Yet Sir Oswald’s disappearance was causing him sleepless nights as a thoroughbred in the wrong hands could spell disaster – their temperaments hot-blooded and nervous.
“I will continue to search, Sir Laurence, with or without your aid, and will not rest till my stallion is found.”
A shrug. “Do as you will.” The magistrate rose and tottered to the decanter, replenishing his glass, an odour of dank vanilla trailing. “But I can’t spare men for the moment, what with all the summer fairs – drunken conduct on our streets requires a firm hand.”
So did drunken conduct in the Town Hall, but Ernest kept that to himself and stood. “Then I bid you good day.”
Twisting, the magistrate scrunched his long nose. “If you wait till September, I could spare a man, I suppose. It would also give your stallion the chance to return of his own accord, as I am quite sure he will.”
Or the chance to be smuggled to the Continent, but Ernest refrained from wasting more breath and merely cast a tight nod, gathering hat and cane. He stalked for the magistrate’s door and stomped from the Town Hall.
Witney’s Market Square was a pleasant affair. Opposite stood the medieval buttercross, an open structure of eleven stone pillars supporting a steep gabled roof, an ancient meeting place which currently sheltered three sheep nibbling scattered market leftovers and two lads playing marbles. The hand of the clock on the tower above hovered at a little before five, and Ernest tapped his cane and scowled at the utter waste of two hours.
A handful of ladies bustled to and fro with baskets of cloth, and he smoothed his visage to placid, tamping his uncommon irritation and tipping his hat at them as he crossed the square.
Witney was full of cottages homing the workers of the many wool mills, and the town’s blankets were the finest woven in the land, the waters of the River Windrush lending them the softness of a foal’s nose.
He threw a shilling to the lad who’d walked Stanley and hauled himself aloft, a smile at last broadening.
For now, he would visit fair Lydia…
“AND HERE BE THINE BEDCHAMBER, MADAM,”the housekeeper announced, sweeping a sturdy oak door wide at the far end of the Long Gallery. “This be the King Henry VIII suite.”
Hebe wasn’t quite sure whether to ask the obvious question or not but peered in and…goggled.
With its rich burgundy and gold motif drapery, heavy oak furnishings, gilded portraits and Gothic iron chandelier, it appeared as though His Majesty had moments before departed to debate whether his current wife should be given the chop.
Aunt, who appeared to have regained herjoie de vivre, thrust her head over Hebe’s shoulder, having followed from her own sumptuous bedchamber next door. “Is that the same bed Henry slept in? It’s big enough for all his wives and then some.”
A smile broke the sombre visage of Mrs Pettifer, who wasn’t grim at all but welcoming and…sorrowful. In mourning for her husband, lost to the lung disease five months previous, grief still cleaving to her like moss on a damp stone wall.
“It be a new bed, madam. Purchased in 1672, I believe, for when Queen Catherine stayed.” Mrs Pettifer cleared her throat. “The linens be fresh, of course.”
Hebe blinked. “Of course.”
“Well, I’ll go see to this night’s menu while thee settle in. His lordship will most likely be back too late, but if there’s anything in particular thee would like, do tell I?”
Hebe’s cook was continental and never asked for her opinion.
“Er…fish?”
“Certainly, madam. We have some fresh trout from the River Windrush.” She bobbed a curtsey. “I’ll send up the footman with some refreshments and maids to attend to thine luggage, but please ring the bell if thee require anything at all.”
As Mrs Pettifer swept back down the Long Gallery, Hebe and her aunt turned to each other and grinned.
“It’s so sumptuous,” Hebe exclaimed, wandering into King Henry’s bedchamber and inspecting the flock-green walls, luxuriant rugs and the square-mullioned windows with benched seat below.
“Lawks, dearest,” said Aunt, plonking herself to the coverlet of the four-poster, “you should sleep well in this. A lover’s bed, if ever I saw one. Bigger than that in the Raja of Cochin’s summer palace. Not to mention – but I will – the lush drapery, exotic colours and those erotic carvings.”
Hebe followed Aunt’s pointing finger. “They’re cherubs!”
“Can’t tell me their expressions are innocent and wholesome. And…and…” Aunt bounded from Hebe’s bed. “You have the turret!”
The far wall of the room curved, its windows overlooking the gardens, just as Aunt’s chamber did, but the rounded nature afforded a broad double-aspect view through the square leads, a second luxuriant padded seat below – perfect for reading and sketching with its bright light.
“Excuse I, ladies.”
They both twisted to the pale footman who held a silver tray topped with jug and glasses. He was togged in the Rothwell blue, young with slicked jet-black hair.
