Puritan Bride Read Free

overlooked in the present political climate. It would certainly consolidate her son’s possession, not that he needed it with the courts and the King’s pleasure behind him. But marriage … How old would she be? About twenty years? Elizabeth vaguely remembered the birth of the baby just before Sir Thomas had died. A babe in arms when Philippa had been driven from the Priory to take refugewith Sir Henry Jessop, her brother over at Downham Manor. What sort of upbringing would the child have had there? Little warmth and pleasure, Elizabeth imagined. Sir Henry had a name for staunch Puritanism, even though he might be a fair man. And Philippa would probably not stand against him in the matter of the upbringing of her child.
    But nothing was settled as yet. It was all still in the hands of the lawyers. And what would the girl make of her profligate son? A slow smile eased the tension of Elizabeth’s face at the prospect. Perhaps Katherine Harley would be a true daughter to her, to replace the still-born child she still mourned after all these years. But what if she was a hymn-singing, Bible-reading girl, all duty and service with no love of music and pretty clothes? She shuddered at the prospect. Not all the legal intricacies would make her a suitable wife and daughter, whatever her promise to Marcus.
    She hesitated outside the kitchen door and would have retreated if she had not experienced a particularly sharp twinge of pain from her hip to her knee. Did she really want to enter Mistress Neale’s domain? She was pleasant enough, a sturdy, capable body, elderly now but still able to run the household efficiently, but she was an old family retainer of the Harleys who had stayed put through all the upheavals and changes of ownership, like Master Verzons, the steward. Always polite. Always co-operative. But Elizabeth felt that, as a newcomer, a usurperin fact, she was an intruder. They could run the house and did not need or desire orders from her. They smiled. They showed all due respect. But she sometimes caught a gleam in Mistress Neale’s eyes—not unwelcoming, exactly, but assessing, even after all these years.
    There was no help for it—she could not stand here for ever in this draughty corridor. She pushed open the kitchen door.
    ‘Good morning, my lady. Can I be of any help?’ Mistress Neale broke off her conversation with the cook, wiped her hands on her apron and approached with a quick curtsy and a calm welcome. The kitchen was warm, a blessing to Elizabeth’s chilled flesh, and hummed with well-ordered activity. Something fragrant steamed over the fire. Lady Oxenden would have liked nothing better than to sit and exchange news and gossip with her housekeeper.
    ‘Why, no. I thought …’ Why did she feel so inadequate? ‘I might take a look at the still-room.’
And Felicity will not find me in there!
‘I do not have the key. Perhaps you have it, Mistress Neale?’
    ‘Indeed, my lady.’ She took a ring of keys from her belt and selected the appropriate one. ‘Was there anything in particular you were needing? I can always send Elspeth.’
    ‘No, indeed. I am sure you have an inventory, but I would like to see what is still of use. I doubt that anything has been bottled or stored for a good number of years.’
    ‘No, my lady. It has been sadly neglected since thehouse has stood empty. My own preserves are kept here in the kitchen larders. Mistress Adams never used the still-room—she thought it too small and inconvenient for the storing and drying of herbs—and she had no interest in preserves.’
    ‘No. I do not suppose she had.’ Elizabeth sighed and avoided the opportunity to discuss the likes and dislikes of Mistress Gilliver Adams. Some of them were most disturbing and did not bear close contemplation.
    She took the key and, since there was no forthcoming invitation to stay in her own kitchen, she closed the door quietly and retreated.
    A blind passage led off from the corridor to the