Puritan Bride. Anne O'Brien

make good her escape before she could be discovered. Felicity was not the most amenable companion in the world, but without doubt she needed someone. Some days she could hardly lift her arm to brush her own hair. Or even push herself out of bed. The fear of increasing pain, of growing dependence, gripped her with sharp talons. Oh, Marcus! Let me go back to London where it is easier to forget my infirmities, where I am rarely lonely. She knew that she would never say those words to him. He would listen and try to make life more comfortable for her, but he was determined to make his home here at the Priory and she knew better than to voice her dissatisfaction. She understood the loss in his life, the devastation, the driving force within him, and loved him far too much to stand in his way.

      She struggled through the doorway to avoid Felicity’s approach, and turned into the passageway to the kitchens. As for this marriage … Elizabeth pursed her lips thoughtfully. She could understand only too well the logic of her son’s decision. Katherine Harley was the true heiress to the property, even if her inheritance had been overlooked in the present political climate. It would certainly consolidate her son’s possession, not that he needed it with the courts and the King’s pleasure behind him. But marriage … How old would she be? About twenty years? Elizabeth vaguely remembered the birth of the baby just before Sir Thomas had died. A babe in arms when Philippa had been driven from the Priory to take refuge with Sir Henry Jessop, her brother over at Downham Manor. What sort of upbringing would the child have had there? Little warmth and pleasure, Elizabeth imagined. Sir Henry had a name for staunch Puritanism, even though he might be a fair man. And Philippa would probably not stand against him in the matter of the upbringing of her child.

      But nothing was settled as yet. It was all still in the hands of the lawyers. And what would the girl make of her profligate son? A slow smile eased the tension of Elizabeth’s face at the prospect. Perhaps Katherine Harley would be a true daughter to her, to replace the still-born child she still mourned after all these years. But what if she was a hymn-singing, Bible-reading girl, all duty and service with no love of music and pretty clothes? She shuddered at the prospect. Not all the legal intricacies would make her a suitable wife and daughter, whatever her promise to Marcus.

      She hesitated outside the kitchen door and would have retreated if she had not experienced a particularly sharp twinge of pain from her hip to her knee. Did she really want to enter Mistress Neale’s domain? She was pleasant enough, a sturdy, capable body, elderly now but still able to run the household efficiently, but she was an old family retainer of the Harleys who had stayed put through all the upheavals and changes of ownership, like Master Verzons, the steward. Always polite. Always co-operative. But Elizabeth felt that, as a newcomer, a usurper in fact, she was an intruder. They could run the house and did not need or desire orders from her. They smiled. They showed all due respect. But she sometimes caught a gleam in Mistress Neale’s eyes—not unwelcoming, exactly, but assessing, even after all these years.

      There was no help for it—she could not stand here for ever in this draughty corridor. She pushed open the kitchen door.

      ‘Good morning, my lady. Can I be of any help?’ Mistress Neale broke off her conversation with the cook, wiped her hands on her apron and approached with a quick curtsy and a calm welcome. The kitchen was warm, a blessing to Elizabeth’s chilled flesh, and hummed with well-ordered activity. Something fragrant steamed over the fire. Lady Oxenden would have liked nothing better than to sit and exchange news and gossip with her housekeeper.

      ‘Why, no. I thought …’ Why did she feel so inadequate? ‘I might take a look at the still-room.’ And Felicity will not find me in there! ‘I do not have the key. Perhaps you have it, Mistress Neale?’

      ‘Indeed, my lady.’ She took a ring of keys from her belt and selected the appropriate one. ‘Was there anything in particular you were needing? I can always send Elspeth.’

      ‘No, indeed. I am sure you have an inventory, but I would like to see what is still of use. I doubt that anything has been bottled or stored for a good number of years.’

      ‘No, my lady. It has been sadly neglected since the house has stood empty. My own preserves are kept here in the kitchen larders. Mistress Adams never used the still-room—she thought it too small and inconvenient for the storing and drying of herbs—and she had no interest in preserves.’

      ‘No. I do not suppose she had.’ Elizabeth sighed and avoided the opportunity to discuss the likes and dislikes of Mistress Gilliver Adams. Some of them were most disturbing and did not bear close contemplation.

      She took the key and, since there was no forthcoming invitation to stay in her own kitchen, she closed the door quietly and retreated.

      A blind passage led off from the corridor to the still-room. With stiff fingers Elizabeth applied the key and found to her relief that the lock had received some recent care and opened smoothly. The door allowed her entrance to a small room, lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, with a work bench along one wall and an old cabinet fixed to the wall in one corner. The only window was small, mullioned, letting in a poor, grey light. How long since anyone had ventured in here? she wondered. Dust and cobwebs covered and draped from every surface, as did the spiders, and she tried not to notice the mouse droppings along the surface of the bench.

      For the most part the shelves were empty, but there were a few jars at one side, some with faded labels, most without. Elizabeth remembered enjoying this little space in happier days to store the products of the kitchen garden and the orchard for the onset of winter. Presumably it had not been made use of any time in the past decade. Above her head hung bunches of herbs, perhaps collected and put there by herself. They were dry and brittle now, too dusty for use, but the scent of sage filled the air as she crumbled a sprig in her hand and allowed the leaves to drift to the floor. She had seen that the herb garden was totally overgrown, but it would be pleasurable to resurrect it on warm afternoons in spring—if she could find it physically possible.

      The bottles had dark, sinister contents. Possibly plums … or damsons—she remembered a particularly fine specimen by the wall in the kitchen garden. She would not care to risk sampling them after all these years. Perhaps she could get Felicity to help her take stock and clear out. It would give her something to do other than complain and read pious passages from her limited collection of books. Her eyes closed, the aromas of herbs around her, Lady Elizabeth wished with all her heart that she had her health back.

      Finally Elizabeth opened the cabinet. On one shelf was a pestle and mortar. Beside it a sheaf of yellowed pages, perhaps a collection of old recipes, but nothing she remembered. Otherwise there was a general clutter of spoons, dishes and a cracked glass container.

      She was about to turn away, somewhat disappointed at the cabinet’s meagre treasure, when it caught her eye, tucked into the bottom corner of the cabinet. It was a handsome pottery jug, quite old, undecorated and cloaked with dust, but with an elegant neck and handle. She had no recollection of this. There was no label that she could see, so she bent carefully to lift it out and place it on the bench. It was well sealed with wax and there were traces of an official seal stamped into it, but it was brittle enough to begin to disintegrate at her touch. She carried it to the window to squint at the imprint. Impossible to tell. She moved to replace it in the cupboard. Perhaps Mistress Neale would know more about it.

      Felicity’s voice calling her name from close at hand caught her attention. It was enough to herald disaster. She fumbled, the pottery too smooth in her grasp and her swollen knuckles unable to keep a firm pressure.

      She dropped the pot. It shattered on the tiled floor at her feet, sending shards of painted clay in every direction.

      Elizabeth groaned in frustration and self-disgust. Now she would have to clear it up, whatever mess it contained—apart from having wilfully destroyed a handsome jug. Relief and some surprise swept through her, however, when she realised that, in spite of the stopper and the seal, the jug was, in fact, empty. All she could see around her feet were broken pieces of pottery.

      It took no time for Elizabeth to accept that her hips and knees would not allow her to stoop to the floor to sweep up the pieces, however much she might like to hide the evidence. Never mind, Mistress Neale would see to it. Or even Felicity. After all, it was her fault,