Face Down among the Winchester Geese (3 page)

"Good afternoon, my dear,” she said.

"Susanna"

Something had happened. Instead of asking questions, Robert gave himself time to think by crossing the room to a tapestry-covered table. A light repast awaited him there, but he ignored the cold meat and bread and poured himself a goblet of Rhenish wine, drinking half of it down before he turned to study his wife.

As she bent over her stitches, one errant lock of dark brown hair escaped from her embroidered cap.

She never could keep it all tucked in.

Robert's gaze swept lower, noting that she'd dressed with unusual care, her attire more formal than was her wont when at home. In place of the loose-bodied gowns she preferred, she'd donned a tightly laced bodice and the matching kirtle, both of fine honey-colored damask. The sleeves were slashed and puffed to reveal the white silk layer she wore beneath. The same fabric, embroidered with bright flowers, showed through the forepart of the kirtle.

"You are dressed uncommon fine for housework,” he commented.

"I am not likely to soil my garments with such trifling duties as you see me perform here.” The sharp edge to her voice confirmed Robert's suspicion that something untoward had happened during his absence. He drained his goblet and refilled it.

In the days since Susanna had joined him in London, she had made no secret of her displeasure at being dragged away from her home. She did not care for cities, not for a stay of any length, and he knew it irked her not to be told how long they would be in residence here.

He had not informed her of a departure date because he did not know one, not for certain. Perhaps he should have explained that, but he did not like feeling accountable to his spouse.

By now, he'd expected her to demand to return home, or else accept her situation and become reasonably content. After all, here in London she had immediate access to all the books she could desire. The tiny yard behind the house contained a garden. She'd begun to restore it. One or two such projects, he'd thought, should serve to keep her busy and out of trouble.

Frowning, Robert continued to contemplate his wife. She studiously ignored him, pretending complete absorption in her needlework. The scene was so patently false that he had to bite back a chuckle. Susanna was a genius with herbs, but she had never had any skill at other domestic pursuits. Given a choice, she'd rather dig ditches than sew.

"Do we expect company?” he asked, still seeking an explanation for her finery.

"You have had company already."

So, something had happened while he'd been out. Someone. “Stop mangling that hem,” he suggested, “and tell me what is on your mind."

"If you are so uncommon perceptive, perhaps you can guess.” Her pale blue eyes briefly betrayed the intensity of her emotions as she tossed the needlework aside and met his penetrating gaze. Something had offended her, and made her angry, too.

Had she learned of his plans? No. Impossible. He played his cards too close to his chest. With an effort, he kept his voice even. It did no good to lose his temper with Susanna. Though he hated to admit it, she was more than his match in any battle of wit and words.

"Even the most skillful intelligence gatherer must have some clue to begin with,” he said. “Come, Susanna. Give me a hint as to what troubles you."

"A Frenchwoman came here asking for you today,” she told him. “She said her name was Diane."

Robert froze in the act of pouring a goblet of wine for his wife. Here was a pretty pickle. The name was common enough, especially among Frenchwomen. In the last generation a great many young girls had been named for Diane de Poitiers, the French king's influential mistress. For all that, Robert had not a doubt in the world which Diane had arrived on his doorstep. He'd made a foolish offer, years ago, and it had just come home to roost.

"No surname?” he asked. Not that it mattered. The Diane he knew had never given him one.

"No."

"Describe her then, this woman who seeks me."

He crossed the solar and sat next to Susanna on the window seat, handing her the goblet of wine.

"Short. Small of stature. Dark hair and eyes. Very pale skin. A beautiful face. A mourning ring.” She sipped the Rhenish.

As he watched her, Robert could not help but make comparisons. The best that could be said for Susanna was that she was comely. She bore an unfortunate resemblance to her late father, having inherited his height and his sturdy build and his square jaw, as well. She was feminine enough, soft where a woman should be soft, and rounded in all the right places. He'd never had any difficulty performing a husband's duties. On the other hand, no one would ever make the mistake of thinking Susanna weak and in need of protection ... as Diane was.

