The Lady's Slipper (5 page)

It was almost dark by the time Geoffrey arrived home, dishevelled and angry. After riding up the long driveway to his estate, he had the lads turn out the new horse to grass straightaway. He would never ride the brute again. As he returned from the stableyard the household were flanking the steps between the great stone urns to greet him after his long voyage, but he was in no mood to stop and exchange pleasantries. He strode up the curved flight of stone steps, handed his gloves and crop to the manservant and took himself straight to his chambers. A stiff drink would both steady his nerves and ease the heat and irritation that crawled on the inside of his clothes. Riding was more and more painful, but he was reluctant to take the coach like an old man yet. Not only that, but the voyage from the Americas had been rough; they had been nine weeks at sea, and he was still trying to find his land legs.

He summoned Patterson, had him light the candles, then sent him to make a tepid bath, a luxury he had not enjoyed during his time abroad. At the side table, he poured himself a large glass of Madeira. He settled down in the cushioned chair by the window, rubbed his forehead with his fingers and ran the day’s events through his mind.

How disconcerting to come across Richard Wheeler in those circumstances–no topcoat, like a farmhand, and his hair straggling unkempt over his collar. Last time he had seen him he had been in the colours of the Puritan army, surrounded by a fawning rabble, and he had never expected to see him again.

He had been caught off guard. It seemed Richard had become even more dangerously unhinged than before. Even when they had been friends, something about him had always made Geoffrey feel a little inferior, like a stone that rankles in your shoe. He pushed the thought of him away; the memory of him made him want to retch. A few moments later his manservant reappeared.

‘What is it, Patterson?’

‘Your wife awaits you in the drawing room, sir.’

‘Tell her I will be along presently.’ Was the stupid woman unable to wait? He had barely set foot in the house and already she was demanding his attention. Geoffrey sighed and circled his fingers on his temples. Emilia caused him nothing but irritation. Over the years it had become insufferable–to set eyes on her filled him with an urge to strike her silly face, to see the heat of blood rise to her waxen powdered cheeks. She was so dull, and uncomely, and insipid. Like a child, she was only interested in the gifts he had brought her, and unable to participate in intelligent discourse.

She had never, even through the troubles, asked him anything about the reason for the uprisings, even with the sound of musket-fire echoing down the chimney and Cromwell nearly camped on their back doorstep. She paid no attention to his scientific pursuits, except to make veiled complaints about the expense of the equipment. Nor had she shown the slightest concern for his ships or land in the Low Countries or New England, or his idea for developing the quay at Lancaster. Not that he expected her to know anything about such things–after all, she was a woman–but he did expect her to show some regard for his affairs to denote her affection.

When he had married her she was young, and passably pretty, and he had been attracted by her larger than average dowry and her father’s lucrative mines and connections in the world of finance. He had hoped for companionship and even affection. In this he had been sadly disappointed. Despite the fact that he no longer found Emilia remotely attractive, it still irked him that he had not developed a particularly intimate relationship with his wife. Things had begun to slide downhill almost from the beginning. His affliction, which was an embarrassment, had seen to that. He had always been reluctant to show his scaling skin in the bedroom.

He recalled with distaste the hurried fumblings in the pitch black of the stuffy bedchamber, and Emilia’s scrabbling fingers, which had only served to make things worse. Once a few months of marriage had passed and Emilia was with child, he had begun to seek the company of other women as soon as he was in town. He could pay for the gentle touch he needed, and they would not be finicky about his appearance, as long as his purse was ample. He downed the Madeira in one, then poured another amber stream from the decanter and emptied it down his throat before reluctantly making for the drawing room.

Emilia was standing before the broad stone fireplace, wearing the latest fallback-styled gown from France–not that it made her any more attractive. Geoffrey looked at her heavily powdered complexion and wispy blonde hair with distaste.

‘It is good to have you home, husband, we have been waiting all day,’ she said coquettishly.

He regarded his wife’s jutting collarbones, goosepimpled shoulders and flat stomacher. His thoughts momentarily strayed to the ample bosom of his last fancy, but he pulled himself up short, it would do him no good to think of her. His breeches chafed and, although it was a fine cambric, his shirt itched.

