A Most Unseemly Summer. Juliet Landon

her reputation.

      As for Sir Leon, any man who could use such an intimate and enigmatic incident as a threat was both unprincipled and despicable; he must know that that alone would be enough to keep her at Wheatley. Still, there was nothing to stop her making him regret his decision, though she expected that future encounters would be both rare and brief. Except to Lord Deventer, the man had absolutely nothing to recommend him.

      The news that men had been seen traipsing through the kitchen garden had intrigued her until she discovered at suppertime that they had been repairing the gap in the wall by the side of the river path. And when she had asked by whose orders—it was, after all, in her domain—she had been told it was by Sir Leon’s.

      She might have let the matter rest at that; it would not do to display an inexplicable curiosity. But in the comforting darkness of her curtained bed, the soft images of the previous night took unnatural precedence over the day’s conflicts and would not leave her in peace. It was as if, in the darkness, they were beyond regret. She had now seen the man with whom she had been entangled and, although hostile, it was not difficult for her to recall the way he had held, caressed and kissed her, nor to remember how her own body had flared out of control before the sudden quenching of prudence. In the dark, shame did not exist.

      With only the moon to watch, she took Flint and Fen quietly downstairs out of the front door and round through the kitchen courtyard to the back of the house, the reverse of last night’s frantic journey. At the entrance to the garden she stopped, confronted by the derelict place washed by moonlight where dear Timon’s memory had been cruelly disturbed by one insane moment of bliss, the like of which she had never known with him. Was it because of his absence? Her longing? She thought not, but no one need know it. She need not admit it again, even to herself.

      One of the deerhounds whined, then the other, both suddenly leaving her and bounding up the overgrown path into the darkness. Incensed by their preference for rabbits rather than her, she took a step forward, yelling into the silvery blackness, ‘Flint! Fen! Come back here, damn you!’

      They returned at the trot, ears flattened and tails flailing apologetically, but shattering her reminiscences and making her aware of their absurdity. ‘Come!’ she said, severely. ‘Stupid hounds.’

      This time, her return was unhurried and more thoughtful.

      Had the next day been any other but Sunday, there would have been a good chance of avoiding the cause of her sleepless moments, but churchgoing was never an option unless one intended to attract the disapproval of the vicar and his church-wardens. Furthermore, as a close relative of the abbey’s owner, Felice had a duty to attend.

      She had had her hair braided and enclosed by a pearl-studded gold-mesh cap that appeared to be supported by a white lace collar. Over her elegant farthingale she wore a light woollen gown of rose-pink, a soft tone that complemented the honey of her flawless skin. As the early morning mist had not yet cleared, she wore a loose overgown of a deeper pink lined with grey squirrel, and she assumed Sir Leon’s long examination of her to be approval of her outfit. But, as she had feared, she was given no choice of where to sit, the better benches being at the front and the church already well-filled. So his, ‘Good morrow, my lady,’ had to be acknowledged as if all were well between them.

      Fortunately, there had been no time for more. The vicar, a lively and well-proportioned middle-aged man, was nothing like the sleepy village priest she had half-expected, and it was not until after the service when introductions were made that Felice discovered he was married to the lady who had been sitting beside her.

      ‘Dame Celia Aycombe,’ Sir Leon presented the lady, ‘wife of the Reverend John Aycombe, vicar of Wheatley.’

      Knowing of the new queen’s objections to married clergy, Felice was surprised. Those who defied the royal displeasure usually kept themselves quietly busy in some isolated village which, she supposed, was what the Aycombes were doing. She had been equally surprised to see that Sir Leon’s unwelcoming steward, Thomas Vyttery, had been assisting the vicar, and to discover that he also was married.

      Dame Celia introduced the woman who had been sitting next to her and who had been craning forward in perpetual curiosity for most of the service. ‘Dame Audrey Vyttery,’ she said to Felice, who saw a woman nearing her forties who must in her youth have been pretty when her eyes and mouth had still remembered how to smile. She was slight but over-dressed, and spangled with brooches and ribbons almost from neck to toe. Whereas the plumpish contented figure of Dame Celia held only a pair of leather gloves and a prayer book to complete her outfit, Dame Audrey fidgeted nervously with a pomander on a golden chain, an embroidered purse, a muff, a prayer book and a quite unnecessary feather fan. Acidly, she enquired whether Felice was to stay at Wheatley permanently and, if so, would she remain in the Abbot’s House? She had understood Sir Leon to be moving in there.

      Catching the direction of the enquiry, Felice put her mind at rest while speaking clearly enough for Sir Leon to hear. ‘No, Dame Audrey. Certainly not. Indeed, I’m making plans to leave soon. This is merely a brief visit to check on progress for Lord Deventer.’ Surprisingly, she thought she detected something like relief in the woman’s eyes, but Dame Celia was vociferous in her reaction to the news.

      Her pale eyes widened in surprise. ‘Surely not, my lady. This will be May Week, when we have our holy days and games. You’ll not return before we’ve given you a chance to see how we celebrate, will you?’

      ‘Of course she’ll not!’ The answer came from halfway down the nave where the energetic vicar approached them in a flurry of white. Billowing and back-lit by the west door, he bore down upon them like an angelic host. ‘She’ll not, will she, Sir Leon? No one leaves Wheatley during the May Day revels, least of all our patron’s lovely daughter.’

      Sir Leon, who appeared to find Felice’s denial more entertaining than serious, agreed somewhat mechanically. ‘Indeed not, vicar. I’ve already told her she must stay.’

      ‘Good…good.’ The vicar beamed. ‘That’s settled, then.’

      ‘Then you approve of May Day revels, vicar?’ Felice said.

      ‘Hah! It makes no difference whether I approve or not, my lady. They’d still do it. I believe half the fathers and mothers of Wheatley were conceived on May Eve. Swim with the tide or drown, that’s always been my motto, and it’s stood me in good stead, so far, as you can see. I keep an eye on things, and so does my good lady here, and we baptise the bairns who’re born every new year. That’s probably why the church is so full. Now, have you seen the new buildings yet, my lady? A work of art, you know.’

      ‘Not yet, sir.’

      ‘Be glad to show you round myself, but the master builder must take precedence over a mere clerk of works.’ He grinned, glancing amiably at Sir Leon.

      Sir Leon explained the vicar’s mock-modesty. ‘The Reverend Aycombe is also my clerk of works for the building-site, my lady. Both he and Mr Vyttery hold two positions as priests and building officials.’

      ‘Priests?’ said Felice. ‘Mr Vyttery is a priest?’ She stared at Dame Audrey who simpered, icily.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘May hasband was sacristan here at Wheatley Ebbey. Augustinian, you see. All the manks were priests.’

      Felice nodded. If she was to be obliged to stay here, she had better learn something about the place. ‘Of course. And you, vicar? You were at the abbey, too?’

      ‘Abbot, my lady,’ he beamed.

      Not only married priests, but married monks. And Timon had told her more than once that it could never be done, that he was already courting danger by celebrating the Roman Catholic Mass in private which was why no one must know of his whereabouts. But, of course, he had been concerned for her safety: recusants were fined quite heavily these days.

      It was later that morning as she passed through the courtyard behind the Abbot’s House that Felice noticed something odd which she could not at first identify. The yard was always emptier on Sundays, yet the stables had to be cleaned out, even