We were all supposed to be ecstatic about Mary's marriage to Prince Philip of Spain, and the other ladies were, but my joy was merely a sham. I had never realised what a good actress I was.
When the Queen announced her intention to marry, Richard decided it was time for him to pay a visit to his wife.
"I want to go home for a few days," he told me. "I am expecting a few rebellions over this marriage and I want to see my wife, just in case something happens to me."
His words sent a chill of apprehension through me, but we set out, me for my own house, him for Suffolk. I knew she would be delighted to see him, even though he had not told her he was coming, and that pleased me.
Keeping up the pretence was hard, but no harder than having to share chambers with Richard. The servants had to see that we shared a bed and although I trusted him completely to keep to his own side, for him it was very difficult.
He slept on the trundle bed which disappeared beneath the main one during the day. He ordered that the servants were not to come into our suite until summoned, so they would not start to gossip about the handsome Lord Summerville and his beautiful wife who did not share a bed.
"I hate to see you sleeping on that thing," I told him one night when he pulled the trundle bed out in preparation for his night's sleep. "Why not come in here. It is much more comfortable and I trust you completely to stay on your own side."
He stood and looked at me and a little sparkle danced in his eyes.
"You may trust me, Rachel," he said, "but I cannot share your confidence in me. I do not think, given such close proximity, I would trust myself."
***
When a letter came from his cousin telling him that Bethany knew about me, that he had been forced to tell her, I believed that would make him return home and explain. I even had my clothes packed, ready to keep up the pretence of going to Summerville, when in reality I would be deposited at my own house in Finsbury along the way. But I was wrong.
"You have to explain now, Richard," I told him. "Do you not see that? What must she be thinking?"
"She will be thinking that I love someone else, that I am keeping that someone else at court in her place because I am in love with her."
"Precisely. You have to tell her the truth."
"No. If I do that, she will have to know the real truth. Are you prepared for that?"
My secrets, my private pain was what he spoke of.
"If that is what it takes," I replied doubtfully.
He smiled, then took my hand.
"No, you do not want that. It is better this way."
"How can it be better? How can it be better for her to be unhappy?"
"I am very much afraid that if I tell her, she will not believe me. She will be even more unhappy, thinking that I have not only betrayed her but have lied to her as well. I will think on it, decide what is the best way to handle things."
"That is of less importance than that she knows you are not risking everything for my sake. Even if she believes we are lovers, she must be made to see that you do this for her."
"As I said, I will think on it. It may be better if she thinks I am unfaithful; she will think less of me and that cannot be a bad thing."
"No? I cannot think of a worse thing." I marched toward the door, intending to leave him to make a sensible decision. "You are a fool, Richard. I have no patience with you."
***
Try as I might, I could not convince him to go home and tell his wife the truth, even if he did have to tell her my secret. I had never realised before just how determined he could be once he had made up his mind, but I could not understand why he would think it a good thing to drive away the woman he loved.
Then one day we had been driving in the park and there was a dispatch from the prison on our return, listing the names of the executed for that day. I know he hated being entrusted with these lists, that each day they got longer, but he had a pretence to keep up as well. This day he sank down into the chair with an exclamation of dismay.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Bethany's sister is on this list," he told me soberly. "She will blame me."
"Why should she blame you? Did you arrest her? Did you condemn her?"
"She ran away because of me," he said quietly. When I looked puzzled he went on. "Do you remember that day when you saw her in my house?"
"Of course," I replied, wondering where this was leading. "It was the day you told me you planned to make a proposal to her sister. I remember scolding you about it."
"Well, it seems it was not simply a casual afternoon of passion after all. I have a son, Rachel," he said quietly. "I saw him a few weeks ago when I was watching some heretics. I thought I had saved her; I sent a warning, but it seems they did not listen. I did not know before that why she had run away, but now it all makes sense." He looked so sad I wanted to reach out to him, but something told me he would not welcome it. "Yes, she will blame me."
"But Bethany does not know why she ran away, does she?"
"She does. She went to find her; that is why Anthony had to tell her about you, because she was determined to come to court and confront me with it."
That is when I got angry with him again. Why could he not see what damage he was causing?
"There is only one way to find out," I said. "Are you going home, to tell her about her sister?"
"No," he answered. "If she has not heard, let her have the comfort of not knowing."
Perhaps if he had taken the time to go and tell her in person, to comfort her as a husband should, none of what followed would ever have happened. Who knows?
"Are you not even going home to your wife at Christmas, Richard?" I pleaded. "You have not seen her or your daughter for many months. You are missing so much of her life."
"I think it would be better for Bethany if I kept my distance, just for now."
"What? Why?"
"I feel it would be better for her. She believes I have a mistress here at court, she will only resent my intrusion into her life."
"Rubbish!"
"Please, Rachel," he said softly, "let me do this my own way. The more you and I leave court on family trips, the more likelihood there is of someone finding out about us. Then where will any of us be?"
