He seemed to have calmed down a little, so I thought it might be my only chance to voice what I had been thinking.
"Richard, you married an independent woman then you let her believe that the man she loved, the man she worshipped, was risking his life to keep another woman close." I paused and watched his expression for signs of anger, but there was only interest in what I was saying. "What did you think she would do? Sit and wait for you to favour her with some attention?"
"So you are saying it was my fault?"
"Partly, yes, I think it was. I did ask you a long time ago to explain about me. I suppose you have not done that, even now?"
"There was no point," he answered despondently. "It is too late for that now."
"Why do you say that?"
"I would have thought it was obvious. She betrayed me, Rachel. She no longer loves me; I have destroyed that, it is gone."
"I doubt that very much, my dear," I told him and at last felt comfortable in putting my arm around him. "She still loves you and always will, no matter what you do. And that makes her courage all the more admirable."
"You admire her? You approve of what she has done?"
"I approve of the courage it took, yes. Do you believe that she risked so much just to avenge herself on you? Or do you think she did it to help her friends?"
He made no reply, so I waited, wondering whether he intended to reply at all.
"I am not sure," he said at last.
"Well, I am. I doubt she even thought about betraying you, much less getting revenge. She likely found out that her sister had died helping her cause and she felt she needed to do the same." He turned to face me and I was glad I had got his attention. "You were not there. You were in London, with another woman, one you loved enough to risk a charge of treason for. That is how she saw it because you thought it best not to tell her the truth. The blame is not all hers, Richard. Trust me on that."
***
That was our last year at court, of keeping up the charade of being man and wife, and the last year of Mary's reign. She had been looking ill for a long time and things went wrong, one after another. First two imaginary pregnancies and the loss of the Spanish prince, then the loss of Calais. She became less and less rational and began to see conspiracies everywhere she looked, and she looked most at her ladies in waiting.
"You have never told me your own thoughts on the heretics, Lady Summerville," she said to me one day.
"No, Your Majesty," I replied nervously. "But I agree with you, of course."
"Do you? Does anyone really agree with me, or do they say that to keep me appeased?"
"I am sure I cannot speak for others, Your Majesty," I replied.
This talk was making me nervous and I longed to be out of her presence. Then she said something that turned my blood cold.
"Your husband is not as attentive as he once was, My Lady," she said coldly. "Does he too agree with me?"
"I could not say what he thinks, Your Majesty."
"Could you not? You are his wife are you not?"
There was something in the way she said it, in the emphasis of the words, that made me wonder if she had discovered something of the truth of our relationship. My heart started to thunder in my chest and I was grateful when one of the other ladies entered and began to talk of other things.
I met Richard in the gallery, anxious to tell him my concerns, but his expression stopped me.
"Alicia is ill," he said. "I need to return to Summerville today."
"I will get my things packed at once," I told him, then ran to our chambers to supervise. But I took more than enough for a stay, I took everything I owned. I was afraid and I had no intention of coming back.
We had no opportunity to talk until the carriage had moved away and even then I had to speak quietly, so that the coachman would not hear.
"The Queen is becoming suspicious," I told him.
He turned to me with eyes that were dull with sorrow. I had not realised when he said his little girl was ill, just how ill she was.
"Richard? What is it?"
"She has the smallpox. I have only just got this despatch, it went to Richmond first. She will likely not recover."
And he had missed so much time with her. This year had been a burden to him I know, after the terrible argument with his wife and now this. He needed to be home, he should have gone weeks ago.
He dropped me at the inn near my house as always, but he gripped my hand as I was about to step down.
"Leave here," he whispered. "The house in Suffolk is still empty, you can move back in there for now. If what you say is true, it is no longer safe for you here."
I had not thought he had heard me, but obviously he was paying more attention than I thought. Perhaps he, too, had noticed a change in the Queen's affections.
So Louisa and I prepared to return to Suffolk, while Richard went home to his child and, I hoped, his wife.
I wondered how that lady had fared, tending to her own needs and hiding away all this time, but I thought it likely that someone who had the courage to do what she had done would soon manage to cope with anything. Unlike myself, who, when faced with the possibility of having nothing, had thought of no other way out except hateful marriage to hateful men. She certainly had more courage than I.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Anthony was the first to come and visit me at the old house. I could see from his expression that he was distressed and my heart sank. Despite the vicious disease from which the little girl suffered, I had hoped and prayed she might recover.
"Alicia?" I asked at once.
He nodded.
"She died this afternoon. Richard is devastated."
"Of course he is," I replied. "And Bethany?"
He scowled at me as though I had used a dirty word.
"He has allowed her back in the house, despite her betrayal. He has sent my sister back to France so that she will not suspect that Lady Summerville is a heretic."
"I meant how is she coping with the loss of her child?"
He shrugged, as though it were of no importance, and I was shocked.
