Read Online A Crowning Mercy by Bernard Cornwell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bernard Cornwell
Ads: Link
Leave me alone.'
--<<>>--<<>>--<<>>--
It was August now, a high, ripening August that promised better crops than for years past. Campion walked through the scented fields, avoiding those where anyone worked, seeking always the solitary places where she could sit and think. She ate alone, slept alone, yet her presence pervaded Werlatton Hall. It was as if her father's force, his ability to impose a mood upon the house, had passed to her. Goodwife Baggerlie resented it most. 'She's got a devil in her, master, you mark my words!'
'Grief is hard,' Scammell said.
'Grief! She's not grieving!' Goodwife crossed her arms and stared defiantly at Scammell. 'She needs a beating, master, that's all! A good beating! That'll teach her her place. Her father would have beaten her, God rest his soul, and so you should.' Goodwife began vigorously dusting the hall table where Scammell was finishing a lonely lunch. 'She's lacked for nothing, that girl, nothing! If I'd been given her advantages...' She tutted, leaving it to Scammell's imagination what heights Goodwife might have scaled had she been Matthew Slythe's daughter. 'Give her a beating, master! Belts aren't just for holding up breeches!'
Scammell was master now, doling out the servants' wages and collecting the estate's rents. Ebenezer helped him, sharing the work and always seeking to ingratiate himself with the older man. They shared a concern, too. The seal of the Covenant could not be found.
Campion did not care. The existence of the Covenant with its extraordinary income did not help her. She was still trapped in a marriage she did not want and neither ten pounds nor ten thousand would reconcile her to Scammell. It was not, she knew, that he was a bad man, though she suspected he was a weak man. He might, she supposed, make a good husband, but not for her. She wanted to be happy, she wanted to be free, and Scammell's flabby lust was inadequate compensation for the abandonment of her dreams. She was Dorcas and she wanted to be Campion.
She did not swim again -- there was no joy in that now -- yet she still visited the pool where the purple loosestrife was in flower and remembered Toby Lazender. She could not summon his face in her imagination any more, yet she remembered his gentle teasing, his easy manner, and she daydreamed that one day he might come back to the pool, and rescue her from Werlatton and its crushing rule of the Saints.
She was thinking of Toby one afternoon, a smile on her face for she was imagining him coming, when there were hoofbeats in the meadow behind and she turned, the smile still there, and watched as Ebenezer rode towards her. 'Sister.'
She held the smile for him. 'Eb.' She had hoped, for one mad, exhilarating second, that it was Toby. Instead her brother's face scowled at her.
She had never been close to Ebenezer, though she had tried so hard. When she had played games in the kitchen garden, safe from her parents' prying eyes, Ebenezer would never join in. He preferred to sit with his open Bible, memorising the chapter ordained by his father for the day, and even then he had watched his sister with a jaundiced, jealous gaze. Yet he was her brother, her only relative, and Campion had thought much about him during the week. Perhaps Ebenezer could be an ally. She patted the grass beside her. 'Come and sit down. I wanted to talk to you.'
'I'm busy.' He frowned on her. Since their father's death he had adopted an air of burdened dignity, never more evident than when he shared the ministration of household prayers with Samuel Scammell. 'I've come for the key to your room.'
'What for?'
'It's not for you to ask what for!' His anger showed as petulance. He held out a hand. 'I demand it, isn't that enough? Brother Scammell and I wish to have it! If our dear father was alive you would not be skulking behind locked doors!'
She stood up, brushing the grass from her skirt and unhooked the key from the ring at her waist. 'You can have it, Eb, but you'll have
--<<>>--<<>>--<<>>--
It was August now, a high, ripening August that promised better crops than for years past. Campion walked through the scented fields, avoiding those where anyone worked, seeking always the solitary places where she could sit and think. She ate alone, slept alone, yet her presence pervaded Werlatton Hall. It was as if her father's force, his ability to impose a mood upon the house, had passed to her. Goodwife Baggerlie resented it most. 'She's got a devil in her, master, you mark my words!'
'Grief is hard,' Scammell said.
'Grief! She's not grieving!' Goodwife crossed her arms and stared defiantly at Scammell. 'She needs a beating, master, that's all! A good beating! That'll teach her her place. Her father would have beaten her, God rest his soul, and so you should.' Goodwife began vigorously dusting the hall table where Scammell was finishing a lonely lunch. 'She's lacked for nothing, that girl, nothing! If I'd been given her advantages...' She tutted, leaving it to Scammell's imagination what heights Goodwife might have scaled had she been Matthew Slythe's daughter. 'Give her a beating, master! Belts aren't just for holding up breeches!'
Scammell was master now, doling out the servants' wages and collecting the estate's rents. Ebenezer helped him, sharing the work and always seeking to ingratiate himself with the older man. They shared a concern, too. The seal of the Covenant could not be found.
Campion did not care. The existence of the Covenant with its extraordinary income did not help her. She was still trapped in a marriage she did not want and neither ten pounds nor ten thousand would reconcile her to Scammell. It was not, she knew, that he was a bad man, though she suspected he was a weak man. He might, she supposed, make a good husband, but not for her. She wanted to be happy, she wanted to be free, and Scammell's flabby lust was inadequate compensation for the abandonment of her dreams. She was Dorcas and she wanted to be Campion.
She did not swim again -- there was no joy in that now -- yet she still visited the pool where the purple loosestrife was in flower and remembered Toby Lazender. She could not summon his face in her imagination any more, yet she remembered his gentle teasing, his easy manner, and she daydreamed that one day he might come back to the pool, and rescue her from Werlatton and its crushing rule of the Saints.
She was thinking of Toby one afternoon, a smile on her face for she was imagining him coming, when there were hoofbeats in the meadow behind and she turned, the smile still there, and watched as Ebenezer rode towards her. 'Sister.'
She held the smile for him. 'Eb.' She had hoped, for one mad, exhilarating second, that it was Toby. Instead her brother's face scowled at her.
She had never been close to Ebenezer, though she had tried so hard. When she had played games in the kitchen garden, safe from her parents' prying eyes, Ebenezer would never join in. He preferred to sit with his open Bible, memorising the chapter ordained by his father for the day, and even then he had watched his sister with a jaundiced, jealous gaze. Yet he was her brother, her only relative, and Campion had thought much about him during the week. Perhaps Ebenezer could be an ally. She patted the grass beside her. 'Come and sit down. I wanted to talk to you.'
'I'm busy.' He frowned on her. Since their father's death he had adopted an air of burdened dignity, never more evident than when he shared the ministration of household prayers with Samuel Scammell. 'I've come for the key to your room.'
'What for?'
'It's not for you to ask what for!' His anger showed as petulance. He held out a hand. 'I demand it, isn't that enough? Brother Scammell and I wish to have it! If our dear father was alive you would not be skulking behind locked doors!'
She stood up, brushing the grass from her skirt and unhooked the key from the ring at her waist. 'You can have it, Eb, but you'll have
Similar Books