But he was unhappy, desperately unhappy with the whole situation and that tore at my heart. Now he did not even have the dalliances that he had had with Rosemary, for the whole palace believed his wife to be here at his side. He could have found company, but he made no attempt to and I thought I knew why.
It was almost a year before he wanted to make the trip.
"Can we go tomorrow, just for a day or two," he asked one evening. "I have told Mary that my wife is anxious to see her child."
"She accepted that?"
"She did. She is very jealous because she has no child herself, and now does not want to see either of us until she has got over it." He laughed at his own wit. Mary had said no such thing, but Richard knew exactly how her mind worked. "I need to go home, Rachel. I need to see my daughter, and more than that I need Bethany. If all I wanted was a warm bed and a willing partner, I need only walk a few paces. But that is not enough; only Bethany can satisfy me now."
I reached out to touch his arm and he turned and looked at me with a look of sheer dismay, as though shocked by his own emotions.
"I love her, Rachel," he said. "I wish I had met her at another time, after all this turmoil. I wish I could tell the Queen I was going home for good."
"Have you tried?"
"I have hinted, but she will not allow it. She likes to keep her loyal servants close and she has no reason to understand my need to return to Summerville. After all, my wife is here. She even asked the other day why I did not bring my child as well."
I gave him an enquiring look in reply.
"I told her I did not want Alicia exposed to the air of London," he said. "I thought it was a good answer."
So we left London together and at Finsbury we stopped at an i
nn, where I boarded another carriage to take me home to my own house, while he carried on to Suffolk. I could see he was looking forward very much to seeing his wife again and I was quite sure she would welcome him into her bed whether she believed him or not.
I hoped and prayed that he would make his wife understand about me without giving away my secrets, but somehow it did not seem possible. I would have to trust her with my most private memories.
I was glad of the respite away from the palace. I found it a strain beyond belief to listen to the ardent catholic talk in the Queen's chambers, to murmur agreement. The other ladies voiced their opinions, each one agreeing with Mary's of course, but I hoped I was giving the impression of the very quiet and shy Lady Summerville who merely did her duties to perfection and said little.
It was a relief to be home with Louisa. She knew what was happening, she had to, but I trusted her completely.
So I spent two blissful days in my own house, wondering if I had done the right thing by volunteering for this role at all. I thought it would make Richard happy, give him peace of mind, but instead it seemed that he was in even more turmoil than before.
I imagined him with his wife, holding her in his arms and making her understand that this charade was being performed for her sake, not mine. I smiled to think that perhaps he would feel happier on his return, yet he did not wait until the allotted day but arrived at my door late into the night. The look on his face was pure rage, a frightening look as though he could kill someone.
"Richard?" I asked carefully. "What is it? What has happened?"
He did not answer at first, just poured himself some wine and stood trembling while I waited for him to speak. I was very afraid; this man was not one I knew nor ever had.
"I have discovered," he said at last, "that my wife has been using my house and my church and my money to hide heretics and help them escape to France."
I had no idea what to say so I merely waited silently for him to continue. He was so angry I was afraid of where his words were leading.
"You remember that little cottage next to the church, the one where Father O'Neil used to live," he said at last. "That is where I found her, after I had stood half the night beneath the church altar and listened to the whole process. I have never been so angry in my entire life."
He turned and looked at me and a shiver ran down my spine. He looked devastated and full of regret, but he also looked violent, a look I had never seen in his eyes before. A vivid picture of my father appeared before me, the last time I had seen him, giving my mother the very last beating of her life. I shook my head slowly in denial - no. Richard could not have done that, no matter how angry he was. It just was not possible.
"What happened, Richard?" I asked fearfully, not really wanting to know. "What did you do?"
"How could she?" He shouted. "How could she do that to me? I shall never forgive her, never. And she will never forgive me for what I have done to her."
He sank down into a chair while I watched him, terrified of what he would tell me next, but I had to know.
"What have you done to her?"
His eyes met mine and I was thankful to see that they were calmer, but still he did not answer. He poured more wine and sat drinking it as though his life depended on it.
"She will not return to Summerville Hall," he said at last. "She will stay in the cottage, since she likes the place so much. I have told her what will happen if she leaves it. I have taken all the money and her jewels; she will be afraid to run with no means at all."
I had a vivid memory of that place. It was very old and very dark, being surrounded by trees, and it had no proper windows, just waxed screens over the openings. There was a circle of stones with a hole in the roof above it for a fire and a floor of impacted dirt.
When I had seen it first, I wondered how a priest could bear to live there and now he was telling me he had condemned his Countess to stay in it, she who had lived her life with servants and fine clothes and comfort. I knew I had to argue on her behalf, no matter what she had done.
"She cannot stay there, Richard, for heaven's sake! How is she supposed to survive?"
