Page 140 of The King's Man
She sighed and glanced at her sister’s ashen face. She sat beside her husband, her fingers entwined in his. Roger had said little. He seemed to have gone into shock, unable to grasp the enormity of what now faced him. Ten-year-old Rachel slept with her head on her mother’s lap. The older girl, Rebecca, sat beside Thamsine reading a book of sermons. The journey had been a trial, but the dying woman had been insistent. Jane wanted to end her days at Hartley.
Thamsine’s gloved hand tightened on the sash of the coach door. Soon there would be another death to mourn. In the days since Kit’s death, the living had commanded her attention and she had lavished her care on Jane. She dared not think about Kit.He was dead and beyond her love but Jane needed her. She knew the high tide of her suffering was yet to come. With Jane’s death, would it all be unleashed?
She swallowed, forcing herself to think of the more pressing issue of her stepmother Isabelle, Ambrose Morton’s mother, who would be at Hartley Court to meet her. She could already picture Isabelle’s mean, pinched face, the thin lips dragging down at the corners. If Isabelle had disliked her before, her hatred would know no bounds when the woman who had tried to murder her son returned, the widow of another man.
She had sent word ahead that they were to be expected but to her surprise, it was not Isabelle who stood on the doorstep but her steward, Stebbings. He stepped forward and opened the door to the coach.
‘Welcome home, Mistress Thamsine,’ he said with a broad smile. Then he flushed. ‘My apologies, Mistress Lovell.’
‘Thank you, Stebbings. Is everything prepared for my sister?’
‘It is. Mistress White has set aside the best bedchamber. Allow me … Mistress Knott … ’ He turned to Jane, assisting her from the coach and then, supporting her, assisted her inside the cool house.
Thamsine let her servants and Roger settle Jane into the bedchamber. She wandered through the rooms, savouring the familiar smell of beeswax and lavender. Everything had been kept well in her absence. She supposed she should be grateful to Isabelle.
WherewasIsabelle? She frowned and sent for Stebbings.
‘Where is Mistress Granville?’
Stebbings’ eyes widened. ‘You hadn’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Mistress Granville has been dead these three months past.’
One should not speak ill of the dead, Thamsine thought, and bit her tongue against the cry of jubilation that rose in her throat.
‘What happened?’
Stebbings’ lips tightened. ‘She was, as you know, rather partial to a little Canary wine in the evening … ’
And the morning, and at lunchtime, Thamsine thought.
‘She took it into her head to walk to Beverstock to see her daughter, Mistress Anne. She went without a hat or cloak and was caught in a heavy rainstorm. We reckon she must have slipped and fallen into a ditch. We didn’t find her until morning and she died within the week.’
‘Where is she buried?’ Thamsine bit back the exultation in her voice.
Stebbings coughed discreetly. ‘As there was no one to make a decision, we had her interred in the family plot at Beverstock.’
Thamsine nodded. Stebbings and her staff had no great love for Isabelle. She would have died unmourned by anyone except possibly her son and daughter. She wondered if Ambrose even knew of his mother’s death. Isabelle had exerted a strong influence over her son. He would feel her loss.
A commotion could be heard on the stairs. Thamsine flung open the door and a wild figure broke free of the housekeeper and threw herself on the ground at Thamsine’s feet, wrapping her arms around her ankles as if she intended never to let go. Thamsine looked down at the head of tangled black hair as the housekeeper and the steward both ran forward.
‘It’s all right,’ Thamsine said.
She bent down to touch Annie Morton’s shoulder, afraid if she tried to move she would topple over.
‘Annie, please let go of me. I’m going to fall.’
Annie just tightened her grip.
‘No one is going to hurt you. Give me your hand.’
Annie looked up. Slowly she extended a thin, dirty hand, releasing her vice-like grip on Thamsine’s ankle. Thamsine pulled her upright and the girl snuggled against her, her stick-like arms wrapped around her waist.
‘I’ll have her sent back.’ The steward stepped forward and took Annie’s arm. Annie cowered closer to Thamsine, shaking off his hand.
‘Where’s she been living?’
