Lady Julia sat thoughtfully, clutching Antonia's hand, as though trying to come to a decision. At last she spoke.
"Lady Camilla Austin is married now to the Duke of Newforth's son. Whatever they may have planned between them, she is no longer free to marry your husband, even if you were dead."
Antonia caught back a sob. Did this mean she was safe, that she had no further need to hide, to run? She would never return to Robert, that she was sure of, but he would not be in such a hurry to see her dead, at least not until he found some other lady who suited him better.
"Thank you for telling me that, My Lady," she answered. "It is a great relief, but now he may want revenge. He has lost Camilla. I still do not want him to find me; how can I return to a man who tried to have me killed?"
"You cannot, of course, but I will help you, Antonia," Lady Julia said. "His Lordship and I are to leave tomorrow for London. We will be going to court for the coronation of the new Queen, but we do not want to open the London house until it has been properly prepared. We will stay at the palace and you must stay with us."
Antonia's eyes widened in alarm.
"The palace, My Lady?" She murmured.
Since her departure from Roxham Hall she had found little time to consider the implications of Mary Tudor being Queen of England. Now she was being asked to possibly come face to face with her, the fanatical Catholic who would turn England back to the dark ages.
The Queen or the Earl, which was worse? Whichever way she turned she would be in danger.
Robert tossed aside the scroll which had arrived from London last week, scowling impatiently as he did so. He had better things to do with his time than attend the lavish and ridiculously expensive celebrations for the coronation of a queen he would rather see dead.
He hoped for Jane Grey when the young king died, as did many Protestants, or preferably the Princess Elizabeth, and to have to bow down before a Catholic monarch was galling in the extreme. He had spent his childhood having the dogma preached at him, had spent a good part of that childhood on his knees before a horrific statue of an almost naked man being tortured on a cross. He used to have nightmares about that statue when he was a child, and when he woke screaming in the night, his father would tell him he must go and confess to an unforgiving priest who told him it was a beautiful thing and if he thought otherwise he would be damned and burn in hell for all eternity.
Now this woman who would sit upon England's throne would condemn everyone to a horrific death by fire if they did not think like her, if they did not bow down before an old man in Rome who had set himself up as a descendant of St Peter. Ridiculous idea!
Robert had spent these months searching for his wife and he had no time to waste on pointless frivolities when he could spend that time searching some more.
Her portrait was almost finished when she ran away, a portrait Robert had commissioned to hang above the fireplace, to grace the hall with her beauty. The portrait painter thought he was crazy when he had demanded he leave the finishing of it, and copy it as a miniature instead.
"But, My Lord," he had argued. "It is nearly done. It will look wonderful in your great hall, or in the smaller room. Even perhaps in your bedchamber."
"I am not telling you not to finish it, man," Robert argued. "I am telling you to make a miniature version first so that I can carry it with me, help me to find her. I would far rather have her flesh and blood in my bedchamber."
The man was clever enough to have finished the smaller painting in only a few days and Robert took it with him as he rode, not knowing which way to go. If he were Antonia, where would he go? London was the place, surely, with crowds to cover her. But Antonia was unafraid of servitude and could just as easily have decided that a remote farm was a safer hiding place.
He gathered his things together, as little as he could manage, and he set out to show the small picture wherever he went. He had to find her, he simply had to.
His rest was disturbed each night by her presence, his dreams found her in his arms, her voice followed him into sleep, her gentle laughter at one of his jokes. Some nights he dreamed about the time he had almost hit her, when he had threatened to rape her just to force her to marry him.
He always awoke from those dreams with cheeks burning with shame. His change had been too sudden, that was the problem. She believed it all to be an act, she thought he had feigned love to lull her suspicions, to make it easier to do away with her.
He wished he had told her how he felt, but would she have believed that, too was a lie?
At an inn just outside Dartford he found his first clue of her, but he was too late.
"Yes, My Lord," the innkeeper told him. "She stayed three nights. Lovely lady, used a stick to help her walk when she first arrived but after a long rest and lots of good food inside her, she was fit to go on without it."
Lots of good food, Robert thought. Not tainted broth like she got at home. Just ill enough to put a halt to your bedchamber activities.
"She left it here as a matter of fact," The innkeeper was saying.
He bent down behind his counter and produced the familiar bamboo cane with the ivory handle that Robert had seen often in his father's hands. If Antonia knew that to aid his father's walking had not been its only use, she might not have been so keen to use it. But what else could she do? She was too weak to walk unaided, and one of the things he loved about her was her courage, her determination.
The innkeeper handed the stick to Robert and he studied it, remembering how his mother used to cower when his father raised it above his head. God, how he hated that man! He would wager if he was looking down on them he was enjoying every minute of the trouble he had caused.
"Did she say where she was going?" Robert asked without much hope.
"Sorry, My Lord," the innkeeper replied, pouring some mead for His Lordship. "She did ask me for the quickest road to London, then she rode away on her little mare. She gave a hefty tip to the stable hand, though. She seemed more concerned that her mare was cared for properly than she did for herself."
