Destitute On His Doorstep (3 page)

There was no sign of neglect here, as had been the case of other manors she had passed through. Despite the ten years of Civil War, it was plain that their steward, Silas Thorpe, had done his work well, and was a good taskmaster in managing the tenants and obtaining from them the requisite labour.

Jane's eyes had been fixed on the horizon for the past hour. At last she was rewarded when the turrets and rooftops of the hall came into view. In recent years she had often thought about the past and now, seeing the pink-and-gold stone walls, with ivy growing around the facing windows, it brought it all back with a strange force. With poignancy she found herself thinking of her father and all he had tried to do for her. Sadly she had never known her mother, who had died shortly after her birth. The memory of her father's death flashed into her mind and brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them aside. Bilborough Hall had been a place of peace and happiness, and she vowed it would be again. It was home, and this was where her heart was, for always.

‘There it is, Scamp. Does the sight of it not gladden your heart?'

In reply, the little dog twitched his ears and licked her hand. Her eyes switched to the left of Bilborough, settling on the picturesque rooftops of Avery in the distance. On a note of gravity she said, ‘I wish I could say the same for the town.'

She was remembering the last time she had been there, when Gwen, her stepmother, had been attacked by hostile locals, who had accused her of being a witch. Jane felt her heart contract with remembered fear.

‘It will be better now, Scamp. What happened was a long time ago. Things have moved on and people forget. Please God the people of Avery have done so.'

Not to let any unpleasant memories mar her home-coming, she thrust them away. Dropping Scamp to the ground, she laughed joyously, gathering the reins firmly in her hands. ‘Time for some exercise, Scamp. We are home at last and I can't wait to get there. Let's see who can get there first.' With a tap of her crop and a kick of her heels against the horse's flanks, she took off in a flurry of skirts.

As a child, no one but Jane's father had been able to control this wayward, headstrong girl. In Northampton Jacob Atkins had subdued her spirit and it had lain dormant but for ever simmering. And now, within sight of Bilborough, it was resurrected and ready to fly free.

Jane's father had been killed in a skirmish near Oxford, leaving his widow with not a penny in the house. The country at that time was racked with civil war, plague, food shortages and high prices. Gwen had no liking for Bilborough Hall or the people of Avery, who on the whole supported Parliament and were making their lives at Bilborough a misery. When the threat of
being charged with witchcraft became a reality, Gwen had fled Bilborough, taking Jane with her, and returned to live with her widowed brother at the family home in Northampton, much to Jane's disgust, who, despite her fondness for her stepmother, had thought she should do as other women with absentee husbands were doing all over England and play the soldier and stay and defend her home with prudence and valour.

Jacob Atkins had prospered in the provision of trade before the war. He had married the widow of a cloth merchant, who had brought him a small fortune and given him three daughters. He had promised Gwen on her deathbed that he would look after Jane until she married, but having his sights set on Bilborough Hall since the estate was not entailed to the male line and was now Jane's inheritance, he had a mind to marry her himself.

His anger would be fierce when he returned home and found her gone, but Jane had no qualms about leaving. When she'd put the house behind her, she'd felt like a gilded bird freed from its cage. But she feared that he would come after her and threaten her life and her future. Every waking moment from now on she would expect to see him. The picture of him coming after her for revenge was so bright, so vivid—inescapable. But she would not regret her decision to leave.

As she galloped towards Bilborough Hall with Scamp running along beside her, she was unaware of the three mounted men who had paused to watch her on the edge of a copse, their open-mouthed expressions revealing their astonishment and at the same time their masculine appreciation.

‘Good Lord! Where the devil did she come from?' one of them exclaimed.

‘Wonder who she is?' asked one of his companions.

The third man and the employer of the other two, Colonel Francis Russell, his eyes also following the female rider as she flashed across his sights in a blur of red, her long black hair streaming out behind her like a jaunty pennant on a ship's masthead, replied, ‘I'm sure the young woman, whoever she is, must be a stranger to these parts—dressed as she is.' His eyes sparkling with appreciation, he chuckled low. ‘If he were to see her, Justice Littleton would lose no time in having her whipped and clapped in the pillory.'

