Marriage Under Siege

‘How so? I am hardly a threat to my neighbours, outnumbered as I am.’

‘So it would seem. But a Parliamentarian stronghold such as this in a Royalist enclave? A severe weakness, many would say, particularly as some of your neighbours might believe that your potential influence is now too great, given your fortunate increase in wealth and property. Some might decide that it would be best policy to divest you of some of that influence. Permanently!’ He showed his teeth without humour. ‘Some such as Fitzwilliam Coningsby!’

‘You are surely not thinking of a physical assault, are you?’ Mansell did not know whether to laugh at the prospect or to be horrified.

‘I hope not. But put your mind to your other properties. It would do well for you to see to their security before word of this gets out. As it most assuredly will.’

‘And you would give me that time, Sir William?’

‘I could. For the sake of family, you understand. But don’t expect too much of me. I am not enamoured of the work of Mr Pym and his rabble of supporters who would oust the rightful monarch—and replace him with what? God only knows. It would put all our lives and property in danger if we allowed such a thing to happen. Yours too, my lord.’

‘Now is not the time for such a discussion. But I am grateful for your advice and tolerance, Sir William. I hope that I can repay it.’ His features were softened a little by a genuine smile. ‘And not put you into too great a difficulty with Lady Croft.’

Sir William grunted, turning to collect his cloak and hat from the chest against the wall. ‘I must be going. What will Lady Mansell do now?’

‘I have no idea. Although I expect that she is more than well provided for. I presume, given the wardship, that she has no family to return to.’

Sir William shook his head. ‘These are not good times for young women, particularly wealthy ones, to exert their independence.’

‘I am aware. That, Sir William, is the next problem for me to consider.’

‘I wish you good fortune. And if you will take my advice, you will mention your allegiance towards Parliament to no one, at least not until you are certain that you can hold your property. I would hate you to lose it before you have taken possession!’ He laced his cloak and pulled his hat low on his brow. ‘Take care, my boy. Take care.’ Sir William clapped Mansell on the shoulder. ‘Local politics run very deep.’

The guests had all gone at last. Honoria, Lady Mansell, stood with her back to the smoking fire, listening to the silence around her. Absently she stroked the coarse shoulders of Morrighan, the wolfhound, who pressed close. Now what? Until this moment there had been so many necessary tasks for her to supervise or undertake, so much to fill her mind. Now there was nothing—until the business dealings with Mr Wellings, Edward’s lawyer, on the following morning. No one had taken up the offer of hospitality. How would they, in all honesty, wish to stay in this dismal castle, the very air redolent of despair, of hopelessness. Even Sir Joshua had gone to pack his few possessions prior to making the short journey to Ludlow before night fell. What should she do now? Her brain seemed to be incapable of coming to any sensible decision. All she wished to do was retire to her room and sleep for a week. Or weep from the relief that she was no longer governed by Lord Edward’s demands. But she would not! Tears solved no problems.

The great door at the end of the Hall opened to admit a blast of cold air and the new lord. He hesitated for a moment as he saw her there and then, as if reaching a difficult decision, walked slowly towards her, eyes intent. She lowered hers. It would not do to increase her vulnerability by a show of emotion or uncertainty. Or weakness. If she had learnt anything at all in her short life, it was just that.

She remembered him vividly from their first encounter at Whitehall. He had not remembered her, except as a vague acquaintance—indeed, how should he? She was not a noticeable person, would not draw a man’s attention in a crowd. Her hair, her face, her figure were all acceptable, she supposed, but really quite commonplace. Certainly not attractive enough to catch the eye of a man such as Francis Brampton, as he was then styled. But she remembered him.

And she remembered his wife. His betrothed as she had been then in the final months of 1640. Katherine. A lively, laughing sprite of a girl. A vibrant beauty with slender figure, tawny hair and jade green eyes, a young girl experiencing the pleasures of Court for the first time—the allure of the masques, the songs, the dancing. And they had so clearly been in love. A glance. A touch. A smile. Such small gestures had shouted their passion to the roof timbers. So much promise for the future of their marriage together. With an effort of will, Honoria closed her eyes to blot out the memory and governed her mind against the envy that had engulfed her and still had the power to bruise her heart. How could her own experience of marriage have been so empty of love, so painful and humiliating?

