The Dandelion Seed Read online

  ‘But who could have been with his Highness?’

  ‘Obviously not you, Annabelle, as I can see by your surprise. So it must have been that little mouselike companion of yours.’ Frances’ mouth twisted with hatred. ‘So she’s not quite so shy as she looks, eh?’

  Annabelle rung her hands anxiously. ‘I can’t believe it, my Lady. It could have been Ruth, but she could not have dared to come back into the house, and it would seem she was satisfied with Lord Hay.’

  ‘He has given her the pox,’ returned Frances spitefully.

  Annabelle’s lips trembled. ‘Ruth ran away last week,’ she stuttered.

  ‘Well, so we have only the silent little Marcelle. Thomas Mayhew will get a well-stuffed bride and maybe a pair of cuckold horns on his return,’ continued Frances. ‘And frankly, Annabelle, I am beginning to wonder whether I can trust you . . .’ With a haughty look, she rose from her seat and swept out of the room leaving poor Annabelle in tears.

  That night Marcelle was in her room sitting on the edge of the bed when Annabelle came in. The sight of Marcelle’s tear-stained face and her worried expression told Annabelle that something was terribly wrong. She sat down facing the girl and said gently: ‘Where is that nice little lace cap I made for you, dear?’

  ‘I have mislaid it,’ answered the listless Marcelle.

  Annabelle’s voice changed its tone and sounded quite brittle as she replied: ‘No! You lost it, dear, and dare I ask where?’ Frances had been right: Marcelle’s secret was out.

  Tears trickled down Marcelle’s face. ‘Please Annabelle, do not be angry, let me tell you about it.’

  ‘I love you as my own daughter,’ said Annabelle. ‘I want you to clear yourself of the terrible story I heard today.’ She related what the countess had told her and of what she had hinted.

  Marcelle shook her head. ‘I cannot clear myself,’ she cried, ‘because it is true.’

  Annabelle rushed at her and shook her hard. ‘It isn’t! It can’t be!’ she insisted. ‘Don’t tell me that I was wrong about you, my dear, it would grieve me terribly.’

  Marcelle now opened up and told of her lover, of how he had walked in his sleep, how he had been so kind and gentle and how she had surrendered her virginity to him quite willingly. But that was not all, she said, she was sure now that within her was his child.

  Annabelle had gone deathly pale. ‘Oh my God, what a terrible thing to happen in my house. What am I going to do?’ Her thoughts were now for her own skin. One word of any of this in the ear of the King and the whole lot of them would go to the chopping block. Old Jamie would have no hesitation about it. Her head was spinning; but she was sure the countess would not betray them, since she had too much to hide herself. Marcelle’s sweet voice broke in on her thoughts.

  ‘Perhaps if I knew the name of my lover he would return to me, knowing now I am with his child. I am sure he loved me, as I did him. We have not committed such a great sin, have we? Is it so wrong to love?’

  Annabelle looked up into her woebegone face and clasped her tightly in her arms. ‘You poor little darling,’ she sobbed. ‘You poor innocent little darling. You must think of your lover as dead and put all thoughts of him from your mind because if the devil was your lover you could not be in more danger.’

  Marcelle’s tears fell silently and fast. She looked astounded that Annabelle should say such a thing.

  The golden summer had drifted into autumn as Thomas Mayhew rode at a leisurely pace through Epping Forest. He was in no hurry and he wanted to enjoy the peace and beauty all around him. He had been away a long time and was now returning from Dorset where he had been settling his affairs before going to sea again soon. As he rode along the shady woodland path, the leaves were falling and made a crisp sound under his horse’s hooves. Bessy, the chestnut mare, snorted loudly. She was also enjoying the leisure, having ridden many miles these last few weeks. A little red squirrel, seeking a store of winter nuts scuttled up a tall oak tree. He stopped halfway, his tiny paw clinging to the wrinkled grey bark as his bright eyes surveyed Thomas with fear. But as Thomas rode by, he whispered, ‘It’s all right, little one, I won’t hurt you.’ As the squirrel scuttled back down the tree, Thomas thought how fine it would be to be as free as the woodland animals. Well, thought Thomas, thank God he was free of Robert Carr for the time being. Of late he had begun to loathe the man even more and felt sometimes that he wanted to run his sword through his soft podgy body. But with all the padding that Robert Carr wore Thomas doubted whether his sword would even contact his rotten flesh. Thomas urged his horse on and galloped for a while, telling himself that he must not let his hatred for Robert Carr spoil this peaceful day. He had also made a definite decision. He would ask Marcelle to marry him. She was young and would not have minded waiting for him.

