Mistress of Dartington Hall: Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour.

Excerpt:

West Country Society

Christmas 1594, Somerset

My feet felt like blocks of solid ice as I sat in the country church where Thomas’s sister Jane stood beside her new husband. Bishop John Still, a portly man, looked resplendent in his robes of office. I imagined that he must be wearing plenty of layers to keep warm. As for his bride, she wore a sumptuous gown of scarlet silk trimmed with fur. She gave a brave smile, though she suppressed a shiver, her breath a fine mist hanging like a cloud around her. At last, the ceremony over, the happy couple led the way, stepping out briskly over the uneven floor. In the quaint church of St. Mary at Ston Easton, the pews were packed with people, yet the biting cold air seemed to seep right through my heavy clothes, making me shiver. It was a relief to follow the crowd and make our way along the gravel path, our footsteps sounding loud in the still wintry air.

Carriages waited to whisk us to the Manor House, the home of Jane and Thomas’s sister Dorothy. The smell of roasting meat met us at the door, beckoning me towards a blazing fire, where I hoped to thaw my frozen toes. Tantalising aromas wafted from the kitchens, promising warm food and comfort. But, despite the cosy atmosphere, I perched on the edge of the richly upholstered seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs beneath my skirts. Conscious I was about to meet Thomas’s family and all the high-born people of Somerset, I smoothed my velvet gown and scanned the room. As the moment approached, I felt an anxious trickle of sweat run down the back of my neck.

I waited for Thomas to bring me a warming cup of wine, toes tingling as the warmth found its way to my feet. As I sat by the fire, a towering and portly figure loomed over me. Stern eyes bore into me from a pallid face dominated by a prominent hooked nose. Despite his ashen cheeks and upright bearing, his expansive girth made me wonder if this giant of a man might be overfond of good living.

‘Lady Montgomery, I believe?’

‘Indeed, and you are?’ I asked without rising from my seat.

‘My name is John Popham. I believe you know my daughter, Elizabeth?’ Flustered, I hastened to rise and make my curtsey. Richard Champernowne’s famous father-in-law, the Chief Justice of the Queen’s Bench, a man said to deliver harsh judgements, studied me. I held his eyes, willing myself not to flinch from his searching gaze. I’d heard that neither recusants nor felons could expect quarter from Judge Popham.

‘Yes, sir, I know her well,’ I said, noticing a family resemblance. Elizabeth Champernowne’s pinched mouth was very like her father’s.

‘Going to marry Horner, I hear? He was wed to my daughter Amy. She’s gone to her grave now. Gave him plenty of sons, but I suppose a man needs a wife. You’re Montgomery’s daughter, aren’t you? How does your family fare in France? Got their lands back from the Catholics, have they?’ He rapped the questions out at me as fast as an archer looses arrows at the target. Before I had time to reply, a matronly woman took my arm. Dressed from head to foot in opulent fur-trimmed velvet, she was an imposing sight, with her steel-grey hair peeping from beneath a dark hood. Jewels caught the light as she turned to the judge. A warm smile spread across her round face, right up to her blue eyes. As I saw the warmth in those bright eyes, crinkling with mirth, I felt the tension leave me.

‘Leave the girl be, John Popham,’ she said, giving him a shove. ‘I’m Amy, married to this one, for my sins. Now come, let me introduce you. We’ve heard all about you. It’s terrible how they’ve persecuted you Huguenots over in France. My John will make sure we don’t allow any Catholics to hold sway here in Somerset. Have no fear of that.’

‘It’s true, my family has suffered in the wars that have divided my homeland for so long.’ Encouraged by her smile I went on. ‘Our fiercest enemies, the Catholic house of Guise, fought in the name of religion, though it was the quest for power that drove them on.’ For a moment I thought I had annoyed Judge Popham. But his thin lips stretched into a smile.

’Ah, I see you are a sensible woman. Wars are always a struggle for power,’ he said with a sage nod of his balding head.

‘I left my people in Devon in fear of another attack from the Spanish,’ I said.

‘That’s why we need to keep the Jesuits out.’ His eyes, keen as a hawk’s, never left my face. I could understand how those who came before him accused of some crime might wilt under such intense scrutiny.

‘Well, sir, I hope that will never lead to such divisions as we’ve seen in France. For my family’s sake, I hope Henri of France’s more pragmatic approach will secure lasting peace.’ That set off a long diatribe from the judge about the Jesuits, Spanish spies, and the dangers of compromise. The broadside of words left me no time to respond.

Amy Popham intervened, taking my arm to whirl me round the assembled gentry of Somerset.