‘I would have been here sooner, but for an unfortunate incident in the market place, when I stopped to buy you some rosewater.’

‘That is sweet of you.’ She rushed over to him in a rustle of dun-coloured taffeta and lace. ‘Where is it? Fetch it for me, Lizzie.’

He signalled to the maidservant who proffered the two bottles tied with silk ribbons. She took up the bottles but soon lost interest, as if they were of no account, and waved the servant away. Geoffrey recalled the trouble it had cost him to procure them, of his narrow escape from the baying crowd. At that moment he felt a surge of hatred for Emilia. But he buried it. He was a master of self-control. Besides, he was used to hiding things. He would not be bringing her any more trinkets from his voyages.

She moved to take him by the elbow. He discreetly shook her off. ‘What else did you purchase whilst you were away?’

He answered his wife with a fixed expression. ‘Patterson has left all the gifts in your dressing room.’

‘Then I shall go there directly.’ She gave him another teasing look. ‘Is it some goldpoint lace? Or more of those marchpane delicacies? Or something else?’

She held up her cold dry cheek to be kissed. Seeing that the servants were watching, Geoffrey brushed his lips against it with the barest touch. Her face lit up and she tapped him playfully on the arm with her fan. He flinched inwardly. She should know by now that her feigned coyness stuck in his craw. He watched her rustle away, but then she paused by the double doors, patting her fan on her hand.

‘I forgot to tell you, the Rawlinsons are coming for supper. Robert wants to talk to you expressly about some difficulties he is having on his estate.’

‘Then you will be supping with them alone. I am not in mind to deal with his petty squabbles. I have just spent more than a month attempting to keep the peace on my estates in New England. I am not going to spend my evenings at home doing the same.’

‘But, Geoffrey,’ she wheedled, ‘they know you are at home. There’s talk of another insurrection, and I am afraid.’ Her lower lip quivered. ‘I fear that the king may call Stephen to arms.’

Geoffrey sighed. This was a calculated move on Emilia’s part to get her own way; she knew perfectly well that mention of their son would ensure his attention. He had wanted more sons, but could not bring himself to go near his wife again. Nevertheless, an insurrection did sound serious. Rawlinson owned vast swathes of the uplands and many local farms, and besides that he was the county Justice of the Peace. So if anyone knew what was happening in the county, it was Rawlinson.

Geoffrey let go of the idea of a soothing bath, a few more drinks and an early night between cool sheets.

‘Very well. What time are they coming?’

‘The card said seven o’clock.’

‘But that is within the hour!’

‘Do not fret. Lizzie will bring them in here for some sweetmeats, and I will send Patterson up to tell you when supper is served.’ Seeming to sense his increased annoyance, she gave him a curt little nod and retreated to her private chambers.

Supper was the usual affair. Geoffrey was glad to be carving at his own table again. The food in New England was plentiful but not to his taste–too many green vegetables that gave him wind. He had longed for a good piece of roast beef or pheasant, and proper ale brewed the English way.

Emilia had found the gifts and was enthusing to Jane Rawlinson about the silver snuff boxes and a pair of fine lace gloves that Geoffrey had brought back from the port of London, where they had made a brief trade stop.

Jane Rawlinson was a stout, matronly woman who had no interest in fripperies such as lace gloves and snuff boxes. She was sitting upright on the mahogany dining chair with the napkin set squarely on her lap. Geoffrey saw her cast her eyes around the room as if searching for something to disapprove of. But the room was elegantly furnished, a fire blazed in the carved stone hearth and candle sconces bearing droplets of glass cast a flickering glow.

Geoffrey had hung the recent paintings of himself–one on horseback, and the other standing outside the house with his brindled greyhounds–either side of the fireplace. Jane tried not to look impressed, but he caught her leaning towards them for a closer look. The dining table was laid out with a good amount of clean white linen, silver cutlery and pewter trenchers. Unable to find fault with her surroundings, she turned to her hostess and began to ask questions. She asked how Emilia ran her household, how many gardeners, cooks, handymen and so forth Emilia employed, and what all their exact duties might be. Apparently Jane’s own household was run with precision and an authoritarian hand.

