Puritan Bride. Anne O'Brien

      ‘Thank you, Bessie. Would you trim my hair—to cut away the worst of the stray bits?’

      ‘My pleasure, miss. I will fetch the shears from Mistress Neale!’

      * * *

      Half an hour later Viola risked a second look in the mirror. Her hair now lay neatly against her neck and curled on to her cheeks and forehead in feathery wisps. She sighed. It was the best she could hope for. ‘Thank you, Bessie. I suppose it is some improvement!’ She smiled wryly as she swept herself a regal curtsy. ‘Do you suppose it will ever look passably attractive?’

      ‘That it will, Mistress Viola. And when the bruise fades you will feel more the thing.’

      ‘You are very good for my spirits, Bessie.’ They smiled at their achievements with the shears. ‘Now, where will I find Lady Elizabeth at this time in the morning? I must speak to her—thank her for all her kindness and this beautiful dress.’

      ‘She usually sits in the panelled parlour at the front of the house in the morning. The sun makes it warm and comfortable for her—with the pains in her limbs an’ all. I will take you there when you are ready.’

      Lady Elizabeth sat in the wash of sunlight in the small parlour with a neglected piece of tapestry on her lap as Bessie ushered in Viola. Felicity sat beside her, head bent industriously over a similar pattern intended to cover a chair seat. Elizabeth’s face was solemn and pensive as she gazed out over the gardens, but brightened immediately with a welcoming smile as she stretched out her hand in greeting.

      ‘Well, Mistress Viola. You look charming this morning. I knew the dress would suit. Turn round for me.’

      Viola did as she was bid, enjoying the swish of damask skirts against the polished oak boards.

      ‘I do not know what to say. You have given me more than I deserve.’

      Felicity’s curled lips suggested that she might agree, but said nothing and continued to ply her needle with little vicious stabs at the tapestry.

      ‘Nonsense, dear girl. Come and sit and entertain me a little.’

      Viola did as she was bid and bent to admire Elizabeth’s embroidery. ‘Your tapestry is beautiful. The stitches are so even.’

      ‘I could do better.’ Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in self-disgust. ‘My fingers are so swollen and painful. Can you do tapestry work?’

      ‘Yes, of course. I remember …’ She stopped in some consternation.

      ‘There now. I knew your memory would return when you stopped trying so hard. I expect your mother taught you.’

      ‘Perhaps. I certainly know that I have worked tapestry—and needlework—and I remember patterns. One very similar to Mistress Felicity’s cover with flowers and leaves, but in darker greens. But I am not sure that I enjoyed it.’ Her lips were touched by a faint smile. ‘I feel that I applied myself reluctantly and only because I must.’

      ‘It is indeed amazing how your memory is beginning to return.’ The sour note in Felicity’s voice was unmistakable.

      There was a silence in the room for a long moment. And then, ‘It is not a situation that I would wish on anyone, Mistress Felicity,’ Viola replied in a quiet voice.

      So she has spirit. It pleased Elizabeth to hear her young guest stand up for herself against Felicity’s unkind sniping.

      ‘Perhaps you would fetch us some wine, Felicity?’

      ‘Of course, dear Elizabeth.’ Felicity simpered in Elizabeth’s direction, but with a scowl for Viola as she flounced through the door.

      ‘You said, my lady, that you had recently returned to live here.’ It seemed to Viola an innocuous subject that would not require any reminiscences on her part.

      ‘It is a complicated story,’ explained Elizabeth, willing enough to find a neutral topic. ‘We used to live at Glasbury Old Hall—you probably do not know it, but it is only a few miles from here. I went there as a young bride. But it was damaged beyond repair in the war—and then we came here.’

      ‘Do you never go back?’

      ‘Too sad. Too many memories of what might have been.’

      ‘But why did you come here in the first place—and then not remain here?’

      ‘I warned you it had its complications. The Priory became ours after a siege and the original family fled. So we moved here when our own house was destroyed. But then we were on the wrong side after 1649 and the King dead, so it was confiscated by Parliament and the rents used for their own policies. In effect, we lost both houses—I think it helped to bring about my husband’s intense melancholy and ultimate death. We went to a property in London, which I had brought to the marriage in my jointure—and this place stood more or less empty except for a strange lady from the original family who stayed on as a sort of guardian, with our steward, Master Verzons, and Mistress Neale. When King Charles was restored, my son petitioned for the return of the Priory—and the King granted it back to him. So we returned. Not an edifying story!’

      ‘And the lady—the guardian? What happened to her?’

      ‘She would not stay. I cannot blame her. She was very angry.’

      Felicity returned, followed by Verzons bearing a tray. He poured the wine, handed the glasses to the ladies and arranged a small table conveniently beside Elizabeth. As he presented Viola with her wine, she looked up at him in thanks to surprise an intent look on his face as he studied her. He immediately dropped his gaze and became once again the self-effacing steward, but it left Viola uncomfortable. It was not a casual look at all.

      As Elizabeth reached to put down the glass, she caught the stem with a clumsy hand and the glass fell to the floor, smashing the fragile vessel and spilling the wine in a spreading puddle. She cried out in distress as Felicity leaped to her feet to mop up the mess. ‘I am so clumsy,’ she fretted. ‘Some days it is insupportable.’

      Viola was horrified to see tears gather in Lady Elizabeth’s eyes and only sheer effort of will prevent them from spilling over down her cheeks.

      ‘Is it …?’ She hesitated, unsure of such a personal enquiry. ‘Is it the rheumatic disease that causes your suffering, my lady?’

      ‘Yes. So painful! For some little time now—and the cold and damp aggravates it.’

      ‘I believe I can make things easier for you if you would allow me.’

      ‘I doubt anyone can,’ Felicity intervened, still on her knees where she dealt with the spilled wine and glass. ‘Lady Elizabeth has suffered from such pains for many years and nothing helps. We must pray for deliverance.’

      ‘But I know how to ease the pain.’

      ‘Do you really?’ The spark of hope in Elizabeth’s eyes and voice touched Viola’s heart.

      Yes, because …’ She hesitated, frowning, as if the reason had slipped away from her grasp. ‘I do not know why I know,’ she continued, ‘but I know that I have the skill and knowledge to ease the pain and reduce the swelling. Someone must have taught me. I remember a number of potions and balms, and a pain-relieving draught, that would be of use.’ Viola took a deep breath, eyes closed in frustration. ‘Why can I remember such trivial details and yet not know my own name?’

      ‘I know not. But you could make such a potion for me? You could make the pain go away?’

      ‘I believe I can ease it. Do you wish for me to try?’

      ‘If only you would.’ Hope illuminated Elizabeth’s face. ‘What would you use?’

      ‘Herbs and hedgerow plants. Dried leaves mostly at this time of the year when little is growing. It is not difficult to prepare something that should give you relief.’

      ‘But what if her memory is wrong,