The King's Evil

Chapter Eight

Lady Frances Northcott sat on a rustic bench and surveyed the garden with a glow of pride. Its colour and variety never ceased to delight her and its multiple fragrances were particularly enchanting at that time of the year. Reclining in the shadow of an elm, she looked down an avenue of well-trimmed yew trees and admired the symmetry of the scene. The extensive formal garden at Priestfield Place was largely her creation. It occupied most of her leisure time and kept the small army of gardeners at full stretch. They worked very happily under her serene command. Lady Northcott was a far more amenable employer than her husband.

A tall, gracious woman of middle years, she had the finely-sculpted features which seem to improve with age and which were somehow enhanced by the gentle greying of her hair. An air of quiet distinction marked her and even in what she called her gardening dress, she remained unmistakably the mistress of the estate. Whenever any of the gardeners passed, they gave her a deferential nod which was always repaid with a friendly smile. She was herself one of the salient features of the garden. Warm weather invariably brought her out into it.

'I knew that I would find you here,' said a teasing voice.

'Hello, Penelope.'

'You're the patron saint of this garden, Mother.'

'There is nothing I would prefer to be.'

'Is it true that they are going to make another pond?'

'Yes,' said Frances. 'It will absorb some of the overflow from the lake. I've asked them to build sluice-gates to control it.'

'But we already have three ponds.'

'You can never have too much water, Penelope. It brings interest and tranquillity to any prospect. If it were left to me, I would surround the whole of Priestfield Place with water.'

'Like a moat. To keep people out?'

'To keep me in.'

She made room on the bench for her daughter to sit beside her. Penelope Northcott inherited little from her father apart from her name and the fair hue of her hair. For the rest, she was a younger version of her mother with the same high cheekbones, the same elegant nose, the same heart-shaped face and a pair of sparkling turquoise eyes which were interchangeable with those of the other woman. Her admirers often described Lady Northcott as Penelope's older sister. It was a compliment which, politely accepted by the person to whom it was paid, always made Penelope herself giggle.

'I wanted to ask you when Father is coming home,' she said.

'I wish I knew.'

'He has been away for so long this time.'

'Yes,' agreed her mother. 'His business affairs occupy him more and more. His last letter said that he may not return here until the end of the month.'

'That is weeks away!' complained Penelope. 'We need him here to discuss the plans for the wedding. How can we make final arrangements if Father is never at home?'

'You will have to be patient.'

'You always say that.'

'Patience is something I have had to learn myself.'

'George is riding over tomorrow,' said her daughter. 'I hoped to be able to give him a firm date for Father's return. He is getting very restless. George is as eager as I am to decide on the arrangements.'

'The most important arrangement has already been decided.'

'Has it?'

'Yes, dear,' said Frances with a sweet smile. 'Penelope Northcott is to marry handsome George Strype. What better arrangement could there be than that?'

'None.' She kissed her mother on the cheek. 'I am so glad that you have started to like George at last.'

A guarded response. 'I have always liked him.'

'Have you?'

'In some ways.'

'Be honest, Mother. At first, you did not approve of George at all.'

'He was your father's choice rather than mine, I admit that.'

'He is my choice.'

'Then that is all that matters, Penelope.'

'I want you to love him as I do, Mother.'

'I will try.'

'You must, you must,' urged the other.

'In time, dear. I am sure that I will grow into it in time.'

Penelope squeezed her hand. A breeze sprang up, causing the branches of the elm to genuflect gracefully. Birdsong filled the walks. The two of them simply sat there and luxuriated in the beauty of nature.

A mischievous glint came into Penelope's eye and she giggled.

'I suppose that we could always surprise him.'

'Who? George?'

'No, Mother,' said Penelope. 'Father. If he will not come down to Kent to see us, we could go up to London instead to see him. It would be a real surprise.'

'I am not sure that it is one your father would appreciate.'

'Why not?'

'He likes to keep his home life and business affairs apart.'

'We would not get in his way,' argued Penelope. 'We can

stay in Westminster then go into the city to do our shopping. George tells me that there is so much rebuilding going on there now. It is very exciting. I would love to see it. May we go to London, Mother?'

'No, Penelope.'

'But I want to. I crave a diversion.'

'George Strype will provide all the diversion you need once you are married to him,' said her mother easily. 'Concentrate your mind on that. Let your husband take you to London in the fullness of time. I'll not leave my garden for anybody.'

'Not even to see the look of surprise on Father's face?'

'Not even for that.'

'But you used to love London at one time.'

'Those days are gone, Penelope,' she said wistfully. 'I have found other pleasures in life. They have proved more reliable. Come,' she said, rising to her feet and pulling her daughter after her. 'Let us take a stroll. I will show you where I am having the new pond situated. They are to start digging next week. We will have made substantial progress by the time your father returns.' She held back a sigh. 'Whenever that may be.'