“What truth?”
“That nothing’s changed. That you have no more intention of devoting yourself to me than you do to Iris Dangerfield! After all, it would be a crime to deprive womankind of your virtuosic gifts when you can satisfy a wife and still manage to spread your talents around!”
The scar that cut down into his upper lip whitened. “I think you’ve gone quite mad, my lady.”
“On the contrary! I’ve seen the light! I’ll own that it’s not very pretty, but it’s better than languishing in the darkness of ignorant contentment!”
Sandhurst’s frustration was such that he felt an urge to shake some rational explanation from her, but his love for Micheline ran too deep. Again and again it rose up to push aside his rage, arguing for understanding.
“Micheline, won’t you tell me what’s brought this on? If I knew—”
“If you knew, you would weave some tale to pull over my eyes!” In the shadows, through her tears, there were moments when it seemed that Bernard stood there before her instead of Andrew—Bernard who had died before she learned the truth. Remembering him made it easier to resist the urge to forgive and forget. “You know what you’ve done, my lord. There’s no point in pretending innocence; I’m aware of the facts.”
“What facts?” Sandhurst felt as if he were in the midst of a bizarre nightmare. Even this conversation reminded him of some awful garden maze. Each promising turn became a dead end.
Micheline presented her back and walked to the window. “I don’t wish to discuss this further. Please go.”
His entire body taut, Andrew raked a hand through his hair. Closing his eyes, he swallowed further words of appeal. “This is madness… and the time will come, my lady, when you will beg my pardon for each word you’ve spoken here tonight.”
A moment later the door slammed, and Micheline was alone in the darkened bedchamber. A tremor shook her body, and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.
Part Five
Western wind, when will thou blow.
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
– Anonymous
Chapter Thirty-Five
June 10-11, 1533
Larks, finches, robins, and cuckoos began to sing before dawn, but Micheline could not be consoled as she lay alone in the bed that had been a cozy haven during the first weeks of her marriage to Andrew. It seemed that she hadn’t slept all night. Where was he? His parting words, “This is madness,” echoed in her mind, and she wondered if they’d been truer than he guessed. Micheline’s world, which had been so happy just a day ago, was now turned upside down, and she felt as if she were falling down a dark, bottomless tunnel.
“Lady Sandhurst?” Betsy’s voice came from the other side of the door, sounding unusually apprehensive. “Are you awake?”
Micheline almost smiled at the housekeeper’s intuition. On a normal morning Betsy wouldn’t have dreamed of asking such a question, for it couldn’t have been more than six o’clock, and the sun had scarcely begun to rise over the rounded Cotswold hills.
“Come in, Betsy.”
The older woman entered slowly. She tried not to react to the sight of her mistress’s pale face and the shadows under her beautiful eyes. “My lady, whatever it is that’s bothering you must be resolved—for the sake of your baby.”
Tears stung Micheline’s eyes. “I don’t know if that’s even possible, Betsy.”
Sighing, the housekeeper held out a folded sheet of parchment closed with Sandhurst’s seal. “His lordship asked me to give you this.”
She took it, trembling slightly, and whispered, “Where is he?”
“Gone to London, my lady. He left with Sir Jeremy Culpepper late last night.”
“Oh.” No matter how many times she told herself that she hated Andrew and didn’t care what he did, her heart would not be convinced. “Please, stay for a few minutes, Betsy.”
Haltingly she broke the seal and opened the paper, reading:
Michelle,
I have business in London, as you know, and this seemed a proper time to take care of it.
My hope is that you will resolve whatever it is that’s troubling you while I’m away. Since you don’t seem to want my help (just the opposite), I’ve taken you at your word and am leaving you alone.
Do, please, remember that I love you.
By your husband,
Sandhurst.
It was very terse and to the point, right down to his signature. Micheline tried to dismiss the austere declaration of love, but a rush of emotion in her breast would not be denied. “Did he say anything to you, Betsy?”
