The Master of Winterbourne

Expecting cool formality at best, Henrietta watched Matthew stride swiftly across the room to her side, nothing but warmth in his face. She held out her hand to him in formal greeting, but he took possession of both and before she knew it stooped to kiss her full on the lips.

There was a murmur of approving laughter and quite open admiration, but Henrietta was oblivious to it. This was no formal salute, his kiss was insidious and deep, intimate and knowing. And her newly tutored body responded, her hands clenching the linen at his chest, her eyes closed in languorous surrender.

When he released her lips they were both breathless and Henrietta coloured as she became aware once more of their audience.

Matthew smiled down into her face before offering her his arm and conducting her to stand with him below the great carved fireplace.

‘Matthew,’ she whispered. ‘I'm sorry about this morning.’

‘We will not speak of it now,’ he replied, low-voiced, and, despite the lingering warmth of his kiss, she felt a slight chill. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven. This was no boy like Marcus Willoughby to be placated with a pretty apology, or a pretty kiss. She told herself Matthew was a complex man, and his mind and emotions worked on many levels. And on one of those levels he didn't trust her, however much he might admire and desire her. The thought of those papers, of the message still hidden in the glove, was like a canker in the centre of a rose.

‘Sir Walter was asking me if we have had as much trouble with foot-rot in the flocks as the rest of the Vale, and I had to tell him I have no idea.’

Henrietta forced all her attention on to her neighbour's enquiries. Sir Walter was a keen, if tedious, agriculturalist and rapidly exhausted Henrietta's limited knowledge. Eventually she said, ‘I really think you need to speak to Robert Weldon, our steward. He should be about somewhere.’ She heaved a sigh of relief as Sir Walter set off in pursuit of the unfortunate Robert, but was soon claimed by another guest, this time with more entertaining talk of London.

All the time as she chatted Henrietta was acutely aware of Matthew by her side, of the ease with which he had slipped into the role of master of the estate. That in itself was a relief; she could admit it to herself now. After all, he was a lawyer, not a farmer and he made no pretence to be a countryman, bred to this life, these responsibilities, as she was.

She excused herself after a while and crossed the room to Lady Willoughby. The older woman was in full flow, recounting a scandalous piece of gossip about a recently-pregnant noblewoman of her acquaintance, and Henrietta listened with half an ear while watching Matthew.

He was standing easily, one booted foot on the hearth-stone of the unlit fire, his arm resting on the mantelshelf. Over his head hung the portraits of Henrietta's parents. One day, perhaps, their children's portraits bearing a mix of Matthew’s and her features would hang in this shadowy room.

‘My dear child.’ Lady Willoughby's penetrating voice cut through these strangely reassuring musings. ‘Let me kiss you. You look radiant today, as every bride should, but does not always, the morning after her wedding. Mind you,’ she continued in a voice audible in every corner, ‘you're a lucky girl to have such a fine figure of a man as your husband. He'll make your duties a pleasure, give you lots of fine sons, ensure the future of Winterbourne…’

Henrietta caught Matthew's eye across the room, suppressed a giggle at his expression and turned quickly back, composing her face. He was amused, thank goodness, not offended by the earthy Lady Willoughby's comments on him, more suited to the stud farm than polite company.

‘While on the subject of children, my dear,’ Matthew's voice said suddenly beside her, making her jump, ‘we must see about getting your likeness taken, to hang here, alongside those of your parents.’

‘And you too must be painted,’ Henrietta insisted, delighted at the thought.

Matthew waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, I've had mine done.’

Lawyer Stone broke into the conversation. ‘It was a very fine portrait of Sarah, I always thought; it caught her sweet nature so well, although I never felt Paget had succeeded as well with you.’

Sarah again, Henrietta thought with a fierce, painful stab of jealousy at the thought of the paired portraits of Matthew and his first wife. Where did they hang? she wondered. In the house in Highgate? Or did he keep them closer, in his chambers in London?

‘I want us to be painted together, to celebrate our marriage,’ she asserted.

‘I am flattered.’ Matthew raised a brow at her fervour. ‘But it may be difficult for us both to find time. Perhaps I can have mine done while I am in London, then the artist can travel here afterwards.’

‘In London? Matthew…’

‘Dinner, my friends,’ Aunt Susan called from the doorway. ‘Your wives have been waiting below these five minutes past, and you must all be sharp-set.’

As the guests surged in a happy, hungry, crowd to the door Henrietta caught Matthew's sleev

e. ‘When do you go back to London?’ Only a few days before her heart had sunk at the thought of his return, now she was devastated at the thought of parting from him.

‘Later, my dear. We have our guests to attend to.’ He seemed amused, flattered by her clinging, conducting her to her seat at one end of the long table with almost exaggerated ceremony, before taking his at the opposite end. He said grace and the guests fell to with enthusiasm.

Aunt Susan had produced another sumptuous meal, making up in few short days for all the dreary months of mourning and plain fare. There were dishes of chicken with fruits, fat carp that had kept young Sim busy since dawn at the pond, lark pie, fricassee of rabbit with cream, duck with peas… The long sideboard groaned under the weight of sweet dishes to follow: pastries and jellies, curds and cream, honey-rich syllabubs and tansies. Lawyer Stone was already eyeing them with a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

Henrietta turned conscientiously from one guest to another, ensuring that this cup was filled, that plate was passed, that all their guests had the roast or pie or sallet of their choosing. At the other end of the table Matthew did the same. At last the first rush to fill plates was over and the guests fell to.

Catching Martha by the arm as she hurried past, Henrietta reminded her to refill the flagons of cider and ale then turned at last to her own plate. She seemed to have very little appetite, despite leaving her breakfast bread and small ale almost untouched. She had helped herself to stewed carp and the fragrance of fennel and onions curled up to meet her nostrils temptingly. Henrietta spooned up a morsel, raised it to her lips then put the spoon down with a hand suddenly unsteady. Matthew was watching her down the length of the table, a smile curving his lips, one long-fingered hand toying with a flagon of ale.

A senior colleague of Matthew's was complimenting her on the meal and she turned to answer him politely but her husband’s eyes drew hers again and she turned back like a lodestone to the north.

Around them rose the hubbub of conversation and laughter, the clatter of knives and pewter. The drink passed round and faces grew red with good food and the warmth of the room, despite all the windows and the great door standing open. Matthew's eyes glittered. Henrietta told herself it was the ale, but knew it was not. She found herself laughing too often, rather too shrilly. Her skin prickled between her breasts, not with the heat but with the intensity of the silent stare Matthew directed at her. She knew now, after last night, why her knees felt weak, why her pulses raced and there was a hollow feeling deep in her stomach.