Bethany peered through the crack where the door opened to see Richard’s furious expression.
“You talk nonsense, Robina,” he replied angrily. “Bethany is as loyal to the church as you are.”
“Then why did she try to stop Father Francis from giving that poor little girl her passage into Heaven? How can you say she is loyal when she could do that?”
“She has just lost her only child, Robina,” he tried to reason with her. “She is a grieving mother and grieving mothers say and do all sorts of things they do not mean. You must understand that, or you have no right to call yourself a Christian.”
She drew back a little at that, but went on regardless.
“I shall pray for her, Richard,” she said. “And for you.”
She turned and had started to walk away when he called after her.
“Robina, I think it best if you return to France, tonight if possible.”
“What? Why? You will need me here, now more than ever.”
“I am returning to court tomorrow, straight after the funeral. Why would I need you?”
She did not answer for a few seconds, then she finally spoke with determination and that same manic look in her eyes.
“Richard, I too am grieving for that little girl, but I do not try to send away God’s messengers. Your wife needs my counsel, even if you do not.”
Bethany thought he might strike her then, he looked so angry, and she suspected that anger was induced by fear. He knew what his wife would say to her counsel, she would not be able to help herself. Then they would all be in danger.
“You will return to France, tonight,” he told her firmly. “I shall tell Anthony.”
With that he turned and walked away, while Bethany could only hope she left before she destroyed them all.
***
She felt a sense of dread when he had gone. If Richard was right, and he usually was, there would soon be a protestant monarch on the throne once more. Bethany should have felt happy about that, but she was in the same position as five years ago when he went off to fight for Mary. He had torn her love apart, yet she still cared for him. She wanted him to be safe, even if she never saw him again, even if she had to give him up to his whore. She wondered briefly if she would ever be able to bring herself to speak her name.
It was strange, being back at Summerville Hall. Each morning for weeks she would open her eyes expecting to be on her little straw mattress in her dark little cottage and she always thought she was still asleep and dreaming. It was strange having the servants to do things for her again. It took a little while until she stopped trying to do them herself, as they thought it very odd when Her Ladyship tried to light the fire. She had no idea where her clothes were. The last time she had seen them, they were being taken away in the coach, but she need not have worried. Richard had, as always, thought of everything and they were carefully folded in the chest at the bottom of the bed.
Anthony was subdued around her, unable to converse in his normal relaxed manner. He knew what had happened, where she had been. He knew she had betrayed his cousin, something he could never forgive, so she expected nothing else.
“You do not have to speak to me, Anthony,” she said. “The house is big enough I think so we need never meet.”
He looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments then sighed heavily.
“If Richard can forgive you, it is not my place to do otherwise,” he replied.
“Still letting Richard think for you, I see.”
“Not at all,” he replied stiffly. “It just happens that I disagree with him on this occasion, and that is not a position I am accustomed to.”
“You think he should have left me where I was? You think he should not have forgiven me, allowed me back in this house?”
“I think he should have disposed of you when he had the chance, just like...” he stopped talking abruptly, as though he had said too much. “It is what I expected him to do.”
She could only stare at him, totally shocked. Was this really Anthony talking? Gentle, considerate Anthony?
“Good thing for me, then, the decision was not yours.” She was silent for a moment, wondering whether she really wanted an answer to her next question, but it had been tearing at her for months so she could not help but ask. “He did kill Rosemary, did he not?”
“I have always believed he did, yes, although I could not say for certain. It is not something he would ever discuss.” He paused and stared at her, as though he was still wondering why Rosemary had to die, while Bethany, the real traitor, stayed alive.
“All I know is that he carried her body to London, to where my parents had just died of plague. He knew it was the best way to cover any foul play. What does that tell you?”
“If that is true, why do you suppose I escaped?”
He shrugged.
“Perhaps because you were the mother of his child,” he said at last and the implication was clear. She was the mother of his child no longer.
She left him and went to walk around the grounds. Her steps took her unwillingly to the spot where the swing hung still and silent, to the forest from where she had spent so many hours watching her little girl play. Then she turned and walked deeper among the trees, where the little cottage still stood, silent and deserted.
She stood before the ill-fitting wooden door for some time, afraid to go inside lest some unseen force should lock her in, lest she could not find her way out again. She shook herself free of the irrational notion, then opened the door and took one step inside, leaving the door ajar so she could make an easy escape.
She did not think there was anything there she wanted until she caught sight of the little leather pouch that had been with her since the beginning. It was still attached to the belt of the peasant’s dress she had been wearing when Richard arrived to reclaim her.
She wondered fleetingly if Belladonna kept its potency, as it would be useless if it did not. She picked it up and attached it to her waist. Who knows but she might still need it? Her husband might still decide to do away with her, when he realised she was of no further use to him.
For a little while she walked among the trees, easily recognising the one where he had first taken her as his wife. She could lie down there now and remember it, feel that thrill of first love once more, but why torment herself? It was over and done with and could never be retrieved.
