The Master of Winterbourne

The older boys were employed on top of the loads, spreading the corn evenly, treading it down. As the wagon trundled slowly down the shorn field from stook to stook a lad occasionally tumbled to the ground to be hoisted back up again, bruised but laughing.

The sun was high overhead when Robert called them in for dinner. The womenfolk had spread cloths on the ground beneath the shade of the high hawthorn hedge and set out bread, cheese, onions and ale. Baskets of red apples waited for anyone with room to spare after they had eaten their fill of the coarse bread.

Some of the women sat a little apart, nursing the babies the little girls had been minding while their mothers worked. Henrietta went over to admire the new son of one of the grooms, sucking lustily at the breast. A wave of longing hit her at the sight of the small downy head nestled against his mother and she reached down to stroke his cheek before returning to where Alice was presiding over their open-air meal.

Henrietta was aware of Matthew's eyes keen on her face as she took her place on the rug beside him, accepting a cup of ale from him with a murmur of thanks.

‘How does it go, Robert’ He leaned on one elbow, chewing the end of a grass stem. ‘I confess this is the first time I have ever been harvesting – will it all be in today?’

‘Easily, sir, easily.’ Robert swallowed a draught of cider, then shaded his eyes, assessing what remained to be done. ‘Two more loads should do it, and we'll have most of that stacked in the rick yards by tomorrow's end.’ Alice handed him a thick slice of bread, liberally spread with butter. ‘Thank you, my love.’

‘I hope you have been marking my prowess with the pitchfork, Henrietta.’ She looked up, warmed by the friendly, bantering note in Matthew’s voice. He was grinning broadly, his teeth very white against his tanned face. Country life suited him, the already muscular body was honed by long hours in the saddle or walking about the estate.

She smiled back hesitantly, her heart missing a beat with love for him. Was he falling in love with her? Or was it simply that he was content and at ease with the whole world, his troublesome wife included?

Emboldened, she took his hands in hers, turning them palm up. ‘You were doing very well for a beginner, Husband, but I see signs of blisters coming, you are not used to this manual labour. A linseed poultice will stop the blisters swelling.’

‘I would rather have the blisters than smell like a horse with saddle-sores,’ he teased.

Robert was on his feet again. ‘Well, sir, shall I set them on again?’

‘Sit down, Master Weldon; it is too hot for speed and you said yourself we have time in hand. Let them rest for an hour.’

‘Thank you, sir, the people will be glad of it. They are good workers and it does no harm to acknowledge it now and again.’ He strode round the field, waving each group back to take their ease.

‘Come walk with me, Henrietta.’ Matthew stood and pulled her to her feet, taking her hand to lead her away from the cornfield into the neighbouring hayfield.

‘Matthew, you must not walk on the hay – they will be cutting in a week! Will we ever make a countryman of you? Where are we going?’

‘Need we be going anywhere? I want to walk with my wife a while.’ His voice was warm and his hand now slid round her waist, drawing her close to his side as he made his way to the banks of the River Bourne.

‘You are in great beauty, Henrietta.’ They were the words he had used at their betrothal and the colour flooded her face, yet she was still uncertain of his feelings for her. Was it only desire, or the beginnings of something more?

‘In this gown?’ She gestured at her old linen skirts, stained here and there with fruit juice from bottling.

‘You do not need silks and lace to be beautiful. Today you look like a simple village maiden, and very desirable.’ He drew her down the shelving bank, out of sight of the cornfield. ‘May I claim a kiss?’

‘Do you ask that of all the village maidens, sir?’ Henrietta asked with mock coyness.

‘Only the ones with big brown eyes and straw in their hair.’ He picked a piece out of the simple snood into which she had bundled her hair. ‘Oh, yes, and they must answer to the name of Henrietta, of course. No one else will do.’

Henrietta found she was leaning against the rough trunk of a poplar. Still uncertain, she glanced up through her lashes at her husband whose face was now so close to her own, his lips seeking hers. ‘Very well, sir,’ she managed to whisper. ‘Take your kiss, and anything else you desire.’

The soft turf under her, the sunlight filtering through the whispering leaves of the poplar on to her closed lids and the weight of Matthew's arm resting across her waist were all she was aware of, all she wanted to know.

*

Henrietta sighed, snuggling contentedly against Matthew’s bare shoulder, wondering how long he would sleep, what he would say when he woke. There had been something new in his lovemaking, something that went beyond tenderness.

‘Sir Matthew! Sir Matthew!’ Sim's reedy treble reached them from across the hayfield. ‘Where are you, Master?’

‘Damnation!’ Matthew sat up, dragging his shirt over his head. ‘What is it now?’

Sim continued to call, but more urgently now. With another curse Matthew got to his feet, tucking his shirt into his breeches and retrieving his jerkin. ‘I'm coming!’ He raised his voice to a shout, then softened it again. ‘I had better go and see what the trouble is. Can you make your own way back, my love?’

Henrietta nodded dumbly, the impact of the endearment hitting her only as she watched him break into a run up the bank and out of her sight.

My love. He had never used those words to her before. Was that the explanation of his sudden tenderness? Could he have discovered that he loved her and therefore would forgive whatever she might have done?