Anne O'Brien - Puritan Bride

Felicity’s voice calling her name from close at hand caught her attention. It was enough to herald disaster. She fumbled, the pottery too smooth in her grasp and her swollen knuckles unable to keep a firm pressure.

She dropped the pot. It shattered on the tiled floor at her feet, sending shards of painted clay in every direction.

Elizabeth groaned in frustration and self-disgust. Now she would have to clear it up, whatever mess it contained—apart from having wilfully destroyed a handsome jug. Relief and some surprise swept through her, however, when she realised that, in spite of the stopper and the seal, the jug was, in fact, empty. All she could see around her feet were broken pieces of pottery.

It took no time for Elizabeth to accept that her hips and knees would not allow her to stoop to the floor to sweep up the pieces, however much she might like to hide the evidence. Never mind, Mistress Neale would see to it. Or even Felicity. After all, it was her fault, calling out in such a fractious voice that Elizabeth had dropped it in the first place. At least the vessel would not have been worth very much. It was not as if it was a family heirloom. Old, yes, but surely not of any great value.

As she closed the cabinet, Elizabeth was touched by a prickle of ice all the way down her spine. She shivered, experiencing a sudden desire to leave the still-room and take refuge in the warmth and familiarity of the kitchen. Nothing tangible. Just a natural discomfort, brought on by the cold and damp. And guilt, probably!

She closed the door, locked it, and retraced her steps to the kitchen—but she was unable to throw off the faint chill of unease. She resisted an urge to look behind her.

The formal gardens of Downham Hall were awash with spring sunshine, the clipped box hedges spangled with diamond raindrops. An attractive prospect after the gloom of winter months, but the chill wind and threat of further showers was sufficient to deter any but the hardiest of gardeners or the most determined seekers of natural beauty. Or solitude.

The lady, protected by a hooded cloak, was oblivious to the perfect symmetry of neat flower beds or the impressive vista of rolling park land. Her attention was clearly fixed on the man kneeling at her feet.

‘Kate! Will you marry me? You must know that I love you. It cannot be a surprise to you after all these months—years, even.’ The urgency in his tone surprised her: her cousin could usually be relied upon to remain calm and unruffled in any eventuality.

‘I … Oh, Richard! Do get up! If my uncle sees us, it will only make matters far worse than they already are. Besides, you are kneeling in a puddle.’

Richard rose to his feet, but kept a tight clasp of Kate’s hands.

‘Be serious, Kate. Marriage could solve all our problems, whatever Sir Henry believes. Besides, I know that you love me. I am certain that I have not been mistaken in this.’

Releasing her hands abruptly, Richard pushed back her hood so that Kate had no choice but to look at him when she answered. There might have been traces of tears on her cheeks, but she raised her eyes to his with no shadow of uncertainty.

‘You know how I feel, Richard. I have always cared for you. When we were children, you were my magnificent cousin. In recent years … I have come to rely on you far more than I think you realise.’

Richard returned her smile, but grasped her shoulders insistently. Kate became intensely aware of the pressure of his fingers through the worn velvet.

‘Then if that is so, why are you so anxious?’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Why will you not give your consent to wed me? To allow me to approach your uncle?’

Kate sighed and turned away, forcing him to release her. She appeared to survey the distant landscape, but her violet-blue eyes were focused on unseen horizons.

‘You know it is not possible.’ she explained patiently. ‘Come. Let us walk a little. I feel that walls have ears and there are too many people in this house who are willing to carry tales to my uncle. And none of them would wish us well.’

Richard offered his arm with a graceful bow. They crossed the paved terrace and descended the shallow steps to stroll amongst the wintry flower beds. By mutual agreement they came to a halt at the centre. Kate wrapped herself more closely into the heavy folds of her cloak and seated herself on the stone edging of an ornamental fountain.

‘Are we far enough from the house now to be out of earshot? We only have these underclad nymphs for company.’ Richard raised his hand in the direction of the marble mermaids and sea horses, silent witnesses who continued to release sprays of water from their conch shells. There was a teasing note in Richard’s voice, but Kate did not respond to it. Instead there was an unexpected depth of bitterness in her immediate reply.

‘No! We are not! I can never be far enough away. I know that I should be grateful, but gratitude has a finite quality—and I have been everlastingly grateful for twenty years!’

‘Then marry me. That will enable you to live sufficient distance from this house to give you all the freedom and independence you desire.’

Kate shook her head. ‘But don’t you see, Richard? Independence is the crux of the matter. I owe everything to my uncle. So does my mother. Since the day Winteringham Priory was besieged and overrun by the Royalists we have been dependent on Sir Henry for everything. From the food that we eat to the clothes that we stand up in.’ She smoothed her fingers over a worn patch of velvet and pushed a frayed ribbon edging out of sight. ‘How old was I when it happened? Three months? I have no recollection of my own home. My father’s death at Naseby simply complicated an already impossible situation. For twenty years Sir Henry has fed, clothed and housed my mother and myself. His plans for my future can not be lightly disregarded. And then, of course, there is the question of money!’ Kate’s eyes sparkled with anger. ‘And the land settlement!’

‘But surely our marriage would help to smooth over the inheritance problem?’ Richard joined her on the parapet and once more took possession of her cold fingers. ‘You are the direct heir to the estate. We know that a female claim brings its own difficulties but, after my father, I have the most direct male claim. Our marriage would ensure that Winteringham Priory returns to our family where it rightfully belongs. I can not accept that Sir Henry will be so antagonistic to our union. It would also be an excellent opportunity to get you off his hands for good!’

Richard’s persuasive argument did little to calm his companion. ‘Oh, I agree. I know all the arguments. How should I not? I have heard them so often over the past three years since the King returned. But I’m not at all sure that what is legal and rightful will play any part in the final outcome. My uncle certainly does not think so. Oh, Richard! Why does it all have to be so difficult?’

‘Politics, of course. And, as you so rightly said, money.’ In spite of Kate’s obvious distress, Richard rose abruptly and walked away from her. She watched him as he strode to the balustrade which separated them from the sunken garden. He leaned his hands upon it, his back to her. The rigid set of his shoulders spoke of his frustration at his inability to solve the problems of a financially ruined and disgraced Parliamentarian family in this time of revival of Royalist for tunes.

Her heart went out to him. Her own father had declared for Parliament, but his death in battle in 1645 had effectively removed the Harley family from the political scene. Her brother Edward, a baby, had died of the sweating sickness before she was born. Except for local events her uncle, Sir Henry Jessop, had deliberately remained uninvolved throughout the Interregnum. ‘A sensible man stays at home and keeps his head down!’ became his frequently expressed opinion.