He looked up at me then and his eyes were cold and angry.
"I have no interest in how she survives," he said quietly. "I have arranged to leave food in the church porch. She will have to learn how to cook it."
I was totally shocked, not only by this treatment of a woman I know he loved, but at his anger, at his callousness. But he could not mean it, could he? He was just trying to frighten her.
"When do you plan to release her?" I asked after some thought.
His eyes met mine and I shivered once more.
"I do not plan to release her," he replied. "She has behaved like a peasant; I shall treat her like one. I told her at the beginning what would happen if she betrayed me."
As I watched him drinking his wine, it seemed as though I had never met this man before. He could not be the one who had rescued me, who had built me a house and given me the means to be independent. He could not be my dearest friend who I loved so much.
"I cannot believe that you can be so cruel," I protested, still not quite believing what he was telling me.
"Then perhaps you do not know me as well as you thought," he replied bitterly. He drew a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. "Rachel," he said angrily, "I had my hands around her throat! She is lucky to be alive."
I watched him carefully for any further sign that he did not yet have himself under control. I was afraid to ask my question again, but I had to know the answer no matter what it cost.
"You still have not answered my question, My Lord," I persisted. "What have you done to Bethany that is unforgivable?"
His eyes met mine and held my gaze for a few minutes before he replied, quietly, hesitantly.
"Rachel, you are the very last person in the whole world I would want to know the answer to that."
I knew then; I knew what he had done and the shock was immense. I spun around and fled from the room, wondering how I would ever face him again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was two weeks before I returned to the palace and even then I was still undecided as to whether I should be there. His anger had terrified me, as had his actions, and he did not have his hands around my throat so I could only imagine how frightened his wife must have been.
Richard had gone from the house by the time I came out of my bedchamber the following morning and I never wanted to see him again, but as the days went by I started to think more rationally. Yes, Bethany had betrayed him in the worst possible way, but did she deserve that? He had gone to see her with anticipation and yearning for this one woman, nobody else would do, and he had found a colossal betrayal. How hurt must he have felt to do what he did? How devastated?
I settled myself into our apartments at the palace and waited for his return in the evening. I had no real idea if he was in the building at all; I half hoped he had returned to Summerville Hall to release his treacherous wife from her prison in the woods. A love as deep as theirs could not end like this.
I felt sick with fear when I heard him coming and that feeling distressed me more than anything. I had learned to trust him, he was the only man in the world I did trust and now that trust had been shattered.
I felt myself go rigid as he opened the door, but he stood still when he saw me.
"You came back," he said. "Thank you."
He walked toward me and I cringed away. I hated myself for that but I had no help for it. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and stopped some distance away.
"You are perfectly safe, Rachel," he assured me. "My depravity does not extend to forgetting my responsibility to you."
He looked defeated, as though there was nothing more that life could do to him. I wanted to comfort him, to hold him in my arms, but I was afraid.
"I have no idea how I am ever going to make this up to her," he said at last as he poured himself some wine, then held the flago
n up to offer it to me. I shook my head.
"You could start by letting her back into Summerville Hall," I answered.
"No," he replied in as tone that would bear no argument. "She is better off where she is."
"So you are still angry with her?"
"I am unsure how I feel about her now. I trapped her in the cottage to frighten her, yes, to punish her, but while she is afraid to leave it, she is safe. Do you understand?"
"I think so, but still it seems a little harsh. She is your wife, Richard, and you do love her."
"Do I?" He still looked defeated. "I am so ashamed, I have no idea what I feel apart from that. I used my strength to intimidate her; that is despicable. What has she turned me into? Or has this always been me, lurking beneath the charm?" He stopped talking and took a long drink from his goblet, then he looked at me with such distress in his dark eyes, I could have cried. "I raped her, Rachel!" He said. "How are you even speaking to me?"
Somehow just knowing that he was so ashamed made his actions seem so much more forgivable. And that hateful word just did not seem to apply. I sighed deeply, letting out some of the tension that was making me stiff and uncomfortable.
"She is a grown woman," I said at last, "and your wife. She will get over it."
His eyes met mine and I was saddened by the look of despair in them.
"Even Rosemary never made me this angry."
"That is because you did not love Rosemary," I told him.
"If this is what love does, then I was happier without it." He turned away from me and went to pour wine for us both. "Are you staying?" He asked, passing me the goblet.
"I will if you need me to," I replied.
"I would not blame you if you decided to go, to never see me again."
"Richard, I can only imagine how you feel right now, but you are a good man and Bethany knows that. She will forgive you."
"I cannot think of it now. Anthony's sister is coming from France in the next few weeks, a last visit before she takes the veil. She is fiercely pious, perhaps even more so than the Queen herself. Bethany will definitely be safer where she is." He paused and looked at me for a moment. "Besides, while she is trapped in the cottage, she will have no further opportunity to betray me."
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