One afternoon she was summoned to her aunt’s presence. Visitors had arrived and had requested to see her. Eleanor made her way to the solar, reluctant to face anyone at present. Until now she had remained virtually secluded within Cantly Manor, hating the hostility lodged within its walls, yet needing its security and privacy more so now it was no longer possible to conceal her pregnancy.
Her aunt was standing in the centre of the room with the visitors, a man and a woman.
‘You wish to see me, Aunt?’
The man and the woman turned together, and when Eleanor saw it was William and Catherine her knees almost buckled beneath her. Her heart gave a leap and missed a beat, then began to thump madly as her eyes became locked on William’s, and they looked at one another as though their minds were linked by some invisible thread. It was his face, the face she knew by heart. It was the same, but now there were a few shallow lines around his eyes and mouth, and his cheekbones were sharper beneath the skin.
Her heart had been filled with angry recriminations and rancour, for she had not understood why he had not come to see her, or even been aware of what had kept him away. But her flesh had not stopped wanting him, needing him, loving him. Dragging air into her constricted lungs, she stared blindly. He was here now, so he must care for her after all.
He had been standing with his back partially to her when she entered, impatiently slapping his thigh with his leather gloves while he gazed out of the window to the courtyard below. Attired entirely in dark green, the only relief a small white collar, his broad shoulders were squared, his jaw set, and even in this pensive pose he seemed to emanate the restrained power and unyielding authority she associated with him.
William’s gaze became riveted on Eleanor the instant she stepped into the room and the sight of her had the devastating impact of a punch in the chest. This woman who was dressed in sombre black was Eleanor, his love, the woman who had so recently become a wife and was now a widow. The child was showing and never had she looked so radiantly beautiful or so serene, but there was a raw desolation in her lovely eyes. The light that had been put there by their loving and what was between them was gone completely.
Unperturbed by the disapproving look Lady Sandford gave him, he went directly to Eleanor and took her hands, his gaze searching her face. The ecstasy he had experienced on the day he had last seen her was still a marvel to him, for he had thought he knew all there was to know about passion, but he had not, not until Eleanor. Now he wanted nothing more than to drag her into his arms and hold her close, but with Lady Sandford’s hawk eyes fixed on him he was forced to control every muscle in his body, tightening, straining to endure the torture of Eleanor’s nearness.
‘I hope you did not think I was avoiding you,’ he said softly. ‘I called at Lord Taverner’s house in Westminster to see you as soon as I heard about what had happened to your husband, but I was told you were not receiving visitors.’
‘No—I—my father-in-law thought I was not up to it.’ William was looking at her intently and his magnetic eyes stirred her painfully.
‘I can understand that. I trust you are suffering no ill effects from the tragedy?’
‘No—although I cannot deny that Martin’s death came as a dreadful blow,’ she answered, trying to ignore the warmth tingling up her arms as he kept hold of her hands a moment longer before releasing them.
‘You’ve had a great shock, but you are in good health and strong. All will be well, you’ll see.’
Eleanor almost melted beneath the aching gentleness in his compelling eyes. ‘Do—do you know who killed Martin? Have you heard?’ she asked on an eager, hopeful note.
‘No, although speculation is rife. It’s a true mystery and people revel in mysteries. When they cannot find solutions they fabricate them, and there are all kinds of stories being bandied about. But come, Eleanor, it’s not good for you or the baby to dwell on such dark thoughts. Your mind should be on such matters as layettes and cradles and that kind of thing.’
Eleanor smiled up at him. William’s arrival was like a glimmer of light in a dark world. ‘I know, but when I think of the manner of Martin’s death, it’s no easy matter. I—I see you have met my aunt, Lady Sandford.’
‘Indeed. Thank you for receiving us, Lady Sandford,’ he said with a slight inclination of his head. ‘It was extraordinarily gracious of you.’
