The Master of Winterbourne

Matthew turned to look for her, his gaze shuttered, and with a sinking heart she realised that to have reached the library from the knot garden he would have passed through this way while she and her aunt were talking. He must have heard Susan speak of her fears of the wedding night and set out to rouse desire in her before she could take fright and deny the betrothal.

How well he had succeeded. She could still feel the heat of his kisses on her throat, her heart was knocking against her ribs. How easy he must think she was to bend to his will, in this as in everything else.

*

The shadows were lengthening in the orchard and a group of villagers made their weary way home past the gatehouse in the wake of a lumbering farm wagon, their labour finished for the day. Henrietta scarcely saw them as she gazed distractedly from her chamber window, her copy of the marriage settlement Lawyer Stone had spent the last hour explaining to her clutched in her hand.

‘Mistress? Which petticoat?’ It was obvious from Alice's tone that it was not the first time she'd enquired.

'Oh, any. Whatever comes to hand. Do not fuss so, there is no urgency.’

‘The master has been dressed and gone from his chamber half an hour since.’

‘Alice, have you been staring into his room? What will he think of us?’

‘That we are interested in him,’ Alice replied with some asperity. ‘As indeed you should be. In a half-hour you will be betrothed to him.’

‘Which reminds me, miss,’ Henrietta riposted crisply, glad to turn attention from her own affairs. ‘He has noticed your condition. I had to tell him you and Robert were already betrothed, so I suggest you do not make me a liar, but swiftly name a day.’

‘Robert intends to speak to the Master this evening after the ceremony,’ Alice announced demurely.

‘Will you stop calling him the Master?’

‘But he is, Mistress.’ Alice looked pained. ‘What would you have me call him?’

‘Oh, fetch me the petticoat with the French lace, Alice. You'll make me late with this nonsense.’

Alice looked as though she was about to say something but instead went over to the large oak press and shook out the fine cambric petticoat.

Henrietta tossed her robe on to the bed and stood while the underskirt was dropped over her head. Why was she the only one who found Matthew's sudden possession of Winterbourne difficult to accept? Everyone else behaved as if he'd been here for years, instead of a scant two days. They had been without a master for three years, since the death of James at the Battle of Preston, and she'd believed she had filled his place, but it seemed she was mistaken if the household welcomed Sir Matthew so warmly. Or perhaps it was simply because he was a man. Henrietta sighed at the injustice of it.

‘That's right, breathe in, Mis

tress.’ Alice pulled, then knotted the laces, fastening the full amethyst silk of the overskirt before helping Henrietta into the whale-boned bodice.

‘Ouch! That pinches,’ Henrietta protested at the tight lacing. She had a shrewd idea her maid was paying her back for her sharpness earlier.

‘But you want him to admire the grace of your figure,’ Alice replied slyly, giving an extra tug to the lacing at Henrietta's waist.

‘That is tight enough. I don't want to faint in the midst of the ceremony. Find me my mother's best lace collar and cuffs while I put up my hair.’

Alice's deft fingers settled the heavy cream lace collar and pinned it in place. ‘I think you need a little powder on your neck, just here.’ She lightly touched the place where Matthew's lips had kissed. ‘You must tell him to be more careful how he shaves, Mistress.’

Their eyes met in the looking-glass. Alice's blue ones alive with teasing laughter, Henrietta's dark with embarrassment. ‘Alice… is it usual..? She faltered, unsure of how best to phrase her question. ‘He kissed me, and I felt… on fire. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to be in his arms, in his bed. And we are not yet betrothed. I do not even know if I truly wish to marry him and yet… What is happening to me? Marcus Willoughby never made me feel like this.’

Alice didn't attempt to hide her scorn. ‘Marcus Willoughby is a spotty boy. It will be years before he'll make a woman's pulses race. Now, the Master, he's a real man – you only have to look at him. Every maid in the house is hot for him and green as grass with envy for you.’

‘Alice! I should be turning my thoughts to being a dutiful wife and mother to his children, not to being… hot for him.’

‘And how should your children be got?’ The maid dropped her voice still lower as she bent to dust the powdered orris root on the flushed skin. ‘They do say conceiving comes easier if the pleasure is shared. That's what the goodwife told me when I asked her why I'd fallen so quickly. And I do believe it to be true.’ She smoothed the apron over her stomach with pride.

Henrietta sighed as Alice fastened her cuffs in place. Her maid might have convinced her that what she was feeling was entirely natural, even to be desired, but it didn't make it any less dangerous. If she gave her heart to this man who only wanted a dutiful housekeeper then heartbreak would surely follow. She would wait in vain for signs of an affection he could never give her. And if he discovered the secret she was hiding from him, that she was still dealing with the Royalist faction, he would never forgive her. Not he, who spoke so vehemently for Parliament and called her opinions disloyalty.

Aunt Susan's hurried entry cut across her confused thoughts. ‘Henrietta, are you nearly ready? The others are gathering in the Long Gallery.’

‘How well that blue becomes you, Mistress Clifford,’ Alice remarked as she put the last pin into Henrietta's hair.

‘Thank you, my dear.’ The older woman stooped to prink in the mirror. 'It is my second-best gown… but never mind about me. Henrietta, let me look at you.’