Destitute On His Doorstep (9 page)

‘At first it did, but he did his duty as he conceived it must be done.'

‘And where is he now?'

‘In France, with other Royalist fugitives.'

‘And will you hold it against him—that he chose the other side?'

He shook his head, his voice low and steady when
he spoke, but there was an unconcealed pain in the depths of his eyes when he remembered the heartrending moment when he had watched Walter leave their home to fight for the King.

‘No. He is my brother first and foremost. There were many things in which he and I could never be in agreement, but his politics are his affair and I respect that. He is a good soldier and a man of honour. The decision he took was a difficult one, but both Richard and I understood that he fought the war because, like us, he believed in the principles for which it stood.'

‘I can see how close you were as a family for it not to come between you. Did you ever meet in battle?'

‘No. I thank God we were spared that.'

‘And your father was a farrier.'

Francis laughed at her ignorance. ‘No. The farrier, John Russell, was my uncle. I was brought up at Russell House not far from Cambridge. My father was a horse breeder—indeed, he had some of the finest horses in England.'

Jane looked at him with sudden interest. ‘And is that what you do? I saw some fine horses in the paddock on my way here. I confess I was curious as to how they came to be there. Most of our horses were requisitioned by Parliament at the onset of the war. Others were stolen. We did not have the means to replace them. I suppose if we had, while ever the war continued they would have been seized, so what was the point?'

‘It is true that horses were always in short supply and were an extremely attractive item of booty. Cavalry and carters needed them. Horses were stolen, by both
Royalists and Parliamentarians, and they were hard to identify and almost impossible to recover.'

‘I thank God the war is over, but I am saddened by the outcome. So many lives were lost. The King made mistakes,' she went on quietly, ‘but our loyalty was to him to the end. The day Englishmen murdered their King is a day to remember for ever. God save King Charles II,' she murmured under her breath.

Soft as her voice was, Francis heard her. ‘My brother in France will share your sentiments—and I, too, in some ways. I had no desire to take the King's life. In the beginning thousands of young men set off for the Civil War full of that innocent enthusiasm with which so many before, and will do again, have welcomed the prospect of battle. Few had much idea of the reality of war. Brought up in a relatively peaceful society, they were totally unprepared for the military discipline, the physical exhaustion, the divided loyalties, the emotional strain, the loneliness, and, above all, the violence of combat. War is not some glorious adventure. It is a ruthless, bloody business inflicting suffering on thousands of people. I hope never to endure the like again.'

‘I'm sure you do, and I imagine you hope your brother will eventually find his way home from France so you can be united as a family again.'

‘If he were to do so now, he would be arrested, so it is my hope that he remains in France for the time being. He will be safe enough there. Tomorrow my brother Richard and his wife Elizabeth will arrive to spend some time at Bilborough. I have not seen them for some considerable time so it should be a joyous occasion. Elizabeth was Elizabeth Merton before she married Richard. I think
you will remember the family. The Merton family still live in the manor house outside Avery.'

‘Yes, I do remembered the family, although I am not acquainted with them. I recall Samuel Merton's name cropping up in conversations between my parents from time to time. He was an old man then, a man who, over the years, had not only become a wealthy miller but also a well-respected patriarch among the citizens of Avery. Elizabeth Merton and her younger sister must be his granddaughters.

He nodded and smiled. ‘That's right. You have a good memory. Tomorrow night I would be honoured if you would dine with us—if you are feeling well enough. The physician tells me you are past the infectious stage now. You will like Elizabeth, I promise you. She is a warm, kindly soul and devoted to Richard. So, Jane, what do you say? Will you dine with us?'

‘I—I'm not sure,' she answered hesitantly, taken by surprise by his invitation.

‘Elizabeth's sister Alice is to accompany them,' he added, seeking to ease the qualms she was apparently suffering, and thinking that another female for company might help her to decide. ‘She still lives at home with her parents. Elizabeth thought that while she is at Bilborough with Richard, it would be nice to spend some time with her sister.'

Still Jane hesitated. ‘Given the circumstances, I—really don't think that would be appropriate.'

The softness vanished from Francis's expression. ‘I don't see why not,' he said. ‘Unless it is beneath you to share a table with a horse breeder. The war is over, Jane.'

The silence that fell between them was as heavy as the executioner's axe. Francis had not blinked an eyelid and did not speak. He just looked at her, his mouth compressed into a stern arrogant line, and there was more intensity in his eyes than a thousand others.

She got to her feet quickly, drawing her cloak around her in a protective manner, despite the warmth of the evening. ‘I'm sorry, it's just that I'm finding it difficult coming to terms with not being able to call Bilborough my home any more.'

