Free Puritan Bride by Anne O'Brien Page B

bowed politely to her and took the time and courtesy to salute her hand.
    ‘So what have you been doing in my absence? Nothing scandalous, I presume, or Verzons would have informed me on my arrival.’ He picked up a length of tapestry that had slipped to the floor. ‘More bed hangings? You could soon furnish Hampton Court! Have you been well?’
    Lady Elizabeth could not prevent her lips curving in a smile.
    ‘I find the cold weather attacks my fingers—’ she hid her swollen joints from his hawk-like gaze in her lap ‘—but I shall come about with the warmer days.’ She deliberately kept her voice light. How could she tell him of the pain that kept her awake and prevented her from doing all the things she had loved to do in the past? Her embroidery was a nightmare of perseverance and she dare no longer approach the spinet. The snowdrops and daffodils in the gardens bloomed without her care.
    But, indeed, she did not need to tell him. He had already discerned the fine lines around her eyes—were they perhaps deeper than when he had left?—and the haunted glaze of pain in her eyes.
    ‘I know you would wish to return to London, ma’am.’ He was as forthright as ever in his dealings with her. ‘I think you are lonely here and would far rather enjoy thevisits of friends and the Court gossip. But if you could agree to remain here at the Priory until arrangements for my marriage are finalised and the bride has arrived, then I would willingly transport you back to town again. Can you bear it for a little longer?’
    ‘Of course.’ She smiled as he bent to brush her fingers with his lips. She could not hide the obvious signs of suffering any longer and did not attempt to. She adored her handsome son, and, even if not blind to his faults, she was aware of his love and concern for her well-being. But if she was unwilling to tell him of the pain, how could she possibly explain to him her growing discomfort in this house, a house which he prized above all things? She had not felt it when she had first arrived—of that she was certain. But it had developed gradually in recent days. The sensation that her footsteps were being watched, if not actually followed, by a silent presence—a presence that chilled the air with the keen edge of winter frost. And brought with it such a sense of despair, of utter misery, enough to touch her own emotions in reluctant sympathy, almost to reduce her to tears. The word
haunted
did not seem too extreme. She could not, would not, admit that her sleep was disturbed not only by physical discomfort, but by a fear of what might lurk in the shadows in the corner of her room. Of every room. He would think she was fanciful in the extreme and merely making excuses to escape back to the city.
    ‘Well, tell me.’ She mentally admonished herself andturned the conversation into happier channels. ‘Tell me what she is like. Katherine Harley. Will I like her?’
    ‘I expect so. You are predisposed to like everyone!’
    ‘That makes me sound witless!’ she complained with a wry twist of her lips and not a little impatience. ‘Is she pretty?’
    ‘I don’t really know,’ he answered with a slight frown, surprising her. ‘I only saw her once and she looked dishevelled, as if she had come in out of a rainstorm. And she scowled at me for most of the interview.’
    ‘Oh, dear! Were you not made welcome? Surely Sir Henry was expecting you!’
    ‘I suppose the answer has to be no and no.’ Marlbrooke’s expression and voice had a derisive edge as he remembered the reaction of the household at Downham Hall. ‘Sir Henry was discomfited and flustered at having to enter into such close dealings with a Royalist. Lady Philippa withdrew into nervous silence and flinched every time I looked in her direction. My prospective bride could in all truth be described as hostile and likened me in a most uncomplimentary way to a frippery bird, without pretence to style or elegance! And they would all have