“Very little, my lady. He asked me if I knew what might be upsetting you, and I said no. I can’t recall the last time I saw Lord Andrew in so black a mood. At first I thought the ale he and Sir Jeremy drank at the stables might be the cause, but I soon realized that whatever passed between the two of you had rendered him utterly sober.” She gave Micheline a searching look. “Do you want to hear the rest?”
“Yes. Please.”
“He asked me if anyone had been here talking to you during the day. He seemed to think that someone had been putting ideas into your head, and quite frankly I had the feeling he was rather upset that you might accept someone else’s lies over the truth from his own lips.”
“I see you’ve taken his side, and I’m not surprised. You’d be wise, though, to think twice before accepting the word of so charming a man. I trusted him, too, until I learned of his infidelity from two different sources.”
Betsy studied the younger woman’s stubborn profile. “I don’t know what you heard, my lady, but I’ve known Lord Andrew nearly all my life. Charming he may be, but he’s never used it as a weapon—and he’s never lied to me or anyone else here at Sandhurst Manor!” She stood up, then paused to look back at the bed, trying to keep the anger from her voice. “There’s one thing I do know, and you should too! Lord Andrew loves you better than his life! When he left, he asked me to look after you and I’ll do so, but I must say I’m not very happy right now to claim you as my mistress!”
*
That evening Micheline dined with Patience and Cicely in the summer parlor. There was venison left over from the day before, plus mushroom and orange salad, an herb pudding, and almond soup that Patience had made that afternoon and now served with her own hands.
Micheline had come downstairs only because Patience had urged her to do so. She needed to get out of that bedchamber and eat a wholesome meal, Patience insisted, if only for the sake of her baby.
During supper Cicely stared at her new sister-in-law as if seeing her for the first time. Although she’d made up her mind before they ever met that she detested the Frenchwoman, she now found her heart softening as she regarded her poignantly sad expression. There were lilac-hued smudges under her luminous eyes, and her mouth turned down at the corners in a way that constantly threatened tears.
“I hope you’re not worried about Andrew,” Cicely ventured at one point. “He’ll be fine on his own… and I know he’ll be back here soon.”
Micheline nibbled at a wedge of orange, then pushed the food around her dish with a new pearl-handled fork. “I suppose…”
“It’s probably a good thing that he’s away for a bit,” Patience said, leaning over to put a bowl of soup in front of her. “You’ve had a shock, my dear, and can use this time to adjust.”
Cicely’s expression was troubled as she looked from one woman to the other. “Andrew’s not a monster! I mean, there’s no reason for you to stop—uh—caring about him.”
Arching a warning brow at the younger girl, Patience agreed, “That will come in time, of course.”
At that moment Betsy Trymme appeared in the doorway. “Pardon the interruption, my lady, but I don’t seem to be feeling very well. The soup may have been a bit rich for me. If you don’t mind, I’ll go on to bed now.”
“Certainly, Betsy. I
hope you’re feeling better in the morning.” When the housekeeper had departed, Micheline sighed. “I don’t have much of an appetite myself. Will you both excuse me?”
“But you haven’t touched your soup!” Patience exclaimed, wounded. “I ground the almonds and picked the herbs myself! Please, at least try it! Whatever ails Mistress Trymme has nothing to do with my soup!”
Prepared to do anything to stop Patience’s whining, which sounded remarkably similar to Rupert’s customary tone, Micheline obediently swallowed several spoonfuls of soup. Thick with ham, cream, sherry, and almonds, it was far too rich for her taste that evening. “It’s delicious, and I appreciate your efforts, but I fear that I simply haven’t much of an appetite.”
“What do you think. Cicely?” Patience pointed her long chin in the younger girl’s direction.
“I can’t say, I’m afraid. I despise almonds. Sorry, but I won’t taste it even for you, Patience.”
They were still arguing about whether Cicely should try the soup as Micheline rose and slipped from the room. Upstairs, she shed her gown and petticoat, then walked over to the dresser and picked up her looking glass.
“Mon Dieu,” she whispered, “I look ghastly.”