But, after all, what right had she to complain? Katherine was dead.

Honoria saw Mansell now when she raised her eyes once more, her control again securely in place, her lips firm. Not a courtier, in spite of his appearance at the sophisticated Court of Charles and Henrietta Maria, but rather a man of action. A soldier, perhaps. She knew that he was a younger son and so had been prepared to make a name for himself as a soldier or, more likely, politician. But then his elder brother had died, in a minor, meaningless skirmish against opposing forces near their estates in Suffolk, thus thrusting Sir Francis, as he became, into the role of head of family, into the elite of county society.

Honoria studied him. He was tall and rangy, well coordinated with long, lean muscles. Hard and fit, he carried no extra weight, his black velvet coat emphasising his broad shoulders and the sleek line of waist and thigh. She could imagine him being equally at home in the saddle or wielding a sword in battle. He walked towards her with long strides, with a natural grace and elegance, of which he was probably unaware.

He was not conventionally handsome, she decided—his features were too strong for that. But striking. Definitely not a man to be ignored in any circles. His hair, which waved to his shoulders, was dark brown with hints of gold and russet. His eyebrows were darker, drawing attention to remarkable pale grey eyes, which could appear almost silver when caught by the light, or dark and stormy when passions moved him. They were beautiful, she decided. And they made her shiver a little with their intensity. A masterful nose and firm lips, now set in a straight, uncompromising line. No, not handsome, but a striking face that would be impossible to overlook or forget. And made more memorable by a thin scar, which ran along his brow from his temple to clip the edge of one fine eyebrow. An old scar, thin and silver against his tanned skin. Honoria found that she could not take her eyes from him. And yet she was forced to acknowledge that he would be a dangerous man to cross. His face was imprinted with harsh lines of temper and a determination to have his own way, and it seemed to Honoria, given his confident arrogance, that he would enjoy much success.

She sighed a little. What would it have been like if she had been wed to Francis Brampton—Lord Mansell, as she must now learn to think of him—instead of Lord Edward? Handsome the new Lord Mansell might not be, but she had been well aware of the number of eyes that had followed him at Court. Followed him with feminine interest and speculation in spite of his recent betrothal. She herself had not been immune … But where had that thought come from? She pulled her scattered wits together. She had no idea what had prompted such a daydream—and it would not do to think further along those lines. To show emotion was to put yourself in the power of those who witnessed it. She must keep her feelings close at all costs.

Mansell continued to approach, unaware of the disturbing thoughts that ran through the lady’s mind. No, he decided, he hardly remembered her from their first meeting. Only a vague impression of a young woman within Denham’s family. How should it have been otherwise when he had been caught up in the glory of new love, held captive by Katherine’s vivid face and vibrant colouring. God—how he had loved her! And been consumed by the miracle that she should love him. It seemed like yesterday—and yet a lifetime ago. No! He would not have been aware of the woman who stood before him, shrouded in black and an indefinable air of desolation. Attractive enough, he supposed. Well born, rich—but nothing to compare with the girl who had shared his childhood and had bestowed on him her love and her heart so willingly. He could almost hear Katherine’s laughter. He closed his mind against the sharp lance of pain, forcing his thoughts back to the immediate problem. At that moment he sincerely doubted if Edward’s widow ever laughed!

The widow raised her eyes to his as he halted before her. ‘I trust that the arrangements were to your liking, my lord?’

‘Excellent—in the circumstances.’ His smile of thanks warmed his features. ‘I understand from Foxton that I have you to thank for the arrangements—and the spread of food. I have to admit that I had not given it much thought.’

‘How should you? Men rarely do. You merely expect it to be done.’

Mansell raised his brows, the smile fading, at the quick response. Had she intended such needle-sharp judgement? He could detect no malice in the lady’s face. Nothing except for a soul-crushing weariness that she could not disguise. He chose to control his instinctive reaction and bit down on a curt reply.

