The Notorious Marquis of Wickerley Read online

  Stoking the fire in the kitchen, Cecily lit a lantern and sat down, hunger gnawing at her insides. The bread she had was stale, but she wasn't sure whether she should bake today as Mr. Carsten was roaming the neighborhood, likely searching for people engaging in activities other than quiet contemplation and bible reading. Instead, she boiled herself a couple of eggs and used their yellow centers to soften the bread.

  The weather was worsening, the rain now rapping on her windows. It was too dark to see and a sharp knock on the door made her jump. Dreaded visions of Mr. Carsten standing on her stoop, ready with his inquisition, accosted her and she rubbed her now clammy hands down her apron. She would just have to tell him how inappropriate his visit was and refuse him entry.

  But it was Reverend Hapstill at the door, his coat slick with water, holding the reins of a deeply displeased horse.

  "Please, get out of the rain, reverend," she said and stood back to give him entry. She couldn't believe he was out riding around in this weather.

  "I apologize, I was caught out by this storm. I'll only stay a minute."

  "It is a storm, do you think?"

  "I have been told it is, and from my experience the storms here can be dreadful."

  "Can I offer you some hot milk?"

  "I would be much obliged," he smiled and followed her as she walked to the kitchen. "I'll only stay a moment. Apparently some of the local men can see the storms brewing by the looks of the clouds and sea, but I haven't developed the ability."

  She poured milk into the pot and hung it over the charcoals to heat. He could use some warmth in his stomach for his ride home through this dreadful weather. "I hope all went well with Mr. Carsten."

  Reverend Hapstill's mouth tightened as he looked down on the table's rough wooden surface. "Apparently my surplice deeply offends him."

  "It's a piece of clothing."

  "It seems it signifies more in his view," he shrugged. "What he was really there for was to ensure I wasn't preaching from the Book of Prayers, exclusively the Directory. The problem is that the Directory is just a set of regulations, not sermons as such."

  "No doubt he would prefer that you spend the service reading out the regulations."

  Reverend Hapstill smiled tightly, then sighed. "I must admit that I worry."

  She had nothing to tell him that would alleviate his concern; it matched her own.

  Another pounding at the door made her eyes widen as if speaking of the devil had made him appear.

  Tentatively, she rose from her seat, making her way to the door which she cracked open slightly to see a large man dressed in hat and oil skins. By the bare light of the lantern, she made out the marquis' broad form, menacing in her doorway, making her wonder if she actually preferred the appearance of Mr. Carsten.

  "You have a visitor," he said, his voice barely more than a grumble. Of course, he had seen the reverend's horse.

  "Reverend Hapstill came to check on me." She opened the door wider, giving him entry, but he didn't move. "He was passing and there is a storm."

  "And you still have vows to adhere to, Lady Wickerley." He stressed her title.

  "Which are of no risk of being broken, I can assure you." She felt his eyes piercing her, annoyed that he wouldn't take her at her word. She suspected that he hated her, considering he expected her to raise her skirts for any man who entered her house. "And he is not staying," she filled in, knowing it didn't look good having an unmarried man in her house, even if he had been kind to check on her welfare.

  "The storm will worsen," he said and walked out into the darkness. Was that what he came to tell her? There was no horse, which meant he had walked here.

  "Wait," she called, but he didn't stop. Setting down the lantern, she pursued him into the driving rain and freezing wind, which tore at her hair and skirts. "Wait," she called and he finally stopped, turning partially back to her as she approached him. The coldness off him might even be more chilling than this horrid storm, even as the rain was rapidly soaking into her clothes.

  "There was a puritan at church today, asking questions about your attendance," she said, needing to speak loudly. "I told him you were ill, but he was incessant on finding out your habits." Now she wished she'd asked the reverend if the puritan had had further questions, but she hadn't thought of it. "I didn't answer his questions, but I thought you should know. They may be seeking persons of your heritage—Catholics, I mean."

  He didn't say anything, standing still like a statue. "If the roof compromises in the storm, seek shelter in the outhouse. Do not wander across to the manor, you will get lost." He said nothing further, instead turned from her, striding into the darkness.

  Cecily was drenched when she closed the door behind her.

  "Was that the marquis?" Reverend Hapstill asked.

  "Yes, he came to… check on me." I think, she wanted to add. She couldn't think of another reason why he'd wandered out here in weather like this. Actually the first time he'd seen her since she'd taken up residence here.

  "I should perhaps go," the reverend said.

  "Yes," she agreed, knowing she had to get out of her dripping clothes. "Thank you for your concerns, but I am fine. You should get home before this storm worsens."

  Chapter 9:

  * * *

  Symon stood at the window, looking out at the gray sea, the sight distorted by the glass and lead. There was a certain stillness out of doors that gave him unease. The house was quiet and empty, as he was used to. Perhaps sending his wife—the word sat uncomfortably—to the cottage hadn't been a good idea, particularly as she stubbornly showed no qualms about letting men into her house. Truthfully, it wasn't surprising and it only confirmed his opinion of her.

