The sun streamed through the open window, making the heat in the chamber even more oppressive. It had not rained since Frances’s arrival at Belvoir almost a month before, and the earth was dry and cracked, threatening to ruin the harvest. Soaking a linen cloth in the fresh water that the charwoman had brought up earlier, Frances rubbed it slowly over her neck and chest, shivering as rivulets trickled down her back and stomach.
Thomas’s eyes were still closed, his lips curled into what looked almost like a smile. She studied his face, her fingers resting on her collarbone. How many times had she inwardly recoiled as he had leaned forward to kiss her cheek? Even this chaste contact had felt like a betrayal of Tom. Now, as she gazed at her husband, she found herself longing to feel the warmth of his lips on her own, his hands pressed into the small of her back as he drew her closer.
She shook away the thought and turned back to the ewer. Her hands trembled as she poured more water and she set down the jug so clumsily that it knocked against the rim of the bowl, almost upturning it. She cast an anxious glance at Thomas, as if afraid to have disturbed him, even though she had spent the past few weeks willing him to open his eyes. Although she had carefully applied Joan Flower’s tinctures to his injuries and had given him the clary sage and self-heal to drink, with small amounts of broth and water, he had not stirred. She drew some comfort from the fact that the inflammation had receded and he was no longer feverish, but she prayed that God would soon open his eyes.
From the window, she saw Cecily striding purposefully towards the walled garden that lay to the west of the house. Margaret Flower was tending the chickens, her blonde curls catching the sun as she stooped to scatter another handful of seeds. Frances had been surprised to learn she was Philippa’s sister. She looked so unlike her – and her mother Joan – with her rounded curves and fair hair.
Frances had moved away from the window when a faint cry drew her attention back to the garden. Margaret was crouching, head bowed, her hand on her cheek. Cecily was standing over her, gesturing sharply towards the house and back at the girl. Frances could not catch her words, but she was clearly chiding Margaret for some misdemeanour.
Soaking another cloth in the ewer, she carried it over to the bed and peeled back the sheet that covered her husband’s body. As gently as she could, she lifted his linen shirt and began dabbing at his chest. The bruising had faded now, and she hoped that the cracks in his ribs had begun to knit together. She pulled back the sleeves and sponged his arms. The muscles had begun to waste and they had grown thin, like the rest of his body. Wringing out the cloth, she moved to his hands, which felt cool to the touch, despite the searing heat. As she held his fingers, she felt a twitch so slight that she feared she had imagined it. She waited, gazing intently at his hand. There it was again, stronger this time.
Frances looked at his face. Though his eyes were still closed, his lips were moving, as if he was trying to form words. Still clasping his hand, she leaned closer. After a few breaths, there was a low rasping sound from the back of his throat. Quickly, she poured a cup of water and held it to his mouth, tilting it slowly as she had done many times these past weeks. He swallowed, then lifted his head for more. Frances’s hand shook as she held the cup to his lips again. When she was sure he had had enough, she set it back on the table.
Her husband’s eyes twitched and, slowly, he opened them. Blinking away the long weeks of sleep, he stared up at the canopy above the bed, his brow creasing.
‘Thomas,’ Frances whispered.
Slowly, he turned to look at her. For a moment, his expression did not change, then his brow cleared and his lips lifted into a smile. Frances blinked away tears. She had imagined this moment so many times, forcing herself to picture every detail, as if by doing so she could conjure it into life. She hardly dared believe that it was real, and as she reached out to touch his cheek, she feared he might dissolve into a dream, as Tom had so many times.
His skin still felt cool as she held her palm to his face. After a few moments, he lifted his hand and closed it over hers, wincing. His chest rose and fell in quick movements as he recovered from even this small exertion.
‘Frances.’
His voice was as cracked and dry as the scorched earth that surrounded the castle. She helped him to another few sips of water and waited while he recovered his breath again.
‘What has happened?’ he rasped.
Frances smoothed a lock of hair from his forehead. ‘You were thrown from your horse during the hunt. It trampled you underfoot. Several of your ribs were broken and you have a grievous wound on your head.’
‘Let us hope it has brought me to my senses at last,’ he whispered.
Frances laughed, almost giddy with the relief and joy that were surging through her. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she gazed at her husband. It was a while before either of them spoke again.
‘How long have I lain here, like this?’ Thomas asked.
‘About a month.’ Frances saw his eyes widen in shock. ‘I began to fear that you would never wake. I—’ She broke off, unable to continue.
Her husband squeezed her hand. ‘I am sorry to have given you such trouble. It must have grieved you to be apart from George for so long. How does he fare?’
Frances smiled. ‘He has been a faithful correspondent,’ she said fondly. ‘I will read you some of his letters later.’
