The candles burned down as they talked. The firelight flickered hypnotically and Matthew began to stroke her hair, teasing his fingers through the ringlets in an unconscious caress.
Henrietta snuggled closer against him like a warm cat and gazed into the embers, no longer listening to the conversation. For all her contentment she felt guilty; when had she ever allowed Matthew to explain his beliefs to her in the way she had allowed this man, a complete stranger, to do?
Chapter Twenty One
‘Mistress, should we not stay here tonight?’ Letty looked with concern at Henrietta's face. ‘You did not look well when we set off from Hertford this morning and now you seem quite faint.’
Henrietta paused, one hand on the pommel of her saddle, ready to mount, and gestured to the groom to wait. ‘Stay here? Letty, what can you be thinking of? Look around you at this place. I could not possibly spend the night here and you know I planned to return to Winterbourne tonight. If we do not return Sir Matthew will worry.’
The maid followed her gaze around the dirty, malodorous inn yard, taking in the cobbles, shiny with rain and horse droppings, the smoke issuing from the broken chimney, the raucous noise of the drinkers in the public rooms.
‘I know it is not what you are used to, but you need to rest, Mistress,’ Letty persisted. ‘You have had a long ride from Hertford this morning and this cold rain is set in for the day. You should never have persuaded Sir Matthew you could come home alone when he was called away to London from the wedding.’
Henrietta reached into the folds of her cloak and retrieved a kerchief to mop her wet face, as she had been doing all morning. The October drizzle was insistent, chilling the whole returning wedding party to the marrow, dampening their spirits after the euphoria of the wedding.
When Lord Hargrave's message had reached Matthew on the eve of Aunt Susan's marriage it had taken all her powers of persuasion to get him to leave. The irony of her, a Royalist, sending him about his Parliamentary business had escaped neither of them.
‘Rest is the last thing I need after that disgusting dinner.’ Henrietta grimaced, ‘I have never tasted such greasy mutton, it rests heavy on my stomach.’ She felt the bile rising in her throat and swallowed convulsively. ‘I need fresh air, not that smoke and stench of stale ale.’
The inn was the best Wheathampstead had to offer, none the less the innkeeper was ill used to accommodating the gentry. He had bowed Henrietta and Letty through the crush of damp, smelly bodies in the taproom to a private parlour beyond, leaving their grooms to make shift as best they could after they had fed and watered the horses. The weather had put them a good hour behind, thwarting their plans to dine in comfort in the market town of Harpenden.
Henrietta had told herself that she should try to eat the mutton stew, coarse bread and small ale their host had served them. In truth the rich food at her aunt's wedding breakfast the day before had disagreed with her, as most things seemed to these last few days, and the ride had already sapped her strength. She needed to replenish her energies if she was to get back to Winterbourne that day.
‘Mistress, will you mount now?’ John, her groom, bent his back, hands cupped to receive her booted foot and toss her up into the saddle.
‘No, wait.’ Letty said. Henrietta was taken aback by her maid's vehemence and sudden authority. ‘John, give me the reins and wait over there.’ Puzzled, the man complied. As soon as he was out of earshot Letty hissed, ‘Mistress, forgive me, I know it is not my place to say so, but you should not be tiring yourself so in your condition.’
‘My what?’ Henrietta stared at her, absently wiping a raindrop off the end of her nose with a gloved hand.
‘Your condition, Mistress. You are with child, are you not?’ Two spots of colour on the maid's cheeks showed how difficult this boldness was for her.
‘I must be.’ Henrietta stared blankly at the wet mane of her mare standing solidly in the dirty yard. How could she have been so stupid, not realised the thing she had been praying for had happened? ‘But Letty, I have been feeling so ill.’ Her lack of energy, her want of appetite, the other bodily symptoms, all these she had attributed to the lasting effects of her fall in the yard. Added to that, the unsettled state of the country, her sorrow at losing Aunt Susan to be the wife of Lawyer Stone in Hertford and endless depressing rain had all served to convince her she was out of sorts and needed a tonic.
‘I had meant to speak to Mistress Perrott, but I thought the queasiness would pass. I never imagined such a joyous thing would make me feel so wretched.’
‘And your aunt has had no children,’ Letty added shrewdly. ‘She would not think to warn you of these early signs. But it was so with both my sisters, and my mother tells me it is more common than not.’ She looked around at their surroundings. ‘You are right, you could not stay here, but we could go on to Harpenden and stay at the Silver Swan. I have heard Lawyer Stone speak well of it many times.’
‘No, we are going home,’ Henrietta said firmly, her nausea no longer important. ‘John, help me to mount, we leave at once.’ Now she knew the truth she desired more than ever to return to Winterbourne, shut the world out, be alone and safe with the child she was carrying. And Matthew.
Letty caught John's arm as he came forward and whispered urgently to him. Unusually he took the mare's leading-rein and drew his own horse close beside her. Letty was tossed up behind Peter and the other two armed Winterbourne grooms fell in at the rear of the little procession, one of them leading a pack-horse with Henrietta's bags.
A child, Matthew's child. The thought obsessed her, filled her with awe, lifted her dampened spirits. And once she had shared her secret with him, seen the joy in his eyes, she would be the happiest woman alive.
The road ran along the Lea Valley, past the flooded watercress beds and the willows, their stems already bare as they hung over the muddy water. Their horses' hoofs splashed through the puddles, miring the women's skirts and the men's boots as they moved through the empty landscape. There was no wind and the moisture-laden air hung heavy and cold, dripping from bare branches as the riders ascended the hills into the woods, then dropped down the steep valley side into Harpenden.
Lights glowed warmly in the windows of the Silver Swan as they rode past the inn yard. ‘Will you not change your mind, Mistress?' Letty called, casting a longing look at the well-kept hostelry.
Mutely Henrietta shook her head. She had hardly heard the question, her whole attention turned inward, listening to her body, the beat of her blood. Her child was cocooned, safe and warm in her womb, however cold and aching she was. She tried to imagine Matthew's face when she told him, remembering all he had said to her on their wedding night as they had looked out over Winterbourne in the moonlight. She was carrying the future of Winterbourne, the child who would fill the space left by the son he had lost.
And she, Henrietta Wynter, was going to survive, was going to bring her child to adulthood as poor Sarah had not. For the first time Henrietta realised she was in sympathy with Matthew's first wife, could share her feelings.
What a fool she had been to be jealous. She could never have given her heart to a man who could easily forget the woman he had been married to, consign her to history without regret or pain.
It was only right Matthew should have fond memories of Sarah, be hurt by the recollection of her death and that of his son. But that need not stop him loving Henrietta, and in her heart she began to hope that he was beginning to do so.
Her mare stumbled in a pot-hole and John jerked the leading-rein to bring the animal's head up. Henrietta pulled her thoughts back to the present and took up her reins firmly. If she was not careful she would take a tumble, and that she could not afford. ‘Thank you, John, but give me the rein. I must concentrate on what I am doing.’ She dug her heel into the mare's flank and looked around, assessing their progress. ‘What time is it, John?’
‘Must be near four of the clock, Mistress, the light is dying fast. We will not be on Winterbourne soil till past suppertime.’ There was worry in the lean, ruddy face and he glanced about him with unusual sharpness as he spoke.