Chapter Eleven
Unable to find Martin when she returned to the revelries, Eleanor left for home. Having dismissed her maid, she was about to go to bed when a messenger from Whitehall Palace came to inform both her and Lord Taverner that Martin was dead. When the details of the crime were made clear to her, Eleanor was deeply shocked.
That night was one of anguish and weeping. While she had been making love with William, Martin was being stabbed to death. She knew who had done it, that Richard Grey was responsible, and she was appalled by the knowledge that her conversation with that man had brought about her husband’s death. Oh, why hadn’t she warned him like she’d intended? Why had she allowed William to distract her with his warm lips and strong arms and powerful body?
That short time, that rapturous, insane time had killed not only Martin but William too, for he was as dead to her as Martin. What was it about her that she brought ill luck to those close to her? First there was Uncle John and now Martin. She had killed Martin and her love for William with her wickedness, her wantonness, and she must live with it and suffer the fortunes of the damned until the end of her days, which was no more than she deserved, but in the meantime she must think of her child and find some way to live with what she had done.
She blamed herself for what had happened, blamed herself for telling Richard Grey about the child, for taunting him and wrongly letting him believe the child was Martin’s. The way Martin had died—stabbed repeatedly by his lover in a dark corner of Whitehall Palace—filled her with horror and remorse. Jealousy may have led Sir Richard astray but, apart from being besotted by the man wielding the knife, Martin had done no wrong.
The following day, one by one visitors arrived at the house, their lips expressing their sympathy for her loss. Lord Taverner accepted Martin’s death calmly, seemingly unmoved by the news that his eldest son had been murdered, and it was this callousness that so embittered Eleanor, for she genuinely mourned her young husband. She missed his gentleness, his friendship and the brightness of him. Her sorrow defied release. It hid itself in a hollow place in her heart. And so, stunned and enclosed in a curtain of shock she kept to her room, save for the occasional trips downstairs to eat with Lord Taverner.
The questions had started as a hunt for the murderer began. Eleanor knew the culprit, but she did not have the courage to point the finger publicly at Sir Richard Grey, and, according to her father-in-law, Sir Richard had left the Court, shocked and grief-stricken by Martin’s death.
Eleanor pushed away her dinner, feeling sickly as she toyed with the greasy lamb on her plate.
Lord Taverner looked across the table at her, his eyes narrowed and steady. Almost idly he asked, ‘Is there something wrong with the food?’
Though her insides were trembling, Eleanor knew that the time to tell her father-in-law about the child had arrived. The longer she waited, the more pressure would build and the more difficult it would be.
‘No, the food is as delicious as always—only—I’m not hungry—in fact I am feeling somewhat queasy. Lord Taverner—I—I think you should know that I am with child.’ She spoke plainly for there was no other way to tell him. That she had been able to do it surprised even her. But it was said now and so much the better.
Lord Taverner began to smile, a smile that was a mixture of appalled disbelief and hideous amusement. Pushing back his chair, he stood up and walked round the table towards her, his eyes never leaving her face.
‘Whose is it?’ He smiled thinly. ‘Who’s the father? Because if you intend passing it off as my son’s you can think again. Do you take me for an idiot—when the world and its neighbours know the two of you rarely occupied the same house, never mind slept in the same bedchamber?’
‘I am sorry,’ she whispered. He was furious, of course, and she didn’t blame him.
‘Did he know?’ he asked her harshly, adding emphasis to his sternest countenance to the question that was more like a command.
‘Yes, I told him.’
‘And?’
‘He—he was prepared to accept the child—to bring it up as his own,’ Eleanor answered lamely. ‘At first he was angry, of course, but the more he thought about it, the more excited he became.’
‘Like hell he was,’ her father-in-law erupted, his face flamed with anger. When he next spoke his voice was low and horribly calm. ‘And did he think I would be so besotted at the prospect of his producing a child—when all the odds were stacked against it—considering his aversion to your sex—that I would not find out the truth—that I would be none the wiser when I looked into my grandchild’s face? I have another son who is not so bad for my health who will inherit the Taverner estate, not your bastard, madam.’
