The Notorious Marquis of Wickerley Page 6

  "They got the reverend, too."

  "They arrested him?" Cecily asked, her voice rising, ashamed that she was more concerned about Reverend Hapstill being arrested than her own husband. The realization shamed her, but it was true.

  "No, but they kicked him out of the church. Sent some righteous man to take his place."

  "What has happened to him?" she asked as Jenkins climbed back up on the cart. He shrugged and tipped his hat to her before slapping the reins of the horse's rump.

  Cecily stood watching as Jenkins rode away. Again she felt as if the earth was shifting like sand under her feet. Nothing kept still—now these two people, whom she hadn't known long, and truthfully, hadn't grown particularly attached to, had been taken away. It was still not right. When would this stop?

  She was sorry for the reverend, being expelled from his own church, but the marquis… treason was serious. The likelihood of there being a happy outcome was in contention. It couldn't be true. He'd been exiled, ostracized from the whole royal court and any well-respected families. Perhaps they were arresting all with noble titles. This was dreadful.

  Her thoughts turned to the amount of fear that must be spreading to every corner of England. No one was safe, even someone as deeply unpopular as the marquis.

  Suddenly the garden felt unimportant and Cecily could only impotently stand by as the world changed yet again, unable to do anything to address a problem so large it seemed to swallow up the whole country.

  She returned inside and placed the ham and cheese in the kitchen, sitting down by the fire where she noticed how icy her fingers were, stinging and burning from the warmth of the flames. Dread had bitten deeper and she didn't quite know where to turn for solace. Now she just wanted to know how her father was faring. She'd had no word, not that he was a man much for letters. Nervousness clenched her stomach.

  Dropping her hand down on the table, it made a soft bang. What was she to do now? She had the cottage; she would just have to keep going as she was. Surely they would come to their senses with regards to the marquis. He was no threat to them, ensconced out here at the very edge of the country, isolated and alone.

  A rider came; she could hear it. Getting up again, though now feeling thoroughly exhausted, she went to the door, seeing the reverend there. It felt good to see that he was uninjured.

  "It seems I must leave," he said with a bow. A pack was attached to his saddle and Cecily suspected all his worldly goods were wrapped in there.

  "I was aggrieved to hear there has been some sort of commotion."

  Hapstill snorted. "It seems the people of this parish cannot be entrusted to my hands."

  "That is nonsense."

  "They have ousted me just the same."

  "Please have some mead. It is just warming." The air held more chill now than it had that morning. The clouds were gathering as well.

  "That is very generous."

  "Nonsense. Please. I have bread and ham as well."

  The reverend followed her to the kitchen and sat down while Cecily took the pot off the grate and poured it into two cups. "Where will you go?"

  "I don't quite know," he said, clearly exhausted from the day's events. "I don't really have any place to go. If I thought it would be safe at the cathedral in Truro I would go there, but I fear nowhere is safe now."

  "What of your family?"

  "My mother is a companion in a house in Rochester, but there is no place for me with her. I hope she is safe where she is. I have nothing to support her with. I don't want to burden you with my problems, but it has been some months since my salary has been forwarded and longer still since the tithe was outlawed. I have nothing. And now the village… I fear my presence will be harmful to the people. It is better that I leave."

  He took the cup she gave him. She hadn't realized that his circumstances were quite so dire. "You are welcome to stay here," she said before thinking. She probably shouldn't let a man stay in her cottage, but equally, she couldn't force him out with nowhere to go. Propriety had to assume lesser importance at a time like this—uncertain and dire times. How could she forgive herself if he met a regrettable fate on the dangerous, lawless roads?

  "That is too generous. I couldn't possibly—"

  "I insist. Until you have somewhere to go, accept lodgings here. We will have to say you are lodging. I am a married woman, after all."

  "I heard they came for the marquis."

  Cecily didn't know what to say, or how to react. It wasn't that she liked, let alone loved, the marquis. In fact, she would go so far as to say she loathed him. How did one react when a loathed person was arrested? It wasn't as if she wished him harm, but equally, she didn't know how to react. The notion of loyalty was something she didn't quite know how to place.

  "Jenkins suspects they are charging him with treason."

  "A word that is bandied around too easily these days. I am sure they won't resort to anything drastic."

  Cecily thought it over. No doubt the marquis' abrasive personality would prevent people showing reservation in that regard.

  The reverend looked down, running his finger along the handle of the mug. "Letting me lodge here might invite trouble with these new people that have come."

  "I am married to the marquis. I am not sure my reputation can be repaired in the eyes of the puritans. Besides, you cannot just disappear because they decree it so. They might force their will, but they can't make people go away." That wasn't true. It was exactly what they had done with the marquis. And Marquis Wickerley was not one with powerful friends to protect him. Such politics still held sway in the country, she suspected, but perhaps less so now.

  * * *

  Chapter 11:

  * * *

  A knock on the door sent Cecily's heart racing. Firstly, because she feared getting bad news, but also the potential judgement of people who realized the reverend was now living in her cottage. But these were times with little sanity—another reason she feared someone at her door.