CHAPTER TEN
There was little to do. She could ride out in the carriage and greet the villagers, who all believed she had been living in London all this time, she could ride out on horseback and be sure the tenants had enough supplies for the coming winter. At least she had someone to talk to, which came as a relief.
She was always greeted with joy by these people, as though merely by taking the time to visit she was conveying some great honour on them. She made sure they knew she was back in residence should they need anything. It was what the Earl would expect – at least she knew that much about him.
But they were all so eager to tell her how sad they were about losing little Lady Alicia. She could not bear it. Some of the women even came forward and hugged her as though she were a dear friend. She was rather touched by that, actually; it was how they had always greeted her husband, now it seemed she had been elevated to receive the same affection. Her father would have been horrified at the familiarity, but even more so that she was pleased by it.
She continued to walk about the grounds, even though there was now a chill in the air. The morning brought a mist with it, a dampness which would likely dry to sunshine later, but time was getting on and Christmas would soon be upon them again. Last Christmas she had spent alone, hidden beneath the fur covers to keep warm, and sobbed the day away. She wondered if Richard would return to Summerville and if he did, would he demand that his wife leave so he was not forced to spend time with her.
This year would soon be over, but still Mary reigned, still innocent people died.
Bethany was just about to leave the hou
se that morning to go for her usual walk when Anthony stopped her. He had avoided speaking to her since her return, unless it was absolutely necessary. It made her sad, since she had become fond of him, but she could do nothing about it.
“It seems you have visitors,” he said, glancing out of the window.
Seated on horseback was Sir Geoffrey Winterton, and in his hand he held the reins of another horse, upon which sat her brother’s wife, Margaret. Bethany had not seen her or her brother since her marriage and she could not understand what she was doing, why she had gone to Geoffrey or why he had brought her here.
Bethany hurried outside.
“Sir Geoffrey,” she greeted him.
“Take this woman off my hands, please,” he demanded. “She came to me early this morning, looking for your sister. I am surprised she does not know how she betrayed me.”
“Julia is dead, Sir,” she replied. “Did you not know that?”
“I do now,” he replied without so much as a flinch at the news. “That leaves me free to live as I wish. I have her money, which is all the good she ever was to me.”
Bethany could not answer; she was too angry.
She stepped forward and took the reins of Margaret’s horse, then led her toward the house as he rode away.
“Come inside, Margaret. Tell me what you are doing here.”
But she just stared at her as though she had spoken another language. A groom arrived to take the horse, but still she sat in her saddle, making no move to dismount.
“Are you getting down?” Bethany asked her. “Are you going to come inside, have a drink and tell me where Michael is?”
“Michael? Michael is dead,” she replied. “Along with his father and mother.”
Bethany jumped at this news, then felt Anthony beside her, his hand on her arm. He stepped forward and took Margaret’s feet out of the stirrups then lifted her to the ground. She thought she might resist, but she seemed in a trance.
“How?” She asked. “How did they die?”
“Murdered by the filthy Papists!” Margaret cried in a loud voice. Bethany looked at Anthony for a reaction, but he was calm as he handed her horse’s reins to the groom.
“Take her inside,” he said at last. “Before anybody hears her.”
When she had refreshments and the servant had left them, Bethany took her hand and sat silently for a moment, wondering how best to question her. She was not the same, that was for sure. She had always been a quiet, shy little thing, with little to say for herself. She had hung off Michael’s every word and agreed with everything he had to say; now she seemed to be slightly deranged.
“Tell me, Margaret,” she began. “Why are you here? Is Michael really dead?”
Margaret turned and stared at her for a few moments, then put down her goblet and got to her feet.
“I do not want you!” She cried. “You are in league with the devil! I want Julia; where is Julia?”
“Julia is dead,” Bethany answered. “Did you not hear me tell Sir Geoffrey that?”
“She has been murdered as well by the filthy idolaters? When will it end?”
“Margaret, you must keep your voice down. You speak heresy. You could get us all arrested.”
“Heresy? In this house, the house of the arch idolater? Well now, would that not pollute these old walls?” She turned and looked around before she spoke again, while she prayed no servants were within earshot. “It will not be long now before he gets what he deserves. Loyal Protestants are working even now to put the Princess Elizabeth on the throne where she belongs.”
“Margaret! You speak treason!”
“I will speak my mind!” She cried loudly. “Just as you have always done. You always shocked me with the way you spoke out, no matter what. Now I can see you were right, we should not spend our lives pretending just because we are women. Elizabeth will be Queen; Mary will die.”
Anthony stood in the doorway, listening. His face was crimson with fury, his fists clenched at his sides.
“You are distraught, Margaret,” Bethany said quickly. “I can see that. You need a good sleep. I will find you a bed and you can tell me what has happened later, when you wake.”
She turned to Anthony with a plea in her eyes. He owed her no favours; he likely believed that every member of her family was determined to ruin his, but she needed his help now and she was not afraid to ask for it.
