Royalist On The Run. Helen Dickson

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      Alice sighed in mock surrender. ‘What are we going to do with you? You are strong and handsome and you have many fine qualities, Stephen.’

      ‘Thank you, Alice. But I am not handsome like Edward, I fear.’

      ‘Are you not?’ she remarked with a twinkle in her eye. ‘As I recall when we were all at home, the serving maids didn’t think so. Speaking of Edward, have you seen him?’

      ‘Not yet. I will go and find him.’

      ‘I trust you and those with you are hungry. We have limited provisions, but I will soon put something together.’

      ‘That would be appreciated. We haven’t eaten since early morning. And you and Arabella must join us. England may be a dark and dreary place under the rule of Cromwell, the luxuries and amusements we so loved in the past denied us, but we will sit and eat and be a happy family whilst we can.’

      ‘You are not going to stay long?’ Arabella asked, unable to hide her concern.

      He shook his head wearily. ‘We cannot. We only have a few hours here.’

      She looked up at him with fear-bright eyes. ‘You are going to join Charles Stuart?’

      ‘I must, Arabella. I remain loyal to the end. It is my duty.’

      Alice expelled a deep sigh as she watched their brother walk away. ‘It is so good to see him again, Arabella—and to have a man in the house once more.’ She searched her sister’s face anxiously. ‘How badly is Sir Edward hurt?’

      ‘He shall live,’ Arabella replied, sinking wearily into a chair by the hearth and resting her feet on the fender. ‘The wound is clean and will soon heal.’

      Alice nodded, sitting across from her. ‘And you, Arabella? Seeing Edward after all this time must have come as a shock.’

      ‘Yes. I thought I would never see him again.’

      ‘What will you do about the child?’

      ‘What can I do? I am left with little choice.’ She looked across at her sister. ‘If I refuse to look after him, you will, won’t you, Alice?’

      ‘If necessary, yes.’

      ‘Then it seems he is here to stay for the time being.’

      ‘The child has lost his mother. So many lives have been ruined by this war. We must do what we can to help.’

      ‘Yes,’ Arabella uttered quietly. ‘I suppose you are right.’

      The two sisters sat silent for a long moment, each with her own thoughts. At length Alice sighed softly and stood up.

      ‘They’ll be hungry. I asked Bertha to prepare food before I took the children to bed. I’ll go and help her.’

      * * *

      They dined in the large dining parlour off the hall. A branch of candles stood on in the middle of the great oak table and cast a reasonable light in the high-ceilinged room.

      It was a subdued meal charged with emotion. Stephen sat at the head of the table with Alice and Edward seated next to each other across from Arabella. The two gentlemen who accompanied them were introduced as Sir Charles Barlow and Laurence Morrison. Both had seen much action in the King’s service. It was decided that they would sleep in the rooms above the gatehouse, where they could keep watch on the road should unwelcome guests approach the house.

      Having already eaten, Arabella and Alice sat and watched the gentlemen hungrily devour the mutton stew, jugged hare and vegetables. Having refilled the drinking bowls, Arabella studied her siblings, wishing that they could be together like this for always. Margaret joined them, slipping quietly into a chair at the table, her eyes wide with awe and more than a little admiration, Arabella duly noted, as they remained fixed on Stephen throughout the meal. It was a long time since visitors had graced their table and, if the rapt expression on Margaret’s face and the vivid bloom on her cheeks were to be believed, never one so handsome.

      It was inevitable that with four military men about to ride off and join Charles Stuart marching south in what appeared to be a last attempt to regain his throne, the conversation turned to military matters. Edward, his dark brows drawn together in a frown, contributed little to the conversation as he stared moodily across the table at Arabella. Sitting back in his chair, he studied her with unnerving intensity, the blue of his eyes having turned indigo in the dimly lit room, heavy black locks spilling to his shoulders.

      Despite her efforts Arabella felt weakness within as she gazed at that handsome face, the taut cheekbones and that full lower lip with its hard curl. Meeting his eyes, she saw something slumberous and inviting in their depths. He seemed to be reading her mind. Heat suffused her. Immediately she looked away, trying hard to ignore his brooding gaze.

      * * *

      Later, back in her bedchamber, Arabella eyed her bed without enthusiasm. Tired as she was, she felt no urge to sleep. Her thoughts kept straying anxiously to Edward and what it was he expected of her. Her thoughts and emotions were a jumbled mass of confusion. How dare he put her in this position! How presumptuous he’d been, to assume she would take his child as her own! And seeing him now, after all this time, only served to bring back the anger and confusion she had felt by his rejection.

      His appearance had also resurrected unpleasant memories of her marriage to John. Fair haired, reasonably handsome and with pale wide-set eyes, on first sight she had been dazzled by him and hung back shyly. When her father had ushered her forward, John had laughed and said, ‘Modest, I see.’

      ‘Aye—and dutiful,’ her father had replied, happy with the impending match. When Edward Grey had thrown her over he had worried that he would have trouble finding a marriage for her, so he’d been unable to believe his good fortune when Stephen had brought John Fairburn to their home and John had shown an interest in her.

      Arabella remembered how she had smiled and curtsied, prepared to be ruled by her father’s counsel, but when John raised her up and she felt how cold and flaccid his hand, she had shrunk back. Immediately she had misgivings about the match. John had felt her recoil and, apart from a narrowing of his eyes, he had let it pass. When she had voiced her unease to her father, he had told her John Fairburn was a good match and all would be well, but it was up to her to make sure that it was. If John Fairburn did not take her, then there was little chance of anyone else. There was no dowry. After three years of war and support of the Royalist cause, her father had nothing left.

      ‘He is handsome enough,’ he had told her, ‘an only son with a fine house where you will be mistress. What more do you want?’

      Deep-blue eyes, warm firm hands, deep laughter. Someone to swell her heart at the sight of him, to make her senses sing. Edward Grey, she had thought bleakly.

      And so she had married John Fairburn. Every time he touched her she shrank away. He boasted of her beauty and everyone said how lucky she was, but no one knew how she suffered in the great bed she shared with her husband, how he would control her every thought.

      When she found she was with child it had altered everything. A child, she thought, a child of her own she could love. Desperate for a son, John had left her alone, taking his perverted pleasures elsewhere. When Arabella had produced a daughter, uttering his СКАЧАТЬ