A Crowning Mercy. Bernard Cornwell

      Ebenezer nodded, though Campion could see a small frown on his face as though he did not fully understand.

      ‘Miss Dorcas?’

      ‘No, I don’t understand.’

      This was unexpected, for Isaac Blood started with some surprise, and then looked annoyed. ‘You don’t understand?’

      Campion stood and walked towards the north-facing windows. ‘What is the Covenant, Mr Blood?’ She felt that her wings had been mangled, torn, bloodied, and she was plummeting helpless to earth. Her father’s death had solved nothing, merely delayed the wedding.

      The lawyer ignored her question. He was bundling his papers together. ‘If you will permit some small advice? I would suggest a quiet wedding in the near future. Six weeks perhaps? It would not be unfitting.’ He peered heavily at Samuel Scammell. ‘You understand, Mr Scammell, that the will supposed your marriage, and your position in the household is dependent upon it?’

      ‘I do understand, yes.’

      ‘And, of course, it would be Matthew Slythe’s wish that the happy event was not overlong delayed. Things must be regular, Mr Scammell. Regular!’

      ‘Indeed and indeed.’ Scammell stood to show the lawyer out.

      Campion turned from the window. ‘Mr Blood, you did not answer my question. What is the Covenant?’

      Her father had been embarrassed by the question, but the lawyer shrugged dismissively. ‘Your marriage portion, Miss Slythe. The estate, of course, was always destined for your brother, but your father made arrangements for your dowry. I fear I know little more. It was handled by a lawyer in London, but I suspect you will find yourself generously provided for.’

      ‘Indeed.’ Scammell nodded at her, eager for her to be pleased.

      There was a brief silence. Campion’s question had been answered and it had offered her no hope of escaping marriage with Scammell. Then Ebenezer’s grating voice was loud in the room. ‘What is “generously”? How much is the Covenant worth?’

      Isaac Blood shrugged. ‘I do not know.’

      Scammell raised his eyebrows archly, fidgeted, and looked pleased with himself. He was bursting with his news, eager to impress the beautiful, golden-haired girl whom he wanted to embrace. He wanted Campion to approve of him, to like him, and he hoped that his next words would break the dam of her withheld feelings. ‘I can answer that question, indeed I can.’ He smiled at Campion. ‘Last year, as near as we can judge, the Covenant yielded ten thousand pounds.’

      ‘Dear God!’ Isaac Blood held on to the lectern.

      Ebenezer stood up slowly, his face animated for the first time that day. ‘How much?’

      ‘Ten thousand pounds.’ Scammell said it humbly, as though he were responsible for the profit yet did not want to sound boastful. ‘It fluctuates, of course. Some years more, some less.’

      ‘Ten thousand pounds?’ Ebenezer’s voice was rising in shocked anger. ‘Ten thousand?’ It was a sum of such vast proportions that it was scarcely conceivable. A king’s ransom, a fortune, a sum far in excess of Werlatton’s income. Ebenezer might expect £700 a year from the estate and now he was hearing that his sister had been given far, far more.

      Scammell giggled with pleasure. ‘Indeed and indeed.’ Now, perhaps, Campion would marry him with a glad heart. They would be rich as few in this world are rich. ‘You’re surprised, my dear?’

      Campion shared her brother’s disbelief. Ten thousand pounds! It was an unthinkable sum. She was grasping for understanding and failing, but she remembered the words of the will and ignored Samuel Scammell. ‘Mr Blood? Do I comprehend the will to mean that the money becomes mine when I am twenty-five?’

      ‘Quite so, quite so.’ Isaac Blood was looking at her with a new respect. ‘Not, of course, if you are married, for then the monies will be your dear husband’s, as is proper. But should he predecease you,’ here Blood made an apologetic motion towards Scammell, ‘then, of course, you will take the seal into your own keeping. That much, I think, is clear from the will.’

      ‘The seal?’ Ebenezer had limped close to the lectern.

      Blood was pouring the last of the malmsey into his glass. ‘It merely authenticates the signature on any paper dealing with the Covenant.’

      ‘But where is it, Mr Blood? Where is it?’ Ebenezer was unusually animated.

      The lawyer drank the sweet wine, then shrugged. ‘How would I know, Master Ebenezer? I assume it is in your father’s belongings.’ He stared regretfully into the empty wine glass. ‘You should look for it. I recommend a diligent search.’

      He left, after expressing perfunctory but profound sympathies for their sad loss, and Ebenezer and Scammell escorted the lawyer to his horse. Campion was left alone. The sun slanted through leaded windows on to the polished, waxed floorboards. She was still a prisoner here; the fortune of the Covenant changed nothing. She did not understand all the legalities; she only understood that she was trapped.

      Samuel Scammell came back into the hall, his shoes squeaking on the boards. ‘My dear? Our fortune surprised you?’

      She looked wearily at him. ‘Leave me alone. Please? Leave me alone.’

      It was August now, a high, ripening August that promised better crops than for years past. Campion walked through the scented fields, avoiding those where anyone worked, seeking always the solitary places where she could sit and think. She ate alone, slept alone, yet her presence pervaded Werlatton Hall. It was as if her father’s force, his ability to impose a mood upon the house, had passed to her. Goodwife Baggerlie resented it most. ‘She’s got a devil in her, master, you mark my words!’

      ‘Grief is hard,’ Scammell said.

      ‘Grief! She’s not grieving!’ Goodwife crossed her arms and stared defiantly at Scammell. ‘She needs a beating, master, that’s all! A good beating! That’ll teach her her place. Her father would have beaten her, God rest his soul, and so you should.’ Goodwife began vigorously dusting the hall table where Scammell was finishing a lonely lunch. ‘She’s lacked for nothing, that girl, nothing! If I’d been given her advantages …’ She tutted, leaving it to Scammell’s imagination what heights Goodwife might have scaled had she been Matthew Slythe’s daughter. ‘Give her a beating, master! Belts aren’t just for holding up breeches!’

      Scammell was master now, doling out the servants’ wages and collecting the estate’s rents. Ebenezer helped him, sharing the work and always seeking to ingratiate himself with the older man. They shared a concern, too. The seal of the Covenant could not be found.

      Campion did not care. The existence of the Covenant with its extraordinary income did not help her. She was still trapped in a marriage she did not want and neither ten pounds nor ten thousand would reconcile her to Scammell. It was not, she knew, that he was a bad man, though she suspected he was a weak man. He might, she supposed, make a good husband, but not for her. She wanted to be happy, she wanted to be free, and Scammell’s flabby lust was inadequate compensation for the abandonment of her dreams. She was Dorcas and she wanted to be Campion.

      She did not swim again – there was no joy in that now – yet she still visited the pool where the purple loosestrife was in flower and remembered Toby Lazender. She could not summon his face in her imagination any more, yet she remembered his gentle teasing, his easy manner, and she daydreamed that one day he might come back to the pool, and rescue her from Werlatton and its crushing rule of the Saints.

      She was thinking of Toby one afternoon, a smile on her face for she was imagining him coming, when there were hoofbeats in the meadow behind and she turned, the smile still there, and watched as Ebenezer rode towards her. ‘Sister.’

      She held the smile for him. ‘Eb.’ She had hoped, for one mad, exhilarating second, that it was Toby. Instead her brother’s face scowled at her.

      She