  And he had other plans for her. His elder brother had promised to help him prepare a ship and sail away next year and to take the entire family with them to the new colony of Virginia, where he intended to buy land. His brother had told him he was tired of the family farm and of this sick country, and he wanted to sail off to the land of freedom, where a man could bring up his family without fear of persecution on any pretext. Thomas was almost sure that Marcelle would join them. His family had been very pleased when he told them about his intentions regarding Marcelle, and he could not see any obvious objections to his plans. She was alone; he was unmarried. He whistled a little tune, well pleased with his thoughts of the future, and rode cheerfully through the forest until he came to the hill and saw Annabelle’s house lying ahead of him tucked cosily into the hillside.

  Old Abe came out as Thomas approached and took hold of Bessy’s bridle. Thomas thought that the house seemed unusually quiet as they walked up the drive.

  ‘I’m mighty glad to see you,’ said Abe, but he did not seem his usual jovial self. Perhaps he is just getting on a bit, thought Thomas.

  Now he could see Marcelle in the garden with a basket on her arm which she was filling with late summer blooms. The basket was a blaze of colour contrasting wonderfully with the white cap and apron she wore over her pale blue dress. As she came forward shyly to greet him, he thought how very bonny she looked. She seemed to have filled out and there was a serene look on her face which suited her to perfection. He kissed the hand she offered and together they walked to a seat under the drooping willow tree, the most sheltered spot in the garden.

  ‘My, ’tis fine to see you looking so bonny,’ Thomas squeezed Marcelle’s hand and admired the chestnut glint in her hair, the aquiline nose and the thickness of her lashes. All the while Marcelle modestly kept her eyes averted from him.

  ‘Many things have changed since we last met Marcelle, and I have so much to say to you.’

  Still Marcelle made no reply; she just picked petals in an absent-minded way off the flowers in the basket.

  Thomas decided to get it over with and took a deep breath. Soon the garden would no longer be empty. He slipped to the ground on one knee, and took one of her small hands in his. ‘Will you marry me, my dear? I have loved you since I found you almost a year since. Please tell me that you will.’

  Hot tears ran down Marcelle’s cheeks as she pulled her hand away and held it to her face.

  ‘Don’t cry, my love,’ said Thomas. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of. If you do not love me I will go away and not bother you again but don’t you want to marry me?’ he asked. He was indeed surprised by her reaction to his question.

  ‘Oh, I do!’ cried Marcelle fervently, ‘and it breaks my heart to have to refuse you,’ she sobbed.

  ‘There is no need to worry,’ replied Thomas patiently. ‘I will wait for your answer until I come back from sea. I will never marry anyone else, my dear, I can assure you. Only you, Marcelle, will bend this old bachelor to domesticity.’ He smiled as if to console her.

  Marcelle took her hands from her face and he dried her tears. But she had an intense look in her eyes as she spoke. ‘I betrayed you, Thomas’, she whispered. �
��I took a lover and now I bear his child in my womb.’

  Thomas felt as if he had been struck. He got to his feet, reeling slightly, and gripped her by the shouders so tightly that his fingers dug into her flesh. ‘What nonsense is this, child?’ he demanded harshly.

  ‘It is true! It is true!’ Marcelle’s sobs rang out across the garden as she broke from his hold and ran up the path.

  Thomas watched her retreating figure in a daze. He knew that Marcelle was an emotional and highly strung girl but whatever had possessed her to say a thing like that? It was impossible, right here in the heart of the countryside with Annabelle as such a good chaperone. No, he did not believe what she had said, it was sheer nonsense, a shock reaction to his proposal, no doubt. He had better talk to Annabelle, he told himself.

  Annabelle had watched this garden drama from behind the parlour window, and now she waited white-lipped and nervous for Thomas’ knock on the door. What could she say? Was he to be trusted? Her mind was in a whirl. She would have to tell him the truth; he would never be content till he knew it. ‘Oh God protect us,’ she whispered.