She recalled her surprise and joy upon opening the first, a few days after her arrival at Belvoir. It was only a few lines, but she had cherished it, tracing the round, childish script as she read that he had been working hard at his lessons, that the prince was kinder to him, and asking when she might return. That he had written at all was thanks to the princess – the address was in her elegant script. She had feared that her mistress’s affection, so recently regained, would quickly fade, and she did not doubt that Blanche would make the most of her prolonged absence.
‘And the king? Is he still here?’ Thomas asked.
Frances’s smile became forced. ‘Lord Rutland is a generous host. His Majesty seems in no hurry to return to London.’
‘You have met the countess?’ he asked.
‘I have seen her but seldom. Most of my hours have been spent in this chamber.’
‘Then I pity you, for I must have been a very dull companion.’
Thomas fell silent again, and Frances watched as his eyelids grew heavy. After a few moments, they closed and his breathing slowed. She was about to stand when his grip on her hand suddenly tightened.
‘Thank you, Frances,’ he whispered, as he opened his eyes to look at her once more, then slowly slipped back into sleep.
During the days that followed, Thomas’s strength gradually returned and he was soon able to stomach more than the watery broth that had sustained him while he had remained unconscious. Though his chest still pained him, the wound on his head was healing rapidly and the hair surrounding it had begun to grow back. Soon it would be concealed altogether, Frances told him.
After a week, he was able to stand with her assistance, and even walk a few, faltering paces, leaning heavily on her. Though she knew it gave him pain, she gradually extended the distance they covered, so that his wasted limbs would begin to regain their strength.
‘Tell me some news of the court,’ her husband asked one day, as they sat at the window seat in his chamber.
Frances looked at him sharply, but then relaxed: he could hardly have heard about Arbella and Seymour without her knowledge, given that she had been present on the few occasions that a member of the household – usually the earl – had paid him a visit.
‘There is little to tell,’ she lied, looking down at the embroidery on her lap. ‘The princess is thriving and grows daily more loved by the people. Her brother has established a lively court at St James’s and welcomes all manner of dignitaries, now that he is Prince of Wales. Their mother is still at Greenwich, I believe. I hope she enjoys better health.’
‘She must be glad of the repose – though her husband hardly troubles her when he is in London,’ Thomas said. ‘I wonder that they can live such separate lives.’
Frances could feel his eyes upon her. ‘I suppose that royal marriages are different from those of their subjects.’
Thomas took her hand in his. ‘Are they, Frances?’ he murmured. ‘Has ours been so very different from that? Though we have lived as husband and wife for five years now, I often feel we are little more than strangers.’
Frances felt her heart quicken. ‘It is as you willed it,’ she said quietly.
‘No, Frances,’ he said, with sudden force, withdrawing his hand. ‘As you willed it. I have long since wished it otherwise. Even before—’ He was struggling to contain his emotions.
Frances looked at her lap, where the embroidery lay untouched.
‘Even before Tom’s death,’ he continued, sounding so sad that tears filled her eyes as she listened. ‘I remember seeing you for the first time, as you danced in the masque that evening. Though it was clear that you wished to be anywhere other than the stage, you excelled all the other dancers as much in grace as in beauty. I can see you there still, your eyes burning, the blue satin of your dress swaying around you as you followed the steps. I had never seen anything so exquisite, and I know I never will again.’
He fell silent. Frances was suddenly aware of the clock’s ticking and tried to slow her breathing to keep time with it. She thought back to when she had first met her husband and was ashamed when she recalled her coldness towards him. She had been furious with her uncle for parading her at the dinner, like a rare jewel that he hoped would fetch a good price. Thomas had been a gracious and charming host, but she had hardly noticed him – particularly after Tom’s arrival. Her treatment of him had been as thoughtless as her uncle’s had been of her.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered, unable to raise her eyes to his.
He reached across and placed his hand over hers. The warmth of his touch was like balm to her soul. ‘You have never wronged me, Frances,’ he said gently. ‘I knew that you still loved Tom when I offered to marry you, and you did not promise anything that you have not honoured. The deceit is not yours.’
Frances might not have deceived him in the way he meant, but in conspiring with Anne Vaux and Jane Drummond she had committed a far worse betrayal.
‘I still ask nothing of you,’ he continued. ‘I know you cannot love me as you loved Tom. I want only to be with you – George too, whom I love as my own son. To share in even part of your life is enough. God knows it is more than I deserve,’ he added.
Frances saw the shadow in his eyes at these last words. She tried to muster some of the anger she had felt upon seeing him leave Jane Drummond’s apartment at court, but pity and remorse flooded her.
‘It is not enough,’ she said.
He turned to her in dismay, but she touched his cheek, holding her hand there for several moments as she gazed at him. Then, leaning forward, she kissed him.