HOLY POISON: Boxed Set: The Complete Series 1-6

by Margaret Brazear

“I would never have lived with myself had I hurt you and I would not have carried out my threat, not once I was calmer. I know two people found you, one who knew your identity and one who did not. But it seemed neither one could tempt you from your hiding place, so I was spared the dilemma of having to think about it. I am sorry you were frightened.”

  “I am so sorry, Richard,” she said. “I should never have made all those promises to you, not when I had no idea if I would be able to keep them.”

  “You broke every one of them,” he said, but there was no anger in his tone. “But I cannot see how you could have done anything different. There is but one of the promises I fear you might have broken voluntarily.”

  “What?”

  “I asked someone to follow Carlisle, to find out what he was doing. He followed him to the priest’s cottage.”

  Fear jumped through her, almost stopping her heart. Was he going to accuse her now, leave her after all? She could not bear it.

  “I did not invite him,” she said. “He was curious. He wanted to take me away, to help me, nothing more I swear it.”

  “And you refused to go with him?”

  “Yes. I would not have left Alicia, but I would not have gone anyway. He was still helping Protestants to escape and I was not brave enough to do that again.”

  “And that is all? That was the only time you saw him?”

  “Of course. What are you talking about?”

  “The man who was following him believed him to be your lover.”

  She stared at him in horror, studying his expression intently. Was he angry, jealous?

  “Richard, I failed to give you a son, I failed to become a Catholic, I even failed to behave like the countess you made me, but I would never, ever be unfaithful to you. I could never do that; I love you too much and nobody will ever take your place in my bed or in my heart.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Do you believe me?”

  She was relieved to see him smile.

  “I believe you. Even when he suggested it, I could not believe it was true. Perhaps I am too conceited.”

  She kissed his cheek.

  “What will you do now?” She asked reluctantly. “Will you find a place at the court of Queen Elizabeth?”

  “I doubt it. She may have pardoned her sister’s enemies, but she does not trust them. I betrayed Mary; she sees no reason why I would not betray her also.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment, then went on: “Besides, I do not believe I could tolerate being so close to a Protestant monarch.”

  “You still adhere to the Catholic faith? After everything Mary did, after all the horrific deaths, how can you?”

  “It was a pure and simple faith, easy enough to follow, easy enough to believe. It gave comfort in confession and absolution.” He stopped and hugged her closer, as though deciding if he should say more. At last he went on. “I had great hopes when Mary became Queen. I believed she would convince the people that it was the right way, the true faith. I lost patience with her very early on and I was not the only one. She had the opportunity not only to bring England back to Catholicism, but to prove a woman could rule wisely. She threw away that opportunity and for that I cannot forgive her. Instead of bringing England back to the church of Rome, she has ensured that no Catholic will ever again sit securely on the throne of England.” His jaw clenched as he went on bitterly: “She has turned the communion wine into holy poison.”

  “I am sorry,” Bethany whispered. “I am sorry you were disappointed with your Queen and I am more sorry that I could not follow you, that I could not keep my promises.” She hugged him tighter, hoping to make him understand, even though she did not really understand herself. She wanted to do something for him, something to ease his disenchantment. "It all seemed so easy at the time. All I had to do was change my faith to one I believed was dead and gone and meant nothing, tolerate your infidelities and give you a son. I failed in all of those things, failed miserably. I am so very sorry."

  “It was my own fault,” he said swiftly. “I was attracted to you because you could not pretend, because of your openness and honesty, and I was arrogant enough to believe your faith was unimportant, not the true faith. I believed you would soon see that. How could I have expected you to follow me?”

  “Can we stay here, together, at Summerville, where we were happy? It is not yet too late to have a son; you will give me a chance to keep that promise?”

  “I would like that,” he said quietly. “I would like to start again, if that is possible. If you can put the past years away, out of your mind. I know you once loved me. I would give anything to know I have not completely destroyed that love. Could we start again? Or is it too late?”

  Her lips found his and kissed him with all the passion and longing she had carefully held in check for the past four years and her heart sang when she felt his body stir in response.

  “Does that answer your question, My Lord?”

  “Richard,” he replied. “My name is Richard.”

  THE END

  THE FLAWED MISTRESS

  HOLY POISON

  Book Two

  THE FLAWED MISTRESS

  Rachel's Journal

  by

  Margaret Brazear

  http://www.historical-romance.com

  © Margaret Brazear 2013

  The Final Confession of Lord Richard Summerville is not available to the general public. Find out how you can have access to this hidden document

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rachel's Journal

  Were anyone to ask me about my childhood, I would have to reply that I did not have one, at least not one that I can remember. I was born Lady Rachel Stewart, the child of an impoverished earl, a man who had gambled and drunk away his entire fortune, and that of his three wives, the last of which was my mother. When I came along there was little left and by the time I was ten, there was nothing.

