The King's Evil

Chapter Fourteen

Lady Frances Northcott snipped the stem of a rose then placed the flower carefully alongside the others in her basket. It was late morning and bright sunshine was buttering the whole garden. Birds sang from their perches and insects buzzed happily over petals and ponds. Lady Northcott looked across at the wisp of smoke that was curling up into the sky from behind a hawthorn hedge. Putting her basket on a stone bench, she went around the hedge and walked across to the fire that was burning quietly in the shadow of a wall. She bent down to toss some more fuel on to its dying flames then used a hoe to rake the embers. When the fire came once more to life, she returned to the rose bush again.

'Do you never tire of this garden, Mother?' said a voice.

'No, Penelope. This is my idea of heaven.'

'What does that make me?'

'One of the angels.'

Penelope gave a tiny smile. The garden which her mother found so idyllic somehow only made her feel restless and dissatisfied. It was the older woman's universe, filled with everything she could want and changing with the seasons to provide movement and variety. Yet it seemed curiously empty to Penelope. As a girl, she loved to play on its lawns, to climb its trees, to explore its countless hiding places, to plunder its orchard, to watch the fish in its ponds and the wildfowl on its lake. Looking around now, she realised that it was not the garden which was deficient. Under her mother's guidance, it had been greatly enriched and enlarged. The emptiness lay inside Penelope herself.

'Sit down a moment,' said her mother, indicating the bench. 'We need to have a little talk.'

'I am not in a talkative mood, Mother.'

'You have been fending me off for days. Now, come here.'

'Well, just for a moment.'

Penelope sat beside her mother, who took her by the hand.

'What is the matter?' she asked.

'Nothing, Mother.'

'I am not blind, Penelope. Since you got back from London, you have been deeply troubled about something. You hardly ventured outside your room on the first day home.'

'I was tired.'

'Well, you are not tired now. And you have had ample time to get over whatever it was that upset you in London. Are you ready to tell me about it now?' Penelope bit her lip and lowered her head. 'Why not?'

'Because I still do not understand it myself.'

'Understand what?'

'Why I feel this way, Mother. So hurt. So melancholy. So lonely.'

'Lonely? In your own home?'

'I cannot explain it.'

'Grief takes strange forms sometimes,' said the other softly. 'I know that from personal experience. In the sudden excitement of rushing off to London, you were not able to mourn your father's death properly. You put it out of your mind. Now that you are back in Priestfield Place, all your memories of him come flooding back.'

'Unhappy memories.'

'Some of them, perhaps, but not all. You may have reservations about him - we both have - but he was still your father, Penelope.'

'I know that.'

'Then you are bound to grieve.'

Her daughter raised her head and gazed straight in front of her.

'I am still very unsettled by what happened to Father,' she said quietly, 'and by the things which we discovered after his death. It is like an open wound which will not heal. But there is another side to my grief. I have been trying to make sense of it.'

'Does it concern George?'

'Yes.'

'Did you have an argument?'

'Several.'

'Did you patch up your differences before you came home?'

'Not really, Mother.'

'Was he unkind to you, Penelope?'

'No,' sighed the other. 'Not exactly unkind.'

'Then what? Aggressive? Domineering?'

'He was George.'

'Why did you come back to Kent alone?'

'He had business in London.'

'When he left here,' recalled her mother, 'he was furious. He told me that he was going to bring you straight back. Yet you stayed on in London for a few days. Why?'

'I did not like the way he ordered me about.'

'You have always tolerated it before, Penelope.'

'It was different then. He used persuasion and charm. I was content to agree with what he suggested.' She pursed her lips in irritation. 'I blame myself for being so naive. George is a domineering man, and I have allowed him to govern all my decisions.'

'He was not the only one.'

'What do you mean?'

'Many of his decisions were influenced by your father.'

'I know. George admired him so much.'

'Does he still admire him?'

'Yes, but not in quite the same way.' She turned to her mother. 'He swore to me that he knew nothing about Father's secret life with... that other person. I believe him. George has always been honest with me.'

'Has he?'

'You know he has.'

'I have always had my doubts about George Strype.'

'He is a wonderful man,' said Penelope defensively. 'Strong and loving and everything I could wish for in a husband. He has many fine qualities when you get to know him. He is dependable. I keep reminding myself of that. But...'

Her mother waited. 'Go on,' she coaxed at length.

'I had not realised that he could be so jealous.'

'He loves you, Penelope. He is very possessive.'

'It was more than that.'

'Was it?'

'He became almost demented when I told him that I had given those letters to Mr Redmayne. He insisted on getting them back. I tried to stop him but it was no use. George ignored me. The next thing I knew, he had taken my coach and gone to demand the letters from Mr Redmayne.'

'Did he get them?'

'No, and that made his temper fouler than ever.'

'You must have been very angry yourself.'

'I was, Mother,' said Penelope. 'It cost me a lot to show those letters to Mr Redmayne and he was most discreet and understanding. George was quite the opposite and I told him so. I was incensed at the way that he commandeered our coach as if it were his own.'

'What did he say?'

'That everything in a marriage should be shared.'

'But you are not yet married to him.'

'According to George, I am. He kept telling me that I must do as I was told. That was when the argument really flared up.'

'How was it resolved?'

'It was not. He stormed out of the house.'

'Did he not come back the next day to apologise?'

'No, he was still sulking somewhere.' 'So you did not actually see him before you left?'

'Not in person,' said Penelope. 'But he sent a servant with a basket of flowers from his gardens to sweeten the carriage for my journey. They arrived on the morning that I was leaving.'

'What did you do with them?'

'I left them at the house.'

'Oh, I see.'

'I wish I had brought them with me now.'

'Why?'

'George was trying to make peace.'

'Was he?'

'It was his way of saying that he was in the wrong, Mother. And they were beautiful flowers. You would have appreciated them. I should at least have sent him a note to thank him.'

'Why didn't you?'

Penelope shrugged. 'I don't know.'

'Do you miss him?'

'Of course.'

'And do you still love him?'

'I think so.'

'What made him leave the house in Westminster in such an ill temper?'

Penelope winced at the memory. 'Something I said to him. I was so angry when he told me where he had been. I pointed out just how much Mr Redmayne was doing to catch the man responsible for Father's death. He has gone all the way to Paris on our behalf. I asked George why he could not act more like Mr Redmayne and actually search for the killer.'

Frances made no comment. She could see the doubt and anguish in her daughter's face and did not wish to add to it. She asked another question which she had been saving up for some time.

'When you were at the house in London, did you find anything?'

A slight pause. 'No, Mother.'

'Did you search?'

'In truth, no.'

'Were you afraid that you might find something?'

'Probably,' said Penelope, anxious to quash the topic. 'I am beginning to wish that I had not found those letters here. They have turned everything sour.'

'No,' murmured the other. 'Sourness was already there.'

Rising to her feet, she pulled Penelope gently after her.

'Let us go for a walk,' she suggested.

'Very well. Some fresh air would benefit me.'

'Let me attend to something first.'

When they came around the angle of the hawthorn hedge, she strolled across to the fire. Picking up the last few books from the pile, she tossed them into the heart of the blaze. Penelope was shocked. She recognised the beautiful calf-bound volumes at once. They were treasured items from the library.

'You're burning all of Father's books!' she protested.

'No, dear,' said her mother. 'Only the ones written in French.'