‘I could have no complaint, and nor could our guests, my lady. Unless it was the length of time it took the Reverend Gower to bury my late unlamented cousin.’

As on the previous evening, it crossed his mind that perhaps that was not the most tactful of comments to make to Edward’s widow, but she accepted the criticism of her lord with her usual lack of response. No touch of humour. No smile. Merely a frigid acceptance.

‘I believe that your family connection with Lord Edward is somewhat distant, my lord?’

‘Indeed.’ Mansell moved closer to the fire. ‘Some three generations back, I believe. My great-grandfather was brother to Edward’s great-grandfather, which makes us … well, second or third cousins, I suppose. And I had no expectation of this inheritance, of course.’

‘I heard about your brother’s recent death, my lord. And that of your wife and son. I am sorry for your tragic loss. It must be very hard to accept it.’ He heard a note of true regret in her voice. Even as he mentally withdrew from further expressions of sympathy—had he not suffered enough for one day?—he saw a shiver run through her so that he surprised himself and her by reaching out to cover her clasped hands with his own. And he kept the contact even when the wolfhound showed her teeth in silent warning.

Her hands were icy.

‘You are frozen, my lady. This is no place for you.’

Honoria choked back the sudden threat of tears at such an unexpected expression of consideration, silently horrified at how little it took to disturb her.

‘It is no matter,’ she answered in a low voice. ‘I will see to the clearing of the repast now. I will talk to Master Foxton and Mistress Morgan.’

‘You will not.’ Sir Francis turned her hands within his own, aware of the soft skin and slender fingers. Such small hands to be burdened with such responsibility. He snapped his concentration back to the immediate. ‘Is there a fire in the solar?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then come. You have been on your feet all morning and should rest a little. And some wine will be acceptable, I think.’

‘But Sir Joshua—’

‘Sir Joshua can fend for himself admirably. Have you eaten today?’

‘It is not important …’

‘I suppose that means no. No wonder you look so pale and tired.’ Mansell took her arm, in a gentle grasp, but one which brooked no more argument and allowed her no room for rebellion. He led her to the stair. The wolfhound shook herself and pattered after them, her blunt claws clicking on the stone treads.

Soon Lady Mansell found herself ensconced in a cushioned settle before the smouldering, banked fire in the solar.

‘Stay there,’ he ordered, frowning down at her. ‘I shall return shortly.’

It was easiest, Honoria decided, to do just that, although she did not want the inevitable conversation with the new owner of Brampton Percy. He returned with wine and a platter of bread and cheese, which he placed at her elbow and then kicked the logs into a blaze. When he took a seat on the settle facing her, Morrighan stretched before the warmth with a heavy sigh, but kept her pale eyes on the intruder. Honoria sat quietly, waiting, ignoring the food and wine.

‘I cannot force you to eat, of course,’ he commented in a clipped tone, disapproval evident in his stern face.

‘I am not hungry.’ The slightest of shrugs.

Suppressing the urge to take issue with her on this point, he decided that it would serve no purpose and that he should go with impulse to discover what he could about the lady. ‘Will you tell me about your marriage?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I will understand if you choose not to but … Do I presume correctly that it was not a love match.’

‘No. It was not.’

‘I see.’ What should he say next?

‘You should not forget, my lord, that I was an heiress,’ the lady obliged him by explaining the situation, ‘and my parents were dead. The Court of Wards placed me and my estates under the authority of Sir Robert Denham as my guardian, until such time as a suitable marriage could be arranged.’

‘Of course. And so Lord Edward bought your wardship from Sir Robert.’

‘Indeed, my lord. Lord Edward informed me that he had managed to scrape together enough money from the estate for the purchase in the hope of a good return on his investments. Not least an heir. It cost him the noble sum of £2,000 to acquire my hand and my lands. He begrudged every penny of it and the effort it took to raise it from his unwilling tenants. He lost no opportunity to inform me of it.’

The statement of events was delivered in such a soft, flat tone, but his ear was quick to pick up an underlying thread of—what? Hurt? Humiliation? His heart was again touched, the merest brush of compassion, by her calm acceptance of her experiences.