Still wearing her chemise, Micheline crossed the chamber and crawled into the bed that now seemed cold and uncomfortable without Andrew. His face swam before her, even after she closed her eyes, but at least tonight sleep stepped in to provide an escape. In fact, Micheline found that once again she was unable to resist its seductive force.
*
In her own bedchamber Lady Cicely Weston lay wide awake, though the manor house was dark and she guessed it must be nearly midnight. Aside from the guilt she felt for causing her brother and his new wife so much distress, she also had the uneasy feeling that something else was wrong. Patience had been acting awfully odd lately. Of course, she’d always been odd, but there was a twist to this new mood that disturbed Cicely.
Why should Patience want to conspire to drive away Andrew’s wife? When she’d suggested that they tell Micheline he’d been unfaithful, her explanation about sympathizing with Cicely and knowing that Micheline was wrong for Andrew seemed to make sense, but now Cicely had second thoughts. It had seemed rather a joke yesterday—until she saw her brother’s face late that night when he was preparing to leave for London. She’d understood then just how deeply he loved Micheline. It was a love too real to be killed by an unkind prank. The thought of him in pain, because of her, had haunted Cicely ever since.
Complicating the situation further was the fact that Cicely was beginning to like Micheline. She realized now that sparks of affection had been struck many times, beginning the day in Yorkshire when Micheline had invited her to live with them, but all along Cicely had obstinately refused to open her heart’ Tonight at supper, however, the sight of Micheline’s stricken pale face had struck a chord within Cicely. She was starting to understand that this French girl Andrew loved so completely might become a lifelong friend rather than the enemy she’d imagined.
Sighing, Cicely turned on her side and closed her eyes, trying to relax enough to sleep. Tomorrow she resolved to treat Micheline with kindness. Perhaps overtures of friendship might be made… if it wasn’t too late.
An odd, soft sound outside her door caused Cicely to lift her head from the pillow. Someone was out in the corridor! Who could it be—and why? She sat up, listening. It seemed to her that the person was moving down the hall, toward Andrew and Micheline’s bedchamber. Moments later all was silent, but Cicely continued to feel uneasy.
Finally she climbed out of bed, donned a wrapper, and instinctively picked up a candlestick. Strangely fearful, she stood next to her own door for a full minute before summoning the courage to open it and step into the corridor. At first, the only sound Cicely heard was the pounding of blood in her temples, and she was surrounded by darkness. Then she saw Patience emerge from Micheline and Andrew’s room in a blaze of light. When the bony woman closed the door behind her, the hallway went black once again.
Cicely sniffed the air, terror-stricken. Could there be a fire? If so, why wasn’t Patience screaming for help, sounding an alarm? A horrible thought occurred to her… almost too horrible to entertain.
She had no idea where Patience was, but she had no choice. It was imperative that she enter Micheline’s bedchamber. The increasingly strong smell of smoke told her that all their lives depended on her actions now.
Cicely ran as lightly as she could down the corridor, hoping that Patience had gone downstairs—or outside, in search of safety. Her palm was wet clutching the candlestick, and it seemed that her heart would burst with terror, but she found the latch. No sooner had her fingers touched it than she was savagely thrown to the floor. Sharp fingernails clawed at her face and closed around her throat, squeezing, but Cicely was younger and stronger than her attacker. She brought up the candlestick, aiming for the shadow above her, and struck repeatedly with all her might. Finally she felt the fingers go slack against her neck as a body slumped over her own. She recognized Patience’s cloying scent and shoved her aside with revulsion.
An instant later Cicely was scrambling to her feet and feeling for the latch. She pushed it upward, opened the door, and felt as if she had stepped into the sun. The entire room was on fire, it seemed. Blinking, she discovered that the flames were centered on the bed. The velvet tester and curtains were ablaze, but incredibly Micheline lay sound asleep and untouched in the middle of the feather tick.