"You have changed, Anthony," I told him. "You were always fond of her."
"That was before. I have no idea why he has forgiven her, after the way she behaved he should have put her away for good."
"I am sure she had her reasons," I said quietly, a little uncomfortable about the turn this conversation was taking. "And I am sure he had his." I found myself wanting him to leave.
"The funeral will be in the morning," he was saying. "Then Richard's wife will return to live at the Hall as though nothing has happened. What do you think of that, My Lady?"
"I think that is how it should be," I told him firmly. "I am quite sure Richard knows what he is doing."
He sighed heavily.
"So now you are back will you be taking up your rightful position? I must say I am very pleased to see you."
I had never met the child that was lost, but I had wanted to grieve on her parents' behalf. Anthony was making me angry and I could scarcely believe what he was saying. He had always been fond of Bethany and now he thought his cousin was going to take up with his mistress where he supposed he left off, while his wife mourned her loss alone. I could not bear it.
"Richard loves his wife, Anthony," I said, "and if you love him, you will support whatever decision he makes with regard to her. And those decisions will not include me."
"What are you saying?" He demanded angrily. "That now she is back he will just abandon you, after everything you have done for him and for her? I do not believe he would do that."
"Of course not. But the decision is mine. He does not want Bethany to find out about me, to find out that I am living so close. You must honour that, Anthony, or he will be furious."
"I will honour it, but I think it would do her good to know."
"It is not your decision to make. You must go now. Richard needs you at the funeral, and if he wants you to look after his wife while h
e is at court, then that is what you must do."
He got to his feet and took my hands in his in a comforting gesture.
"If only you could have given him a child, he would surely have married you."
That made me even angrier, that he assumed I was just heartsick and wishing I was in Bethany's place. How dare he?
"What makes you so sure I would want to marry him?" I replied harshly. "You do not know everything, Anthony, so please do not presume to make wishes on my behalf."
When he had gone I sat before the fire and thought about the whole situation, all the misunderstandings and I worried about Richard. I knew that the Queen had suspicions now and I was terrified of what she would do. As always he had made sure that I was safe, back in Suffolk and with my real name, but what of him?
I was glad to be back though, to see Lucy and her children although I had learned that I did not really like children very much. Perhaps it was a barrier I had built around myself to assuage the disappointment of never being able to have any.
Louisa was still with me and still no sign of a man in her life.
"After what men have done to you, My Lady," she told me when I asked, "I do not think I would want to trust one of them."
"Louisa, I hope my own fears have not spoilt your life. Not all men are wicked; look at Lucy's husband. Look at Lord Summerville.
She gave me a sideways look as though she knew more than she was letting on.
"Even he is not perfect, My Lady," she said. "I think I will stay as I am, if that is satisfactory to you."
She could do that, could she not? If I were to die tomorrow, she could go and find work as a servant anywhere. She could do laundry, cooking, anything to earn her keep, while I ran into the arms of the next monster I could find. Were the horrors of my life something I could have avoided after all?
I kept away from the village. I recalled the gossip about me before, and I was quite sure that while they all welcomed Lady Summerville back amongst them, nobody welcomed her husband's mistress. I could not stay here for long, that was clear, but for now I needed the respite I attained by simply living quietly and riding out to watch what was going on.
Anthony visited, but not as often as before and for that I was thankful. He said that he was obliged to keep a close watch on his cousin's wife, for fear she would betray him again. He did not trust her and never would.
That saddened me, as I could see an even wider rift being built between Richard and Bethany if Anthony had anything to do with it.
***
The year was moving on and still no word from Richard. I had been worried enough when he went back to court; now with no word I was getting quite frantic and was on the point of sending a messenger to find out what was happening with him. I was quite sure that Mary had discovered our deception and I feared what that would mean for him.
It was late one November afternoon that Anthony strode into my sitting room with a look of sorrow on his face. I jumped to my feet.
"Anthony?" I asked, stepping toward him. "What is it? What has happened?"
He handed me a letter, still sealed with Richard's seal.
"He managed to sneak it past his wife," he said. "Actually gave it to her, rolled up in a letter to me." He stopped abruptly then sank down into a chair while I poured him wine. "He has been condemned for treason, Rachel. The Queen has discovered the deception."
I sank back down, my legs giving way beneath me, and I just stared at him. I felt paralysed, numb with shock and guilt. It was all my idea, was it not? I was to blame then. It would not have happened were it not for me. And he made quite sure that I escaped, even in the midst of the worst grief of his life he still made sure that I escaped.
"You had better read it," Anthony was saying, indicating the letter which was still sealed, in my hands. "I have no idea what it says, but it must be important or he would not have taken the risk."
I looked down at the parchment as though it were something strange and unfamiliar that I had never seen before. What I wanted to do was scream, but instead I started to shake.
I tore the seal open at last, trembling so much I could barely see the words.
