any harm – yet this happens.’
‘It’s so unfair.’
They heard voices from the garden. Araminta sat up in bed.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Eleanor went to the window to look out. ‘There are some men walking down the garden,’ she said. ‘One of them is a constable.’
‘Will he take the body away? Don’t let him do that.’
‘He won’t do anything you don’t want, m’lady.’
‘I need to see him again before…’
‘Maybe that’s not such a good idea,’ said the maid, comingback to her and taking her hand. ‘You’ve already seen more than you can bear. You should not have to look at him again.’
‘I don’t want him taken.’
‘Sir Martin can hardly stay in the garden.’
‘I’m not ready for him to go yet.’
Eleanor nodded sympathetically. ‘I’ll tell them,’ she said, moving to the door. On the way she passed the wardrobe and cast a wistful glance at it. ‘Does this mean I won’t get a chance to wear that blue dress, m’lady?’
‘What?’
‘I was thinking about that portrait of you.’
‘Nothing is further from my mind, Eleanor.’
‘You might want it finished,’ suggested the other hopefully. ‘In memory of Sir Martin, I mean.’ She saw Araminta’s pained reaction and repented. ‘That was a silly idea. I’ll go and speak to them.’
She left the room quickly. Alone at last, the young widow of Sir Martin Culthorpe was able to give full vent to her anguish. Pulling back her head, she emitted a long, loud, high-pitched cry of agony.
The news spread like wildfire. By evening, hundreds of people had somehow got hold of the information that Sir Martin had been killed in the quiet of his garden. Henry Redmayne was among them. He immediately spotted an opportunity for personal gain. When his horse had been saddled, he rode swiftly to Fetter Lane to call on his brother. Christopher was stunned by what he was told.
‘Sir Martin is dead ?’
‘According to all reports,’ said Henry.
‘What of his wife?’
‘She was unhurt – thank God!’
‘But how is she? The poor woman must be heart-broken.’
‘It seems that she actually found the body in the garden.’
‘That’s dreadful,’ said Christopher, wondering how Aramintacould possibly cope with such an ordeal. ‘It’s something she’ll never forget. It will prey on her mind forever.’
‘She’ll need comfort,’ said Henry, composing his features into an expression that fell well short of true compassion. ‘I mourn Sir Martin deeply. He was a good man.’
‘I never heard you say a kind word about him.’
‘In death, I appreciate his many virtues.’
‘What use is that?’
‘I grieve with his wife, Christopher,’ said Henry. ‘She’s too young and fragile to be a widow. My heart goes out to her.’
‘Your heart is always going out to one woman or another.’
‘This one is different.’
‘That could be your motto,’ said Christopher harshly. ‘Have it translated into Latin and set beneath a coat of arms. On second thoughts, let the motto be in French for that’s more suited to blighted romance.’
‘You mock me unjustly.’
‘Then do not lay yourself open to mockery. You are ever your worst enemy, Henry. Father pointed out the cure. You should have married and settled down years ago.’
‘I never listen to sermons from the old gentleman, whether delivered from the pulpit or from directly beside me. The simple fact is,’ said Henry, soulfully, ‘that I’ve never met a woman who could make me repent of my sins longer than a few short weeks. Until now, that is. Until I first set eyes on Araminta Jewell.’
‘Her name is Lady Culthorpe.’
‘But she lacks the husband who gave it to her.’
‘You surely do not imagine you could take his place, do you?’ said Christopher, shaken by the thought. ‘Heavens above, man – Sir Martin’s body is not yet cold and you are already trying to devise a way to get at his widow.’
‘I love her,
‘It’s so unfair.’
They heard voices from the garden. Araminta sat up in bed.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Eleanor went to the window to look out. ‘There are some men walking down the garden,’ she said. ‘One of them is a constable.’
‘Will he take the body away? Don’t let him do that.’
‘He won’t do anything you don’t want, m’lady.’
‘I need to see him again before…’
‘Maybe that’s not such a good idea,’ said the maid, comingback to her and taking her hand. ‘You’ve already seen more than you can bear. You should not have to look at him again.’
‘I don’t want him taken.’
‘Sir Martin can hardly stay in the garden.’
‘I’m not ready for him to go yet.’
Eleanor nodded sympathetically. ‘I’ll tell them,’ she said, moving to the door. On the way she passed the wardrobe and cast a wistful glance at it. ‘Does this mean I won’t get a chance to wear that blue dress, m’lady?’
‘What?’
‘I was thinking about that portrait of you.’
‘Nothing is further from my mind, Eleanor.’
‘You might want it finished,’ suggested the other hopefully. ‘In memory of Sir Martin, I mean.’ She saw Araminta’s pained reaction and repented. ‘That was a silly idea. I’ll go and speak to them.’
She left the room quickly. Alone at last, the young widow of Sir Martin Culthorpe was able to give full vent to her anguish. Pulling back her head, she emitted a long, loud, high-pitched cry of agony.
The news spread like wildfire. By evening, hundreds of people had somehow got hold of the information that Sir Martin had been killed in the quiet of his garden. Henry Redmayne was among them. He immediately spotted an opportunity for personal gain. When his horse had been saddled, he rode swiftly to Fetter Lane to call on his brother. Christopher was stunned by what he was told.
‘Sir Martin is dead ?’
‘According to all reports,’ said Henry.
‘What of his wife?’
‘She was unhurt – thank God!’
‘But how is she? The poor woman must be heart-broken.’
‘It seems that she actually found the body in the garden.’
‘That’s dreadful,’ said Christopher, wondering how Aramintacould possibly cope with such an ordeal. ‘It’s something she’ll never forget. It will prey on her mind forever.’
‘She’ll need comfort,’ said Henry, composing his features into an expression that fell well short of true compassion. ‘I mourn Sir Martin deeply. He was a good man.’
‘I never heard you say a kind word about him.’
‘In death, I appreciate his many virtues.’
‘What use is that?’
‘I grieve with his wife, Christopher,’ said Henry. ‘She’s too young and fragile to be a widow. My heart goes out to her.’
‘Your heart is always going out to one woman or another.’
‘This one is different.’
‘That could be your motto,’ said Christopher harshly. ‘Have it translated into Latin and set beneath a coat of arms. On second thoughts, let the motto be in French for that’s more suited to blighted romance.’
‘You mock me unjustly.’
‘Then do not lay yourself open to mockery. You are ever your worst enemy, Henry. Father pointed out the cure. You should have married and settled down years ago.’
‘I never listen to sermons from the old gentleman, whether delivered from the pulpit or from directly beside me. The simple fact is,’ said Henry, soulfully, ‘that I’ve never met a woman who could make me repent of my sins longer than a few short weeks. Until now, that is. Until I first set eyes on Araminta Jewell.’
‘Her name is Lady Culthorpe.’
‘But she lacks the husband who gave it to her.’
‘You surely do not imagine you could take his place, do you?’ said Christopher, shaken by the thought. ‘Heavens above, man – Sir Martin’s body is not yet cold and you are already trying to devise a way to get at his widow.’
‘I love her,
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