Royalist On The Run. Helen Dickson
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you? Did they harm you?’ She bit her lip. ‘Come now. This is war, Arabella, and I know well the atrocities done to women by the hands of a triumphant enemy.’
‘No—they left us alone. You were a captain when we parted company and now you are a colonel. I have nothing to say against your appointment, but if you have come here to commandeer livestock and foodstuffs with which to feed your army, insisting that military necessities come first, then you are going to be disappointed.’
‘That is not why I am here, and there are only four of us—five when your brother gets here. What happened here?’
‘Some months ago the Roundheads took over the house. Their behaviour was indefensible. The soldiers were quite out of control. Despite their puritan tendencies and without the steadying presence of proper leadership, the majority of them were drunk from dawn to dusk. Our Parliamentary brethren are not all as pious as they would have us believe.’
‘Were any of you molested in any way?’
Arabella shook her head. This was a conversation he should be having with Alice, but her sister was still trying to console Nanette, who was crying and clearly afraid of the fearsome-looking men who had burst into her home.
‘We were unharmed, but the war goes on and we live in constant dread that it will happen again. The Roundheads were here for four weeks. As you see they did not treat us or the house well. Doors were broken down, panelling ripped from the walls as they searched for places of concealment, hoping to find Royalists evading capture. Horses, sheep and cattle and all other livestock were rounded up along with the deer in the park. The granaries were emptied—along with cellars of ale and wine. It will be a long time before the land gives a return.’
Arabella looked beyond him to the door where a young woman had entered and, perched on her hip, she held a child. The infant, a boy, was about two years old. He hid his face in the woman’s shoulder, his thumb firmly in his mouth, seemingly afraid to look about him, to be curious as small children are. Puzzled, she looked from the child to Edward.
‘Who is this? Whose child is he?’
Edward beckoned the young woman forward. ‘Dickon is my son, Arabella. This is Joan, his nurse.’
Arabella dragged the air into her tortured lungs, fighting for control, and as she did so the boy lifted his head and his thumb plopped from his mouth. Turning his head, he looked directly at her. She was unprepared for the pain that twisted her heart. It was like looking at Edward. The boy had the same startling blue eyes framed with long black lashes. His hair was dark, the curls framing his exquisite face. She could not tear her eyes away from him. Even at so young an age he had the same arrogant way of holding his head as his father, the same jut of his chin. Yet there was a distress in him, an anxiety that was unusual for one so young.
Tearing her eyes away from the boy, she fixed them on his father. ‘I heard that your wife died, Edward.’ So deeply had Arabella loathed the woman Edward had married that even though she had died the bitterness Arabella held still remained and she would choke if she allowed her name to pass her lips.
‘Yes. Anne died shortly after giving birth to Dickon,’ Edward uttered, his voice flat.
She stared at him, searching for an emotion that would tell her how he grieved the loss of his wife. But there was nothing. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’ Her voice was as emotionless as his had been, but she could not pretend to emotions she did not feel.
‘And I for yours. Your husband was killed during the battle at St Fagans, I believe.’
Her expression tightened on being reminded of John Fairburn. His body had been brought back home in a coffin for burial. Having no wish to look on John’s dead body and being told he had been so badly wounded she wouldn’t recognise him anyway, she had buried him with the rest of his ancestors in the churchyard.
‘Yes. I am a widow—but that is none of your concern. Whatever the reason for your being here, I want you to know you are not welcome. You and I have lived our separate lives for a long time now and I would like it to remain that way. When you married Anne Lister you severed all ties between us.’ The expression on his face seemed to tell her that nothing she might do or say could reach him.
‘I will, of course, do as you wish, Arabella, and leave when Stephen gets here, but it is also imperative that I find a temporary home for my child.’
Arabella began to shake her head from side to side, for it was beginning to penetrate into her dazed mind what he had in his.
‘You cannot mean that you expect me to...’ Her expression was appalled. ‘No—no, I will not. How can you ask this of me? Have you not done enough to...humiliate me in the past? You cannot, in all conscience expect me to—to take him in.’
‘There is nowhere else, Bella—nowhere that is safe—no one else I can trust.’
Bella! He had called her Bella! No one else had called her that since he... Angrily she thrust such sentimental thoughts from her. ‘There has to be. You have a sister—Verity. Surely...’
‘With England under the rule of Parliament, Verity and her family have sought exile in France.’
‘Then why didn’t they take your son with them?’
‘I was too late.’
‘But why me? Why bring him to me?’
‘I have need of an ally in whom I can place complete trust. I sought you out because I thought that person might be you. There is a heavy price on my head. To lay their hands on my son would be a coup indeed for the Parliamentarians. Already the homes of my family and my estate in Oxfordshire have been invaded and torn apart by Parliament’s search for me and my son.’
‘And what of our safety?’ she demanded, her eyes burning with righteous anger that he could demand this of her. ‘By coming to this house you have endangered us all. To give succour to your son would count as treason to Parliament. They would hang us all.’
‘Not if you were to pass him off as your own should the need arise.’
Appalled, Arabella stared at him. ‘You ask this of me?’ she gasped. ‘Have you no heart? I had a child, too, Edward—a daughter.’ Tears pricked her eyes and her throat drew tight as she thought of her own dead daughter. ‘She was called Elizabeth. She died of a fever just one year after I received news of my husband’s death.’
‘I am truly grieved to hear that,’ Edward said, compassion tearing through him. ‘Stephen told me about your daughter.’
‘Did he indeed? I am only surprised you remembered I existed at all. And now you come here and dare to ask me—a woman you have not seen in five years, a woman you had so little care for you broke our betrothal—to pass your son off as my own?’ Her words carried with them all the raw emotion she felt over the death of her child.
Her words brought a look of pain to his eyes. ‘You are wrong, Arabella. I did care for you—deeply. I must confess that my conduct towards you at the time has been a cause of enormous regret for me and I hope that my manners have improved over the years.’
Arabella was outraged, her eyes burning. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, but I suppose because you believe you have acquired some manners, you thought it would be all right to come here when my brother suggested it. How dare you presume! How dare you think you could do that to me—to place me in such an impossible position?’
‘I do realise the gravity of the situation. It was not my intention to cause you hurt, Arabella.’
Arabella’s emotions came rushing to the surface and the anguish of the last few unhappy years were released in one sweeping moment. ‘I don’t care. The answer is no. How can you do this to me—to ask me to take care of your child when I am still grieving for my own? I am not made of stone. How can you put me in a position where I must turn a child from the house?’ she cried with unutterable sorrow, deliberately not allowing her gaze to fall on the child in the woman’s arms. ‘But I must. I really cannot