"My dearest Rachel," it read, "I have always kept your secret as I know how much that means to you, but if you could find it in your heart to reveal it to my wife, I shall die happier. I tried to tell her that it was all done to keep her safe, but I am not sure she believed me and even if she did, she still believes that you and I have been lovers. I will rest much easier in my grave if she knows that I have always been faithful to her. Consider it a dying man's last request and know how much your friendship has meant to me. Be safe, my dear, be happy. Goodbye. Richard."
Tears flooded down my cheeks and I tried hard to swallow the awful ache in my throat. What would I do without him?
"This is all her fault!" Anthony cried out suddenly. "If she had followed his wishes as a wife should, he would still be free and you would not have had to risk so much either. I shall never forgive her."
"No Anthony," I said, reaching out to touch him. "Bethany will suffer enough because of this; she needs you on her side."
"Why do you defend her?"
"Because I admire her courage and I know how much Richard loves her." I looked down once more at the familiar handwriting on the parchment. "How did you get this?"
"I told you. He slipped it inside a letter to me with his will, then he asked Bethany to bring it to me."
"So she has seen him?" I asked, my admiration growing. "She has been to that awful place?"
"She insisted on going, despite him sending word that she was not to attempt it."
"Because he did not want her to risk her own safety, but she went anyway. Despite believing that he loved me, not her, she still made the journey just to see him one last time. Can you not see why I admire her?"
He still looked unconvinced and I was in no mood to argue further with him.
"We will lose Summerville," he was saying. "We will lose everything."
"Where will you go?"
"I have a house my father left me."
"And Bethany? Where will she go?"
It would be the greatest irony if after everything Lord Summerville had given me, the only place left for his wife was with me, in a house that he paid for. If that was to be the case then I would have to convince her of the truth.
I had an awful vision of her being in my own position, having to marry someone she despised to keep from starving. But then I recalled that she had lived as a peasant for almost a year, she had lit fires and cooked food and kept warm, all alone. She would survive; she was not weak like me.
"I will invite her to live with me," Anthony was saying, "but only for the sake of Richard's memory. Hopefully she will find another husband before long and leave."
I shook my head, wondering how one man can be so perceptive, yet his cousin had no idea.
"If you are inviting her to your house," I said, "you had best be prepared to make it permanent. She will never marry another man."
He made no reply, only looked at me as though he was not sure whether to believe me or not.
"I shall go and see her tomorrow," I said, though it was not a task I relished. "I shall wait till after the...till after. Richard wants me to tell her something, something important and dear to his heart."
"She will recognise you, so if you are planning to pretend there was never anything between you, it will not work."
"Recognise me? She has never seen me."
He was nodding.
"She has. She went to London, despite my pleas. She waited and followed you both to the park. That is how she came to be there when her sister died."
I caught my breath at that. I had no idea that she had witnessed the horrific death of her own sister; no wonder she felt compelled to help the cause. Surely even Richard must see that.
"Would you leave now, please," I asked him. "I wish to mourn alone."
He nodded then stood and squeezed my hand before he
made his way toward the door.
"You know where I am if you need me," he said reassuringly.
It should be Bethany he was telling that to, not me, but it was pointless trying to convince him of that. He was going to blame someone, and she seemed the proper person to him. Perhaps as time went on he would realise how wrong he was.
I cried myself to sleep that night, and I was sure that Bethany would be doing the same. In the morning I staggered down the stairs at dawn to watch Louisa lighting the fire. I had never really noticed before how that was done and I doubted that Bethany had either when her husband imprisoned her in a peasant's cottage. I wondered if she had ever taken the trouble to watch it done, as I was doing now.
Richard had assured me that this house and the Finsbury one were both in my own name, that no one could take them away from me, but still I worried.
I had to tell Louisa and Lucy what had happened. They both thought highly of Richard; they would both be devastated. But I waited until the afternoon, thinking that I would give Bethany time to grieve a little before I appeared and rocked her world even more. I would lose the element of surprise if she knew who I was, if she recognised me as soon as I arrived at the house. It may even mean she would not listen to what I had to say, but it was Richard's last request; it was of vital importance that I made her believe me.
I had my horse saddled and rode toward the village. I had avoided the place since I had been back, but I wanted to go there today to visit the church and the priest within it. I did not willingly attend mass, but I felt it would please Richard if I at least lit a candle of him.
I drew rein when I saw Bethany enter the porch. I had not expected to see her there as I knew perfectly well she paid only lip service to the Catholic faith. Perhaps she, too, wanted to light a candle and say a prayer and had nowhere else to go.
I turned back and waited at a safe distance till I saw her ride back toward Summerville Hall. I went into the inn then, half expecting to be refused service, but I was given some ale and left in peace for a little while. I could see that everyone knew what had happened and I could see that they were all grieving. Even though no one spoke to me, I felt that I was one of them in my grief.
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