Francis stood up, brushing off the bits of grass that clung to his breeches. ‘Jane, had I not taken Bilborough someone else would have done, and if I were to walk away right now, someone else—another Roundhead, who would be less tolerant towards you than I—would take my place.' His expression softened. ‘So, Jane, what do you say? Will you eat supper with us tomorrow evening?'

They faced one another, the Royalist's young daughter and the Parliamentarian, and although neither abated one ounce of their dignity, or their unspoken opposition, the attraction between them was almost palpable. Jane was shaken to the core by the bewildering sensations racing through her body. She tried to turn her head away, but his extraordinary eyes drew her back. After a moment of deliberation, she decided that she would dine with him and his family.

‘Yes,' she agreed quietly, ‘very well—although—I have nothing suitable to wear.'

‘That can be overcome. There are trunks in the attic bursting with clothes. They belong to you. Take a look. I'm sure you'll find something.'

Together they rode back to the house, the mellow stone walls glinting golden as the sun went down on the horizon. Francis approached it with a deep affection for its elegance and grandeur, and he could well understand Jane's reluctance to let it go. But he hadn't been thinking of her when he had learned that the house had been sequestered and was looking for a new owner.

Glancing sideways at her companion, Jane could almost detect what he felt as he gazed at Bilborough. There were little lines of tiredness around his eyes, but they were bright, not from the dying sun, but from something else that lit them from within. There was also a tight, leashed excitement she sensed in him. It flowed from him in waves so that she could almost feel it. Why, she thought, Bilborough means a great deal to him. He loves this place just as I do. But he could never love it as much as she did.

W
hile the house was quiet in those empty hours following the midday meal, Jane climbed to the upper floor of the house where Gwen had set up her stillroom. With windows on two sides, the room was filled with light.

When she entered she took a deep breath, surprised that the air in Gwen's sanctum was still thick with the familiar spicy odours of herbs and roots and fungi. Peering around, she half-expected to find her stepmother pounding away with her pestle as she prepared some concoction or other.

Gwen had always kept the stillroom pristine. Now it was untidy and in need of a thorough clean, but otherwise little changed. Dozens of glass vials, bottles and jars in orderly ranks in the cupboards and on shelves gleamed in the light from the window, along with pestles and mortars, drying frames and stacks of bandages and dressings. On a writing desk in the corner were the black ledgers in which she had written down her recipes and notes for an assortment of symptoms and diseases. Even
her apron was still hanging at the back of the door, and the basket she had used to collect the plants was on a stool. It was as if Gwen had just slipped out and would be back any moment.

Slowly she walked around the room, touching and caressing Gwen's precious things. She could almost feel her presence. She breathed in and sighed deeply. Memories! At least she had them and could keep them in her heart, knowing that in the fullness of time, wherever she was, they would bring consolation. She stood and gazed out of the window, with no real sense of time. The scene was familiar, unchanged and pastoral. More than anywhere else in the house, it was here in the stillroom that she felt transported back in time. Despite the myriad of uncertainties of the future, despite the unpleasantness of her situation, for a moment she was content.

The silence lasted no more than a few moments before she sensed that she was no longer alone. Turning her head, she saw Francis, with his shoulder propped negligently against the door frame, his arms folded loosely across his chest. He smiled and she found herself smiling, too, and she knew her face was alight with pleasure at seeing him. She knew she should hate him, but Francis Russell had charm as potent as any magic.

‘I thought I heard a noise,' he said. ‘It isn't often anyone comes up here so I came to investigate. I hope I am not intruding.'

‘Of course not. If Bilborough is indeed your home, then it is I who intrude.'

‘You are my guest, Jane,' he said quietly. ‘I sense that this room brings back many memories for you. Would you like me to leave?'

She shook her head and again fixed her gaze out of the window. ‘No. That is not necessary. No matter how busy she was, Gwen would never turn anyone away who found their way to this room.'

Frances smiled in the sudden knowledge that for the first time since coming to Bilborough, she wanted to share her solitude. Shrugging himself away from the door frame, he moved across the room to share the space at the window. The quiet of the room and the beauty of the spreading countryside invited silence. He looked down at his companion. There was an aura of peace about her. Her expression was relaxed and serene. He was unable to tear his fascinated gaze away. Her shining hair tumbled over her shoulders in a glorious black mass, framing a face of heartbreaking beauty. Her skin was creamy smooth, her dark brows delicately arched, her lashes thick and curly. Pride and courage showed in every feature of her face, from her high cheekbones and stubborn chin. And yet her mouth was vulnerable and soft, as soft as her breasts that swelled beneath the bodice of her plain gown.