  Cracking the door open slightly, she peered outside, seeing Jenkins there and visibly relaxed. "My lady," he said with a bow. Such formality wasn't really necessary, but Jenkins had never adhered to her claim that it wasn't. "The marquis' man of business is at the house and requests to see you. I can tell him to come here, but apparently there are papers to sign."

  "Sign?" she said, unable to think of what she had to sign. "Fine, I will come," she said, preferring to meet a stranger at the manor instead of in her cottage. Grabbing her cloak, she wrapped it around her and noted that Jenkins had brought the carriage instead of the cart.

  She sat down inside and Jenkins closed the door before climbing up to take the reins. It had springs, but they were not well oiled and creaked miserably with every bump in the road.

  It had been a while since she'd been to the manor—a while since the marquis was taken, too. There had been little word of him since. Perhaps this man of business had news of him. On some level, she didn't want to know. It wasn't her fault he had been taken or what he'd done to precipitate this outcome. But perhaps it was her business, she thought as she wrung her hands in her lap. He was her husband and maybe because of that she owed him enough loyalty to feel concerned for his welfare. If she looked too closely at what had happened to him, she would likely see that his welfare was suffering, and there was nothing she could do to assist him.

  The manor loomed in the distance, looking dark and foreboding. Even with its master gone, it looked unwelcoming. It was also cold inside when she walked up the steps and through the main entranceway. Rustling of parchment came from the study and she correctly assumed that the man of business was in there. A fire had been lit, but it must have been recent, because the chill still stung in the air.

  He looked up and saw her, this middle-aged man with gray at his temples. "Lady Wickerley, I presume," he said. Intelligent eyes studied her through spectacles.

  "I am." She didn't quite know what to do, so she sat down on one of the chairs.

&nbsp
; "I am Mr. Tarkin, your husband's man of affairs, and I find I am in a bit of a bind. I need signatures on a few papers—just creditor bills, predominantly. As the marquis isn't here, I must intrude on your good graces," he smiled and placed three papers in front of her. For a moment she didn't know what to do. Could she trust this man? Had she rights to sign on behalf of the marquis? But then the marquis was unavailable and this man was the marquis' man—in charge of his affairs. Smiling tightly, she looked up at the man watching her expectantly.

  She wished she could speak with Jenkins to ask if the marquis trusted this man, but Jenkins was nowhere in sight. "I'll just read them," she said, picking up the first one.

  "As you wish. Everything is in order. They just need your signature."

  One of the papers was to do with the sale of silver—which, in and of itself, wasn't a good sign as to the health of the estate. The second was a creditor note from Newgate prison. "Is that where he is?" she asked.

  "It is."

  "Is he… fine?" she asked, not really knowing how to put it.

  "We are trying to secure better conditions for him," the man said gravely.

  "Oh," Cecily said.

  "It is bad business, but the marquis still has some friends who are doing what they can for him. The problem is that the marquis is ill capable of garnering sympathy with the persons able to apply enough pressure to release him."

  She could well imagine the marquis being unable to garner sympathy from any member of the Rump Parliament—he more than anyone stood for the excess that they'd fought a war against. "Is there anything I can do?" she said, unable to hide the uncertainty in her voice.

  The man studied her for a moment, then sighed deeply. "It is, of course, important above all to secure the marquis' release. As of yet, we have not received firm confirmation on the charges lain against him, but they are serious. In the meantime, there is another issue. The time to till and sow is coming soon and the marquis is not here."

  "Sow the fields?"

  "Yes. The taxation is so high now that the estate will not manage without a harvest. If the marquis is unable to pay the taxes when they come due, parliament will take the estate. I am sorry I don't have better news, but it pays to be forewarned."

  Cecily hadn't even considered the fields. He was obviously implying that they were being neglected. Surely they were being sown. The marquis would lose the estate, even if released from prison. This whole situation was more dire than she knew. If he lost the estate, he lost everything. Centuries of the Wickerley family were locked into the stones of this house—repellent as she found the manor, including its owner.

  She signed the necessary pages and the man gathered them up, putting them away in his satchel. He was about to leave and Cecily tried to think if she needed to clarify anything more before he went, but then what could he tell her? From the sounds of it, the marquis wouldn't be released in time to deal with the management of the estate. The problems were just compounding and this man, who seemed to know what was going on, was leaving. But what could she say? She couldn't very well ask him to stay and take care of the management of the estate. That wasn't his duty, but Cecily was sure it was someone's duty, and she had to speak to them.

  Mr. Jenkins was already waiting outside with the man's horse and Cecily bid the man farewell, who tipped his hat before setting off.

  "Mr. Jenkins," Cecily started when the man of business was out of earshot. "Mr. Tarkin mentioned something about the fields being sown." She hoped to hear him say it was all taken care of, but the warning from Mr. Tarkin suggested that it wasn’t.

  "They need sowing," Mr. Jenkins confirmed.

  "And where is the estate manager?" Surely an estate this size had a manager. She was by no means an expert, but she knew estates didn't manage themselves.