  This all created a problem for him, because any child born within the confines of this marriage would be his, unless he went through the process of denying the child, which would cause scandal. A lopsided smile spread across his lips. Scandal he was well used to, and he expected no one would be surprised, even as this time, he wasn't technically at fault.

  Maybe he should have kept her here, locked upstairs like a cockolded husband. But having her here irked him in every sense, even as he wasn't sure what about her he found so irritating. In truth, he didn't know her at all—but from the moment she'd turned up seeking refuge, she had burst into his life and run rampage through his house. That wasn't true—it just felt like it. Perhaps he had grown slightly unaccustomed to having people around. He'd become as colloquial and isolated as the fishermen and farmers that lived here, maybe even more so.

  And now the world had gone to hell. Stories of nobles being stripped of their estates filtered through and the landowners in the district were all nervous—some even fleeing to France. The king was in France, gathering an army. This war wasn't over, just a brief interlude. It was still surprising how far the scum constituting the Rump Parliament had gotten, but it would all be put right. The young king was intent and angry, and he would soon cross the channel to reclaim his title.

  The landowners would welcome him and this whole madness would be put right. Parliament would find little support from Cornwall. It may also prove a lessening in his complete exile, the potential crept into his consciousness, even as he flatly refused to give himself hope. In truth, he wasn't entirely sure he could return to court, having grown too wild out here at the very edge of the country.

  The parliamentarians had come seeking his support at one point when they were trying to restrict the king's powers, but Symon had determined to stay out of the debate completely, seeing no gain from antagonizing the king. But parliament had gone too far. England could not be without a king. England had always had a king.

  Now he had problems both on the immediate and in a broader context, and one of them was easier to act upon.

  "There are men coming," Jenkins said, shuffling into the room.

  Symon kept staring out to sea. "Who are they?"

  "I cannot tell. They're not from here."

  Turning, h
e walked to his study where he would see a group of men riding up the long road to the house—uninvited men. Soldiers, too. Parliament had come calling again, it seemed.

  He stood in his doorway as they approached the house. There were six soldiers and a man Symon had never seen before, dressed in black. “Keep the dog inside,” he told Jenkins.

  "Marquis Wickerley," the man said, taking his hat off, the plume floating around as he swung it and half bowed. There was mockery in that bow. Whatever this man's intentions, they weren't cordial. Perhaps this was the man Miss Alderman had spoken of, the one questioning his habits.

  "I am Mr. Carsten, a representative member of the Council of State," the man said gravely and Symon considered him with disinterest. All the men dismounted and spread out, as if they expected him to run. He was clearly about to be arrested and nothing he said would make a difference.

  "Why are you on my lands?"

  The man smiled, clearly enjoying his authority. "Well now, there has been some indication that you are planning on causing trouble," the man said, pushing his thumbs into his belt, drawing attention to the pistol at his side. The man was hoping for resistance, an opportunity to shoot and claim the detainee was trying to escape, no doubt retribution for whatever resentment this man held at his petty life. This parliament was made up of resenting and useless men.

  "Causing trouble?" Symon said lightly. "I am only doing as the law commands me." They clearly had intercepted some messages, or tortured someone into revealing details. Symon felt his heart speed as he thought through the implications, but refused to show any reaction, no doubt to the disappointment of this repulsive man.

  "Rumor has it you're gathering men to fight against parliament."

  "Only women give credence to gossip." It wasn't technically true that he was plotting, but he knew of the plot and he had given it his tentative support. His position as a marquis held sway in these parts.

  "There's some men who want a word with you," the man said and took a step up the stairs toward him. "They're quite insistent. If you will—my lord," he added disdainfully. Symon held himself straight and tall. There was no point in fighting—he couldn't take six soldiers, and running would only make him cowardly. "See now, the people object to you working against their will."

  "You represent the people now, do you? Perhaps you should actually listen to the people. The support you believe you have is a mere illusion, likely dissipated when you executed the king."

  "They will soon come to realize they are better off without a tyrant ruling them."

  Symon smiled. "How do you suppose parliament will rule without a legitimate claim to? Will the people thank you for what you've done?"

  "They do every day."

  Symon didn't quite believe him; couldn't believe him, but then he hadn't seen the mood of London for himself. But sooner or later, things would change. England needed a ruler and parliament had no legitimacy. "Yet the laws of succession are quite clear."

  "Laws that will be stripped in short order."

  It was true that parliament could now institute any laws they wanted, and from the sounds of it, if this man was privy to the work within parliament, this was obviously something they were considering. There were many in the ruling class that would support any form of government that provided prosperity, even at the detriment of the country.

  Symon stood firm with his head high as they manacled his wrists and forced him up on a horse. It was ironic how he, of so many in his class, the one who had been supremely concerned with only his own pleasures, to the point where even the king was disgusted with him, was now one to object to the damage that was being caused to the country. This upheaval was a burden this country could not tolerate, and the poor harvest suggested lofty ideals around governance would dissipate the moment hunger hit.