Aware of his scrutiny but not perturbed by it, Jane looked up at him and smiled. ‘I've spent many hours looking out of this window while Gwen mixed her medicines. The view is exactly as I remember it. I'm glad you haven't changed things.'

‘It is obvious to me that your stepmother spent a great deal of time and trouble setting it up. I wouldn't dream of changing a thing—not when it can be put to practical use in the future. She must have spent a great deal of her time in here.'

‘Yes, she did. When I came in I half-expected her to
see her standing at the table mixing her potions or writing in her ledger. I suppose it's hardly surprising, with so many of her things still here, just as she left them. I could almost feel her presence.' She laughed lightly. ‘I'm sorry. You must think I'm quite mad to be talking like this.'

‘Not at all. You were fond of her, I can tell.'

‘Yes, I was. I don't remember my real mother—she died when I was a baby. When Father married Gwen she became the mother I never had.'

‘You must miss your father very much.'

She nodded. ‘And Gwen. Everything was so happy then…' She bit her lip, feeling a wave of sadness. She had spoken of a time when she had been safe, when she hadn't known that people and events could harm her. ‘Gwen was an attractive, tall woman, always laughing—more often than not at herself—and she didn't suffer fools gladly. I should wish nothing but to be like her,' she murmured wistfully. ‘She was so kind and lovely, and she knew so much about herbs and things with healing powers. When she first came to Bilborough she was respected for her skills and she was as likely to be successful as any doctor in the curing of the sick—or at least in alleviating their discomforts. I wanted to know all she could teach me.'

‘And I imagine you were a good pupil and a great help to her,' Francis said, distracted by the myriad emotions at play in her expressive eyes.

His words, spoken softly, struck Jane with a sense of desperate longing for the woman who had shared her knowledge with her and shown her so much affection. ‘I'd like to think so,' she replied reflectively. ‘She was
a well-educated woman who learned her skills from her own mother and grandmother. She hated any kind of conjuring and would not even have her fortune told by the gypsies at the fair.'

Francis gazed down at her, sensing her sadness. ‘Can I ask what happened to her?'

‘We hadn't been living in Northampton very long when she contracted a fever. Sadly her medicines couldn't help her and she died within days.' A feeling of bitterness and anger replaced the sorrow and regret she felt for the loss of her stepmother. ‘We should never have had to leave Bilborough. It was so unfair, so unjust—and so very painful that you could not imagine. But we had to get away, otherwise Gwen would have been taken—as so many women were at that time who were knowledgeable about herbs and things.'

‘Yes, I remember, and you are right. They were times when people were anxious about witchcraft—fearful.'

‘Stories began to spread about her—about how she had a more sinister intent than mixing medicines to make people better—that she would light candles and like some kind of priestess cast spells and curses and summon ghosts and spirits to do evil things. It was all nonsense, of course, but people were suspicious and the stories got a deal worse after my father died.'

Francis was watching her seriously. ‘I can imagine how unpleasant things would have been had you stayed.'

‘The people of Avery were nothing but a lot of barbarians then, who would as soon kill her as look at her if they thought her a witch—and they did, but all the accusations against her were false. And the worst of it
all was that she'd helped so many of them when they had fallen sick. So much for gratitude,' she finished softly, unable to conceal the bitterness she still felt to this day.

‘And yet you weren't afraid to come back,' Francis said.

‘What had I to fear?' she replied, tossing her head back, almost as a gesture of defiant pride. ‘They could no longer persecute Gwen and I had every right. Besides I could not stay in Northampton any longer. Bilborough was my home. Where else would I go?'

Francis was not prepared for the sharp stab of pity he felt as he met her gaze. He saw beyond her words to the truth and recognised the heartless malice of those who had caused her so much pain. He felt a sudden, overpowering desire to ride into Avery and smash his fist into the people who had driven her from her home. ‘Where else indeed,' he murmured.

‘Had she not had me to consider, I think Gwen would have stayed here and faced the consequences, even though she knew she would never be able to convince those who would examine her that she was not possessed of the Devil. As things turned out, she died anyway.'

‘And you remained in Northampton for four full years,' Francis summarised, his voice filled with hoarse gentleness.

Jane stared at him, while a startling discovery slowly revealed itself to her. The man who she had accused of being ruthless was something quite different—he was, instead, a man who was capable of feeling acute sympathy for a woman who was a stranger to him—it was there in the softened lines of his face. She was
momentarily mesmerised, her eyes imprisoned by his hypnotic blue gaze.

‘I have given you reason to dislike me and I regret that, Jane. Do you dislike me?' he asked, putting his gloved and bare hands either side of her face, turning it up to his.

