"You were not here all day to hear her fuss and wail. Her tantrums were what drove Matthew back to Manchester."

"A useful talent."

"Spare me your sarcasm, Lady Appleton. The child is wilful, with the devil's own temperament."

"Or her father's?"

"I have seen how you watch your husband's child."

"Indeed?"

"You envy me. Resent me. Because of her."

"Perhaps," Susanna agreed, chagrined that although she'd gone out of her way not to seem jealous of the other woman, something of her feelings had leaked through.

Take Rosamond? The idea tempted her, but she had no wish to separate mother and child, and no desire to make Eleanor part of her permanent household.

She supposed she did begrudge Eleanor Robert's child. By rights, she ought to much dislike both Eleanor and Rosamond. After all, the little girl was nothing so much as a living reminder that Susanna had failed in her duty as a wife. She had been unable to give Robert a legitimate heir.

Chapter 25.

Holyrood Palace January 29, 1565 Catherine attempted to be objective as she watched Annabel MacReynolds cross Queen Mary's hall toward her. She'd had twelve days to brood about her friendship with Annabel, to wonder if the Scotswoman's warmth and charm might have fooled her into seeing affection where only political advantage existed. Had she been taken in by flattery? She did not like to think so.

But Catherine had grown up in the remote Lancashire countryside, living at Denholm Hall with only her irascible mother and the maids for company. In Lady Appleton's household in Kent, she'd filled the role of younger sister to the mistress of the house. Most of the other women she'd encountered there were much older than she, or servants, or visitors who did not stay long enough to establish more than a slight acquaintance.

She'd not had a close female friend until she came to the Scots court as Lady Glenelg and met Annabel, one of Mary of Scotland's eleven lesser ladies. In spite of what Catherine had heard about Annabel's involvement with Sir Robert Appleton, she had been drawn to the Scotswoman's cheerfulness and her outgoing nature. Catherine had convinced herself that Robert, who had collected mistresses the way some men acquired hats, must have seduced Annabel.

The friendship between the two women had deepened upon Catherine's discovery that Annabel would tolerate Bede, the foul-tempered pet ferret Catherine had brought with her from England. After Bede's unexpected death the previous summer, Catherine and Annabel had buried him in the garden in Canongate with a brief ceremony and copious tears.

But as much as Catherine wanted to believe her friend innocent of any involvement in Robert's murder, doubts tormented her. Sir Walter did not make mistakes. Not about this sort of thing.

The red-haired, green-eyed beauty embraced Catherine, engulfing her in a cloud of musky perfume. "I have missed you," she declared, speaking in her charmingly accented English, the English Catherine had been coaching her to speak.

"You were gone a long time," Catherine said. "Why you could have gone all the way to London and back in the span of your absence from Edinburgh."

"Whyever would anyone want to?" Annabel laughed at the idea, but her mirth vanished when she sensed Catherine's reserve. Stepping back, she regarded the Englishwoman with a solemn expression. "What has happened, Catherine?"

Once, Catherine thought ruefully, she'd thought herself skilled at finding out secrets. Now she could not even hide her own doubts.

"Perhaps I long to return home." She made the suggestion as a delaying tactic, a diversion, but as soon as the words were out she realized she meant them.

Annabel gave Catherine's hand a squeeze. "I can understand why. You love your Gilbert well but Scotland not at all."

"And for the most part, I do not care for the Scots." Catherine was careful to keep her voice too low for anyone to overhear.

Dour and quarrelsome by nature, and judgmental, too, many of those she had met in last two and a half years had been unwelcoming or intolerant. She was shunned, if not for being English, then as an educated woman. Annabel alone had seemed to be open and affectionate, accepting Catherine for who and what she was.

"I know what you are thinking," Annabel said. "If life here in Edinburgh is scarce tolerable, then Dunfallandy, where Gilbert is laird, will be unspeakable."

"Even Gilbert's mother, who was born there and wanted to return, fled back to her comfortable house in London after a fortnight."

"Never fear, Catherine. We will keep you here at court and you and I will find ways to enliven our days."

"I must speak with you in private." Catherine could no longer keep up social pretense. "'Tis a matter of great importance touching on my brother."

