Anne O'Brien - Puritan Bride

‘No!’

The single word hung in the sudden silence. Kate slowly drew in her breath, eyes fixed defiantly on Sir Henry Jessop, and waited for the storm to break. She did not have to wait long. Not even the presence of Simon Hotham, hunched and brooding in a high-backed chair beside the fireplace, could restrain her uncle from expressing his displeasure toward his errant niece.

‘No?’ Sir Henry rose from his chair behind the desk with a distinct air of menace. ‘Perhaps I have misunderstood you, madam?’

Kate bowed her head, but not in submission. She remained straight-backed, alone and defiant in the centre of the room.

‘No,’ she repeated it with commendable calm. ‘There is no misunderstanding. I will not marry Viscount Marlbrooke.’

Sir Henry thrust back his chair, which lurched violently, rounding on his sister who shrank back in alarm.

‘What’s this? Did I not tell you to instruct your daughter in what is expected of her?’

‘Well … of course, Henry, but … I haven’t … that is to say …’

‘I understand only too clearly, madam! I hoped that I could rely on you in matters concerning the welfare of this family. It seems once again that I was wrong. Is it too much to ask?’

‘But indeed, brother—’

Kate intervened to save her mother from any further distress.

‘My mother did not have the opportunity to inform me of your wishes, sir. I have been engaged with the housekeeper this morning.’ She risked a quick glance at her mother to plead her compliance with this obvious lie, but received no recognition. ‘But whether I was aware of your plans or not,’ she continued, ‘I will not comply.’

‘Indeed. It is high time you were married with a husband to teach you obedience and good manners since your lady mother has so clearly failed. You will accept Marlbrooke’s offer or I will have you locked in your room and whipped until you do.’

Kate’s eyes flashed with anger, her usually pale cheeks washed with a delicate colour.

‘How dare you! I have been obedient to your wishes all my life. But this is a different matter. My father fought for Parliament against the King and served the cause loyally.’

‘I am well aware of your father’s unwise commitment.’

But Kate refused to be deflected by the sly slur on her father’s memory. ‘He gave up his life for his beliefs at Naseby. How can I tarnish his memory by marrying a popinjay of a Royalist? A courtier who concerns himself with nothing but pleasure.’

‘You know nothing about him, girl! How should you? As for the rest, it is all history and must be buried with all speed. It will do us no good to hang on to past loyalties.’ Sir Henry might be too well aware of Marlbrooke’s reputation, but he had no intention of acknowledging it before his wilful niece. The less ammunition she had against this marriage, the better.

Kate turned to her mother in despair. ‘My father would not have wanted this. Would he?’ She sank on her knees beside her mother’s chair in a swish of blue velvet skirts. ‘Have you nothing to say to support me in this?’

But Lady Philippa refused to meet her eyes or respond to her daughter’s anguish. She simply sat, continuing to pleat the lace edging of her handkerchief, and ignored Kate’s grasp on her arm. Kate watched her in exasperation, wondering not for the first time how she could have so little in common with this nervous, faded lady who had given her birth. Her face was still unlined and her figure had the trimness of youth, but her soft brown hair, severely confined, and her blue eyes had faded with time as if she might slowly disappear from view. Even her grey damask gown added to the illusion that it was her wish to become invisible, to merge with the furniture and hangings. Widowhood had not treated her kindly. She needed love and support to bolster her self-esteem: her brother’s blustering spirit caused her to wince and cower. Even now she turned her face away from the intense emotions expressed around her.

‘Your father is dead,’ continued Sir Henry as if Kate had not interrupted him. ‘As your uncle, your marriage is now my affair. The war and your father’s death ruined us. We must restore our fortunes—and this is the obvious opportunity.’

Kate rose to her feet and swept round to face her uncle, seizing the obvious weapon for attack, to Sir Henry’s dismay. ‘I have been told of the state of our family fortunes since childhood. Surely the chief cause of our ruin was Viscount Marlbrooke himself? And now you wish to marry me into the Oxenden family. His son, I presume? I find the logic of this beyond belief and it smacks to me of hypocrisy.’ The sarcasm was heavy on her tongue and her direct gaze issued a challenge to Sir Henry. He picked up the challenge immediately.

‘Your memory is perfectly sound. Marlbrooke took possession of Winteringham Priory in 1643 and—’

‘I know it! Mother, how can you countenance this match? Surely the events of the past were too painful for you to lay aside now without comment? Driven from your home by the direct orders of Viscount Marlbrooke, unable to make contact with your husband, your baby son dead and myself only a few months old—how can you tolerate this?’

Lady Philippa raised her handkerchief to catch the tears that had begun to flow down her cheeks. ‘Indeed, my love. It is all true. But …’ she sniffed and blew her nose ‘… your uncle believes that this marriage will be for the best and will secure the Priory for our family. I don’t quite understand … but pray listen to him, my love. He is thinking of your comfort as well as the restitution of the family.’ She began to sob in earnest to Sir Henry’s evident disgust. He cast his eyes to heaven.

‘So how can my marriage to Viscount Marlbrooke be in any way advantageous?’ Kate demanded of her uncle as she abandoned any hope of a sensible response from her mother.

‘Your niece has the truth of it. I am unable to support you in this proposal, Sir Henry.’ The words dropped into the heated atmosphere with the sizzle of hailstones into a dish of mulled ale.

Simon Hotham had remained silent, his crippled fingers, talon-like, resting awkwardly on the oak carving of his chair. His pale grey eyes settled on his brother by marriage, fierce and uncompromising with a depth of contempt for the argument developing round him. Once he had had an enviable reputation as a soldier in Cromwell’s Army. But that was before the destruction of Republicanism and Puritanism, the two great causes of his life, and, after taking a bullet wound in his thigh in the Battle of Worcester, the destruction of his health. Now his once tall, well-muscled body, used to a life of action and authority, was bent and wasted, his face lined with pain. Now he found difficulty in walking even the shortest distance without the aid of sticks and rarely travelled far from home. Bitter disillusion, a dark cloud, now cloaked his every move and thought, his driving ambition being to restore the power and authority of the Hotham family, through his son Richard. Richard, his first born and light of his life. Simon’s fair hair was lank and thinning, his lips pressed into a thin line of austerity, his cheeks hollowed. Yet Kate saw Richard in his face and build and smiled her gratitude for his championship of her cause. She was surprised to receive help from this quarter.

‘I find that I must agree with Mistress Katherine,’ Mr Hotham continued, ignoring Kate and addressing his remarks to Sir Henry. ‘I cannot believe that you would even consider marriage to an Oxenden. It brands you a traitor to the name of Harley and negates everything that your sister suffered in her exile from her home.’

‘Forgive me, Simon—’ a nerve twitched in Sir Henry’s jaw as he strove to control his anger at this unwarranted interruption ‘—but this is not your concern. And even you must see that the marriage would guarantee to restore the Priory to us and our descendants.’