LITMIR.BIZ

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his people, Charles Lackland no longer.

      It was the twenty-ninth of May, 1660, King Charles’s thirtieth birthday, and the whole of London, gripped with excitement, was rejoicing. The Strand was lined with people who paraded bearing effigies of Charles Stuart adorned with flowers. There were street sellers doing a good trade and thieves looking for rich pickings. The crowd chanted, ‘Long live the King!’, and in taverns pot boys sped backwards and forwards with tankards foaming with ale. Cannons fired from the Tower announced that the King had crossed London Bridge and a cacophony of bells being rung in every church steeple were a joy to hear. The sky was cloudless and the sun gilded the lattice windows of the Willoughby household.

      It was a large house and was filled with friends and neighbours all celebrating together, all eager to see the sights from the balcony that overlooked the Strand. Happy children managed to get under everyone’s feet and Richard, testy and often bad-tempered, having resigned himself to the King’s return, was conversing with a group of gentlemen, his head with its black steeple hat bobbing as he showed interest in a consignment of printed calico from India.

      Trembling with excitement and eager to welcome the King along with everyone else, aware that this day was too important to be missed, Arlette stood at an open window and looked down upon the parade. For this momentous occasion she had donned her finest buttercup-yellow gown with a tight, pointed bodice, round neckline trimmed with fine lace, full elbow-length sleeves also trimmed with lace, and a sweeping skirt. She wore her honey-gold hair loose with pretty clips at the sides to hold it from her face and secure the sprigs of May blossom she had picked earlier.

      Her heart was throbbing a heavy beat when the King, preceded by heralds blowing long slender trumpets, came into view. He was flanked by his two brothers. All three were attired in silver doublets. They were followed by the Lord Mayor and the Aldermen of the City adorned in scarlet gowns and gold chains. Then came the King’s loyal cavaliers. Not for these gentlemen who rode into London along roads strewn with sweet-smelling flowers and herbs the drab garb of the Puritans. These handsome gentlemen who came with the King presented a vibrant, colourful spectacle: scarlets and gold braid, bright blue and green doublets, flowing locks and flamboyant cavalier hats with an array of dancing plumes and cascading lace at their throats and wrists.

      They laughed and waved atop prancing horses, catching flowers that were thrown from happy children and besotted maids in low-cut gowns lining the route, pressing forward the better to see. Yet in the eyes of these cavaliers there was a hunger, a world weariness, a resolve never to be poor again. Ten years they had waited for this, ten years in exile in a foreign country, where to relieve the boredom many had turned to debauchery—a legacy they brought with them on this day of Charles Stuart’s restoration.

      Along with everyone else Arlette laughed and waved as the parade, which seemed never ending, passed by. She scanned every face, wishing with all her heart that her brother Thomas was here to share this time and not in bondage on Barbados. Her gaze was drawn to one gentleman in particular: a gentleman whose face was partly shielded by the brim of his wide hat. He smiled broadly, his teeth dazzling in a face so handsome she couldn’t resist taking a flower from Anne and tossing it in his direction. He laughed, catching it in his gloved hands, looking up to see who had tossed it, inclining his head in the briefest of bows.

      At just turned twenty-two, Arlette had the beautiful, fine bone structure as her mother, the mother she could not remember, and the admiration in this cavalier’s eyes as they passed over her made her catch her breath. All her senses came alive. They stared at one another across the distance and the rapport, the communication between them was tangible. Suddenly a familiarity sprang between them, shooting from one to the other like a spark of lightning. That was the moment Arlette recognised her cavalier of old, the man who had brought her to safety before leaving for France. It was William Latham—out of sight for nine years, but forever in her thoughts. She told herself that she had clung to him as she would any protector or friend, that he had been her means of getting to London and Hester, but her heart had broken in two when he had left her. Even after all this time her memory of him and that short time they had been together had not dimmed. And now he was here. He had come back.

      She saw his eyes widen as a slow realisation of who she really was made its way from memory. Pushed along by those coming up behind him he was soon past the house, but not yet out of sight. He looked back at her, craning his neck when others blocked his sight. Unable to stop herself, Arlette turned and ran down the stairs and into the wide hall, which gleamed like a mirror and smelled of lemon polish. Hester was walking by carrying a tray of food in preparation for the celebrations later. On this occasion Arlette took no notice of her when she told her not to leave the house. She had an urgent need which took her on to the street.

      Pushing her way through the throng, she didn’t stop until she was close to William. Hampered in every direction, he managed to steer his horse towards her. Not until he was close did he dismount, careful not to let go of the reins lest his horse got carried away. Suddenly a muscular youth in snug breeches and coarse linen shirt reeled towards her. He had broad, peasant features and untidy brown hair, and Arlette didn’t like what she saw in those bloodshot eyes. His wide lips curled into a leering grin as he lurched in front of her and dragged her into a shop doorway.

      ‘What’s a lovely girl like you doin’ out on her own? Lookin’ for company, love?’

      ‘Let go of me,’ she demanded coldly, trying to pull away from him as his heavy body weaved in front of her. ‘You’re drunk.’

      ‘The whole of London’s drunk today. Come now, have a drink with me—and afterwards, well, we’ll see.’

      ‘You’re disgusting. Let me pass.’

      ‘Not so fast, little lady,’ he growled as she tried to push past him.

      ‘I believe you’re bothering the lady,’ a dry voice said.

      It came from behind Arlette. A strong hand grasped her arm and pulled her away. William Latham stood between her and her assailant, tall and absolutely nonchalant. The youth flushed, glaring at the intruder. William Latham stood in a lazy slouch, his arms by his sides. There was nothing intimidating in his manner, but the youth hesitated just the same, clearly uneasy.

      ‘This is none of your affair,’ he grumbled belligerently.

      ‘I’m making it my affair,’ William drawled. ‘Now on your way before I make you regret bothering the young lady.’

      His voice was lethargic, totally devoid of menace, yet the youth turned pale. Stumbling back a step and almost falling, he muttered something unintelligible and then turned and went on his way as fast as his wobbly legs would allow, disappearing into the crowd.

      ‘Thank you,’ Arlette uttered. ‘He was drunk.’

      ‘And I appeared just in time.’

      ‘I’m happy to see you have survived the troubles,’ she breathed, her eyes shining with happiness as they looked into his.

      He caught hold of her arm and drew her into the recess of the shop doorway. At the same moment their gazes met and Arlette’s heart gave an unexpected flutter. She couldn’t believe he was here. William did not move. His repressed admiration was almost tangible in his stillness. His eyes burned into hers. His hand holding her arm seemed to pulsate with life, sending shock waves through Arlette. Her lips parted and she moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

      An inexplicable, lazy smile swept over his face as he looked at her and held out his hand. ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ he said quietly.

      Arlette had the impression that he actually liked what he saw. Automatically she gave him her hand, thinking he would simply take it in his, but he covered it with both of his and kept it. His eyes were warm with admiration as they looked straight into hers.

      ‘Arlette! I cannot believe it is you—here.’ Raising her hand, he pressed his lips to her fingers.

      She slanted him a smile. ‘Do you make a habit of kissing the hand of every lady you meet?’

      William laughed. ‘The devil I don’t.

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