"As you wish." Annabel no longer smiled.

They met in the Canongate house an hour later. Catherine offered wine and marchpane and honesty. "There are questions which must be asked and I mean to ask them, no matter how painful they are. If what we have is true friendship, it cannot easily be rent asunder."

Without giving Annabel a chance to interrupt, Catherine told her everything she knew about Robert's death and Susanna's plight.

Annabel went still. When she spoke, her voice was somber. "My kinsmen will tell you I was here in Scotland all this time but you have no reason to believe them. They would lie for me if I asked them to."

"Would you lie to me?"

"I do not lie to my friends. But why should you believe that denial? Trust no one, Catherine. That is a great truth, one I learned when I was little more than a child."

"You are not so old now." Catherine bit down hard on a piece of marchpane, the third she'd devoured. She tended to eat when she was nervous or upset.

Annabel sighed. She seemed about to pose a question of her own, then appeared to think better of it.

"Do you know Sir Walter Pendennis?" Catherine asked.

"I know his name. A friend of Robert's."

"He seems to know a great deal about your time in France."

"It is no secret that I was in France with the queen."

"Are you an intelligence gatherer for the French queen mother?"

Annabel frowned. "I would be a great fool to admit it if I were."

"And I a greater one if I have allowed you to use me to spy on my husband."

"I like you, Catherine. And your Gilbert. I never betray the confidences of a friend."

"Was Robert not-?"

"A friend? Never. But neither was he mine enemy. I have never killed anyone, Catherine, nor wanted to. Not even Robert Appleton."

Frustration brought Catherine to her feet, scattering the marchpane crumbs that had fallen onto her skirt. "Someone did! I must go to England," she added a moment later. "I am not sure what I can do there, but this talk of friendship makes me see that Susanna needs her friends now, and needs them near her."

"I understand this. She befriended you long before you knew me." Annabel gave a brisk nod and rose to go. "Yes, you must go. And when you see her, tell Lady Appleton I do not believe Robert was . . ." she paused, searching for the right word, ". . . important enough that anyone in France or Scotland would want him dead."

"How do you-"

"That is all I will say on the subject." Annabel left in a rush, before Catherine could insist on questioning her further.

By the time Gilbert returned home a few hours later, Catherine was almost packed. She'd also given orders that Vanguard be prepared for a long journey.

Gilbert took one look at the capcases and trunks spread around their bedchamber and reached for her.

"Susanna needs me," she whispered against his neck. "If I leave at once, I can catch up with her before she leaves Appleton Manor."

"I cannot go with you."

"You will be with me in my heart."

Gilbert said nothing. Catherine freed herself from his embrace and studied his face. "What is it? What is wrong?"

"How can I ask you to return here? I know how much you miss England."

"So do you."

"My lands are here."

"We could live at Denholm Hall. It became yours when we wed."

"Your brother was content to take over his wife's properties and live off her inheritance. I'd not emulate Robert."

Two men more different Catherine could not imagine. "I will return," she promised, "because we vowed to become one, to abide together. But think about Denholm Hall while I am gone, Gilbert. We could be very happy there. You could serve at the English court as easily as at the Scots."

"Work for Sir Walter perhaps? As Robert did?"

"Not as Robert did." It was Catherine's fervent hope that no one would ever want to murder her Gilbert.

Chapter 26.

Appleton Manor February 10, 1565 After supper, Eleanor Lowell seated herself on a stool by the kitchen fire and prepared to read to her maids. This was a custom also practised at Leigh Abbey and on occasion during the past two weeks, any hope of departure put off by bad weather, Jennet had joined them to listen to chapters of A Proper New Book of Cookery, a volume so old that the pages were torn and the cover tattered.

Tonight, at Sir Walter's suggestion, he and Lady Appleton joined the circle settled on stools and benches around the hearth. Opening The Book of the Courtier, which Lady Appleton had brought with her from Leigh Abbey, Eleanor smiled at Sir Walter. "I understand this author does not hold silence a virtue in women, as most men seem to."