‘That could not have been pleasant for you.’

‘It is the lot of heiresses, I believe. I cannot complain.’

‘Forgive me for touching on a personal subject, but surely your guardian could have found you a more suitable husband?’ Mansell resorted to the direct. ‘Lord Edward must have been nearer sixty than twenty. And, with respect, I would have expected you to have been married before now.’

‘Before my advanced age?’ Her hazel eyes met and held his. ‘I am twenty-three, my lord.’

A slight flush touched his lean cheeks and a spark of anger, of guilt, glinted in his eye: he might have broached the subject head on, but he had not expected her to be so outspoken. ‘It was not my intention to be so insensitive, my lady. It is simply that, in general, heiresses have no lack of suitors. There must have been others more … appealing, shall we say, than my cousin Edward.’

‘You read the situation correctly, my lord. I am not offended. There was no lack of suitors.’ She was cold now, as if reciting the contents of a recipe. ‘When I was very young I was betrothed to George Manners, the heir to the Stafford estates. I only met him once. He was very young—still a child, in fact, even younger than I was—and very sweet. I remember that he wanted to climb the trees in the park … he died from a contagious fever within a year of our betrothal.’

‘I am sorry.’

She lifted her shoulders again dispassionately, turning her face to the fire. ‘And then I was betrothed to Sir Henry Blackmore, cousin to the Earl of Sunderland. He had very powerful connections and had his eye to my estates. We met on a number of occasions. We would seem to have been compatible. He died from a bullet in the head last year at Edgehill.’

‘I see. And then there was Edward.’

‘And then there was Edward.’ A mere whisper.

He could think of nothing to say about the sad little catalogue of events.

‘So you see,’ she continued, her voice stronger now, ‘as long as Lord Edward was willing to pay the price, my guardian was more than pleased to accept his offer.’

‘Were they kind to you?’

‘Sir Robert? Of course. I was given every attention and consideration by Sir Robert and his wife. It was his duty to do so and he took his obligations very seriously. As a Baron of the Exchequer, he could afford to live in considerable style and I was brought up with his daughters as one of the family. I lacked for nothing. My education was exemplary. I have all the skills deemed necessary for an eligible bride. But a guardianship cannot go on for ever. I believe that the outbreak of the war spurred my guardian to push for the marriage. And I believe that he wanted the money to donate to the Royal cause.’

But they did not care for you, did not love you, did they? Did she realise that she had spoken only of duty and obligation?

Mansell felt a sudden inclination to ask if Lord Edward had also been kind and considerate to her but knew that he must not. It was too private a matter. And after Croft’s comments, the answer was in doubt. Whatever the truth of the matter, she was now free of her obligation and might achieve a happier future.

‘What will you do now, my lady? I presume that you will not wish to return to the household of your guardian.’

‘No. I have no further claim on them. The legal obligation is complete. But I have made plans. You need not fear that I shall be a burden on you, my lord. As an heiress I have an excellent jointure. It will all be clarified at the reading of the will, but I am aware of the terms of the settlement that was negotiated with Sir Robert on my marriage. I know that Lord Edward made a new will on our return here and my jointure is secure. I need nothing from you.’

‘That was not what I meant.’ He tried to quell the sudden leap of annoyance at her resistance. ‘Where will you go?’ he pursued. ‘You can hardly live alone and unprotected. Not with the prospect of armed gangs, not to mention legitimate troops who are prepared to take possession of any property that might further their cause.’

‘I shall not be unprotected.’ She noted but ignored the impatience in his voice and in the determined clenching of his jaw. ‘Sir William Croft offered me an armed guard if I wish to travel any distance. And certainly I can live alone within my own household. As a widow of advanced years I hardly need a chaperon. And as a woman I believe that I will be in less danger of attack than you, my lord. No man willingly wages war against an unprotected woman. It is not considered chivalrous.’ Her lips twitched in the merest of smiles. ‘Sir William’s warning and advice to you would seem to have been most apt, my lord. It is perhaps necessary for you to look to your own possessions, rather than be concerned with mine.’

