Free Viper Wine by Hermione Eyre Page B

Chater?’
    Chater was relieved; as their private chaplain, he had been hopeful but not certain he was going with the Digbys to London. He had feared being put in charge of the spiritual care of the children and servants here at Gayhurst.
    He and Venetia had been each other’s boon companions when Kenelm was away, spending days together making designs for Venetia’s hats, debating questions of philosophy, or gossip, telling each other poems and songs. Chater had good taste, and he was cultivated – he had even been to Rome. It was said he might make a cardinal one day. He was one of the few Catholic priests in England legitimised by a grace note of pardon from the Crown, and he considered the Digbys were as fortunate to have him in their service as he was to serve. At Gayhurst he was the perfect companion for Venetia’s closet, full of advice on colours, styles and fabrics. She had her lady’s maid – but for urbane conversation, and modish judgements, Chater was invaluable. And while Venetia enjoyed receiving his advice, to contradict it gave her even greater pleasure.
    His main calling was to save their souls at prayers, but he also made her laugh. He called Buckinghamshire The Void, and all those friends who would not come and visit he called Avoiders. She wondered if his sharp tongue turned against her in her absence.
    ‘We must finish the new Devotional Tract very soon,’ she said, reprovingly.
    We? thought Chater. Pah. She means me. I write all her Devotions, every word, and then when they are circulated under her name, she forgets I had anything to do with them and believes the lie of her own authorship. My lady can persuade herself of anything. She is quite, quite magnificent.
    Venetia continued listing her choices. ‘So, the sea-green, the farthingale in case the Queen still favours them, the fur hood . . .’
    ‘This blue silk would do you very well,’ said Chater, picking out one of her dresses and holding it up to his body.
    ‘The taffeta, the curling tongs . . .’
    ‘But this is the blue silk that corresponds with my lord’s blue silk.’
    ‘Yes, Chater, but I do not like it any more.’
    ‘It suits you so well,’ he said, putting his hand on his hip and stroking the full skirt.
    ‘I do not like to wear it any more.’
    ‘It was commended mightily at court when you first announced your marriage.’
    ‘It pleases me no longer.’
    ‘Soft, my lord’s horse comes, blue caparisoned, his trumpeter’s cordalls also, and his girdle, bridles and banners – then my lady following on wearing this correspondent colour—’
    ‘Stop ye,’ she said in a voice full of passion. ‘It does not fit me, Chater.’
    He looked at his shoes.
    ‘It shows too much of me here, and here. It is immodest. There used to be less of my person, and now I can only wear it on its loosest girth and so the dress has none of its shape and purpose. I feel foolish in it. I am grown more like a woman, Chater. I like my new person. In some ways I believe, after all these years of compliments, I am only finally, now, become a beauty.’
    Chater made a small intake of breath. Oh, he adored her. Such lies she told, with such conviction.
    ‘I used to look at myself in my glass, every hour – more. But I am grown in understanding of Venetia, and, yes, I say – I like her.’
    His jaw twitched as if he suffered from keeping quiet.
    ‘I feel I walk solidly upon the ground now . . .’
    She is right in that respect, at least, thought Chater, who could not suppress a smirk.
    ‘Perhaps because of the love of my boys and my husband. But to wit: stockings, one pair of white, one scarlet . . .’
    Chater decided this was his opportunity. He had been waiting for it for some time. He took a deep breath, made his voice low and matter-of-fact: ‘My lady has not been keeping Fridays for fish.’
    ‘No, she has not.’
    ‘She has not fasted neither.’
    ‘I have been with child.’
    ‘John is almost suckled, my lady. The