"Tom Hoby's a sensible man blessed with a clever wife," Sir Walter replied. "There's talk he'll be named amba.s.sador to France when Sir Thomas Smith is called home. A nice position, with a stipend of twelve hundred pounds per annum."

"Did you ever consider becoming an amba.s.sador?" Eleanor watched him the way a cat pondered a juicy mouse.

Sir Walter made a dismissive gesture but looked thoughtful.

If she'd dared, Jennet would have made a rude noise.

"Robert was in France with Hoby once, was he not?" Lady Appleton asked. "Long ago?"

Recalled to the presence of others besides Eleanor in the room, Sir Walter nodded. "Very long ago. I had just left my studies at Cambridge and gone to Italy at that time. Robert traveled to France with one of the earl of Leicester's brothers."

Struck by the fact that she already knew this, Jennet searched back through her memories. It had been a short while after she'd first come to Leigh Abbey as the lowliest of the maidservants, before her mistress had married Robert Appleton, though they were already betrothed. The servants often gossiped about where their betters had gone off to and what they were up to while they were there.

"The delegation was led by the marquis of Northampton," Sir Walter continued. "Lady Northampton accompanied him to France."

The woman dying in Blackfriars, Jennet remembered. Constance Crane's mistress. Had Constance also gone to France? From what Lady Appleton had said, Constance must have began her dalliance with Robert Appleton by then.

"In fact," Sir Walter added, "if memory serves, 'twas that very Lady Northampton who inspired Hoby to begin this translation. Just think, if not for her encouragement, we would have to hear you read in Italian, from the original version by Master Castiglioni."

He affected a mock-Italian accent for the last phrase and twirled one end of his mustache with his fingers. The jest was well received. Everyone knew Italians were untrustworthy and villainous. Jennet had not forgotten Lady Appleton's account of how they cut up dead bodies to find out what had killed them.

Under cover of more laughter, Jennet slipped unnoticed out of the kitchen. She'd been hoping for just such a chance. This was the only time of day when she could be certain where everyone was, even Bates and Fulke. They were in the stable, teaching Eleanor's menservants to play that dreadful card game, Put.

Jennet hurried along the pa.s.sage that connected the service rooms and kitchen to the hall. At most she'd have an hour to search undisturbed.

In Jennet's opinion, Eleanor Lowell was a liar and a cheat. She might not have gone to London and killed Sir Robert, but she knew more about him than she'd admitted. Jennet was sure of it.

What she expected to find, Jennet did not know, but she hoped for letters from Sir Robert. Eleanor claimed she'd received only one and that she'd burnt it. Jennet did not believe that either.

She crossed the hall, lit only by rushlights in the wall sconces, her ears c.o.c.ked for any sound. She heard nothing. She should be able to search Eleanor's belongings without fear of being caught. A grim smile on her face, Jennet climbed the stairs and entered Eleanor's chamber.

It was not unoccupied. Jennet had not thought it would be since Rosamond shared her mother's bed. Jennet had, however, been counting on finding the child asleep.

Old Widow Sparcheforde's curse still appeared to be at work.

As soon as Jennet entered the room and lit a candle, Rosamond peered out from behind the blue velvet hangings. "Mama?"

"I am not your mama. Go back to sleep."

Rosamond slipped out of bed to see what Jennet was doing.

Jennet tried to ignore her as she searched for letters or other incriminating doc.u.ments. If anyone questioned her, she decided, she'd say she'd heard Rosamond cry out in her sleep and had come in to check on her.

Eleanor possessed a great number of chests and boxes. Shivering in her thin chemise, Rosamond hovered at Jennet's side like a miniature ghost as she investigated the contents of the largest one. Jennet made the mistake of glancing her way.

Lady Glenelg's eyes looked back at her.

Jennet sighed. She wanted to dislike Rosamond, to see in her only a feminine echo of her faithless father. But Rosamond was also much like Sir Robert's half sister, and Jennet had been fond enough of her to ask her to be the G.o.dmother of her second child.

"Want Mama," Rosamond said, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

"She is busy now." Without warning, Jennet felt a powerful longing for her own little girls. She'd tried not to miss them but sometimes, when she let down her guard, the ache to hold them in her arms again as well nigh unbearable.