  "New Model took him some two years back, as they've done with most able-bodied men in the district, whether they want to fight for parliament or not. They took the carriage driver as well, when they took the marquis."

  "But there are some field hands?" She had seen field hands; she was sure of it.

  "There is old Thompson and his young son who they hid when the army came."

  "Two. There are two field hands?" she said disbelievingly, her voice rising in panic. "How did the marquis manage the harvest last year?"

  "Mostly himself," Mr. Jenkins said, walking toward the kitchen. "We have some carp, if you wish," he said brightly, as if he hadn't just delivered the news that there was nearly no one to manage the harvest.

  Cecily couldn't speak. This was dreadful, and then the idea that the marquis had actually worked. It couldn't be. "Did he actually work the fields?"

  "You wouldn't think it but he can cut a straight line better than any man here," Jenkins said with mirth in his voice, or at least she thought it was—she didn't have much to compare it to. "Old Daisy got used to being handled by him, and she doesn't like everyone."

  Cecily closed her eyes. The situation was just as dire, if not more so, than Mr. Tarkin had let on.

  "Shall I take you back now?" Jenkins asked, a piece of salted carp wrapped in muslin cloth in his hand. Cecily just stared at him, but there was nothing she could do, so she nodded. It really was bad news anytime someone knocked on her door.

  *

  Reverend Hapstill was outside in the garden when she got back, pruning down some of the overgrown bushes. He approached her as soon as she stepped down from the carriage and gratefully grabbed the fish from Jenkins before the carriage set off again.

  The reverend was eyeing her expectantly. She smiled slightly as the reverend really was hoping the marquis had been released. Even though the marquis never saw himself as part of the reverend's flock, or that the reverend officially had a flock anymore, but Hapstill still cared about all the members of this community. This is what a good man looked like, she quietly said to herself. But this was not the man she was married to. "He has not been released," she said. "But apparently, his man of affairs is trying to get him better conditions."

  "That is a shame—about the lack of release, I mean."

  "There is apparently no one to manage the fields," she said as they walked into the kitchen.

  "There are a couple of men, but generally, it is an issue for the whole district," the reverend said. "All able-bodied men were taken and there is no news of them being returned. As long as young Charles is still trying to return, they are unlikely to as well. They are still looking for men to recruit."

  "Will they force you, too?"

  "No, I am most likely safe. They need men, but they don't want clergy, particularly those belonging to the Church of England. They fear rebellion too much."

  Cecily was pleased. She had in some way grown to rely on the reverend. "The marquis will lose the estate if the harvest doesn't get sown," she said quietly. "He apparently had been instrumental to last year's harvest."

  "I had heard as much."

  Why hadn't he told her? She'd been sitting around here none the wiser. What was she going to do? From the sounds of it, there were no men in the district to help.

  "I’ve heard parliament has abolished the monarchy completely," the reverend said.

  Cecily closed her eyes, feeling like this madness would never end.

  Chapter 12:

  * * *

  Sometimes the clang of iron doors was the only thing to be heard in his cell in Newgate. Shortly after he'd been imprisoned, they had moved him from a communal cell to his own, but it was still damp and cold, water constantly running down the walls, even if the stench was predominantly his own.

  His lungs burned with the foul air, but at least his food was now a little more than mere broth. Two of his fingers were broken as a consequence of his ongoing discussions with Captain Oxford, a man reportedly directed by Thomas Scot, Parliament's spy-master.

  Symon could hear the executions outside every day, angry crowds enjoying the spectacle. The small, barred window in his cell was too high for him to see out of, but the pro
testations of the poor unfortunates could be heard echoing off the courtyard walls. Sometimes they were angry curses and Symon commiserated more with those.

  The lock to his door slid harshly back and he knew someone was coming. It was time for another one of his discourses with the offensive Captain Oxford. One of the burly guards, a leather apron covering his bulging stomach, came to drag him out if Symon didn't comply. Stiff joints ached as he rose, but that was not the worst of the pain he would suffer this day.

  The guard pushed him forward, his wrists still manacled and heavy, toward the room at the end of a building where larger windows let in light. He passed cell after cell, where the miserable and wretched wiled away what was likely the last portion of their lives.

  "There we are," Oxford said with false empathy. "And we meet yet again, Marquis Wickerley," he said, his disdain apparent in his voice.

  "You do insist on my company."

  "Because you are so riveting, my lord. And I am so very curious of your activities."

  The guard pushed him down in the wooden chair with broad arm rests, where his answers were encouraged with implements. Restraints closed over his wrists, ensuring he couldn't escape their tender ministrations. "I'm afraid there are only eight fingers left to break now," he said, holding himself tall and stiff. They’d thought he was weak and soft, having lived most of his adult life in the courts' bed chambers, not understanding that it took a certain kind of character to be a disappointment to both one's family and king.

  "That is all well, Marquis, broken extremities are a gift that keep on giving, not unlike the pox you bear in your blood. Fingers can break again and again and they keep on hurting. There are also the toes, which do struggle to heal afterwards. But such regards cannot be a worry to you as surely God has blighted you with this pox to wipe you from this earth."