‘Are you all right?’
She nodded and curled up to sleep.
‘What was all that?’
‘Did you not like it, sir?’ she murmured. ‘It’s called world upside down.’
It was a well-worn phrase describing the chaos after the war, vividly illustrated in a pamphlet by a man wearing his britches on his head and his boots on his hands. Now it seemed to have entered the bedroom.
‘World – world –? Who on earth told you that?’
‘Lucy.’
I was outraged. ‘You talk about our love-making with that woman?’
Lucy Hay, the Countess of Carlisle, had been the mistress of John Pym, leader of the opposition to the King. Since he had died, there had been great speculation about who was now sharing her bed.
Anne sat up, fully awake, her gown half off. Her belly was slacker, her breasts full, but her neck was thinner, her cheeks pinched. ‘We talk about how a woman should keep a man when she has just had a child. About what to do when – when it is difficult to, to make love … That’s all.’
‘All!’
She hid her face on my neck and I held her to me. I could feel her heart pounding. ‘We should wait,’ I said half-heartedly. ‘You know what the doctor –’
She pulled away. ‘Wait? I want another child in my belly before you go off again!’
She spoke so loudly and ferociously I clamped my hand over her mouth. There was silence for a moment, then a cry from Liz, broken off by a stuttering cough.
‘I will not be going away again.’
‘You will. I know.’
Liz gave a long, piercing wail. ‘She’s hungry. Could you not go to her?’
‘Women who are in milk can’t conceive. The wet-nurse fed her. Don’t you want another child?’
‘Yes, but when you are well.’
‘I am well.’
I put my hand over her mouth again as footsteps stumbled past the door. I listened to Jane’s soothing, sleepy voice, the clink of a spoon against a pot of some syrup, until the coughing eventually ceased. Anne ran her finger gently down my nose and along my lips. She dropped her gaze demurely. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I will not do that again, sir, if it displeases you.’
I swallowed. I could not get out of my head the vision of her being above me and began to be aroused again. She laughed out loud at my expression. ‘You’re like a small boy who’s just been told he can’t have a pie!’ As I moved to her, she stopped me with a raised finger. ‘Wait, wait, wait! Promise me you are Thomas Stonehouse, and not that stupid Tom Neave.’
I put on my deepest gentleman’s voice. I enjoyed being a gentleman when it was a game. ‘I am Thomas Stonehouse –’
‘I mean it!’ She clenched her fists. ‘Why do you put on that stupid voice? Why do you quarrel with Lord Stonehouse? You can get on with him so well when you want to!’
‘When I do what he wants.’
‘Please, Tom!’
‘All right.’
‘Promise? Promise you will not quarrel with him when he gets back from Newcastle.’
‘I promise.’
‘Touch the bed.’
When we were children we made solemn vows by touching the apple tree. Now we touched our marriage bed. Being a great lady was as much a game for her as being a gentleman was for me. But for her it was a deadly serious game. I looked at her knotted hands, her earnest, determined face, even lovelier in its fragile, faded pallor. I felt a deep, swelling surge of love for her. Being a gentleman at that moment seemed a most desirable thing to be. No more fighting. Sleeping in my own bed. Or hers. I touched the bed-head.
‘I promise.’
When the letter arrived next morning it felt like too much of a coincidence. I could not believe she had not known, before coming to my room, that Lord Stonehouse was on his way back. But she looked so shocked that I could ever think she would dissemble like that, and said it so charmingly, and was so full of excitement, and fussed so much over my linen and over a button on my blue velvet suit – in short, it was so much as if we had just been married all over again that I was completely disarmed and able to read the letter, if not with equanimity, with more composure than otherwise. Lord Stonehouse, as frugal with words as he was with money, presented his compliments and would appreciate me calling at Queen Street at noon sharp.
Only in Queen Street, from where Lord Stonehouse ran the Committee of Acquisition and Intelligence, was it business as usual. The title was a euphemism for plunder, but since everything had been plundered, spying had become its main occupation. Lord Stonehouse looked much the same, although there were more medicines on his desk along with the wine he habitually drank while signing papers. The fire burned brightly; there was never any shortage of coal in Queen Street.
He did not ask me to sit, but waved me to the same spot on the carpet where I had stood as a bastard apprentice, long before he had declared me his heir. He wasted no time on preliminaries. I had been sent to that part of Essex to improve relations. They were now at their worst since the end of the war. I had made a most dangerous enemy in Challoner. Why had I not let him hang the wretch?
I winced inwardly, seeing again that raw, bleeding flesh. But I said nothing, determined to keep my promise to Anne. It was the price I paid for the house she loved, for the children, for my fine bucket boots, the fall of my exquisite lace collar, and the thought of more nights in a world upside down. I came out of my reverie as he brought his fist down on the desk.
‘Lost your voice? That’s new. That’s something, at least! You have lost that part of Essex to us as well.’ He banged his fist on a bundle of papers. ‘Nothing but petitions from the people there. Disband the army. Cromwell’s only bargaining point. Holles will do it. His Presbyterians are in control of Parliament. Or have you become such a fool you do not realise that?’
I hung my head, murmuring that I did. Denzil Holles, who led the Presbyterians in Parliament, hated Cromwell. He had sued for peace during the war, eager to reach a settlement with the King at almost any price.
‘Not only do you not hand the thief over to justice, he’s now deserted!’
He was flinging the Essex petitions into a tray as I came out of my torpor.
‘Scogman?’
‘What?’
‘He’s alive?’
‘Of course the wretch is alive. Very much alive, unfortunately. Why do you think I’ve sent for you?’
Lord Stonehouse pulled out a pamphlet from the jumble of petitions, and flung it at me. It had a neat play on the New Model Army in its headline, which I had to admire: New Model Thieves Let Robber Escape. The pamphleteer had had a field day. In his lurid prose, Scogman became the most wanted man in Essex, the silver spoon a priceless collection of plate. A woodblock depicted him with one tooth and a devil’s tail.
Scogman alive! I felt a lift of spirits that no lace collar could give me. The most wanted man in Essex! I could not keep a