"Do you know her, Robert?” Her capable hands held the goblet in her lap, clasping it as if she feared to spill the contents did she not hold on tight.

"Only a little."

Skepticism lurked in Susanna's eyes when she lifted her head to stare at him. ‘Twas obvious she thought Diane had been his mistress, but for once his conscience was clear. He met her gaze and held it.

"If this is the same Diane, I met her nearly four years ago. Do you recall my last mission to France, at the time when Walter Pendennis was in Paris?"

"How could I forget? You journeyed to France and I made my first visit to our lands in Lancashire."

Robert winced. He preferred not to think about that particular venture or its outcome. Better to focus on Diane. “I was sent to meet with a rebel leader named La Renaudie. He's dead now, poor fool. His mad scheme to take control of the French government never had much chance of success. But he had a mistress named Diane. A widow. La Renaudie and I met at her estate outside La Rochelle."

She'd spoken charmingly accented English, he recalled. And had she not been La Renaudie's woman, he'd have responded to the invitation in her dark eyes. But what did her reappearance in his life at this juncture mean? Simple coincidence? He hoped so, and hoped, too, that she would not make demands on him.

Just at present, he could ill afford to call undue attention to himself.

"La Rochelle was a Calvinist stronghold in those days,” Susanna mused.

She understood much more of politics than was normal for a woman. Most of the time, her insight annoyed Robert. In this instance, he found it useful, saving him the trouble of long explanations of French intrigues. Susanna knew already that Catholic and Huguenot factions had spent the last few years trying to massacre one another.

"Before civil war broke out, La Rochelle was a safe refuge. I doubt it is now.” He cleared his throat. “If this woman is the same Diane, I once told her she might come to me for assistance should she ever feel obliged to flee her homeland."

"It appears she has taken you up on your ... generous offer."

"Aye.” And her timing could not have been worse. He did not need such a complication. He heartily wished the woman would just disappear, but he supposed that was unlikely. “Did she say what she wanted from me? Money? Introductions?"

Susanna seemed edgy again and Robert wondered idly if she was jealous. He quickly discounted that notion. She'd never shown evidence of the emotion in the past. Most like she was put out because he'd refused to share his plans with her.

Truth be told, she'd disapprove of his current scheme for advancement. Mayhap she'd even attempt to thwart it.

After a pointed hesitation, Susanna answered his question. “She asked that you meet her at the Falcon Inn near Paris Garden."

The location surprised him. Paris Garden was in Southwark, at the edge of the most notorious brothel district in all of England.

"Will you visit her?” Her voice level, her expression unrevealing, Susanna again gave Robert the impression she hid her true feelings.

Once, he thought, he'd have teased and tormented her until she exploded, and likely they'd have ended up laughing at the absurdity of their quarrel, but over the last few years he'd found little humor in anything, and no advantage at all in relaxing his guard with his too intelligent, too perceptive wife. Although he wondered what she was thinking, he had neither the patience nor the inclination to coax her opinions out of her.

"I must try to help Diane,” he said. “I doubt she has many friends in England."

"Doubtless she will soon find new ones."

"I met her on a mission for the queen,” Robert reminded his wife, hating the defensive tone in his voice. “'Tis my duty as a loyal subject to pursue this matter."

"A hardship, certes.” Susanna no longer tried to hide her sarcasm. She knew that if he went to the Fakon Inn, he would stay the night. And what if he did? It was not as if Susanna made him feel welcome in her bed.

Only a matter of weeks, he reminded himself again.

Turning his back on his wife, he left the solar without saying another word.

Susanna threw her needlework across the room.

What a fool she was! After all these years she should not care what Robert did. Much of the time she did not.

But today his behavior was surpassing bothersome. Meeting another woman who might be his mistress, the second in less than six months, seeing how beautiful they both were, upset her. Combined with Susanna's growing sense that she was being used in some way, that she'd been ordered to London for some nefarious purpose, a purpose Robert refused to share with her, Diane's visit had left her feeling both irritable and frustrated.