Francis continued to watch the young rider a moment longer before turning his horse and heading for home, for there was something totally distracting about watching a young woman racing a horse across the countryside without regard to how fast it was moving, or how uneven the ground stretching out ahead of her.

 

Jane rode through the arched gateway and into the courtyard. A single walnut tree gave shade in one corner. As she slid from the saddle, her horse, sensing that he was at journey's end, dropped his head and was twitching his lips in expectation of a bag of oats, while the flies settled on him.

Facing the house, she felt strangely lightheaded. Her whole body ached and she was hot and thirsty. The heat and sun had drained her energy and she was in desperate need of food. Having left so abruptly, she had sent no warning of her arrival, and she wondered what she would find.

Walking to a gate in one corner, she shoved it open and gazed at the garden spread out before her. The gardeners had kept up their work, at least. The lawn was freshly cut, the ornamental hedges trimmed. Sweet-scented roses grew up trellises lining the long terrace. A sundial gleamed gold on its marble column and a fountain sent up jets of crystal into the late afternoon sky, misting the grass brightly starred with meadow flowers.

The quiet and the stillness all around her was profound. She took a deep breath, drinking in everything she saw and felt. To live in such surroundings as these, without the hurly burly of Northampton was luxury indeed. Closing the gate, she turned her attention to the house. Climbing the shallow flight of wide stone steps to the door, she let herself quietly inside.

The spacious, oak-panelled hall was cool, the air scented with a subtle blend of beeswax and herbs. Elaborately ornamented stonework clearly evidenced the artistry of talented masons of bygone years in the fluted archways that set apart the great hall located at the heart of the manor. Two servants passing through merely glanced her way, their voices hushed to murmurs as they disappeared into the shadows. Without moving, Jane watched them go. The warmth and welcome of the house embraced her, bringing with it a sense of well-being. She felt herself begin to relax, the tensions of the journey easing out of her, but her head was aching terribly.

Two large wolfhounds stretched out in front of the hearth. Jane, who had grown up with dogs roaming the house and grounds, showed no fear of them, although
these two she did not recognise, which caused her to lift her brow in curious wonder. Smiling, she went to them.

‘Hello, you two.'

Sitting up, their tails thumping the floor, they sniffed and then licked her outstretched hand, and then she squatted down to pet them in turn.

Her attention was distracted when an elderly servant, her arms full of fresh linen she was about to take up the stairs, paused to turn and look at her. It was Mary Preston, who had been housekeeper at Bilborough Hall since before Jane was born. The older woman's mouth gaped open in amazement, her eyes opening wide in recognition, and she gasped. Retracing her steps, she carefully placed her burden on a central heavy round table before crossing to the young woman as quickly as her ample frame would allow.

‘Mistress Jane? Oh, mercy me! It is you. I thought my old eyes were playing tricks.'

‘Yes, Mary,' Jane replied, moving into the centre of the hall and kissing the housekeeper's cheek affectionately, ‘it's me, and glad to be home at last.'

‘Home? Oh—why…goodness me! You gave me quite a turn.'

‘I'm sorry if I frightened you,' Jane apologised.

In her black dress and white apron, her iron-grey hair covered by a white cap, outwardly Mary had changed little in the past four years, but on closer inspection, Jane saw that a look of anxiety had replaced the merry twinkle that had been for ever present in her eyes. She was a good, hard-working woman, and she had served the Lucas family faithfully over the years. On leaving
Bilborough for Northampton, her stepmother had dismissed the staff and left Mary and Silas as caretakers until the time came when they could return.

‘How are you, Mary? Well, I hope.'

‘A few more aches and pains, that's all. Of course I've worried about you, so far away, and I was sorry to learn that the mistress had died. But just look at you. I see you've fleshed out, but you've not changed.' Her eyes suddenly swam with tears. ‘You look more like your dear mother.' Jane's skin was unblemished and smooth as the petals of a rose. Her thick black hair fell about her shoulders in a tumble of glossy curls, and her graceful figure was full bosomed and slender waisted, her dark eyes aglow with warmth. ‘And I haven't seen a gown that colour since the dreary shackles of the Commonwealth began to tighten.'