His words almost brought tears to Robert's eyes. Of course she would be more concerned with Emerald than with herself; she loved that animal like a child.
The stable hand could tell him no more, but he was not as amiable as the landlord had been.
"I wanted her to stay, My Lord," he said insolently. "It did not seem right to me, a lovely lady like that riding all the way to London alone. If she really is your wife, you should have treated her better."
Robert caught his breath. He had never been spoken to like that by a servant; had the man spoken to his father that way he would have had him publicly flogged, but Robert only smiled, grateful that someone had cared enough for her to look to her safety.
"Sorry, My Lord," the man said at once. "It is not my place to say, but she is a beautiful lady and very gentle. She seemed so distressed; I can usually make the ladies laugh, no matter what their station in life, but she did not look as though she would ever laugh again. Any woman who could care for an animal like she cared for that little mare is worth more than jewels, I reckon."
The man wore his thoughts in his expression and Robert could almost read his mind. He felt the hostility coming from him, knew that were it not for the social divide, he would find himself on the wrong end of those powerful fists.
"I reckon you are right," Robert replied.
She did not look as though she would ever laugh again. Those words tore into Robert like a knife wound. His beautiful wife, who could laugh at anything, had been brought to depths of despair by that spoilt harridan! He could not bear it.
The stable hand was a good looking fellow, blonde hair and a tan from working outside. He had strong muscles from working with the horses as well and Robert could well understand how he could charm the ladies. What he could not understand was why the insolent fellow had failed to make him angry. He had always thought very highly of his own elevated position, but it seemed he no longer cared about su
ch things.
"What is your name?" He asked the stable hand.
"William," he answered. "Folk call me Billy."
Robert could not understand why the look of contempt in the man's eyes was making him so uncomfortable, nor why he felt the need to explain himself to a mere stable hand, but it was obvious this man had come to care for his wife's safety and happiness and for some strange reason, Robert was grateful for that. As he spoke, he thought how his father would turn in his grave to hear him soothe the worries of a servant.
"Well, Billy," Robert said, "I have no idea why I should be telling you this, but I assure you I never laid a hand on Lady Antonia except in love. You can believe that or not, as you like, but it is the truth."
Billy was sitting on a low stool, picking some embedded mud from a horse's hoof. Now he put the animal's foot down on the straw covered stone floor and got to his feet.
"It is good of you, My Lord," he said, "to tell me that. I was worried, I have to admit and I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot. She did not want anyone to know her plans, only said she would make her way to London."
"Thank you, Billy," Robert said as he took a silver coin from his pocket and handed it to the man.
"I hope you find her, My Lord," he replied. "I hope you make her happy."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The palace of Whitehall was the biggest building Antonia had ever seen. It stretched its ornate walls almost as far as she could see, its stone bearing clever carvings and its windows sparkling in the September sunlight. It made her feel small and insignificant, which of course she was.
Lord Durston's apartments in the palace were vast, almost as big as his house in the village except that all the rooms were on one floor. There were five or six bedchambers so it was easy enough to find one for Antonia that was private and fairly inaccessible to the Earl. Julia had promised she need not concern herself with his threats. She had positioned herself in her own chamber through which he would have to go if he felt inclined to accost Antonia.
He had said nothing to her about their previous encounter, but he scowled each time he looked at her and she thought it likely his wife had scolded him badly as well as threatening him with exposure of what she had called his perversions. Antonia shuddered, thankful she had told Julia and not just given in and fled.
The palace was teeming with people and there were many servants rushing about, all in a hurry to settle their respective lords and ladies into their various chambers and apartments.
Antonia thought it a good idea to explore, look at the many paintings and get a feel for where she was. She was rather afraid of getting lost so she paid careful attention to each painting to be sure she remembered what she had passed and what she had not.
It was not like being inside a building at all, especially one in which people actually lived. It was so crowded and she could hear music and laughter. It was rather exciting, actually, and she found herself interested in the bustling activities. It was the first time she had been interested in anything since she had discovered her husband's deceit.
Just thinking about that made her heart twist painfully. It also made her angry to think again how he had gone out of his way to make her care for him. He no doubt thought he was being considerate, making the poor woman happy in her last days, just as she had told Julia. She just wished she could stop thinking about him, wished the memory would stop hurting.
She was so intent on studying the portraits and landscapes which decorated the walls, it was with a tremendous shock she raised her eyes and saw Robert. He was at the far end of the gallery, talking to someone, and her heart jumped painfully. She did not think he had seen her, but now he was turning to come her way and it was a long way back to Lady Durston's apartments.
Impulsively she opened the nearest door and stepped inside, closing it quickly behind her. She turned and breathed a sigh of relief as she rested against the solid oak panelling, then looked up to meet the eyes of a man and a woman who sat together on the settle and stared at her as though she were an apparition. She curtsied quickly.
