‘Thank you, madam, the chicken would be admirable and I am sure some lamb would be excellent to follow.’
As he leaned across the table to fill her aunt's wine glass Henrietta noticed how relaxed he had become, as though a spring had been released in that taut frame. The morning must have been an ordeal for him as well as for her and the realisation was strangely reassuring.
‘Is it to your taste, sir?’ Aunt Susan was watching him anxiously as he savoured the rich sauce.
‘Excellent, Mistress Clifford. You keep a fine cook at Winterbourne.’
‘I cannot claim the credit, sir. Henrietta supervises the kitchen as she does all the household. I believe the chicken is a French receipt, with tarragon. Is that not so, my dear?’
‘Yes, Lady Willoughby told me of it.’ Henrietta was well aware of what her aunt was doing, praising her housewifely skills to point out to Matthew what an excellent wife she would make. ‘My aunt is too modest.’ She met Matthew's eyes and lifted her chin. ‘On the death of my mother ten years ago she came to look after me. If I am a good housewife it is entirely due to her kind and loving tutelage.’ And if I stay, she stays, her gaze told him. For as long as she wants.
‘You are obviously a mainstay of the household, madam.’ Matthew raised his glass to Aunt Susan. ‘And this will remain your home for as long as you wish to make it so.’
Lawyer Stone cleared his throat and Mistress Clifford blushed rosily.
The meal progressed well enough. The chicken and carp were removed to be replaced with pies and jellies and Henrietta was content to sit quietly, listening to the talk flowing across the table as her aunt questioned the two men about the latest news and gossip from London. Inevitably the talk turned to politics and recent legislation and Henrietta collected her wandering attention and listened with rising indignation.
‘Are there no voices raised in Parliament against such radical measures?’ Lawyer Stone demanded after a while. ‘What of my Lord Hargraves? Has he not in the past spoken out for moderation and sense?’
‘I do not know his present thinking,’ Matthew responded carefully. ‘But come, Stone, we are boring the ladies.’ But it was not fear of boring them, Henrietta could tell.
‘But your connection with him – is it now broken?’
‘Not broken, no.’ The conversation was obviously not to Matthew's liking. His body was tense, a frown-line between his dark brows. ‘But the future is more important to me now than remembering the past.’ His tone was brusque and the older man's expression reflected the snub.
An uneasy silence fell across the table. Henrietta glanced at the shuttered faces of the men and sought for a way to turn the conversation, but her aunt was before her. ‘And the latest fashions? Lady Willoughby tells me necklines are becoming rounder and sleeves fuller. I must be sure my wed…er, new gown is in the mode.’
‘I don't notice such frivolous trifles, madam.’ Lawyer Stone's besotted smile belied his testy words, his irritation at Matthew forgotten. ‘A handsome woman such as yourself has no need to fuss and titivate. You look splendid whatever you are wearing, and it's no good looking to Sheridan, he's too busy a man for such nonsense.’
‘On the contrary, I believe I can help you, Mistress Clifford.’ Matthew had pushed back his chair and sat at ease once more at the table-head, rolling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. ‘From my observations, the French influence is on the wane. The rounder neckline you speak of is, I believe, a Dutch notion, but the style you wear now is still much in favour. As for sleeves, and the cut of necklines, I believe one can detect a new plainness and modesty in their styling.’
Lawyer Stone's jaw dropped at the revelation that his companion-in-law should exhibit such a frivolous streak, but Henrietta sat simmering. The hypocrisy of the man! To talk of plainness and modesty with such approval while all evening his eyes had rested on her low-cut neckline, her fine lace… Why, only an hour before his lips had been tracing lines of fire along the inside of her bare arm.
‘The Puritan influence, no doubt,’ she snapped, suddenly thoroughly out of temper.
‘No, madam,’ Matthew's eyebrows rose at her tone. 'Merely a diminution of the extremes of French style which prevailed at the late court. And, whatever your political views may be, you would surely not deny the beneficial influence of General Cromwell on the moral tone of the country. Drunkenness and debauchery have reduced significantly on the streets of London and it is safer by far for virtuous women.’
‘I will not have that usurper's name uttered at my table.’
‘May I remind you, madam, that this is both my table and my house and I will not tolerate expressions of disloyalty to the Government here.' Matthew was sitting upright, both hands clenched on the table, no amusement in his eyes now.
‘Your table it may be,’ Henrietta flared back, ‘but if it were not for my father and my brother dying for their loyalty to their King you would not set one foot within these walls! How dare you lecture me on loyalty and disloyalty? We have paid the price here for our faithfulness and others' perfidy.’
They were both on their feet now, facing each other across the remnants of the meal. ‘Have a care what you say, madam.’ Matthew’s coldly measured voice sent a shiver down her spine. ‘Your words verge on treason. I do not demand that you change your colours, but you will hold your tongue, keep your opinions to yourself. Beside any other consideration you bring danger to this household with your foolishness.’
‘It has been a long and surprising day, and everyone is tired.’ Aunt Susan got to her feet, ostentatiously ignoring the crackling hostility that surrounded her. ‘We would all be better for a little music. Come, Henrietta. Gentlemen, will you join us in the parlour?’
Lawyer Stone hastened to follow. He was a pragmatic man and Henrietta knew he thoroughly disliked confrontation, being a believer in keeping his thoughts to himself and his head, like those of his clients, firmly attached to his shoulders.
Stiff-backed, she swept out of the room in her aunt's wake. The last thing she wanted was to sit and entertain the man who had spoken to her like that. If this was what he was like now, heaven help her when they were married. If he still wanted her after this evening…
‘Sit in the window-seat, Henrietta,’ Aunt Susan suggested. 'I always think you look so pretty sitting there with your lute.’ As she handed her niece the instrument she added under her breath, ‘And curb your tongue, show a maidenly demeanour. You sound like a rash youth, not a well-bred young woman.’
Biting her lip, Henrietta stepped up on to the low platform in the window embrasure and settled herself on the cushioned seat. ‘I will need the low stool for my foot, Aunt, if you would,’ she said, trying to school her temper.
‘Allow me.’ Matthew, sounding as if nothing untoward had occurred, knelt to place the stool so that she could support the lute. As he did so the bare boards rattled hollowly. 'This is loose,’ he remarked, his fingers running over a knot-hole. ‘I must get the carpenter to attend to it.’
He stood and returned to his seat as Henrietta felt the blood leach from her face. How could she have be so careless as to sit there? She ran her fingers over the strings at random, pretending to tune the instrument while she fought to calm her thoughts.