"Bodykins,” she swore softly when she heard a door slam below. Robert had left the house.

It was not Susanna's way to indulge in self-pity, but just this once she allowed regrets to consume her. She despised waste. As a true partnership, what might she and Robert not have accomplished? Theirs could have been an intellectual union as well as a marital one.

But Robert valued the body more than the mind. He craved physical variety and condemned her that she could not share his enthusiasm. Worse, although he was quick to claim credit for solutions she reasoned out, he made no secret of the fact that he resented her intelligence.

More than once in the early days of their marriage, the women in the duke of Northumberland's household had advised Susanna to bend her will to her husband's, to let him lead her in all things, to hide the fact that she was better educated than he. Just fascinated enough by her handsome new spouse to try, she'd succeeded in naught but making herself miserable and unhappy.

It was not that she disliked physical union between them. That act had proven to possess its own compensations, once the first messy encounter was over with. When Robert began to stray, she'd believed the fault lay with her. But with the passage of time, Susanna had realized that her husband was the sort of man who would never be content with one woman, not even one he loved.

Love had never been part of the bargain.

Leigh Abbey had won his heart. And the lands and revenues that went with it. He did not disdain the earnings from Susanna's herbals either, though he'd had naught to do with producing them.

She still remembered, with some bitterness, the reaction he'd had to her second venture, The Great Herbal, a compendium of herbs and their uses. On this one, her name had been listed as compiler, along with the names of three other women. A mistake, Robert had said. What man would respect a scholarly work if he knew it had been written by females? Better, he'd claimed, to remain anonymous, as she had with her first book,
A Cautionary Herbal
.

Better, she'd said, to have taken full credit for that one. She was proud of the work she'd done to warn housewives and cooks of the dangers of using certain plants in food and medicines. For all she knew, Susanna thought now, Robert had convinced her to use initials so he could claim he was “S. A.,” author of a book on poisonous herbs.

Disgusted with herself for dwelling on such thoughts, knowing that regrets availed her nothing, Susanna abruptly left the solar for her bedchamber. She called for Jennet as she went, to help her change her clothing. There was work still to be done in the garden, hard honest work that would occupy both her mind and her body. Let Robert go to his mistress! She had better things to do than brood.

Robert dismissed his wife from his thoughts as soon as he left the house. Turning east, he strode rapidly past the fair, large church of St. Lawrence Jewry, the entrance to the Guildhall, and Bakewell Hall, the market for London's woolen trade.

Walking was not Robert's preferred way to travel, but today he'd been to Westminster and back already. Vanguard, his horse, deserved a rest. Besides, he did not want to call attention to himself. For that same reason, he instinctively chose a less direct route to Paris Garden.

It would have been quickest to go west, then south, hailing a wherry at Puddle Dock. Instead he turned south on Ironmonger Lane, which shortly brought him to the Great Conduit. Water carriers surrounded it, filling their butter-churn-shaped wooden casks from the outlets, vying for space with goodwives and apprentices. Inside the high, round building, an ironbound lead cistern held water piped in from Tyburn.

Crowds surged all around as Robert circled the conduit and proceeded eastward along the wide cobbled street. Here the air was redolent of spices from nearby shops, for both grocers and apothecaries inhabited this part of London. That made him think of Susanna again. Why could she not be pleased to be here in the city? Was he not providing her with the opportunity to meet other herbalists? She should be grateful.

The quality of the air rapidly diminished again as he descended through the Poultry toward the Stocks Market. For a brief stretch, as he turned south on Walbrook Street, skinners’ shops abounded.

It was no improvement to draw closer to the river. The Thames had an offensive aroma all its own. When he came in sight of the docks, the Steelyard, Dowgate, and the Wine Wharf, Robert glanced east toward London Bridge. He might walk across it into Southwark, but that would mean a long trek on foot on the other side. He turned west instead, entering the garlic market and passing by tenements that crowded the north side of Thames Street.