  There was a gentle tap on her door and Thomas entered, hat in hand. His dark eyes looked perplexed and his mouth set in that downward curve that had earned him the name of Dour Thomas. Annabelle was usually delighted to have any visit from Thomas but today she was nervous because she knew that he was furious. Her white hand hovered shakily over the silver tray as she poured wine into two crystal goblets and handed him one.

  Once the ritual of hospitality was over, she sat silently in her chair waiting for him to begin the conversation.

  He was certainly abrupt. ‘It would probably be no surprise to you, Madam, that I wish to marry Marcelle.’

  ‘It’s as I expected,’ Annabelle replied. ‘And she has refused you.’

  ‘But she tells me an impossible story, insisting that she has had a lover and is with child.’ He half smiled as he repeated the story. He felt reassured, for it was all so improbable.

  Annabelle clutched her hands nervously in her lap. ‘I regret to tell you, Thomas, that it is quite true.’

  He stared disbelievingly at her. ‘You mean that someone has tampered with that young girl?’ He rose, the veins in his forehead showed thick as the blood rose to his head. ‘What soundrel did that?’ he shouted. ‘And whatever possessed you to allow it, Annabelle, while she was in your care?’

  Annabelle stood up to calm him. ‘Please, Thomas, listen to me,’ she pleaded. ‘I am at my wit’s ends, it is such a strange story.’

  Thomas’ dark eyes glowed with temper as he sat listening to Annabelle’s tale of her late-night guests, and of how she had recognized the prince and of how, without her knowledge, Marcelle had tried to help the prince and taken him back to his bed. That, she told him, must have been the time when this dreadful fate had befallen her.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Thomas held his hands to his head until Annabelle had come to the end of her story. ‘They will crucify her, poor little Marcelle,’ he burst out. ‘Annabelle, swear to me that no one else knows the identity of her lover, not even Marcelle, I hope.’

  ‘She does not know,’ confirmed Annabelle. ‘He left here without even a farewell wave in the early morning.’

  Thomas stood up and then began to pace the room. ‘Are you sure that the secret will remain with us?’

  Annabelle immediately remembered Frances and hesitated. Thomas’ dark eyes bore down on her but she remained calm.

  ‘No one knows but us,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘Not even Abe.’

  ‘Good! Then your next duty is to persuade Marcelle to marry me.’

  ‘But Thomas,’ Annabelle protested. ‘Would you deliberately cuckold thyself?’ Her mouth dropped open, she was well and truly shocked.

  ‘I would go to any lengths to protect that girl,’ he replied. ‘You know the fate of an unwedded woman who tries to take care of a child in this part of the country.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Annabelle whispered, ‘and a house of correction would kill her, poor child.’

  ‘Well, do be sensible, Annabelle. Tell her that today I will go and set up the banns and in three Sundays we will be wed. In that way she will have the protection of my name and even if I do not return from this voyage, whatever I possess will then be hers.’

  Annabelle was wiping away her tears. ‘You are a great man, Thomas Mayhew,’ she cried. ‘There are very few who would be as noble and as generous as you in these circumstances.’

  ‘Never mind,’ he said curtly. ‘Talk to the child. I’ll wait downstairs for an answer.’

  Annabelle departed upstairs to Marcelle’s room, where she talked to her of the forthcoming baby, of how if it were to be born out of wedlock the stigma would last all its life, and how Thomas would give her and the baby protection if she married him. ‘Please, darling. Thomas loves you and wants to look after you,’ begged Annabelle.

  Marcelle was a soft gentle person but weak and easily swayed. In no time she had consented.

  When the women returned downstairs to Thomas, Marcelle placed her hand in his and said: ‘I am sorry, dear Thomas, for what I have done, but if you take care of my baby I will be a good and devoted wife to you, this I promise with all my heart.’

  There was a lump in Thomas’ throat as he put his arms protectingly about her. ‘I will go to the New World and make a peaceful happy place for us and the child out there. But first of all I will return in three weeks, when we will be wed.’

  ‘Farewell, my love,’ he said, as he rode away.

  The date for the wedding had been fixed. It was to be kept a secret, though in a small village it was not easy to do that.