Lady Sandford stepped forward. ‘You are very welcome.’ She turned away, signalling to a servant to bring refreshments. ‘I have told Lord Marston what a pleasure it is to meet him at last and thanked him for taking such good care of you when you were in Yorkshire.’ Her eyes held Eleanor’s. Lord Marston’s unhidden interest in her niece positively invited questions, and the idea had already formed in her mind that this illustrious lord might well be the father of Eleanor’s child, but good manners forbade her to voice the question outright.
‘I am also pleased to meet your stepsister at last,’ she said, turning to the young woman who accompanied Lord Marston. ‘It would appear she is quite concerned about you, Eleanor.’
Eleanor was moved when Catherine came and took her hand and kissed her on the cheek with what seemed like affection.
‘I am here to offer my condolences, Eleanor—rather belated, I know, but I have only recently become aware of your loss.’
‘It was good of you to come, Catherine,’ Eleanor remarked, instantly establishing a familiarity that had not existed between them for a long time, not even at her wedding to Martin, when Catherine’s attitude had been remote and cool.
‘Sometimes it takes a tragedy such as this to make one realise what is happening. It’s a dreadful business. How are you feeling?’ Catherine enquired, a smile on her carmine-painted lips, her gaze raking Eleanor’s figure from her gauze cap to the hem of her blue taffeta gown. ‘In full bloom, I see.’
Eleanor stared at her in amazement. Perhaps it was because she was so used to Catherine’s peevishness in the past that her sudden affability was unexpected enough to pierce her abstraction. It was the first time her stepsister had spoken kindly to her in a long time and she was pleasantly warmed by the friendliness of her greeting, but she remained wary. It was over two months since she had seen Catherine and she still hadn’t forgiven her for working her mischief, for implying that she and William were together. Martin might still be alive if Catherine had been honest with her. She wondered if she and Godfrey were still lovers—if so, could this be the reason for this change in her?
‘I—I am as well as I can be, Catherine. I thank you for asking,’ she replied, trying not to look at the tall, perfectly built man who stood watching her with expressionless, glittering eyes.
‘As soon as I heard, I was concerned about you—we both were,’ Catherine said, turning briefly to include William in her statement. ‘Having lost my own dear Henry after such a short time of marriage, I know exactly how devastated you must be feeling, which is why I would like you to come and stay with me in Chelsea. I have suggested it to Lady Sandford and she is willing to agree—if it’s what you want, naturally. You must be taken care of.’
‘I hope you are not implying that I am incapable of taking care of my niece, Lady Wheeler,’ Lady Sandford remarked stiffly, looking extremely disgruntled that her efforts to look after Eleanor might be criticised. ‘Since her mother’s—my own dear sister’s—demise, I have done my best to do what she would have done for Eleanor.’
Catherine started at the sound of the imperious voice. ‘Why, no, I was implying no such thing,’ she said, quick to cover up any offence she might have given and tactfully going on to say, ‘but I thought, being so recently widowed myself, you understand, that we could be of help and comfort to each other.’
Meeting her aunt’s cold eyes, Eleanor was as aware as she was that their relationship was anything but close. ‘Aunt Matilda could not have done more for me,’ she murmured, hearing the irony of her words.
‘And now it’s my turn. Please say you will come, Eleanor.’
> ‘Catherine—forgive me—but I am bewildered. Since when did you care about how I was feeling?’
‘I am trying very hard to do the right thing.’ Drawing Eleanor aside, on a softer note that only Eleanor could hear, she said, ‘William wants you to come to Chelsea. You must come, Eleanor, you have to.’
Eleanor looked at her aunt. ‘Are you in agreement, Aunt Matilda?’
Lady Sandford’s eyes grew piercing. ‘The choice is yours, Eleanor. When you married Martin Taverner I recognised then that I no longer had any authority over you. Now you are a widow, you may do exactly as you please. However,’ she said, speaking to Catherine, ‘I trust you will take care of her. With a child on the way—and Lord Taverner having announced to the world that his son had no part in its conception—there will be one almighty scandal when it is born.’