Eleanor’s face drained. Gripping her hands together in her lap, she sat mute and unmoving as his harsh words whipped her.
Lord Taverner moved closer, his eyes black pinpoints boring into hers. ‘So you are to bear the child of a man who used you for his own convenience and then deserted you, a man who spiked you and then spurned you, and you thought to foist his leavings on to my son.’ He laughed mockingly. ‘What other way is there for a woman alone with a bastard—prey to a pitiless society.’
Eleanor bowed her head before his hard, condemning face. He was right. Society believed that the sin was all the woman’s fault, that the blame for her conduct was all hers, that she had brought it on herself and the child.
‘It wasn’t like that. I swear it wasn’t. I didn’t know myself until after we were wed. Had I known, I would never have married Martin.’
‘But you agreed to go along with this—this charade?’
She nodded.
‘I was suspicious from the beginning. Little wonder your aunt wanted to get you married off—and who better than to Martin, too simple minded to notice.’ Every trace of emotion left his face. When he next spoke his voice was as cold and as devoid of feeling as a wind blowing over an empty landscape. ‘I want you out of my house. Pack your bags and get out. I shall lock the door as soon as you have gone. That is my final word.’
He turned his back on her and not until the door had thudded closed did Eleanor let out her breath. The silence became a living shroud. The problem of what she would do, where she would go, was a sad and frightening burden.
The day was hot and the Palace stuffy. William went outside, hoping the fresh air would dispel his headache, which had been with him on waking. As the day progressed it became worse. Feeling restless, he rode to Chelsea to see Godfrey, where he had been staying with Catherine ever since they had become enamoured of each other.
Despite his infernal headache, which showed no sign of letting up, a slight smile quirked his lips. Who would have thought it? Godfrey and Catherine—Catherine with her often spiteful, manipulating ways. Godfrey had laughed uproariously when William had shown an interest in his affair with his new love, saying they bothered him not at all, that he’d looked beyond that, that Catherine was beautiful, proud and stubborn beyond belief, but she was also vulnerable and wounded, having suffered much under her father’s rule, which she tried to hide, but he could see it in her eyes.
William had cocked a sardonic brow at his friend as he waxed lyrical. Wounded? Vulnerable? He wondered how these creditable traits of Catherine’s had escaped him, although when he’d first met her he’d admired her intelligence and her honesty, and if at times she had seemed petulant and sullen, he had believed that might have had something to do with her father and that marriage would dispel her disagreeable moods.
The previous day had found him at Gravesend to see the captain of the ship Resolve, his enquiries having revealed that the fever had abated on the vessel with no further deaths for two weeks. Believing the danger past, he had gone on board. The one thing that had kept him alive during those dark days on board the George had been revenge. Someone must pay.
The name of Atwood’s accomplice the captain of Resolve had made known to him for a price—a price worth paying, for the captain had confi
rmed his own suspicion that the man who had hired men to beat him to a pulp was Richard Grey.
The journey to Chelsea was arduous. There seemed to be too many people, too much traffic, too much dust, and the noise of the streets was deafening. Sweat soaked his body and the heat drained his energy, making it difficult for him to breath. Three times he had to stop to overcome a wave of dizziness. He had not eaten—the thought of food made him nauseous—and his headache was worse, blinding.
By the time he reached the house in Chelsea he could hardly stay in the saddle. His strength was gone and he felt as weak and helpless as a babe. There was no use pretending about it. He’d got the fever. The door opened and, sliding off his horse, he collapsed on to the hall floor. Dimly he heard someone shriek for help and the next thing a pair of massive arms hoisted him up and carried him upstairs and laid him on a bed.
In a moment free from delirium, he stared into Godfrey’s worried face. ‘That damned ship,’ he gasped, licking his dry lips. ‘The fever—I thought it had gone.’