Jane was still and he held her gaze steadily, as if he were trying to will words he wanted to hear into her mouth. ‘No,' she said softly, lowering her gaze. ‘Of course not. I may not like what you have done to me, but I neither like nor dislike you.'

‘And you will allow me to call on you at the cottage when you move in?'

‘It is your cottage. It's not my place to deny you.' Under his fingers her cheeks were tingling. He smiled down at her and she looked at him, fascinated, powerfully aware of his charm, which was so strong it seemed to be a physical force. As his blue eyes met hers her head began to spin.

‘So you do like me then?' he demanded. With his bare hand he touched her cheek and her forehead, smoothing the tense flesh and caressing her temples with gentle fingers. The sun through the window made a spatter of light on her face and throat. Her lips were moist and parted and her teeth shone white between them. Her dark eyes held his insistently.

Placing her hand over his that cupped her cheek, she murmured, ‘Francis, what are you afraid of? You can kiss me if you like.'

There was no mistaking his ability to accept her offer, and before Jane knew what he was doing, he took her face in both his hands once more and kissed her, one soft
kiss, full on the lips, as confident as an acknowledged lover.

Raising his head, he gazed down at her soft features. His face was taut, his eyes smouldering with a desire so intent it scorched her. Losing himself in the soft liquid eyes that held him, he was barely conscious of his actions as he lowered his lips to hers once more, his free hand slipping through her hair to the nape of her neck. He felt her lips slacken and begin to tremble and then open as his mouth moved upon hers. He tasted response, sweet, warm and clinging, and was aware of the rapid beat of her heart pressed close to his chest. The kiss sent the hot blood rushing to his loins. His arms curled about her, gathering her close. A low moan slipped from Jane as his hands slid down her slender back to her buttocks, pressing her against his body.

This was not what she had intended when she had invited his kiss, but as she shivered with suppressed longings every fibre of her being cried out for him to take her. It was an agony to think of denying him, but deny him she must. Placing her hand upon his chest, she turned her face aside, trying to avoid another of his heady kisses before they besotted her mind.

‘We mustn't—we mustn't do this,' she pleaded softly. ‘I only invited you to kiss me the once. Anything else you take will not be with my consent.'

Francis lifted his head and stared down at her with hungering eyes, feeling his body begin to throb as it always did when he was near her. He was bewitched by her loveliness. She held such a powerful allure that he found it hard to remain in the same room as her. The thought of removing her clothes and dragging her
down to the floor and burying himself in her enchanting body beckoned him like a strong spell. The visual image of her naked and writhing beneath him, her long slender legs clasping him tight, brought him to a pulsing arousal.

He knew the game she was playing, which, if she did but know it, was a dangerous game for her, and he had made up his mind to play along with her from the beginning, but more kisses like that and he knew they would both be out of their depth.

The hunger in his eyes turned to laughter. ‘My dearest Jane. It is my fondest wish that we share the cup of passion, but when it happens it will not be a matter of taking. Until then I urge you to take better care of yourself. Your strength has not fully returned after your illness, and should you persist in this activity by inviting me to kiss you, you will at the very least delay your recovery.'

Sensing she had nothing to fear, she breathed a trembling sigh of relief. ‘I think,' she murmured, her face still upturned to his, ‘that you have a softer, more caring side to your nature than I gave you credit for, that your legend plays you false. All the things your adversaries say about you and about the things you've done—are not true.' She spoke softly, her beautiful dark eyes searching his face as if she could see into his soul.

‘Don't ever doubt it, Jane. They're all true,' Francis contradicted shortly, as visions of countless bloody battles he'd fought and the men he'd slaughtered paraded across his mind in all their lurid ugliness.

Jane knew nothing of his bleak memories, and her gentle heart rejected his self-proclaimed guilt. She knew
only that the man standing before her was a man who had valiantly tried to fight off a Royalist force headed by Captain Jacob Atkins, and how he had suffered the horrendous tortures inflicted on him when he'd been taken captive—and how he had gained the admiration of the young girl he still thought to this day had been a youth, when he had expressed his gratitude for her aid in his escape.

‘I don't believe it,' she murmured.

‘Believe it. You of all people must agree that it is so. You have cast me in the role of a bestial conqueror who has had the audacity to steal your home, so do not deceive yourself into casting me in another role. I am no virtuous knight in shining armour, Jane. Believe what you have heard and what your heart tells you. Most of it is true. But I ask you to believe me when I say that I do not wish you harm. I will protect you with my life if others come here to threaten you. Bilborough was your home before it was mine. When I bought it I did so because I wanted to live here and with no malicious intent towards you. Please believe that I only wish to do right by you.'