, she contemplated that awesome deception with equanimity. It was wicked and sinful, no doubt of it, and many would condemn her to Hell because of it. But for her baby, and for the other, legitimate children, she would hazard even her salvation.
And suddenly, it was all too much for her, the unlooked-for hope, and the thought of having to face her husband like the innocent, virtuous wife that he believed her still to be, and above all the imminent and irrevocable loss of her lover, and before she could do anything, she began to sob, and once more he took her in his arms to bring her the comfort that, after this night, it would no longer be possible to give. And somehow, because neither of them could bear that there would be no more, they made love yet again, half-laughing, half-weeping, and slept almost as soon as they finished, exhausted and yet strengthened by a simultaneous sunburst of pleasure and joy.
She woke to the sound of someone knocking, or rather scratching, on the door. It was still dark: her heart pounding, she jumped from the bed, pulling her night-rail about her, and felt her way to it. Unlocked, it revealed Mally, who had by the look of her rumpled garments been to sleep in them. ‘M’lady? It d’want a little while till dawn. Will ee wake the Captain? His men will be stirring any minute.’
So, it had come at last. She nodded, and Mally, with a discreet grin, went down the stairs. Silence turned and went to the hearth: scraping flint and tinder, she lit a candle.
Nick lay sleeping still, his face relaxed, almost boyish, under the light morning stubble. She stood looking at him for a moment, and then gently shook him awake. ‘It’s time, Nick — time to go.’
With the alertness of the soldier, he sat up at once, pushing his hair out of his eyes. She ached to put her arms round him, to love him just once more, but it was impossible, and they both knew it. Delay now could ruin all their care, all their subterfuge. Instead, bleakly practical, she handed him his garments, before fetching one of her ordinary plain black gowns from the clothes closet. Last night she had been Silence: today, and for ever after, she would be the Puritan wife again.
They helped each other dress, smiling, touching, but speaking little. All the words had been said already, and now idle chatter, even the light-hearted banter that they so delighted in, seemed superfluous beside the force of emotion that overwhelmed them both. When he was ready, Silence went to the little inlaid box on her walnut table, in which she kept small treasures. She took something out of it, and turned towards him. He saw that her eyes were full of tears, though she was trying valiantly to smile. She said, ‘You have given me so much, Nick, you have changed my life — and I wanted to give you something to remember me by, just as I will have your books, and Lily.’