‘Then we will shoulder the scandal together and live it down,’ William uttered firmly, shrugging indifferently as he took a stand beside Eleanor. ‘Gossip doesn’t matter to me, and since it does to you, Lady Sandford, I would advise you to accept it. You see, the child Eleanor is to bear is mine and I intend to marry her as soon as it can be arranged. Naturally it will be a quiet affair, attended by just close family and friends.’
Turning from the shocked expression on Aunt Matilda’s face and the all-knowing look on Catherine’s, Eleanor stared at him. His firm conviction that she would marry him, that she had no choice except to marry him, was more than she could bear just then.
‘You must let me choose, William, let me decide.’ Her voice held no intonation. Total control was all she could bear. To allow any emotion through would break the dam of her tears. Dignity was a kind of refuge.
At that moment the refreshments were brought in, creating a welcome diversion for Eleanor.
‘William, will you walk with me along the gallery. I—think we should talk.’
‘Of course. Lady Sandford, please excuse us.’
The long gallery overlooking the immaculate gardens was quiet. Walking slowly along its length, William fell into step beside Eleanor. After a moment he stopped and, taking her arms, turned her to face him. He did not care for the strange expression on her face. He could not as yet describe it or what it meant, but he did not care for it. He smiled in an attempt to lighten her mood and lifted his arms to draw her into his embrace, but she edged away from him.
‘Eleanor, what’s the matter?’ he demanded, his voice harsh with his disappointment. He had expected relief, delight, not what strangely looked like offence. Just when he thought everything was going to be all right, that she would agree on what they both hoped for, now that she was free, she had turned truculent.
‘Where have you been? Why did you not come? It’s weeks since Martin was killed and not a word from you. What was I to think?’ With her heart filled with angry recrimination, her voice was as anguished now as it had been when she had asked the question of herself when she had been told about Martin.
William blanched. ‘I’m sorry. I told you I did call, the day after, but I was informed you were too grief-stricken to receive visitors. I should have tried harder to see you, I know that now, but circumstances beyond my control made it impossible. Come, Eleanor, calm your anger and let us discuss what we are to do next.’
Eleanor stood before him, the look in her eyes telling him she was her own woman and if he thought he could bully her into doing his will then he could think again. ‘Discuss? Has it not occurred to you that I might appreciate being asked to marry you? Am I to have no say in the matter—an important matter that will affect my whole life?’
William looked amazed. ‘What is there to say?’
‘William, a lot has happened to me since we last saw each other. I have suffered most cruelly. I have been a widow for so short a time and I cannot possibly marry you—not now. There has to be a decent period of mourning, and I need time.’ Her unrelenting distress was evident in her tone.
‘I am not so insensitive not to know what you have been through, which is why I have given you time to come to terms with all that’s happened.’
‘I haven’t—not yet. It’s too soon—and—and I don’t think I will ever be able to come to terms with what I’ve done.’
William stared at her, his anger fierce and knife-edged. ‘Done? What are you talking about? Anyone would think it was you who killed Martin Taverner.’
‘It might just as well have been me,’ she flared, the expression in her eyes savage. ‘I killed him just as surely as if I’d wielded the knife. The wounds of Martin’s death and the awful manner of it are still wide open—it’s like Uncle John all over again. God knows I have wrestled with my mind, with my guilt, but the memory of it will not go away. I killed Martin—we both killed him. How can we possibly live together in harmony with the ghost of the man we have killed between us?’
‘What are you saying, Eleanor? For God’s sake, tell me.’
‘That last time we were together at Whitehall Palace, when you saw me coming in from the garden, I had been with Richard Grey. He—he was offensive, saying he wanted me out of the way and that Martin was going to send me to live in Devon.’
William looked at her incredulously. ‘He what?’
‘I think Richard Grey wanted me as far away from Martin as was possible.’
‘And you didn’t think this meeting with Richard Grey important enough to tell me?’
