Ellen looked down at the dark green tincture, which glistened in the sunlight. ‘My lady, you know such things are forbidden. If anyone were to see me—’
‘Then you must not be seen,’ Frances interrupted, pushing down her sense of foreboding. ‘I wish I could attend the woman myself, but you know that I cannot venture from here. Yet neither can I leave her to suffer, when God has given me the skills to help her – cure her, even.’
Her nurse eyed her uncertainly before looking back at the phial.
‘Please, Ellen,’ Frances urged. ‘I can trust no one else.’
The old woman fetched a deep sigh, then drew a kerchief from her pocket and wrapped it around the tincture. ‘I pray that you will not ask this of me again, my lady,’ she said.
Frances leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. They walked slowly down the stairs and outside, where Frances watched anxiously as Ellen hobbled towards the bridge, fighting a sudden impulse to run after her. It was madness to have put her at such risk. But she could not let the poor wretch in Britford choke out her breath without trying to help her. No, she had done the right thing, she told herself, pushing down the fear that gnawed at her breast.
Once the child was born and the swelling in her stomach had subsided, word could be put out that she had recovered from the sickness that had obliged her parents to release most of the servants, for fear of contagion. Only those whom they were sure could be trusted remained. Frances had been surprised by how few they were. But she trusted her father’s opinion implicitly.
He had decided that, after several months had passed, his grandchild could be passed off as the orphaned offspring of some distant relative, whom he had agreed could be raised at Longford. In the meantime, Frances would make sure to be seen often in Britford and Salisbury, while her baby remained closeted in the nursery. She felt a rush of gratitude towards her father – her mother too – as she thought of what they hazarded for her sake. Most other daughters in her position would have been sent to a nunnery, their child taken from them as soon as it was born. If her father’s plan worked, she could raise her baby, while escaping the censure of society.
Frances watched until Ellen was out of sight, murmuring a prayer that God would keep her safe. She was loath to go back indoors just yet. Edward did not like her to stray from the privy garden behind the house, which was enclosed by a thick yew hedge, and her refusal to obey had prompted several arguments. But he was not here and she must take advantage. Perhaps she might even wander as far as the wilderness that lay at the edge of the estate, close to the woods.
A chill breeze blew across from the river and Frances shivered. She experienced a pang of guilt that she had not thought to give Ellen a cloak for her journey in case the weather turned, as it did so often at this time of year, with little warning. She decided to fetch her own cloak and was starting towards the house when she heard the distant rumble of a horse’s hoofs. Turning back, she squinted towards the road that led to Salisbury, and could just make out a cloud of dust in the distance. Even from here, she could tell that the rider was moving at speed. Surely Edward had not returned already? No, he did not ride with such skill. She felt a jolt of fear. There had been many such hasty messengers during the desperate weeks before Tom’s plot had been discovered. They had rarely brought welcome tidings. She knew that she ought to return to the house, but felt unable to move.
Gradually, the outline of a rider emerged from the plume of dust. There was something familiar about the slender frame that was slowly coming into view. At least it was not her uncle, she reflected wryly. His girth had expanded in recent years and he rarely travelled on horseback now.
At the long, final sweep of the path he disappeared from view for several moments. Frances held her breath as she waited for him to reappear. When at last he did, she exhaled.
Sir Thomas Tyringham.
She had not seen Tom’s friend and patron for almost a year now. He had taken leave of court the previous summer, on the premise of urgent business at his Buckinghamshire estate. She had barely given him a thought since. God knew there had been enough else to occupy her mind.
Sir Thomas drew up his horse a few feet in front of her, then swiftly dismounted. He swept a deep bow. His long boots were spattered with mud, and his neatly cropped hair was dark with sweat at the temples. ‘Lady Frances,’ he said, with apparent good humour. But though his mouth lifted into a smile, his eyes were grave as he studied her.
‘Sir Thomas,’ she replied. ‘I am surprised to see you.’
‘Forgive me. I did not have time to send word of my arrival.’ He looked momentarily shamefaced. ‘I trust you are well? I heard a report of some sickness.’
She watched his eyes flick over her body, and thought she saw them linger a moment too long on her belly. Folding her arms across it, she said brightly: ‘I am afraid my brother is not at home, but do come inside for some refreshment. I will send for someone to tend your horse.’
Not pausing for an answer, she walked briskly towards the house. Her thoughts kept time with her steps as she crossed the hallway, calling for the stable boy and housekeeper.
Sir Thomas had been one of several suitors whom her uncle had tried to foist upon her. She had thought of their first meeting many times, at the dinner he had hosted in his apartments at Whitehall Palace. But the vividness of the memory was not because of Sir Thomas. It had been the first time she had spoken to Tom. She could remember almost every word of their conversation as he had escorted her to her chamber afterwards. Sir Thomas gave a small cough, bringing her back to the present.
Why was he here? Had her uncle encouraged him to renew his suit, now that Tom was dead? He would hardly have done so if he had known of her condition, she reflected bitterly.
As they entered the hall, Frances gestured for Sir Thomas to take a seat next to the fire. She sat opposite, in her father’s chair. Mrs Lamport broke the brief, awkward silence that followed as she bustled in bearing a tray of wine and sweetmeats, set it down and left, closing the door behind her.
Frances poured wine for her guest, then sat back and waited. She had no patience for pleasantries.
Sir Thomas took a slow sip, then put the glass down. ‘I am sorry for the loss you have suffered, my lady,’ he said, eyeing her intently.
For a moment, Frances did not know what to say. It could hardly have escaped Sir Thomas’s notice that she and his protégé had become close companions by the time he left court. But did he know that they had been much more than that? The earnestness of his tone – of his gaze now – suggested so. Not trusting herself to speak, she inclined her head and shifted her focus to the fire.
‘Tom’s death was a loss to me too,’ he continued. ‘I loved him as a brother and would have done anything for him – as he would for me, God rest his soul.’
He took another sip of wine, and Frances noticed that his hand trembled slightly.
‘You know that I furthered his legal endeavours, putting him in the way of some influential clients?’
Frances nodded, still mute. Where was this leading?
‘The queen was among them,’ he continued. ‘I initiated the introduction at Tom’s request. He and his … friends were eager to make her acquaintance, as I think you know.’
Frances’s pulse quickened.
‘She proved a powerful supporter of their cause.’ He leaned forward, his gaze intensifying. ‘As did I, my lady. It was my connections – at court and abroad – that swelled their ranks, my gold that paid for the house in Westminster, the weapons with which they fought at Holbeach …’ he took a breath ‘… and the gunpowder.’
Frances’s heart was now thudding painfully as she stared at him. Was this a trap? Had Cecil sent him to secure a confession? No. The Earl of Salisbury had greater subtlety than that. Did Sir Thomas speak truth, then? She could not understand why else he would make such treacherous claims, and to a woman