‘You were a fool to venture on board,’ Godfrey growled with harsh reproach. ‘I told you to wait, but you always were the impatient one.’
‘It’s infectious. You might catch it—and Catherine. Keep out, Godfrey, and let it run its course.’
‘If it’s the fever, I’ll take care of you, so lie still.’
‘Eleanor,’ William said, his voice thick and hoarse, the words slurring one over the other, ‘don’t tell her—she mustn’t know, not yet.’
‘And you mustn’t fret,’ a worried-looking Catherine said, flanking Godfrey.
William glared at her, his eyes red and glittering. ‘What are you doing here? Godfrey—for God’s sake, get her out.’
Godfrey turned to her with concern. ‘He’s right, Catherine. Go and get him some tea and herbs—whatever you give for a fever—and send the servants home until it’s safe for them to return.’ When she’d gone, he turned back to his friend. ‘You’ll get well. You’ve suffered worse.’
William closed his heavy lids. Yes, he’d suffered worse, much worse, and he’d recovered, he’d overcome and he would overcome this time. But then he might not. Immediately his eyes flew open and he gripped Godfrey’s hand.
‘If I don’t pull through,’ he gasped, ‘promise me you will take care of Eleanor—take her to Staxton Hall—where she belongs. Promise me.’
‘I promise. Now rest, William. Rest. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.’
William’s mind tumbled in an eddy of confusion. A vision of Eleanor drifted into his shadowy world—Eleanor, lovely, beautiful Eleanor. His feverish mind raged in delirium, wandering restlessly through a haze of shifting shade, of days and nights darkly shrouded. The intense fire holding his mind and body in a sweltering heat made him toss and turn and fling off the heavy covers that held him down.
At times he felt someone lift his head and force cold water through his parched lips, commanding him to drink, and in his ravings broken and abusive words spilled from his lips. When the effort of swallowing proved too much, his head would fall back on to the pillows.
Coming awake in the dimly lit room, his body felt weak and helpless, and when he tried to raise his arm it felt like a lead weight. Roused to awareness, the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Godfrey bending over him.
William moved his lips and the hoarse croak bore no resemblance to his voice. ‘How long have I…?’
‘Five days,’ Godfrey told him, thankful to see William’s eyes were clear and no longer bloodshot with fever. With his black hair stuck to his damp forehead, he was pale as wax and two deep grey shadows ran from his nostrils down to the corners of his mouth, but he had pulled through, even though it had been touch and go for a time and Godfrey had thought he might not make it. ‘Thank God the fever’s left you.’
‘You’ve been very sick,’ Catherine said, coming into the room with a bowl and some cloths draped over her arm.
‘I must have been.’ Reality gradually came to stay and yet William’s mind was a tangle of confusion and he could make no sense of what had happened. ‘I can’t remember a damned thing—apart from leaving Whitehall and collapsing here at your house.’
‘So you won’t remember abusing me every time I tried to make you drink,’ Godfrey accused with a touch of humour.
‘Really?’ William said, his eyebrow tilted sardonically and his mouth curved in a disbelieving smile. ‘Was it bad?’
‘In your delirium you certainly had a most ungentlemanly turn of phrase,’ Godfrey chuckled, casually draping an arm over Catherine’s shoulders.
‘And if you hadn’t been at death’s door, I would have been thoroughly entertained,’ she laughed.
William frowned, looking concernedly at them both. ‘I hope I haven’t exposed either of you to the fever. I asked you to stay away from me, Catherine. Clearly you ignored my request.’
‘You were in no position to object—and Godfrey got tired of trying to keep me out. Now don’t try to speak anymore—you’ll tire yourself.’
Godfrey held a goblet of water to his lips. The cool water was welcome and made him feel a little better.
‘Eleanor! I have to see her.’
Godfrey shook his head. ‘Patience, William. You will do yourself no good in trying to rush things. You have to get your strength back and be completely free of the fever. For the time being you must stay here. It wouldn’t do to infect her—not in her condition now, would it?’