‘I should have, I know, and it would have made a world of difference if I had. I realise that now because we could have warned Martin. I taunted Sir Richard—which was quite wrong of me, I know, but I was angry. I—I told him about the baby and implied Martin was the father. He was furious—jealous, the kind of jealousy a lover feels when his partner has been unfaithful.’
‘Now that I can understand,’ William remarked scathingly, still unable to understand Eleanor’s hasty marriage to Martin Taverner and how furious and devastated he had felt on finding out.
‘I saw murder in his eyes,’ Eleanor whispered fiercely, her face ashen, ‘and I knew I must find Martin, to warn him, but when I saw you and you told me about my stepfather’s death, everything else ceased to exist. After that I should have resisted you. I had a premonition of what would happen and I should have looked for Martin.’
Her eyes were tortured and she reeled with what looked like such pain that William took her arms to hold her still. Had she been bottling all this inside her since Martin had been killed? He cursed himself for his stupidity, for his neglect of her. He should have insisted on seeing her when Lord Taverner turned him away from his house. He had intended trying again, and but for that damned fever that had laid him low he would have.
‘Eleanor, are you saying it was Richard Grey who murdered Martin?’
She nodded.
‘But you didn’t see him do it, did you?’
‘I didn’t have to. I know it was him. I am certain of it. Where is he now?’
‘As far as I know, he left Court soon after the murder.’
‘So nobody thought to question him?’
‘Why should they? He was not a suspect.’
‘Considering his relationship to Martin, he should have been.’
‘Eleanor, you must stop this. It will do you no good.’
‘But he did do it,’ she cried, ‘I know he did and he must be brought to account. He cannot be allowed to get away with it.’
William’s expression was grave. Taking her hands, he drew her down on to a window seat and sat facing her. ‘Eleanor,’ he said with sudden, profound emotion thickening his voice, ‘from my own encounters with Richard Grey, I know full well that he is capable of murder, so you don’t have to try to convince me of that.’
Eleanor saw what she thought was conflict in his face. A decisive, almost ruthless part of his nature seemed to be warring inside him with something immeasurably more vulnerable. ‘You do?’ Her voice was a little shaky and caught in her throat.
He nodded, holding her gaze with his own. ‘It was Grey who put
me on that ship. That I now know for certain.’
She stared at him in amazement. She could not doubt his accusation, for had she not some claim of her own to make? ‘Oh, William—I—I had no idea. You told me my stepfather was behind it and one other, but I did not imagine it was Sir Richard Grey.’
‘Atwood employed his nephew to do his dirty work. Losing both his parents at an early age, Richard Grey found a niche for himself at Fryston Hall. Greedy, grasping and calculating he was—just like his uncle—weaned on violence and often murder. When I appeared on the scene, gaining Atwood’s friendship—or what passed for friendship at the time—Grey was so irritated that his thoughts became entrapped in the resentment he felt for me.’
William grimaced. ‘He had no special licence to that emotion, however, for I suffered from like emotions. I can imagine his willingness to do his uncle’s bidding when he asked him to get rid of me—to dispose of me somewhere that there wouldn’t be a hope in hell of me coming back, ever—leaving everyone to think I had been a part of the plot that damned your father and had been banished.’
Eleanor’s brow puckered in a puzzled frown. ‘If—if my stepfather wanted to be rid of you as much as that, why go to all that trouble of sending you to the Americas? Why did he not kill you and have done with it? That would have been one sure way of getting rid of you for good.’
‘You stepfather would have, but Grey was a different matter. Beneath the skin Richard Grey is as cruel as Captain Paxton was. He knew perfectly well what he was doing when he abandoned me to Paxton.’
‘How do you know it was Richard Grey, William? Did my stepfather tell you?’
‘No. At the end he was too afraid of Grey to inform on him. Do you recall me telling you about the other ship that accompanied the George to America?’
She nodded expectantly.
‘I spoke with the captain, and he confirmed my suspicions. It was Grey who had me beaten and bundled on to that ship—and he paid Paxton a handsome price to do it.’
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