The Master of Winterbourne

Casting round for escape, Henrietta saw the bulk of the old Tudor gatehouse rising above the trees, a clear forty feet above the dusty ground, the flag on top flapping gently from its pole. A gentle push sent the door creaking open and without hesitation she gathered up her skirts and whisked up the cobwebby spiral staircase to the roof.

Halfway up the stairs she heard the sound of hoof beats under the arch but took no notice. Servants had been coming and going all week with food, presents and messages, and they were expecting no more guests today.

She reached the leads breathless, dampness sheening her brow, but it was worth it. Up here the air was immediately fresher and the slight breeze that stirred the family banner over her head lifted the hair at her temples. A figure, unmistakably Aunt Susan, a voluminous white apron pinned over her gown, came out of the front door, a shallow trug on her arm. She would be bound for the herb garden, Henrietta surmised, guiltily remembering she should have gathered fresh supplies that morning when the dew had dried. The large company of guests had depleted the stillroom supplies of cooking herbs, and there were no more than two bunches of strewing lavender left.

Surely her aunt would not begrudge her an hour's peace on the eve of her wedding? Resolved to make up for her neglect later by helping with preparations for the evening meal, Henrietta remained in her eyrie.

Dabbing her damp throat with a lace kerchief, she turned her back on the house and leaned her elbows on the crenelated parapet. Like a tapestry the rolling park and fields spread out their quilt of green and gold squares before her, punctuated by the darker green of coverts and the ribbon of trees that grew thickly along the sinuous course of the Bourne that gave the house its name. Here and there single figures and small groups worked in the fields or moved along the headlands, unaware that they were being watched by their mistress.

To her left the land rose steeply into sheep-cropped pasture land, to her right as she leaned out over the parapet she could just discern the thatched roofs of the village beyond the knapped flint tower of St Swithun's church where tomorrow she would be married.

Everything would change when she became Lady Sheridan, yet how much would her life remain the same? Winterbourne would still be her home, its people would still be around her. At least their future was assured by this alliance. Henrietta bit her lip in speculation. The more she came to know of Matthew, the more she realised he would never have carried out his threat to dispossess her workers if she had refused to marry him. It had simply been a lever to force her to accept the realities.

By this time tomorrow she would be his wife, but yet a maiden. She shivered with a delicious apprehension at the thought of being in his arms later, of understanding the mystery people hinted of but would never talk of openly. Even Alice, when she ventured a tentative question, would only smile and say, ‘Wait and see.’

A dust cloud hanging heavy in the air marked the approach of another horse, a welcome diversion from her thoughts. She leaned out dangerously to see whose servant was riding so hard on this hot day.

As he drew nearer Henrietta recognised the rider as Marcus Willoughby by the florid plumes in his hat. She drew back, dislodging a fragment of mortar from the crumbling crenelations. Marcus looked up in surprise, saw her and reined in at the foot of the tower.

‘Mistress Wynter – Henrietta! What are you doing up there?’ He swept off his hat in an extravagant bow, marred only by the uncooperative cavorting of his horse which nearly unseated him.

‘Marcus, do be quiet. Stop shouting,’ she urged. ‘I don't want anybody to know I'm up here. I just want to be by myself for half an hour.’

‘Can't I come up too?’ He was already kicking his feet from the stirrups.

Henrietta sighed, then shrugged. ‘All right, I suppose so.’ Marcus's conversation could hardly be more wearing than that of Cousins Katherine and Deborah with their endless prattling. And now she was betrothed, about to be married, Marcus would surely revert to the easy childhood friendship they had enjoyed before he'd become such a determined suitor. At least she could rely on him not to rattle on about domestic matters. He might even have some news from London, which would make a pleasant change.

Marcus's progress up the spiral staircase was marked by the sound of his spurs clinking on the stone and the bang of the heavy wooden doors on each landing. He emerged into the sunshine with traces of whitewash on his doublet where his elbows had brushed the walls and a cobweb in his blond curls, looking absurdly young.

‘This is a good place! With a brace of cannon we could have held out against the Parliamentarian dogs for weeks.’ He began pacing across the leads from side to side, training imaginary firearms with sweeping gestures.

‘Really, Marcus, do stop that. I came up here for a little peace and quiet, not to talk about sieges and guns. And Winterbourne was never in any danger of being attacked, as you well know.’ But despite her repressive words she couldn't help smiling at him. At times like this it was only too obvious Marcus was but a boy of seventeen. For all that she was just one year older he made her feel a grown woman by comparison.

‘It might come to it yet,’ he said darkl

y, fingering the hilt of the slim sword that hung by his side. ‘If the King returns – and they say he will. My father came back from Aylesbury yesterday and I heard him telling my mother that the coastal levies are arming – ’ He broke off, eyes shining, ‘But that isn't why I wanted to speak to you, Henrietta.’

‘Hmm?’ Henrietta had stopped listening properly some minutes since and was once again looking out over the soothing, familiar landscape.

‘Henrietta! Madam! You must not despair. I will not let that Puritan take you. I have come to tell you it is not too late – marry me!’ He had fallen to one knee at her side and seized her hand, carrying it ardently to his lips. ‘You only have to fly with me and I will save you from that Puritan usurper. I cannot give you Winterbourne, but I will give you everything in my power.’

‘Marcus. Have you taken leave of your senses? Are you in a fever with the heat?’ Despite his words she still couldn't take him seriously or be alarmed at his extravagant words. In her eyes he would always be the boy she'd played hide-and-seek with as a child. ‘Stop this play-acting and stand up.’ She tugged at his hand and he sprang to his feet, throwing his arms around her.

‘No, I love you, Henrietta.’ He kissed her passionately, clumsily, on the mouth, catching the lace at her shoulder in his eagerness, crushing her against the stonework.

Henrietta, acutely aware of the spectacle they would present to anyone passing by the tower, struggled to free herself, but to no avail.

Seconds later Marcus was seized from behind and sent spinning across the leads to sprawl ignominiously in a dusty gutter. Matthew's voice cut through the overheated atmosphere like a sword through silk. ‘You insolent puppy, save your clumsy pawing for some kitchen maid.’

He turned his back contemptuously on the shaken boy and addressed Henrietta with icy politeness. ‘I warned you, madam, what would happen if I found you with another man. I suggest you leave us now because what must follow now is not for the eyes of a lady.’ The heavy irony of the last word cut like a whip. ‘Go to your chamber; I will speak to you later.’

With one long glance he raked her flushed cheeks, the torn lace at the bosom, her tousled hair, and turned back to the youth who was scrambling to his feet. ‘I see you are armed as a gentleman, sir. Can you fight as one?’

Henrietta knew that Marcus’s courtship a young man’s fantasy, half serious, half make-believe. There was no make-believe now, only death in the cold green eyes fixing him so contemptuously. Marcus was white with fear under the smears of dirt on his face, but he found the courage to respond with dignity. ‘To the death, sir, in defence of the lady I love.’

There was a rasping whisper as two swords were swept from their scabbards and the scuffle of booted feet on the leads as the two assumed a duelling stance, then Henrietta found both her voice and the use of her legs.

‘Stop this nonsense.’ She stood between the two of them, facing Matthew, chin up, hands on hips. ‘Are you mad? Do you believe for one minute I was about to give myself to this boy? He's young and impetuous, his head stuffed full of foolish notions of chivalry and love. Would you kill him for that? It would be murder.’