Jane Feather - The Hostage Bride

London, May 11, 1641

Phoebe swiped one hand across her eyes as she felt for her handkerchief with the other. The handkerchief was nowhere to be found, but that didnt surprise her. Shed lost more handkerchiefs in her thirteen years than shed had hot dinners. With a vigorous and efficacious sniff, she crept around the hedge of clipped laurel out of sight of the clacking, laughing crowd of wedding guests. The high-pitched cacophony of their merrymaking mingled oddly with the persistent, raucous screams of a mob in full cry gusting across the river from Tower Hill.

She glanced over her shoulder at the graceful half-timbered house that was her home. It stood on a slight rise on the south bank of the river Thames, commanding a view over London and the surrounding countryside. Windows winked in the afternoon sunlight and she could hear the plaintive plucking of a harp persistent beneath the surge and ebb of the party.

No one was looking for her. Why should they? She was of no interest to anyone. Diana had banished her from her presence after the accident. Phoebe cringed at the memory. She could never understand how it happened that her body seemed to get away from her, to have a life of its own, creating a wake of chaos and destruction that followed her wherever she went.

But she was safe for a while. Her step quickened as she made for the old boathouse, her own private sanctuary. When her father had moved the mansions water gate so that it faced the water steps at Wapping, the old boathouse had fallen into disrepair. Now it nestled in a tangle of tall reeds at the waters edge, its roof sagging, its timbers bared to the bone by the damp salt air and the wind.

But it was the one place where Phoebe could lick her wounds in private. She wasnt sure whether anyone else in the household knew it still existed, but as she approached she saw that the door was not firmly closed.

Her first reaction was anger. Someone had been trespassing in the one place she could call her own. Her second was a swift pattering of fear. The world was full of beasts, both human and animal, and anyone could have penetrated this clearly deserted structure. Anyone or anything could be lying in wait within. She hesitated, staring at the dark crack between door and frame, almost as if the tiny crack could open to reveal the dim, dusty interior for her from a safe distance. Then her anger reasserted itself. The boathouse belonged to her. And if anyone was in there, she would send them off.

She turned into the rushes, looking for a thick piece of driftwood, and found an old spar, rusty nails sticking out in a most satisfactory fashion. Thus armed, she approached the boathouse, her heart still pattering, but her face set. She kicked the door open, flooding the dark mildewed corners with light.

Who are you? she demanded of the occupant, who, startled, blinked but didnt move from her perch on a rickety three-legged stool by the unglazed window where the light fell on the page of her book.

Phoebe entered the shed, dropping her weapon. Oh, she said. I know who you are. Youre Lord Granvilles daughter. What are you doing here? Why arent you at the wedding? I thought you were supposed to carry my sisters train.

The dark-haired girl carefully closed her book over her finger. Yes, Im Olivia, she said after a minute. And I d-d-didnt want to b-be in the wedding. My father said I d-didnt have to b-be if I d-didnt want to. She let out a slow breath at the end of this little speech, which had clearly cost her some effort.

Phoebe looked at the girl curiously. She was younger than Phoebe, although she was as tall, and enviably slim to the eyes of one who constantly lamented her own intractable roundness. This is my special place, Phoebe said, but without rancor, sitting on a fallen beam and drawing a wrapped packet from her pocket. And I dont blame you for not wanting to be in the wedding. I was supposed to attend my sister, but I knocked over the perfume bottle and then trod on Dianas flounce.

She unwrapped the packet, taking a bite of the gingerbread it contained before holding out the offering to Olivia, who shook her head.

Diana cursed me up hill and down dale and said she never wanted to lay eyes on me again, Phoebe continued. Which she probably wont, since shes going to be in Yorkshire, miles and miles away from here. And I have to say, if I never lay eyes on her again, I wont be sorry. She looked defiantly upward as if braving heavenly wrath with such an undutiful statement.

I d-dont like her, Olivia confided.

I wouldnt like her for a stepmother either Shell be absolutely horrible! Oh, Im sorry. I always say the wrong thing, Phoebe exclaimed crossly. I always say whatever comes into my head.

Its the t-truth, anyway, the other girl muttered. She opened up her book again and began to read.

Phoebe frowned. Her stepniece, as she supposed she now was, was not the friendliest of creatures. Do you always stammer?

Olivia blushed crimson. I c-c-cant help it.

No, of course you cant, Phoebe said hastily. I was just curious. In the absence of a response from her companion, she moved on to the second piece of gingerbread, idly brushing at a collection of tiny grease spots that seemed to have gathered upon her pink silk gown. A gown specially made for her sisters wedding. It was supposed to complement Dianas pearl-encrusted ivory damask, but somehow on Phoebe the effect didnt quite work, as Diana had pointed out with her usual asperity.

There was a sudden whirlwind rush from the door that banged shut, enclosing the girls in semi-darkness again. Gods bones, but if this isnt the peskiest wedding! a voice declared vigorously. The newcomer leaned against the closed door. She was breathing fast and dashed a hand across her brow to wipe away the dew of perspiration. Her bright green eyes fell upon the boathouses other occupants.

I didnt think anyone knew this place was here. I slept here last night. It was the only way I could get away from those pawing beasts. And now theyre at it again. I came here for some peace and quiet.

Its my special place, Phoebe said, standing up. And youre trespassing. The newcomer didnt look in the least like a wedding guest. Her hair was a tangled mass of bright red curls that didnt look as if it had seen a brush in a month. Her face looked dirty in the gloom, although it was hard to tell among the freckles what was dirt and what wasnt. Her dress was made of dull coarse holland, the hem dipping in the middle, the perfunctory ruffles on the sleeves torn and grubby.

Oho, no Im not, the girl crowed, perching on the upturned holey hull of an abandoned rowboat. Im invited to the wedding. Or at least, she added with scrupulous honesty, my father is. And where Jack goes, I go. No choice.

I know who you are. Olivia looked up from her book for the first time since the girl had burst in upon them. Youre my fathers half b-brothers natural child.

Portia, the girl said cheerfully. Jack Worths bastard. And so you must be Olivia. Jack was talking about you. And I suppose, if you live here, youre the brides sister. Phoebe, isnt it?

Phoebe sat down again. You seem to know a great deal about us.

Portia shrugged. I keep my ears open and my eyes. Close either one of em for half a second and the devilsll get you.

What devils?

Men, Portia declared. You wouldnt think it to look at me, would you? She chuckled. Scrawny as a scarecrow. But theyll take anything they can get so long as its free.

I loathe men! The fierce and perfectly clear statement came from Olivia.

Me too, Portia agreed, then added with all the loftiness of her fourteen years, But youre a little young, duckie, to have made such a decision. How old are you?