“Have we a sleeping draught?” She asked him. “She needs to sleep, then she will be able to see clearly. Then we can decide what is best to do.”
He did not reply, only stared at her for a few minutes.
“I think I already know what to do, Bethany,” he said quietly.
“She has lost her mind,” she replied. “Can you not see that? She needs rest, then she will be better.”
“Even a lunatic will speak only her true thoughts,” he said, but he moved to his cupboard and came out with a bottle. “Give her this,” he said handing it to her.
“What is it?” She asked as she removed the cork and sniffed.
“Poppy juice. Give her too much and she will not wake up; it is your choice.”
She stared at him; was he seriously hinting that she should do just that?
While Margaret slept Bethany tried to decide what was best to do with her. She could not stay here, ranting about papists and plots to put Elizabeth on the throne. She would get them all killed. She ordered her taken to the east wing, that secret part of the house which was once more going to be put to use to protect a heretic. Another betrayal she would have to live with.
She took her supper on a tray, carefully locking the heavy door behind her.
“Margaret? Are you awake?”
She sat up and stared at Bethany, a look of contempt in her eyes like that she had seen in Julia’s.
“You knew, did you not?” Margaret demanded. “You knew when you accepted his wealth that he was a filthy papist.”
“That is all in the past now,” Bethany replied. “Tell me what happened. My parents were going to France.”
She shook her head violently.
“They never got there,” she said. “We never got there. They were stopped, imprisoned.” She took a bite of bread then glared at Bethany once more. “How did that happen, I wonder?” She demanded. “The evacuations were new then. Nobody knew about them, nobody but you.”
“Me? You do not think I betrayed you, do you? My own parents, my own brother.”
“Your mother said she wrote to you about it. How else did they find out?”
The letter. Mother’s letter that Richard found, that he had returned to her. And she had believed him so generous to do so, while all the time he...she could not bear to think of it.
“But that was years ago,” she went on. “How did you escape?”
“I got away when the soldiers came. I have had to work, Bethany. I have had to work in an inn to earn my keep like any low born woman. Because of him! Because of your husband.”
She was not about to reveal how she had lived because of that same man. How Margaret would love to hear that!
“You do not know that it was Richard who betrayed you. If mother wrote to me, she could have told anybody. She was never any good at keeping a secret.”
“It matters not who it was. He was the one who ordered it; he was the one who was in charge. Do not deceive yourself by thinking otherwise.”
Bethany was beginning to realise that herself, that he was not the innocent bystander she tried to believe he was, but overlord of all this carnage.
“He will get what he deserves soon enough,” Margaret was saying. “Elizabeth will be Queen and Lord Summerville and his cohorts will find themselves on the losing side at last. Now I am here you can help me.”
She backed away, horrified.
“No! You must forget any plans in that direction. You are lucky Anthony has not already sent for soldiers.”
“Him? He is no threat to me.”
Bethany could see she was unbal
anced or she would have seen the danger she was in, the danger she had put them all in. She got up and left the bedchamber, locking the door from the outside. She heard Margaret shout, jump to her feet.
“Bethany!” She screamed, hammering on the heavy door. “You cannot keep me locked up here. My friends will be here; I told them where I was going. Locking me up will not stop Elizabeth from becoming Queen!”
Nobody ever came near that part of the house, but there was always the risk they might.
“Well,” Anthony’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs. “What do you intend to do with her?”
She continued down the stairs to stand beside him. She could still hear Margaret hammering at the door, could still hear her screaming about her treacherous plans.
She made no reply, but moved to the settle where she sat down to think. She heard Anthony follow and enter the room behind her.
“What do you suppose I should do with her?” She asked him at last. “She is my brother’s wife.”
“She is a traitor. If she is not involved in a plot to murder Queen Mary, she deludes herself that she is. She is a danger to us all.”
“But what can I do? I can keep her in the east wing, at least there she can do no harm.”
“I can hear every word she is screaming, and so will everybody else. If you do not report her, then someone else will and it will look like we were hiding her, that we condoned her words. I will not risk a treason charge for some mad woman, even if she is your kin.”
She studied him for a long time, wondering how the few years since they had met had left him so hard and cold.
“I cannot report her, for Michael’s sake.”
“Michael is dead. Get rid of her, Bethany, or I will.”
She hoped Margaret would calm down, go back to sleep. She would take her more poppy juice, hope she would see reason, but when she went upstairs she could still hear her through the thick, oak doors to the east wing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Margaret,” Bethany pleaded. “If you promise to keep your voice down, to say nothing to anyone, I will help you.”
It had been a week since she arrived and since then she had not left this chamber. Bethany had tried to reason with her, tried to convince her she was putting them all in danger, but she did not seem to understand. She ranted about Elizabeth, about how her friends would come, but there had been no sign of them as yet. Bethany did not believe that any serious conspirators would allow someone like Margaret to be included in their plans.
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