  If his exile had taught him anything, it was how lofty concerns quickly stripped away in a crisis, when one's life was reduced to bare needs. Everything ceased to exist when one needed to find a way to survive. If not yet, the people would crave stability and familiarity above all else.

  At least Symon had had the foresight to wear his coat, in his mind suspecting there would be trouble. Now trouble had firmly arrived at his door. The trouble arriving a few weeks back had just been a harbinger. Torture likely lay in his immediate future.

  *

  They took him to Pendennis Castle, where the young king and his mother had sought refuge not long ago. Parliament held it now after the siege a few years back, a fight Symon had stayed out of at the time. Charles really had brought much of the ire onto himself and back then Symon had been too angry with his exile to take any interest in the king's squabbles. In no way had Symon ever thought things would have taken the route they now had, into complete insanity. Maybe if he had done more, things would have been different. It was a ridiculous thought, the idea that his involvement would have had any impact on the outcome, but it still crept into his mind, finding some modicum of guilt, an emotion he was not used to. But then if he had, he would have needed to flee like many of the others. Of late, he had been one of the few men left standing of the higher orders, except the traitors who sought opportunity and advancement through this parliamentary madness.

  *

  The heavy, wooden cell door closed behind him, leaving him in a small cell that stank of piss and human misery, even as it was empty. Centuries of despair had soaked into the walls, radiating through the cold, foul air. Symon sat down on the straw pallet in one corner, the manacles on his wrists still firmly in place.

  No one came for him for a week, nothing but the slide of a bowl of slop under the hole cut into the bottom of the door. It was utterly inedible, but hunger drove him to accept the stew made of parsnips and a rare chuck of rank meat. It quickly turned his insides ill until he gagged at the very smell of it. He still had to eat it, or starve.

  Toward the end of the week, he managed to bribe himself a better stew, but before long his door swung open and he was being pulled out again. He was taken down to the interior yard and hoisted gruffly into a covered cart with other prisoners sitting in the darkness once the door was shut, bolted and locked.

  The cart trundled forward and Symon heard the cobble stones of the castle giving to gravel as they headed out of town. They were taking him to London. The person who wanted to question him was apparently there, which signified this was more than a warning to one of the local landowners. They saw him as a threat and meant to remove him. Even execution loomed as a possibility.

  It took days of nonstop travel to reach London. They stopped every six hours or so to change horses and to empty the overflowing bucket of waste—a humiliating and cramped proceeding in the small confines of the cart, where sleep was impossible and a babe cried incessantly in the arms of his mother. There was no dignity for anyone in parliament's custody.

  Chapter 10:

  * * *

  It took a few days, but Cecily managed to clear all the storm debris from the garden. An old pair of leather gloves from the gardeners shed protected her from thorns. A wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders and tucked around her waist kept her warm, and she felt like she was finally staking claim to the garden outside her cottage. It still looked awful, and the fence was in dire need of a whitewash.

  Having lived all her life in London, she knew relatively little of the plants growing here, or what they would become in spring and summer. For once, she experienced a modicum of excitement for the future. If nothing else, spring would come and these flowers would all bloom. It wasn't much to get excited about, but it was all she had at the moment. The puritans couldn't stop the flowers from blooming.

  A noise distracted her from the pile of vegetation she had gathered to burn on a dry day. Walking to the front of the house, she saw a cart approaching with Jenkins at the reins. Jenkins didn't normally come himself, sending the carriage driver, but today he was here, probably delivering some supplies to her from the dairy. She had come to depend on these supplies.

/>   "Lady Wickerley," he said with a nod as he awkwardly descended. The title still grated, but she was becoming more used to it. She smiled as greeting, taking her filthy gloves off and tucking them away.

  "Mr. Jenkins. It is unusual to see you out here. I hope everything is faring well back at the house." He wasn't exactly smiling in greeting, but then he was never much for facial expressions or small talk.

  "There have been some unfortunate developments. The marquis has been arrested."

  Cecily frowned at the unexpected news. Well, perhaps not unexpected. That man at church had been overly curious and it seemed he had acted upon his intentions. She had warmed the marquis about this man, but she had never expected that he would be arrested.

  "Some of the New Model soldiers came and took him."

  "Oh," she said, not really knowing what else to say. "Are they charging him with something?" Had they made Catholicism illegal? It seemed a step away from their purported tolerance, but such utterings may be false. They couldn't; too many people were catholic. They had tried to do away with Catholicism before and it hadn't worked then, but now that they were in power, they could be enforcing their firmer beliefs.

  "Treason, I suspect," Jenkins said, lifting the milk pail off the back of the cart, along with a block of cheese, even a portion of ham.

  Cecily paled, bringing her hand to her mouth in shock, too startled to take the goods Jenkins was holding out to her. Treason could not be right. Jenkins must be mistaken. "But he is not affiliated with the royalists."

  "Probably more than you'd expect."

  "It isn't illegal to be a royalist." Her mind was racing through the implications. This couldn't be. Jenkins didn't say anything more, just held the cheese, ham and milk pail out closer to her and she absently took them. What did this mean?