‘I don't think we need worry.’ Alice swung her legs off the bed and sat, brow furrowed in thought. ‘You can tell Sir Matthew there is no skilled man for indoor work until Robert returns. Robert will undertake the work himself, then we will remove the casket, secrete it elsewhere until he can make contact with someone who will know what to do.’
Henrietta felt relief flood through her; how much less threatening it sounded in Alice's common-sense voice. ‘Will Robert know the right person to speak to?’
‘He will,’ Alice said grimly. ‘Although the link is broken now the fighting's over he has comrades still in Oxford. They will know what to do. Take heart, Mistress, no-one has been for it in three years, why should they come now? Perhaps they never will.’ She swung round, eyes shining with conspiratorial delight. ‘Why do we not creep down tonight and remove the box ourselves? We could open it, judge its importance…’
‘No, we cannot.’ Henrietta was vehement. ‘How could we tell? If it is letters in cypher we will be no further forward. And besides,’ an unwelcome thought struck her, ‘I do not want to be in a position where I must lie to my husband. I gave James my word to protect that casket, but I have other duties, however bitter they may be.’
There was a heavy silence, then Alice, with her usual happy knack of seeing the bright side, remarked, ‘You will have him, then? It is all agreed?’
‘I suppose so.’
Alice looked at her sideways, judging her mood. ‘I think you protest too much, Mistress. It is not Lawyer Stone you are promised to marry, it's a fine, virile man who'll make you a fine marriage bed. All the servants are agreed.’
‘They've not got to marry him! I have my duty to do.’
Alice’s eyes twinkled wickedly. ‘Shall you get undressed now, Mistress?’
Henrietta sank down at the dressing table with a resigned sigh. The less she said, the less Alice would tease her.
The maid unthreaded the pearls from Henrietta's hair and began to unpin and brush out its length. ‘He's been married before, they say,’ she remarked, ‘which will be the better for you.’
‘Will it?’ Henrietta asked bitterly, remembering the pain on Matthew’s face when he'd spoken of his wife in the orchard.
‘Oh, yes.’ Alice began to unlace the whale-boned bodice. ‘You know the saying, A man once wed is warmer abed.’
‘I do not know the saying, I'm thankful to say,’ Henrietta replied haughtily. The less she thought about Matthew Sheridan and bed, the easier it was to contemplate marriage with him, somehow. ‘Fetch that book of sermons and read to me.’
‘Your aunt has it,’ Alice said without a trace of regret, helping her remove her dress and shaking out the folds before placing it carefully in the oak press. ‘There's that book of poetry. I could read from that.’
‘No, thank you.’ Henrietta pulled her cambric nightgown over her head and tied the strings. ‘My aunt is right, we should turn our thoughts to higher things. I am quite resolved to read no more poetry of the lighter kind.’
‘Very well, Mistress,’ Alice said demurely, laying the book down on the window seat again and going to plump up the pillows. ‘Will you get into bed now?’
‘Not yet. Snuff the candles and draw back the curtains and I will sit and think in the moonlight a while.’
Henrietta caught the sharpness of her own tone and was ashamed. None of this was Alice's fault. ‘Alice.’ The maid turned in the doorway. ‘I am sorry I have been out of temper and short with you today. Thank you for your loyalty – I shall not worry so much now.’
As the door closed behind Alice Henrietta curled up on the window seat, rested her head on one of the mullions and let the cool night air flow over her face.
From below she could hear the buzz of conversation in the parlour, distinguish her aunt's laugh and Lawyer Stone's low rumble.
She looked up sharply as a barn owl shrieked and saw the ghostly white bird glide like a snowflake across the orchard. From the field beyond a vixen barked and
Henrietta spared a thought for the chickens at the Home Farm.
AII the familiar night sounds of Winterbourne that she'd taken for granted for eighteen years, and so nearly lost. To keep this place all she had to do was marry Matthew, an easy enough choice to make when she thought of some of her suitors, men she'd have been prepared to
marry to keep her beloved home.
At one point she'd even thought of accepting Marcus Willoughby's ardent proposal. But Marcus, a lad she'd known all her life, was no threat to her heart or her mind. In a bare twelve hours Matthew Sheridan was threatening both. A sharp rattle of curtain-rings echoed across the court. In the window opposite hers, the window of the master bedroom, a candle flickered then steadied.
Instinctively Henrietta drew back, then realised she could not be seen in the darkness. Silhouetted by the warm glow of candlelight, Matthew stood in the window, unlacing his shirt and staring out over the moonlit orchard. The light danced on white linen, under-lighting his face, transforming the lean features into an enigmatic mask over the darkness where his shirt was open at his chest.
Henrietta felt her heart quicken. What was in the mind of this complicated man? Was he thinking about her, her defiance, her troublesome political opinions? Or had he dismissed her, a mere woman who was part of Winterbourne? Useful, no doubt, pleasurable, when it pleased him, but of no real consequence. Was he surveying his new domain before he went to sleep, relishing this new wealth and power that had fallen like a ripe fruit into his hands?
Matthew touched his fingers to his tongue then snuffed the candle, the brief sizzling coming plainly to her ears in the stillness. The amethyst on his hand seemed to hold the light for a moment longer, then all she could see was the white of his shirt.
He had spoken of the intoxication of the senses and she'd known that he was not talking of the caress of fine fabric or the scent of flowers. She was a countrywoman, she knew well enough what happened between a man and a woman, but there was more, some mystery which Alice had hinted at, that showed in the glow in her eyes. Something Henrietta had glimpsed briefly when Matthew’s lips had lingered on the sensitive skin at her wrist, when his arms had tightened round her in the orchard.