She sighed, knowing his male vanity had been injured. “Spider, I swear to God he walked right through a hole in the fence, straight into my path. I damned near tripped over him. What did you expect me to do? Ask him to hang about while I ran off to look for you?”
“All the same,” he said grudgingly, “butchering is no job for a lady.”
She nodded solemnly, “Fowl play.”
He broke into a grin. “Christ, it’s a big bugger. I bet it put up a hell of a squawk.”
She laughed now, remembering. “I thought the bloody gamekeeper would come running. Still, I was ready to defy him if he had. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and the cock was on our land.”
Spider said, “That bastard is the reason there are no rabbits left for me to snare. Can’t have rabbits nibbling precious Helford shrubbery.”
They made straight for the kitchen door. Roseland was a picture at this time of the year. Its soft red-brick walls were covered with flowering vines. Honeysuckle had overgrown each arched doorway and early pink roses and spring violets vied with a sea of daffodils which spread out under the fruit trees now covered in blossom. The lawns in close to the house were a lush green and looked well tended, but that was only because she tethered her horse Ebony and Spider’s pony there so they could crop it. They had no oats or fodder for their animals and so the thick green lawns must suffice.
At the back of the house Cat always planted a kitchen garden, for they relied upon the vegetables she grew to keep them alive. They had used up all last autumn’s harvest as well as the last of the apples. This time of year the gardens were very pretty but pretty didn’t fill your belly. The only things that were big enough to eat were young green onions and a few new potatoes no bigger than marbles. Cat sighed as she put water on the fire to boil. First she’d have to pluck the cockerel, then clean it, long before the savory smell of the cooking bird would permeate the corners of the kitchen.
“The old man’s been gone a hell of a long spell this time,” said Spider.
“Four months,” confirmed Cat.
“I wonder when the hell he’ll be back?” said Spider, not quite allowing concern to creep into his voice. “Not that I care if I ever see him again, but at least old Rancid always brings lots of food and drink and servants to do the work.”
“Lightning blast the man!” Cat muttered. “We’ll have to mend the boat. We can live on fish if we have to. After we’ve gorged ourselves on purloined poulet we’ll go down to the cellars to see if the tide’s washed up anything we can use, and you can assess the damage to the family yacht.”
The manor house was built on a rocky cliff. Its cellars had been built around natural caverns of the ocean and a secret tunnel led into a cave which flooded at high tide. At low tide the cave often contained a barrel of brandy or some other contraband lost from a smuggler’s ship. They had moored their little wooden rowboat at the mouth of the cave after it had been battered in the last storm.
Spider fell asleep at the kitchen table waiting for the food to cook. Cat’s heart was wrung as she looked down at the boy. He was only fourteen, although he always insisted he was as close to fifteen as dammit is to swearing. He was so thin and this last year he had grown like a weed, so that his wrists and ankles stuck out a mile from his shrinking, shabby clothes.
Lady Summer St. Catherine did not mingle with the townspeople but kept aloof for fear of being laughed at. A lady without money, clothes, or servants was a figure of fun and she had put up forbidding signs on the gates that warned “Keep Out! Trespassers will be shot!” She had Roseland and that was all she needed.
Spider on the other hand mingled freely with the youth of the district and was accepted as one of them. His friends were sons of farmers, fishermen, and tavern keepers, but they had no idea he was a viscount, and assumed he was a stableboy from one of the large estates.
As she prepared dinner Cat daydreamed over how her day had begun. Dawn was a special, private time for Cat. She had done the same thing this morning that she had done each day of her life until it had become a ritual. Whatever the weather, she rode Ebony for miles along the empty sands and saluted the sunrise.
This southern shore of Cornwall was semitropical with warm coves and inlets. Its low cliffs were covered with exotic wildflowers, its air soft, come rain or shine. Often the dawns were misty before the sun burned off the wisps of fog. The strong breezes which whipped her black hair about her wildly as she rode were often as not warm and seductive. This soft southern shore was in stark contrast to the north Cornish coast such a short distance away. There the weather was cruel, the craggy cliffs bare of vegetation as they towered over the storm-tossed Atlantic. This contrast of the elements seemed to account for the devils which surged in the blood of certain Cornishmen and women. At least Cat lay the blame there for the devils which surged in her own blood. How else could she explain the intoxication so close to madness which brought her each dawn to the edge of the sea?
Her mind came back to the task at hand. If she didn’t stop daydreaming, they would never eat. She sighed over life’s cruelties. Poor chickens gave eggs all their lives and ended up between someone’s knees, being plucked. Still, this was a rooster and she’d be damned if she’d waste pity on the male of the species!
Their plates, licked clean, had been pushed back on the table to make room for their feet as brother and sister lazed before the warm fire, replete for once. Spider’s eyelids kept drooping over his eyes, but he was grinning from ear to ear.
“I wonder what Lord Helford would say if he knew we’d dined on his generosity tonight?”
“Bah! He’s so rich he keeps fifty servants kicking their lazy heels, supposedly looking after an estate he never even visits. Lord Bloody Helford can rot as far as I’m concerned. I hope he has a miserable night, wherever he is,” she said, licking her fingers one last time.
Lord Helford, as it turned out, was having anything but a miserable night. He had just dined sumptuously at Arlington House with the most important men of the realm. Baron Arlington, the secretary of state, employed the most superlative French chefs and was renowned as London’s host supreme. Tonight had been neither ball nor banquet, but simply a meeting where business was discussed, and yet the food had been as lavish as the entertainment had been daring.
Madame Bennet’s Naked Dancing Girls were served up as appetizer along with the smoked trout and the latest sensation from France called champagne. The men at table who had so wished had made their selections for postmidnight assignations, and then they dutifully attacked their food and the pressing business at hand.
King Charles II’s face had settled into moody lines of cynicism as he listened to the advice offered him.
The Duke of Buckingham weighed up the men in the room, trying to pinpoint each one’s vulnerability so he could use it to best advantage at some later date.
Sir Thomas Clifford, Lord Ashley, and the outspoken Scot, Lauderdale, seemed to be arguing, while Jack Grenvile, newly created Earl of Bath, and Lord Helford both looked on with tolerant amusement.
“Gentlemen, the Dutch fleet is trying to run England off the map and I’d like to know what we’re going to do about it,” said Charles bluntly. He smarted from the humiliation of the ships Holland had captured. The British navy was his pride and joy. He knew that the only way to make his nation a great one was by her sea trade. England must rule supreme over the seas of the world or she would be poor forever.
“At the risk of becoming a repetitive bore,” drawled Buckingham, “the only answer is war.”
Charles said, “Wars cost money, George. We’re not all as flush in the pocket as you.” George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, had one of the largest private fortunes in England.
