The Master of Winterbourne

Chapter Twenty Four

‘Mistress, you must go up to your chamber immediately. Lock the door. There is a party of horsemen approaching at the gallop, Royalists by the look of them.’

‘This is a Royalist household, John,’ Henrietta began, then corrected herself. ‘Well, not exactly, but we need have no fear of them. What can they want at Winterbourne?’

‘The silver, most like,’ John said grimly. ‘The men are getting it down the cellar now. You'd best get to your room, my lady. I don't want to risk you receiving any insult.’

There was the sound of hoofs on the gravel, then a confusion of voices and colour as half a dozen young men burst through the door. John drew Henrietta behind him and took one step forward, sword at the ready. ‘What business do you have at Winterbourne?’ he demanded. ‘And how dare you burst in upon a lady in her own home?’

‘Henrietta.’ Marcus Willoughby elbowed his way to the front of the group. ‘Since when have I had to be invited in order to visit you?’

‘Marcus.’ Henrietta sat down with a thump in the nearest chair. Now the alarm was over she realised just how frightening the last few minutes had been. ‘Since the country has been in an uproar, that is when. What do you think you are doing, and who are these people with you?’

‘But you know them all,’ he said cheerfully and she realised for the first time that he had been drinking. ‘Make your bows, my friends.’

Henrietta did indeed recognise them now, all men of Marcus's age, the young bloods of the county too youthful to have fought in the Civil War, but fervent Royalists for all that. They smiled and bowed, sweeping off their plumed hats in exaggerated gestures of gallantry. They were in their best clothes, silks and velvets decorated with lace and ribbon bows and, like Marcus, were all amiably drunk.

‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Marcus?’ she demanded frostily, gesturing to John to put up his sword. She ought to offer them hospitality, but was not inclined to do so after their unceremonious entrance. Nor did she want to consider her husband's reaction if he knew they had been there.

‘Good news, Henrietta, we bring good news, do we not, my friends?’ There was a rowdy chorus of assent which only served to deepen Henrietta's perplexity and growing annoyance.

‘If you do not stop talking in riddles, Marcus, I shall ask John to see you all to your horses.’

‘The King! The King!’

‘Where?’ Henrietta looked around wildly, half expecting the gangling figure of Charles Stuart to emerge from the party of young men.

‘In Paris. He’ll be safe away, the news just reached us. Bulstrode here brought the tidings and we have ridden to every loyal household in the district to tell them.’

‘Thank God,’ Henrietta said with profound relief.

‘Amen to that,’ John echoed her. ‘Shall I tell the household, Mistress?’

‘Yes, bring them here to drink a toast to our King’s safe deliverance.’ But in her heart she was celebrating something quite different. If the King was safe away over the Channel in France the fighting would end, and there would be no danger of Matthew becoming caught up in it.

There would be peace again, time to rebuild and for her and Matthew to grow together again, await the birth of their child with everything to look forward to. The dreary weather, the misunderstanding which separated them, her aching, awkward body were all forgotten in a great welling joy.

‘There gentlemen, I told you Lady Sheridan would be pleased.’ Marcus turned to his friends. ‘She doesn't stand on ceremony with old friends. They said you wouldn't want us all arriving unannounced,’ he confided tipsily, ‘but I knew you wouldn't mind once you knew the cause of it!’

‘I thank you, gentlemen, for your consideration in bringing me this news,’ Henrietta said with dignity, causing one or two of the more sober bloods to look abashed. ‘My husband would wish me to offer you hospitality and my servants are bringing wine now. I hope you will drink to the peace and prosperity of this country before you leave.’

The hint was plain enough, but Marcus and his friends were too intoxicated to heed it. Henrietta sighed inwardly and gestured to the maids to take round the wine. They would soon be gone, leaving her alone to plan for the future. Somehow she would think of a way to explain things to Matthew.

There was a sudden vicious rattle of hail against the window panes and the room darkened. ‘You had best dine with me, gentlemen, until this downpour passes.’ It was the last thing she wanted, or needed, but in the name of hospitality she could not turn them out into the storm. After all, these were the sons of the gentry of the neighbourhood, many of them she had known all her life. ‘John, send Letty to attend me and ask Cook to send through food for our guests.'

He did as he was bidden and she turned to Martha. 'More candles, girl, and send Sim with more logs for the fire.’

There was a growing murmur of voices from behind the screens where the servants had assembled from all over the house. ‘Come in,’ she called, gesturing to one of the maids to pour ale. ‘I have good news for you all,’ she began, standing at the head of the table. ‘The King is safe in France. Peace will return to the countryside once more, you will be able to stand down the guards about the estate. Let us drink to the peace of the nation and the healing of divisions.’

‘Amen to that!’ several voices called in unison. There was no mistaking the feeling of relief in the room. Bumpers of ale were downed and the servants returned to their duties, chattering and excited.

An hour later Henrietta looked down the length of the table and stifled a yawn. The food was finished, leaving only bones and heels of bread littering the table. Puddles of spilt wine reflected the candle light shining on flushed, replete faces. She fervently hoped her unwelcome guests would be inclined to leave now the flow of wine had slowed and the weather improved from downpour to drizzle.

Marcus was seated in Matthew's place at the head of the table. He banged his cup on the table and shouted for silence. ‘Gentlemen! We have presumed on the hospitality of our hostess Lady Sheridan for too long and it will soon be night.’

Thank goodness for that, Henrietta thought, absently taking a long drink from the glass of wine she had been toying with throughout the meal. Its warmth hit her empty stomach and she realised with a shock that she had eaten scarcely a morsel.

‘A toast!’ Marcus continued, lurching to his feet. ‘To Lady Sheridan.’