  The priest always gossiped with his parishioners about the births, deaths and marriages in his area and besides, Annabelle owned a fair-sized property and she was obliged to include her servants in the festivities. In no time, word was sent around the village that a wedding was to take place at Craig Alva in a couple of weeks. The maids retrimmed their best dresses, the Morris dancers rehearsed every day, and the old folk of the village eagerly looked forward to the extra food and drink.

  Marcelle continued with her work taking little or no interest in all the preparations for her wedding, and Annabelle became quite impatient with her. After all, getting married was to be the girl’s highest honour.

  Only Abe showed kindness and came to see Marcelle with cool drinks after her bouts of early morning sickness. Thomas had sent her a pretty green gown to be married in, and Will, who had brought the gown from London, was full of good humour, for he was to join the King’s Players.

  Will had brought with him a friend, an actor and a fine musician named Ned. Ned had a strange-looking head, and his hair seemed to start way back from his forehead, but he had a pleasant, soft-speaking voice and was a restful sort of young man. At night they all sat around the fire in the inn while Ned read parts from the various plays he had acted in.

  Soon the big day arrived. It was a clear, cool crisp October day and there was a light layer of frost on the rooftops which foretold the coming of winter. Marcelle looked from her bedroom window to the garden below. A late yellow rose bloomed still on an isolated bush, and she surveyed it with affection for she had grown very fond of Annabelle’s garden. She had had strange dreams in the night. She had heard that young man sobbing again but this time so loud that she had gone to the dark, unlit guest chamber, and it almost seemed as though the slim, red-haired young man held out his arms to her. She grew afraid and, shivering and sweating, she ran back to her room. Perhaps it was the devil whom Annabelle had suggested had seduced her.

  That same morning, in his lodgings, Thomas dressed for his wedding. The finished product certainly looked very dandy. He had discarded his messenger’s uniform and replaced it with his best brown velvet knee-length coat with a smart white collar and slightly lighter tight pantaloons. He brushed his hair and trimmed his beard, while all the time receiving wry comments from his two very dissolute room-mates who had had a very la
te night.

  ‘My, Thomas, do not tell us that you have at last found a lady to please you?’ One mocked. ‘I was beginning to think that a gentleman would be his choice.’ They nudged each other and went into fits of giggles like young girls.

  Thomas, however, only scowled at them and continued with his toilet.

  ‘So you have left dear Robert,’ said one. ‘I heard news that will surprise you.’

  But Thomas paid no heed to their gossip.

  ‘They do say his Royal Highness is very ill. He collapsed at a tennis match yesterday.’

  This time Thomas stopped what he was doing and looked round at the youth who had spoken. He was lounging on the bed. This rumour had been around before, Thomas thought, and then pulling impatiently at his shirt cuffs, he swore out loud.

  His friends looked at each other, for it was not like Thomas to be foul-mouthed.

  Then in an even louder voice, Thomas said: ‘Curse him! I hope he dies. And curses on the whole damned lot of them – old Jamie as well.’

  The youths were too shocked even to answer.

  Picking up his bag, Thomas said; ‘The rent is paid till the end of the year. I will not be back and you two bastards can take the quickest road to hell as soon as you like.’ The door slammed and Dour Thomas had left.

  ‘God,’ said one to the other, ‘what is wrong? Maybe he got a dose of something.’

  ‘It’s just pre-nuptial nerves, I fear,’ said the other.

  Thomas made his way to the Temple, where he handed to his friend expert in legal affairs a file containing his will and advice on the family property he was likely to inherit in Dorset.

  The white-haired lawyer shook hands with Thomas and wished him Godspeed. Thomas then went to the stables, collected his horses and set off for his own wedding which was to be at three o’clock that afternoon.

  The little church was bright and gay with flowers and the parson in his new cassock peered short-sightedly at Marcelle and Thomas Mayhew as he joined them in holy matrimony. Indeed, he thought they were an unusual couple, and both seemed rather unhappy. But the parson knew that in these troubled times one did not ask too many questions. He himself was still a Baptist at heart and glanced furtively to one side as the bride, at the end of the ceremony, made the sign of the cross. The young maid did look very sweet, he thought, in a green dress with large slashed sleeves which revealed glimpses of yellow satin to match the handmade flowers on her little cap.