‘You’re right, I suppose,’ he grumbled, ‘but don’t expect me to be staying too long. I have things to do that can’t wait.’
William’s head fell back on the pillows. What Godfrey said made sense so he would have to bide his time, but he prayed Eleanor was all right and that she didn’t think he’d abandoned her.
He drifted back into sleep, thinking of Eleanor and how she must be suffering. His own heart had always been moved by suffering and he longed for the time when he could go to her and comfort her. He realised now how much he loved her, that he had loved Eleanor Collingwood almost from the first moment he saw her. His heart and every loving instinct told him he should rise up from his bed and go to her and help her through her anguish, to hold her in his arms and shield her from the pain and sadness, but his common sense told him Godfrey was right and he must wait until he was completely free of the fever.
In a heavy black satin gown Lady Matilda Sandford stood before the window in the solar on the first floor of Cantly Manor. It was a bright afternoon in July and she was watching her niece’s luggage being unloaded from Lord Taverner’s carriage in the courtyard below. Turning, she looked at the aforesaid girl, feeling a resentment twisting and turning inside her. Resentment against Eleanor who, after all she had done for her, had thrown gratitude back in her face, and resentment against the girl who had so embarrassingly prevailed upon her generosity and her kindness.
The girl Lady Sandford had arranged to wed one of the most eligible young men at the Court of Queen Elizabeth had brought this hideous shame in the shape of a bastard child back to her house—and worse, she had caused enmity between herself and Lord Taverner. She could hardly bring herself to speak lest she spewed forth a torrent of bile.
‘I have no doubt you feel yourself ill used, Eleanor, but you could not be more wrong. Your immoral conduct has been inexcusable and you have brought disgrace on Lord Taverner’s good name and my own. You have shamed me and your dead husband with your adulterous indiscretion and your uncontrollable desires for another man.’
Eleanor listened to the blistering tirade as her aunt went on to list others she had shamed, adding to her lingering guilt, dwelling on what she had let another man do to her and blaming her for obliging, and that whoever he was he had not wanted her, only her body, otherwise he would have married her. Eleanor realised she might be right, for not once had William told her he loved her, and nor had he enquired after her.
‘Go straight to your room and do not come out until I give you permi
ssion. I don’t want to see your face again today.’
Leaving the solar, Eleanor felt a sharp stab of pain around her heart. She hadn’t expected support from her aunt, whose whole life revolved around pleasing Lord Taverner, but she might at least have shown some compassion. Filled with misery, she went swiftly to her bedchamber. Once inside, she hurled herself full length across the bed and burst into tears, feeling ashamed and at fault—and almost beyond salvation.
Eleanor often wondered how she got through the following days leading into weeks, for her emotions were in turmoil and her spirit low. Aunt Matilda rarely spoke to her, and when she did Eleanor had come to expect only stinging taunts and contemptuous looks and wished she would leave her alone altogether.
The warm and sunny weather agreed with her and she made the effort to walk in the garden at Cantly Manor every day. She wandered along the paths, through flower-filled enclosures, where birds warbled merrily and bees and butterflies flitted from one glorious bloom to another, and in a cloud of white, gold and red and black, settling and drowsily moving in the fragile warmth, but she saw none of it.
There was no word from William. Why did he not come? she asked herself in anguish. She told herself there must be some good reason, but what reason could a man have that would keep him from the woman he must have some kind of feelings for and his unborn child, when she needed him so?
Was he ill? Perhaps he was injured. Eleanor could feel a tide of suffering rise in her in despairing pain, which she did her best to subdue, for it was too unbearable to dwell upon. She would have gone to him but she was in mourning and it wouldn’t be proper—not that she cared about proprieties when William might be ill. But if he were, she clung to the conviction that Godfrey would have come to tell her.
Martin’s death still continued to haunt her, and as far as she was aware his murderer had not been caught.
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