The Memory Palace. Christie Dickason

watched her betrothed settle into the saddle and gather up the reins. At least I now know that he can ride.

      The beech avenue swallowed him.

      Perhaps he has gone for good. His proposal was a cruel jest. And he has taken my horse. How can I know differently?

      She had planned to write that morning to tell John of her proposed marriage. Now she decided to wait until she knew for certain that Wentworth was coming back. It was best not to tempt fate.

      

      Wentworth returned three days later with an ordinary ecclesiastical licence issued by the diocese, which allowed them to be wed at once, without calling the banns. Though the growing child was the reason for this saving of three weeks, Zeal was grateful that news of the marriage need not be published throughout the parish. The disapproval and curiosity on Hawkridge Estate alone were as much as she could bear. She did not ask how Wentworth had managed to acquire the licence. Nor did she know that both Sir Richard and Master Wilde of Far Beeches had each stood surety for a large sum of money, to guarantee, accurately or not, that Wentworth’s written allegation presented to the archdeacon contained no falsehoods concerning her state of legal spinsterhood.

      After one night back, on Michaelmas Day, Wentworth borrowed the horse again, this time to ride to Basingstoke.

      

      ‘Surely I must settle a jointure on you, not the other way round,’ Zeal told him unhappily. ‘Do we need a lawyer to ensure your right to my pile of ashes?’

      On marriage all her property became his, as it had become Harry’s. She had much less now than then, but nevertheless, if Philip had had a male heir, that heir, not she, would have the right to whatever remained after Philip’s death. Or a creditor of his might attach the estate, or the king might declare it forfeit if Wentworth committed a crime.

      From the little he had told her so far, an unknown crime did not seem beyond possibility. These risks were the price of her child’s life.

      The lawyer Wentworth brought from Basingstoke was eating toasted bread and cheese at the bake house table while a kitchen groom held another slice on a knifepoint over the fire. The man’s papers and pens waited on Zeal’s table in the estate office.

      Wentworth nodded curtly at yet another of the house family who had found an excuse to visit the bake house kitchen. ‘Am I a specimen in a menagerie, that all these people must come peer at me?’

      The second dairymaid’s face disappeared from the kitchen door.

      ‘You’re not often seen. And, by day, this is always a busy place.’

      ‘Small wonder I prefer the riverbanks!’ He led her to one of the little windows and stooped as if to look out. ‘I will almost certainly die before you,’ he said quietly. ‘I want no one to find anything irregular in our union. For the child’s sake.’ He glared at the kitchen groom, who fled. ‘Also, I want to make secure your absolute title to Hawkridge again after I am gone, not just dower rights or a widow’s annuity.’

      She nodded. It was kind of him to think of such things, although she would be leaving Hawkridge in any case, when John sent in seven years for her to go to the West Indies. None of which Wentworth knew. ‘Arrange things as you wish,’ she said, avoiding his eyes.

      He scratched the bristle on his chin and smiled. ‘“On my obedient wife, Zeal Wentworth, I settle, herewith, two fishing rods of willow with copper rings, four Brown Queens, two Peacocks and a dozen hooks of the finest Spanish steel.”’

      Zeal laughed.

      Wentworth looked at first startled and then pleased that he seemed to have amused her.

      ‘You might find use for my rods, if you’ll allow me to teach you to fish. Then you can leave them to the child…the thought pleases me. I might even leave the cub my books direct.’ He peered through the window again. ‘And here comes Sir Richard at last, to be our witness. I swear he’s making his horse trot on tiptoe to spare his head.’

      That image of her neighbour, short, round and undoubtedly sore-headed from his night of drinking, made Zeal laugh again.

      Wentworth again looked both startled and pleased.

      He’s grown used to amusing only himself, she thought. At the least, I can give him my laughter. I think he really does mean me well.

      The lawyer finished the last of his bread and brushed the crumbs from his long white collar as Sir Richard opened the bake house door.

      The old knight took off his hat and fanned himself. ‘Oho! The happy couple.’ He mopped his bald head and replaced his hat. His reddened eyes sat in their puffy sockets like specks of grit in two oysters. ‘Don’t know how you’ll take to this news, but Doctor Gifford sent me word that he can make time to marry you Saturday next, if I have no objections as magistrate.’

      ‘That’s only eight days!’ cried Mistress Margaret, returning with ale for Sir Richard in time to hear. ‘How can we prepare in eight days?’

      ‘But surely our own Doctor Bowler must marry us!’ Zeal protested. ‘If he’s willing.’

      Sir Richard and Wentworth exchanged glances.

      ‘Doctor Gifford is the parish incumbent and a strong voice in the parish council,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Doctor Bowler merely your estate parson.’

      ‘All the more reason for him to bless an estate union.’ Zeal folded her arms. ‘I don’t like Gifford. He will be a weight dragging us down. Doesn’t the man know that God resides above? He should lift spirits, not always be tugging them down towards damnation.’

      ‘I can’t stomach the man,’ said Sir Richard. ‘But it would not be politic to offend either him or the parish vestry.’

      ‘Why not?’ she demanded.

      Sir Richard and Wentworth exchanged another of those maddening male looks.

      ‘We must give no one any excuse to question the marriage,’ said Wentworth.

      Zeal pursed her lips and wound a sleeve ribbon around her finger until the tip looked like a ripe cherry. She tried not to think of the darkness that Gifford would cast over the wedding. The whole venture was already as fragile as a bubble. ‘He must agree at least to marry us here at Hawkridge in our own chapel. I shall tell him so.’

      ‘Best leave that to me,’ said Sir Richard hastily. ‘I’ve an examination to make in Bedgebury tomorrow in any case.’

      The lawyer cleared his throat politely to indicate that he was now ready.

      

      The next Sunday, as negotiated on the night of the inquiry into Sir Harry’s death, Zeal took herself and her household to their monthly service in Bedgebury parish church. Sir Richard, of course, had not been part of the deal and waved them off with too much gusto for Zeal’s liking. Wentworth had never attended prayers and apparently did not mean to begin now.

      He’s the blasted rudder after all, Zeal thought crossly as the little procession set off along the track downstream along the river to Bedgebury. But I don’t suppose Gifford is worried about his soul.

      Doctor Bowler, however, trudged glumly at her side, still avoiding her eyes. ‘All that sermonizing,’ he said. ‘I won’t be comfortable. And with no hymns or Prayer Book! I shall feel as if I’m talking to a stranger, not my own God.’

      ‘I wish you were marrying us, not Doctor Gifford,’ said Zeal.

      They both huffed and waved their hands to disperse a cloud of late gnats, which hovered in a sunny patch.

      ‘Will you want wedding music?’ Bowler enquired carefully as the shady tunnel closed round them again.

      ‘Oh, yes! But I feared to ask.’

      ‘Because Gifford will disapprove.’ He nodded in understanding of her difficulty.

      ‘Gifford can’t