  I recall lying in bed at night and hearing the quarrel about money, Father telling Mother that he had found a way to pay off all his debts and have a lot left over, her protesting, begging him not to do it. I had no notion of what this was all about, and I did not want to know, so I buried my head beneath the covers and stopped up my ears before the blows started falling, before my father got his whip with which to persuade her that he was right.

  All I remember of my father is that I feared him. He had never hurt me as such; he never paid me that much attention, but he was violent toward my mother on a daily basis. Whatever went wrong, it was her fault and she took the punishment for it. I did not know then, of course, that the beatings she took were often caused by her defence of me; to keep him away from me she had put herself in the way.

  Children never know these things. They just take it for granted that this is how things are and I probably assumed that this was the way things were in every family.

  All I knew was that we were all safer if I kept out of his way. If I made him angry, my mother would be hurt. He had no interest in me, or so I believed, and that suited me well.

  I was completely innocent then, knowing nothing of the world or even how babies were born. I was just a child and things would not have been spoken about in front of me, not even if Mother had anyone to talk to.

  She only had me and the servants, but nothing could be confided to them. They knew precisely what went on, as servants always do, but they feared my father as much as my mother and I did.

  My earliest memory is that of my tenth birthday, of watching my father fill himself full of strong wine and listening to my mother’s weeping from her bedchamber. I had no idea why she was crying more than usual, but a huge carriage arrived early in the morning and made her wails even worse. It was as if the very sight of that carriage hurt her somehow.

  The gentleman who stepped out of the carriage was old, not only by my own standards but elderly by the standards of the time. He was, in fact, my father’s age with similar grey hair and lined face, although without the bloated face and body that my father had acquired through
drink.

  His clothing declared him to be wealthy. He wore a doublet of red satin, with rich embroidery and encrusted jewels. His hose was silk and on his gnarled fingers he wore many rings, too many for simple decoration and good taste. He could have done a lot of damage with those rings, should anyone challenge him.

  I was watching from the gallery when he entered, when he strode passed the servant who stepped forward to show him in to see my father, and into the great hall itself. If I had known then that this man was to be the cause of all the misery to come in my life, I would have run away and hid somewhere, never come out of my hiding place.

  But I did not know, nor could I guess at the motive for his visit. I was too young then to even imagine what he might want, too young to know that there was anything more evil than my father and his whip.

  “Well,” the stranger demanded. “I have the money. Have you decided yet? I cannot wait forever.”

  He threw a velvet purse down on the table and my father took it and opened it up to look inside, while his eyes grew wide and greedy.

  “It is all there,” the stranger said. “One thousand gold pieces as we agreed, as well as all your debts paid.” He watched my father for a few seconds, then added with a smirk of satisfaction: “Not bad for a loan of one day. She had better be worth it.”

  My father nodded, then got up and came to the bottom of the stairs, calling my name.

  “Rachel,” he called. “I have a special birthday present for you. Come down here.”

  I moved slowly down the stairs, not wanting to trip and disgrace myself, but also because I did not feel very safe in the company of this man. I had never felt safe in the company of my father, but that was because he got drunk and became violent. There was something else about this man that made me afraid, although I could not have said what. I was too young then to know; I would know now.

  “This is Mr Carter, my dear,” my father went on. “He is a friend and he wants to take you out for the day to celebrate your birthday. Is that not good of him?”

  I remember shaking my head in mute refusal. I did not want to go with him and even my ten year old mind could not fathom why this stranger might want to take me out. Perhaps he had no children of his own, I tried to tell myself, but even as I thought it, something told me that was not the reason.

  I heard my mother crying from the top of the stairs.

  “No! You cannot take her!”

  My father climbed the stairs then, faster than I thought possible in an old man so unfit. I turned to look, turned in time to see him strike my mother across the face, hard, tearing her cheek with his ring. It was not the first time I had witnessed that particular scene and I did not know then that it would be the last, but on this occasion that was all I saw, because Mr Carter had grabbed my arm and was dragging me to his waiting carriage.

  I tried to pull away, but I was weak and this man was strong, even for his age. The coachman took no notice of my screams or my pleas for help; they went unheeded, both by him and by my father’s own servants.

  Mr Carter lifted me up and pushed me inside, then climbed in beside me and slammed the door shut. I could still hear my mother’s screams but I was unsure whether she was crying for me or from the beating my father was giving her.

  I tried to push myself as far into the corner of the seat as I could while the man ordered his coachman to drive on. Then he turned to me and smiled; it was not a welcoming, friendly smile, but one I could not interpret. Now I know it was a smile of lust, but then I had never before seen any such smile directed at me.

  “Your father told no lie,” Mr Carter said. “You are beautiful. Even more beautiful up close than when I first saw you in the street. You will be the most beautiful little girl we have ever entertained.”

  I had been told before that I was beautiful, and I had always been quite pleased. I had no way of knowing that those same words coming from this man would warp my emotions every time I heard them for the rest of my life.