Of course, Emilia soon found herself floundering, probably because she was quite unable to confess to Jane Rawlinson that she had not the faintest notion what her servants did. Geoffrey knew that while he was away the hired hands were often left to their own devices, whilst Emilia tinkled the spinet and, now that it was permitted again, planned her ‘little entertainments’. Besides, he suspected that his wife was actually a touch afraid of her housekeeper. And this was a fact she certainly would not reveal to Jane Rawlinson. Geoffrey watched his wife twirl her thin blonde hair and toy with the cutlery, whilst Jane told her how she should keep her servants on their toes. He let her stew in it. It might make her a bit more useful.

He returned his attention to Robert, who was slurping his way through his second tankard of ale. Robert continued to talk.

‘So you see, Geoffrey, I am determined to quash these troublemakers before they get out of hand.’ He bit off a large chunk of beef and chewed, wiping his dripping mouth on his napkin. ‘There has been a broil in the church, with a woman getting up and calling the curate an infidel. A woman!’

The two ladies looked up.

‘She raised a fine old commotion. Apparently she said there was no such thing as the Devil except in the hearts of those who abuse the poor.’ He nodded round the table to make sure everyone was listening. ‘She said the church was taking grain from their mouths. Some good folk stood up to defend the church but they were set upon by her supporters and flung down. Then they carried the curate out saying they had no need of him, and threw him into the ditch.’

‘When did this happen?’ said Geoffrey.

‘On Sunday last, but I have arrested the woman.’

‘Was she one of those women from Lingfell Hall? One of Fox’s followers?’ asked Emilia.

‘Yes. Felicia Darby. She claims she was not intending to create a disturbance, merely to point people to God.’ He snorted. ‘Since then I have had any number of them knock on my door and demand her release. I told them all the same thing–that she was inciting a riot and would be detained until further notice.’

Jane leaned forward in her seat. ‘It seems to me she was not only courting trouble, but wedding it.’ She made a clacking sound through her teeth. ‘To dare to imply that the curate be a devil–and in a church. It is hardly going to convince the congregation of one’s moral rectitude.’ She leaned towards Emilia and let out a laugh like a horse. Emilia sat back in her chair and raised her napkin to her mouth.

‘One of those that came to my door was that man who recently took the house by Helk’s Wood,’ said Robert. ‘I believe you know him, Geoffrey. Didn’t he used to be one of your acquaintances? And the gossip in my stableyard is that he threw rotting mangels at you in the marketplace today.’ Robert gave Geoffrey a grin and helped himself to more bread.

Geoffrey was annoyed to think that news of the incident in the marketplace had travelled so fast. The ladies were agog. Jane put down her knife and gave her husband her full attention.

‘Mangels?’ Jane looked incredulous.

‘No, not mangels, I mean to say, he didn’t throw anything,’ said Geoffrey, ‘that’s to say…somebody did, but it wasn’t Richard Wheeler.’

Robert’s mouth twitched in amusement and Geoffrey wished he could push his fork into the simpering face.

‘What is this?’ Emilia’s high voice brought all attention to her. ‘Why did you not mention it before?’

‘I did mention it,’ Geoffrey said. He glared at her. ‘Before dinner. It appears, as usual, you were not listening.’

‘Let us retire, Jane. I am sure we do not want to listen to such dull men’s business.’

They scraped their chairs back and stood. Emilia dropped her napkin deliberately onto her half-empty plate, where it sank into the gravy. Then she picked up her skirts and flounced out. Jane raised her eyebrows and flashed Robert a look that clearly said such disagreements would never happen in their household, then she followed Emilia and shut the double doors behind her with a click.

Geoffrey had hoped the embarrassing afternoon would soon be forgotten and not become the subject of servants’ gossip. But no, it seemed he was already a laughing stock at his own table. It was humiliating. Added to that, Emilia had then ruined a perfectly convivial evening. His earlier anger hardened into stony resolve.

‘Wheeler’s behaviour is tantamount to treason,’ he said. ‘He refused to do me hat honour, and as I am the king’s representative in these parts, it could be regarded as an insult to the king. Besides which, he was telling people to withhold their taxes.’