As if in defiance of the new laws passed by the Government, Jane was indeed wearing a colourful gown—poppy red, in fact. She laughed, and couldn't help teasing Mary. ‘Would you rather I came back dressed like a black crow in Puritan garb? I'm not afraid of Oliver Cromwell, Mary—not him or all his ironsides. Besides, he isn't anywhere near here.'

As Jane did a quick turn to take everything in, she failed to see the sudden pallor on the housekeeper's face and her look of agitation as her eyes darted towards the door.

‘And how have you fared, Mary, these past four years?'

The housekeeper shook her head sadly. ‘After all the heartache and anxieties that have befallen us since the wars started, on the whole I can't grumble. I've always
had food to eat and a roof over my head. Too many good royalists have lost everything.'

‘We've all suffered,' Jane replied, suddenly sombre, ‘and there are many Royalists still in hiding after Worcester with a price on their heads. If there's any justice in the world, King Charles II will come into his own before too long.'

Mary shook her head sadly. ‘Dreams, Mistress Jane. That's all they are.'

‘Maybe so, Mary, but without dreams we achieve nothing. But,' she said on a more cheerful note, ‘there'll be no talk of war today. I'm here now, home at last, and from what I saw on my way to the house, Silas has done an excellent job. It's so good to be home, Mary. You can't imagine what it means to me. I want you to tell me everything that has happened.' Mary opened her mouth to speak but Jane gave her no time to answer before ploughing excitedly on. ‘I'll just go and take a look around upstairs. I'll need some hot water for a bath—I feel so hot and dusty after the journey,' she said, skipping towards the stairs.

Mary's arm came out to stop her. ‘Wait—there's something I should tell you, something you should know before…'

Jane was deaf to anything she had to say as she went up the wide staircase to explore the house, trying to ignore her worsening headache and her aching legs in the joy of being home. She smiled at the servants as they went about their work. She certainly hadn't expected to see so many; in fact, the house seemed fully staffed. Fresh-cut flowers filled vases and the silver gleamed. Floorboards, oak panelling and furniture were highly
polished, and was she mistaken or were there some pieces she hadn't seen before?

With no one living in the house for four years, she had expected the rooms to smell fusty with dust everywhere, but they didn't, which she considered strange.

Jane paused in the doorway to her old bedchamber and her expression became one of puzzlement. Tentatively she took a few steps forwards. As she did so she found she was able to distinguish the things around her better and she began to take in the details of the plain but sumptuous decor. The beautiful eggshell blue-and-silver curtains and bed hangings she had chosen many years ago were gone. Now the bed was entirely hung with midnight-blue velvet, quite plain and unadorned, save for the gold cords that held back the heavy curtains. The windows were hung with the same fabric as the bed. A pair of exquisitely carved ivory statuettes along with a chessboard of amethyst and silver, shining in the light, stood on a table by the window. On either side of the table were two comfortable leather chairs, which she had never seen before, and the portrait of her father, which had hung over the dresser, and the miniatures of her mother and herself on its surface, had been removed.

Who was responsible for the alterations and why? On one of the bedside tables was a leatherbound book by the sixteenth-century popular dramatist Christopher Marlowe. A scent hung in the air. It was a scent that was unfamiliar to her, a masculine scent. She was more bewildered than ever, for there was something intensely personal about the scent and the changes. Moving slowly round the bed, on the other bedside table there was a pistol. Holding her riding crop in one hand, she picked
the weapon up with the other and gazed at it in confusion. She was curious, but had no time to dwell on the changes, for at the sound of several horses clattering into the courtyard, she hurried to a window and looked down.

Three horsemen had drawn up in front of the house, but only one dismounted. Turning back towards the stairs she scowled, in no mood for visitors. What did they want? Treading quietly, she paused halfway down the stairs to observe the man who had entered, removing his hat, the heels of his wide-topped boots sounding loud on the stone floor. His presence seemed to fill the hall with authority. He went to the large hearth where a fire struggled to blaze. In an attempt to bring it back to life, he kicked a log into the centre of the dull glow, moving back when it sprung to life.