  Mr Carter’s coachman returned me to my father’s house late that night. He had to climb down and carry me inside because I could not walk and I cannot remember when I have ever been in so much pain. I remember him handing me over to a manservant of my father’s who carried me upstairs to my bedchamber, and every step he took brought further agony.

  I have tried all my life to blot out the events of that long and painful day, tried to forget Mr Carter and his friend who took turns to rape me, then thought themselves generous when they produced a sumptuous meal at midday and were angry that I could not eat. The friend had a long and deep T shaped scar down the side of his face that made him look like a monster out of a fairy tale. He had a skinny body that made his head look too big, and that made him even more of an ogre to my ten year old imagination. That scar imprinted itself on my nightmares for many years to come.

  I am talking now from the perspective of an experienced woman, not the child I was. I did not know what was happening, only that it hurt badly and that it was wrong and embarrassing. That was not the way I should have learned that men are built differently from women, but that was my father’s special birthday present.

  The more I struggled, the more the two men laughed at my helplessness and I overheard them telling each other that I had been worth every penny that I had cost.

  I was terrified by this talk, as it seemed to me that my father must have sold me to them and that I would have to spend all my days like this one. Despite the terrible pain I was in, I was so relieved to be delivered back to my home, I was sobbing with it.

  I had no nurse or governess. I had once, but that was before my father had squandered all his money and could afford such a thing. Any education or care that I received was from my mother and that night she was there at my bedside, carefully removing what was left of my clothing.

  She moved slowly and I knew even at that age that it was because she was also in pain. She moved with one arm held to her ribs, the other being the only one she could use. I had witnessed this before; it was nothing new. Her bruises were angry and her eye was swollen shut, yet still she tended to my wounds that were bleeding heavily.

  “Enough is enough,” she said quietly. “I thought I could not suffer any more at his hands, but what he has done this day has been too much. Tomorrow we leave.”

  I sat up as best I could and leaned against the pillows.

  “Leave?” I asked. “Where will we go? We have nowhere to go, do we?”

  “We will go to my brother,” she replied regretfully.

  “Your brother? I did not know you had a brother.”

  “We have not spoken for many years,” she said quietly. “Not since long before I married. My father turned him out; he did not approve of the woman he married and would have nothing more to do with him. But my father died before he had time to change his will, so Stephen still inherited the bulk of his fortune.”

  “But you know where he is?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  "He inherited my father's house, the one I grew up in. I assume he is still there, at least I pray so. Sleep now,” she said, putting her hand gently on my forehead. “We will leave in the morning and go to London to find your uncle.”

  I slept fitfully for a few short hours, my dreams filled with images from the day. I relived every horrifying moment and when I woke in the dark, cold room, I forced myself to stay awake, wondering if I would ever sleep again.

  I was also concerned about how we would escape the house without my father stopping us. I could not bear the thought of my mother receiving another severe beating at his hands and I wished I were grown up and able to defend her. She was too weak now; I did not think she would survive.

  I need not have worried as the next day there was no sign of my father. I had no idea where he could be, as his usual habit was to start drinking before breakfast. It was unlikely that he would have gone out riding or even walking, and besides it was pouring with rain. He was a man who liked his comforts.

 
When I asked my mother she only told me that we were in luck and to hurry before he came back. I needed no more prompting than that.

  ***

  I remember little about the journey to London except that I was terrified every time we had to stop that my father would appear out of nowhere and order us home.

  The carriage was damp and cold and we kept the blinds down to keep out the rain. Every bump in the road broad me fresh agony and I cuddle against my mother for comfort. It was my father’s carriage and we were driven by his own coachman; I remember being surprised about this and that my mother handed over her emerald necklace to him before we boarded the coach. I realise now that was his payment for taking us and for keeping quiet about it but then I was just scared that he would tell.

  By the time we arrived at my uncle’s house, I was in a lot more pain from the day before and I noticed that my mother was having difficulty breathing. It took her a long time to climb down from the carriage, each step was agony and left her with even less breath.

  She stood still and looked up at the house before carefully moving forward.

  "This is where I grew up," she said softly. "This was my father's house."

  I did not reply as I was only surprised that she was telling me this much. She never normally spoke about her past or anything that had led to her marriage to my father, who was many years older than her.

  I know now that she was forced into a marriage with him because he was titled and her family were wealthy commoners. There was nothing unusual about this arrangement, that an impoverished aristocrat would trade his title for a rich dowry and all a woman could do was pray for a kind man. My mother's prayers had gone unheeded.

  My uncle did not seem pleased to see his sister after so many years. When first he opened the door he just stood and stared at us, as though he had no idea who we were. My mother was leaning against the porch pillar, unable to stand without support, and I wanted to scream at him to let us in. Even a stranger would have let us in, seeing the state of us. He took us in at last, gave us refreshments and when he realised how bad was our condition, sent for a physician.