‘I see that you are well informed!’ And how did she know about that? Annoyance deepened. ‘I suppose that I must learn that nothing remains secret for long in this house.’

‘Very true. Besides,’ she continued, ‘I have had my fill of protection, of betrothals and marriage.’ She breathed in steadily as her wayward emotions once more threatened to slip beyond her grasp. ‘Primarily I shall go to Leintwardine Manor. It is part of my jointure and only a short distance from here. I shall be comfortable there. It is a place of … great charm.’

‘I still do not think you should do anything precipitate,’ Mansell insisted. ‘Take time to decide what is best for you.’

‘I shall remove myself from this place as soon as may be. By Friday, if that can be arranged.’ He noted the faintest of shudders once again run through her slight frame and did not believe that it was from cold.

‘You sound as if you hate it here.’

‘I never said that.’ For one moment her eyes blazed, glinting gold and green in their depths, only to be veiled by a swift downsweep of sable lashes.

‘You do not appear to appreciate the very real dangers,’ he pursued the point, but knew he was losing the battle. ‘I feel a sense of duty to see to your comfort—and safety.’

‘How so?’ Her gaze was direct, an unmistakable challenge. ‘You have no duty towards me. You need not concern yourself over my future, my lord Mansell. After all, until yesterday, you were not even aware that I existed as a member of your extended family. After tomorrow, I shall take my leave.’

Abruptly she stood to put an end to the discussion and walked from the room without a backward glance, leaving food and wine untouched, her black silk skirts brushing softly against the oak floor. The wolfhound shadowed her once more, leaving Mansell alone in the solar to curse women who were obstinately blind to where their best interests might lie.

‘And the problem is,’ he confided to Sir Joshua when he walked with him to the stables an hour later, ‘I find that however much I might wish to accept her decision, to let her make her own arrangements, I simply cannot do so. God save me from difficult, opinionated women!’

Chapter Three

‘A sad occasion, my lord.’ Mr Gregory Wellings shuffled the papers before him with all the professional and pompous efficiency of a successful lawyer.

Thursday morning.

They had chosen to meet in a room that might have been transformed into a library or study, or even an estate office, if any of the previous Brampton lords had shown the least inclination towards either books or business. Since they had not, it was a little-used chamber, of more recent construction than the original fortress, but neglected in spite of the splendid carving on the wooden panelling and the wide window seats, which might tempt someone at leisure to sit and take in the sweep of the distant hills. Although it was rarely used, there was clear evidence of some recent attempt at cleaning, presumably for this very event. Where else would it be possible to invite Lord Edward’s legal man to read the will to those who might expect some recognition? The floors had been swept, the heavy hangings beaten to remove the worst of the dust and cobwebs. A fire burned and crackled fiercely to offset the dank air. The mullioned windows, larger than many in the castle, had been cleaned and, although still smeared with engrained grime, allowed faint rays of spring sunshine to percolate the gloom. A scarred, well-used oak table served as a desk for Mr Wellings to preside over the legal affairs of the dead, the surface littered with documents and letters, frayed ribbon and cracked seals. The two documents before him, upon which his thin hands now rested, were both new, the paper still in uncreased and unstained condition.

Honoria had taken a seat on an upright chair beside the fire. Lord Mansell stood behind her, leaning an arm against the high carved mantel. The lady was as impassive as ever, but Mansell’s concern for her well-being increased as the days passed. If she had slept at all the previous night it would have been a surprise to him. Her hair and skin and her eyes were dull as if they had lost all vitality and he knew with certainty that she was not eating enough. If only she had some colour in her cheeks and not the stark shadows from exhaustion and strain. Whatever was troubling her was putting her under severe stress, but she clearly had no intention of unburdening her anxieties to him. Whenever possible she absented herself from his company. When they met they exchanged words about nothing but the merest commonplace. Why are you so unhappy? he asked her silently, glancing down at her averted face. Surely your freedom from Sir Edward with a substantial income in your own name should be a source of happiness and contentment, not despair? But he found no answer to his concerns. Perhaps she was indeed merely dull, with no qualities to attract.