“Micheline!” she screamed, shaking her brother’s wife. “Get up!” When the girl merely moaned in response, she grabbed her arms and dragged her off the bed. Sparks dropped onto Micheline’s chemise and caught fire, but she rubbed them out with her own hands. “Help!” she screamed. “Someone—help”
No one came. Cicely’s heart seemed to be throbbing over every inch of her body as she ripped the fiery bedhangings down piece by piece and covered them with the Turkey carpet. She didn’t feel the burns on her hands or notice the scorched smell of her own hair. When at last there was no more fire, Cicely collapsed beside the unconscious Micheline and sobbed hysterically.
*
“It must have been that horrid almond soup,” Micheline murmured weakly. Propped against a carved chest, she surveyed the wreckage of her bed, then looked at Cicely. “Even the servants were drugged.”
The younger girl nodded, glancing out into the corridor where Patience’s body lay. “She’s dead, you know.”
“I’d say she deserved her fate, and that you have demonstrated incredible courage, ma soeur. We have to get you to a physician, though. Your face—and hands—” Micheline struggled to rise. She still felt as if she could sleep for days, and her limbs were like water, but whatever it was that Patience had put into the soup would have to be overcome. Staggering slightly, she reached out to Cicely, who warmly accepted her embrace. “I owe you my life,” she whispered thickly.
They hugged tightly, tears mingling on their cheeks. “I’m only sorry for—”
“No. The present begins now,” Micheline said firmly.
“It wasn’t true, you know, what we told you about Andrew.” Cicely began to weep, in reaction to the night’s events as well as the confession she was making. “Lady Dangerfield tried to seduce him that night at Whitehall, but he was positively rude to her. I couldn’t really understand it at the time.”
Micheline stiffened as her mind began to return to normal. “Andrew!” she breathed as if terrified. “He’s in London—with Rupert! Patience must have been in league with him. Oh, mon Dieu! I must go to him at once!”
Cicely looked equally stricken. “Micheline, you don’t actually think—”
“I’ll tell you what I think. I think those two plotted all of this very carefully. They tried to dispatch me before the wedding, and when that didn’t work, they worked out an elaborate plan whereby they could kill each of us separately. An accidental fire for me—”
“But if you’re right,” Cicely
interrupted, breaking into tears, “Andrew could already be dead!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
June 11-12, 1533
Micheline arrived in London the next evening after a long ride on Primrose. Although it was pleasantly warm, summer also meant an intensification of some of the worst smells she had ever endured. She rode behind a groom through the city’s impossibly cramped, twisting streets, following him to the home of Sir Jeremy Culpepper. Micheline feared that Rupert might be at Weston House, and she had no intention of alerting him to the fact that she was still alive.
They drew to a halt in front of a tall, narrow, half-timbered house in Drury Lane. Micheline dismounted quickly and handed Primrose’s reins to the groom, then rushed over to pound on the door.
Jeremy himself opened it. Never had Micheline seem him looking so drawn and worried. Her heart, which had been pounding madly, seemed to stop for a long moment.
“Andrew—” she gasped, fearing the worst. “Is he all right?”
If Culpepper was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. Waving her into the entryway, he said, “Come in and sit down. Are you alone?”
“I came with a groom. We just arrived from Gloucestershire.”
He spoke to a servant, ordering food and water for the groom and horses, then he took Micheline into a small parlor and poured goblets of wine for both of them.
“You’ve heard the news?”
A cold, sickening chill swept over her. “No. That is—I have news of my own, but you go first. I want to hear about my husband. Where is he?”
Jeremy ran a pudgy hand through his curly hair. “Sandhurst was arrested last night. He’s imprisoned in the Tower.”
“The—Tower?” She drew a harsh breath, remembering the pirates hanging in chains from the Tower walls, not to mention the countless stories she’d heard about the rat-infested dungeons with their instruments of torture. “Andrew—arrested?! On what charge?”
“It’s not entirely clear to me. I went to Weston House this morning and Rupert told me the news. Apparently Sandhurst’s been accused of attempted adultery with the queen, and there was something about treason as well. I gather someone overheard him making derogatory comments about King Henry.”
Lords of the Isles Page 63
