The Master of Winterbourne

‘Because you obviously are one.’

‘You have an imperfect understanding of the word. Do you assume all supporters of Parliament to be Puritans? I can assure you that is far from the truth. Every shade of opinion other than rabid Royalists are with us. Or is it because I do not dress like a popinjay as your young suitor Willoughby does? I am a lawyer, I dress to suit my profession, although my preference for fine cloth and lace earns me no admiration from my stricter colleagues.’

Henrietta perched on the opposite corner of the bed, holding a pillow defensively against her thinly-clad body. If she could keep him talking of politics and religion she might yet succeed in distracting him from his purpose, which was certainly not conversation. ‘But you make no secret of your support for Parliament.’ Her chin came up as she challenged him, ‘How far did that support go in the late war?’

‘The past is behind us, Henrietta. Raking over cold ashes will not help us rebuild for the future.’

‘You are evasive, Matthew. Why? Are you ashamed of your actions?’

‘You are attempting to anger me, Henrietta,’ he said levelly. ‘But you will not deflect me from my purpose in coming here so easily. ‘We were discussing religion, I believe.’

‘If that is what you prefer. Your clerk is a Puritan but you tell me you do not share his religious beliefs?’

‘Nathaniel is a loyal servant, an old family retainer. I make no claim to direct his conscience, or his life.’

‘In that case, may I assume you will afford me the same courtesy?’

‘Do you mean I should consider my wife as an equal to my servant?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘That is not what I meant. You are playing games with my words.’ Henrietta began to relax. This was altogether safer ground, and Matthew seemed almost to be enjoying bandying words with her. ‘I meant I am an Anglican, and nothing you might do or say will stop me worshipping God according to my conscience.’

All his amusement vanished in a flare of anger. Matthew sprang off the bed, wrenched open the hangings at the foot and regarded her through the gap, his face taut with frustration. ‘Do you never listen to what I say to you or do you deliberately misunderstand me? These last ten minutes I have been telling you I am not a Puritan. What do you think I am? An Anabaptist? A Roman Catholic? I am an Anglican like yourself; our religious views are in accord.’

He raked his fingers through his dark hair. ‘What would you have of me, Henrietta?’ She shook her head dumbly, her pulse so loud in her ears that she was sure he would hear it too. ‘I am giving you my protection, the chance to remain in your home, the chance to bring up your children in safety. Does none of this weigh against your dislike of me?’

Dislike? Surely he knew the effect he had on her? If only he'd offered her sweet words instead of talk of security and religious tolerance he would be beside her on the big bed now.

She was so tired of anger and mistrust. Why could he not woo her, be gentle with her inexperience and confusion? For a second she felt her lips tremble and bit down on the lower one to hide the sign of weakness, but he must have seen, for his anger seemed to evaporate.

Slowly Matthew skirted the end of the bed and seated himself once more, just out of arm's reach. ‘You must learn to give up this burden you've been carrying. It was thrust upon you by fortune but you can relinquish it. I am here now.’

She would gladly give him the burden of the estate for he would be a good master, she sensed that now. But the other weight round her neck was impossible to renounce, her promise chained it to her.

He reached out his left hand and touched her bare foot, exposed by the hem of her nightgown. Henrietta gasped and quivered at the intimacy of the caress as his warm palm stroked over the skin, but her treacherous body would not move to escape him.

Matthew seemed to take her stillness for consent and moved closer to her on the big bed until he could reach out and hold her by the shoulders. Her breath constricted in her throat and she swayed towards him.

‘You are grieving still for your little brother, but I will give you children of your own to ease the ache in your heart,’ he murmured.

How could she be so weak as to soften to him like this? The shame burned in Henrietta’s veins, driving out every vestige of desire. His words touched the raw nerve of her grief for her family, of everything she had lost. And he thought once he had her with child nothing else would be important to her, that she would forget?

‘How little you know of me if you think your children would be enough to replace my brothers in my affection,’ she flared as she jerked free of his embrace. ‘You have the legal right to Winterbourne, of that there is no dispute. But do not think I will accept you as a replacement for my brothers and father.’

She had underestimated how strong the anger within him was. There was a sudden flurry of movement and she found herself pinned against the pillows, his fingers strong through the thin stuff of her gown, his eyes fixing her with the force of his will. She should be afraid, but she sensed that, however angry she made him, he would not hurt her. Not physically.

‘And I am not such a fool, Henrietta, as to believe you will give me anything which is not legally binding on you. Yes, you acknowledge me master of this estate, yes, you will marry me. But that is duty. For some reason you dislike and mistrust me and that overrides any other emotion you may feel towards me.’

‘I do not dislike you.’ His words hurt her more than the pressure of his fingers on her shoulders. His closeness disturbed yet excited her and despite her inexperience she could tell his mood was not entirely anger. ‘But how can I give you all you ask when…’

‘When you are already in love?’ he demanded, as though she had forced him to voice his suspicions at last. ‘Deny it, Henrietta. Let me hear it from your lips.’

‘In love?’ she stammered.

‘Do you think I am blind? I know you for a passionate woman, you cannot hide that from me. Why should you shrink from me, unless your love is already given to another?’

She could only shake her head dumbly in denial, her mass of unbound hair tangling on the heaped pillows behind her.

‘At least tell me it's not that puppy Willoughby,’ he ground out.