"Forgive me," she begged. "I did not mean to intrude."
"What did you mean, My Lady?" The man asked her.
My Lady! Why had he called her that? How did he know who she was? Her heart tremored as she looked at him fearfully, but she saw kindness in his eyes, sympathy.
He was tall with almost black hair and a very charming smile which he directed at her now as he raised an eyebrow in puzzlement.
"Forgive me, please," she said again. "There is someone out there I wanted to avoid and there was nowhere else to hide. If you would allow me to stay, please, for just a few moments he will be gone."
She looked from the man to the woman, a lovely lady who also had very dark hair and who held the man's hand in an affectionate manner. Antonia was sharply reminded of how she and Robert had always held hands and she caught back a sob.
The woman smiled and held out a hand in a welcoming gesture, but she noticed the man was narrowing his eyes at her. She was quite sure he knew who she was and wondered what his views were about a woman running away from her husband.
"Please," the woman said softly, "come inside. I am sure you have a good reason for wanting to avoid this man."
"Is it Lord Roxham you wish to avoid?" The man asked.
"Richard?" His wife turned a puzzled frown on him.
"Does the whole of London know my private business?" Antonia demanded, suddenly angry.
The man got to his feet and took one long stride to stand before her.
"I am afraid most of it does, yes," he said. He reached out and took her hand, brushed his lips over her fingers. "May I present myself, My Lady. I am Lord Richard Summerville and this is my wife, Bethany."
He turned and indicated his wife who greeted her with a warm smile, but the name struck terror into Antonia's heart. She had heard that name many times since the Queen had regained her throne. She had heard through broadsheets and village gossip, as well as Julia herself that this man was Mary's greatest supporter, her chief advisor and would do his utmost to help her return England to the Church of Rome, no matter what brutality might be involved.
Antonia eyed him suspiciously.
"Come and sit down, My Lady," Lady Summerville was saying.
Antonia walked nervously toward the woman and sat beside her, sitting on the edge of the seat so she could escape quickly if she had to. She had no way of knowing if these people could be trusted or if they were trying to gain her confidence before betraying her whereabouts. From what she had heard of this man, he did not seem the sort who would help her escape her lawful husband.
"Please, My Lord," Antonia asked him with a note of panic. "Tell me how you knew who I was. I have never seen you before."
"Your husband has been showing your portrait everywhere there are people with eyes to see, My Lady," he said kindly. "He has been asking everywhere for a sighting of you. You left him; why?"
She only stared at him, remembering the words of Lord Durston when she had answered that same question. He said she was exaggerating; he did not believe her.
"It is all right, My Lady," Lady Summerville was saying. "My husband will not return you to him if you do not wish to go. You have my word." She turned toward him. "Richard?"
"Certainly not. I was curious, but the choice is yours. You have no need to answer my questions unless they will help your situation."
"You seem to know a lot, My Lord. Perhaps you have already heard rumours."
"Gossip is that he has inherited his father's temper and is violent toward you. I have little patience with a man who would use his superior strength to intimidate a woman, but what other reason could a very young lady have for exposing herself to poverty and servitude? Are the gossips wrong?"
She almost burst into tears. Here she was being given a motive as a gift from almost everyone around her, a motive everyone would understand even if they refused their aid. But she could not take it; it was a lie, a heino
us, slanderous lie and she could not bear anyone thinking that of Robert. It was her fault they all thought it; she had left him and they could think of no other reason she would do that. His father was violent, so it was obvious to everyone why his wife had left him.
She laughed derisively at her own folly. He had tried to kill her, but she could not bear to have people think he would beat her!
"My Lord," she said softly. "The gossips are very wrong. Robert has always treated me with kindness, at least since our marriage."
"Then why?"
She stared at him defiantly, wondering if he would keep her secrets or if he would find Robert and tell him his runaway wife was here, in the palace.
"As you say, My Lord," she replied at last. "I have no need to answer your questions."
Because Robert was alone he occupied only a small suite of rooms in the palace, provided for transient visitors like himself not more regular occupants.
He had been here once before, when King Edward was crowned, but he had been younger then and did not appreciate the vastness or the beauty of the place. Now his mind was too preoccupied to notice too much, but he did resent the crowds and the noise. What he really wanted was some peace and quiet in which to think about his next move.
He took the miniature out and began to ask people inside the palace if they had seen his wife, but he noticed a few disapproving glances from some of the people he asked. Perhaps he was breaking all protocols to use this occasion for such a purpose, but he could not care about that. He did not expect to find her here in any event, but it was worth asking. If she had found work, it would likely be with a member of the nobility and there was a remote chance that she had accompanied them to this event. It would not be willingly, though; not the coronation of a Catholic monarch. That thought brought with it yet another worry. Mary Tudor would bring the inquisition here if she had her way and every Protestant she found would be persecuted in the cruellest way. He wanted to protect his wife, but he could not do so if he had no idea where she was or how she was living.
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