Page 3 of Feathers in the Wind
Preswood Hall, Warwickshire 2 July 1642
Perdita pushed the food around her plate with the knife, conscious that through the interminable meal, Simon’s gaze had not moved from her. Across from her, Elizabeth nattered about some matter of local gossip that required no more than the occasional grunt or tsk in response. As Joan’s gaze flickered from Perdita to Simon and back again, her brow creased.
‘Forgive me,’ Joan said. ‘Perdita? Simon? Have you quarrelled?’
Simon’s eyes widened. ‘Quarrelled?’ He glanced at Perdita. ‘Far from it.’ He rose to his feet, his glass in hand, and looked around the table. His gaze returned to Perdita and he smiled, a smile of such sweetness and love that her heart skipped a beat. Was it too late to renege? To turn back the clock to the sweet friendship she had treasured with this man?
‘Joan, Elizabeth.’ Simon addressed his stepmother and sister. ‘It may come as something of a surprise, but Perdita, our dearest kinswoman, has consented to be my wife.’
A squeal of delight ensued from Elizabeth. Joan, not given to overt displays of emotion, cast a quick scrutinising glance in Perdita’s direction and she looked away.
‘I’m delighted,’ Joan said and raised her glass. ‘I wish you both much happiness in the years ahead. Were your father still alive, Simon, I know he would approve.’
Elizabeth beamed at Perdita from across the table. ‘How I have always longed for a sister.’
Perdita knew she should say something. Her fingers twisted in the chain of her mother’s locket as she struggled to find adequate words to cover the tumult of emotions raging in her mind. Simon had resumed his seat but he still gazed at her, a huge grin on his cheerful, freckled face. He leaned across the table, grasping her left hand in his square dependable fingers, pressing it to his lips. He did not need to speak - Simon was incapable of dissembling in either word or gesture.
Perdita pushed back her pangs of guilt. She did not deserve such adoration, not when she felt incapable of returning those feelings. When Simon had first asked, she had hesitated a long while, but he had been patient and his very patience had worn down her resistance. Finally she had given him the answer he sought, telling herself that Simon was a dear person, comfortable and dependable, and compared with the endless years of lonely widowhood that stretched ahead of her or the prospect of another forced marriage to the likes of Samuel Gray, she could certainly do much worse. Besides their kinship was distant, Her grandmother and Simon’s grandmother had been distantly related but no closer relationship existed.
She may not have loved Simon in the romantic sense of the word, but she liked him, loved him as a friend, and perhaps friendship would be enough. Love could come later.
She smiled and squeezed his hand.
‘Have you thought about when the wedding is to take place?’ Elizabeth asked.
Simon released Perdita’s hand and straightened in his chair. ‘I confess, I’ve not given that much thought. With the present state of affairs, it may be prudent to wait until closer to Christmas.’
‘What do you mean?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘You know what I mean, Bess.’ Simon said impatiently. ‘War is coming.’
‘Oh, not that again.’ Bess dismissed the troubles between the king and his parliament with a wave of her hand. ‘I’m so bored with that.’
‘Bess,’ Simon began but the crash of a door and the sound of raised voices stopped him mid remonstrance, ‘confound it. What is that racket?’
Ludovic, the Clifford’s steward, a large, laconic man of foreign background who had been attached to Geoffrey Clifford from long before his marriage to Joan, appeared at the door.
‘There is a gentleman here, who insists on an audience with Mistress Clifford,’ he said but got no further as a tall man with rough-cut dark brown hair strode into the room.
He swept the startled company a bow. ‘Forgive my intrusion,’ he said, rising to address them.
Joan set her glass down and rose slowly to her feet. ‘Surely not? Adam?’
‘Aunt Joan.’ A broad grin split his tanned face and in two strides he had crossed to her, sweeping her off her feet into an embrace.
Bess cast her brother a quizzical glance.
‘Good Lord.’ Simon blasphemed, rising from his chair. ‘Adam Coulter?’
‘Simon Clifford.’ Adam set his aunt back on the ground and seized Simon’s hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’ He looked at Joan and frowned. ‘Your wedding, Aunt, if my memory serves me correctly?’
‘Yes indeed. Ten years at least.’ Joan, her face unusually flushed, recollected herself. ‘Ludovic,’ she ordered the steward. ‘Set another place at the table. This is my nephew, Adam Coulter, who has been abroad these many years. A very welcome guest in this house.’
As Ludovic bowed and withdrew, Joan looked up at her nephew and tapped him on his chest. ‘Why did you not send word for me to expect you?’
He flashed her a smile. ‘I thought I might surprise you.’
Joan’s hand flew to her throat. Perdita had never seen Joan so discomposed. ‘Surprise me? Good heavens, Adam, you have just about killed me.’ She looked around the table. ‘Now, you are acquainted with Simon but I doubt you remember his sister, my stepdaughter, Elizabeth? She would have been barely twelve at our wedding.’
