Face Down under the Wych Elm (2 page)

Constance fought for control of her reeling senses. She must not scream or faint. She had to think. There must be some way out of this terrifying situation.

She was not a witch and neither was Lucy.

Lucy was accused of bewitching Clement Edgecumbe to death? Had the constable said that? The charge was preposterous. Lucy had still been all but bedridden when her neighbor died. And she'd been distraught when the news was brought to her that he was dead. They'd not been friends. They'd quarreled too often for that. But they'd known each other all their lives and Lucy had admitted to Constance that she'd miss “the old goat."

Constance tried again to deny the charges, but no one listened. Under guard, she was escorted to her own bedchamber. She and Lucy, she was informed, were to be kept prisoner at Mill Hall overnight and taken north on the morrow. There was a proper gaol in Maidstone.

Left alone, Constance could no longer hold her horror at bay. She sat, staring at nothing, and let it wash over her in crashing waves. But she had never been the sort to weep and wail and bemoan her fate. When the onslaught had at last passed by, she was able to think again, to consider what she could do to save herself.

If Lucy had been fit, Constance would have found her, freed her, and run away, but that was not possible.

The Assizes, she remembered, met sometime in the middle of July. That meant she and Lucy would spend many weeks in gaol. She did not allow herself to dwell on that bleak prospect but instead considered that the same span of time might be used to their benefit. They'd need an ally, someone she could persuade to look into the two deaths and discover their true cause.

An ironic smile twisted Constance's lips at the name that came at once to mind. Yes, she would know how to proceed. She had been in a similar situation herself some two years earlier. She'd escaped the gallows by uncovering the identity of the real murderer.

She was also the last person on earth who would be inclined to help Constance Crane, for she was the widow of the man Constance had met in that garden, and other gardens, all those years ago.

Constance passed a long, sleepless night but she could think of no one better suited to her purpose. She spent the hour before dawn composing a letter. She had nothing to lose by asking, and she did not make her request only for herself. Lucy had never even met Constance's lover.

"Thank the Lord,” Constance whispered when the first person to enter her chamber was someone she considered trustworthy.

In haste, before the constable and his men came to take her away, she explained what she wanted done.

She left Mill Hall buoyed up by a faint stirring of hope. She'd exacted a promise. Within the hour, a messenger would be dispatched to take her missive to its destination.

The outside of the folded page had been inscribed with six words. An irritated voice read them aloud.

"Susanna, Lady Appleton. Leigh Abbey, Kent."

The name was unfamiliar to the person who now had possession of Constance's letter. Gloved fingers broke the seal. Angry eyes skimmed over the words Constance had written.

The crackle of parchment being crumpled into a ball sounded loud in an otherwise silent chamber.

This would not do. Whoever this Lady Appleton was, she could not be permitted to meddle. She must never even learn Constance had attempted to contact her.

The hands that tore the letter to bits and then thrust the pieces into a candle flame shook a little, not in trepidation but with suppressed fury. How dare Constance try to escape her fate? Everything that had been done would be for naught if she could prove herself and Lucy innocent. The two women who had been accused of witchcraft must be convicted and executed.

By the time the last bit of parchment had been reduced to ash, the tip of one gloved finger had been singed. Its owner did not notice.

Deep satisfaction slowly began to replace the rage.

Tuesday, June 24, 1567 (Midsummer Day)

On a warm, sunny morning, Nick Baldwin followed the narrow, deeply worn track that ran between his home, Whitethorn Manor, and neighboring Leigh Abbey. In recent months he'd made frequent use of this shortcut between the two estates.

It emerged from the woods just at the edge of Leigh Abbey's apple orchards. Nick passed through rows of costards, which made good cider and good eating, and continued on past long, pear-shaped pearmains and both summer and russet pippins before coming to a perimeter of pear and cherry trees. At that point, the path became a gravel walkway leading up a little rise.

Susanna Appleton waited at the top, watching him approach in much the same manner she had the first time they'd met. Nick's remembering smile contained an element of wry, self-mocking humor. Back then, he'd expected Lady Appleton to be a common variety country gentlewoman, more interested in cultivating strawberries the size of hedge blackberries than in matters beyond the domestic realm.

How wrong he'd been! She was indeed diligent about her gardening, and she had made of Leigh Abbey a profitable estate, but she also wrote books and meddled in political matters and had accumulated the oddest assortment of friends and acquaintances anyone could imagine.

She stood as he crested the knoll, greeting him with an affectionate kiss. He was a trifle shorter than she, but then Susanna was uncommon tall for a woman. She'd once told him she took after her father, inheriting his height, his sturdy build, and his square jaw, as well as his love of learning. Nick had long since decided that none of those attributes detracted from her feminine appeal. She was as captivating as she was unique and the intricate workings of her mind had fascinated him from the first.

"Come and sit beside me,” she invited, resuming her place on the stone bench and making room for him by holding aside the folds of her black damask kirtle.

Susanna was a widow. A strict traditionalist would insist she wear naught but black for the rest of her life, or until she remarried, but Susanna was not such a hypocrite. She did not mourn the loss of her husband enough to put off dressing in bright colors forever. Only the fact that she was frugal by nature kept her wearing those widow's weeds which had not yet worn out. To the black silk bodice that matched her kirtle she had fastened bright green sleeves embroidered with yellow and red butterflies.

"Can it be nearly five years since we first met?” Nick took the seat she offered. They had a degree of privacy seated there, shaded by the low-hanging branches of an ancient elm, but he had no doubt that most of Susanna's servants already knew he had arrived.

"Time passes with more speed than we realize, my dear.” A mischievous glint came into her eyes. “But I remember that particular occasion as if it were yesterday. Every detail."

"I was in error. I hasten to admit it."

The reason behind his initial visit to Leigh Abbey still had the power to make Nick squirm. He'd accused one of Susanna's servants of theft. She'd reacted by insisting she be allowed to conduct her own investigation of the crime. It had not taken her long to discover the identity of the real thief. She'd won Nick's grudging admiration in the process. Before long, she had also captured his heart.

From their vantage point they had a fine, panoramic view. On the one hand were the orchards and the woods through which Nick had just come. On the other were Leigh Abbey's extensive gardens and the house itself.

"The plums will be ripe in another month.” Susanna nodded toward the semicircular space just below their little knoll. A combination of shrubs, flowers, and fruit trees flourished there. “And the apricots, if all goes well, will produce their first crop for me in August."

They shared an interest in horticulture, among other things. In his travels, Nick had encountered all manner of unusual plants. He had introduced Susanna to his favorite spice, one he'd taken a liking to during a visit to Persia. Turmeric, it was called. It came from India.

Over the last few years, once he learned how much Susanna delighted in discovering which plants would grow in England's soil and climate and which could only be cultivated in their native habitats, he'd begun to import rare seeds and cuttings for her. The turmeric had failed to prosper, needing a warmer, wetter place in which to thrive, but Susanna had high hopes for a thornapple seedling for which Nick had sent all the way to Constantinople.

Capturing one of Susanna's hands, he waited until she met his eyes. “I will not be here to see the apricots, Susanna. Nor the barberries or filberts or muskmelons or pears."

Alarmed, she tightened her grip on his fingers. “Are you ill, Nick?"

Her concern pleased him. Gave him hope. He shook his head. “I must go away for a time."

"To London?"

"To Hamburg."

She blinked at him in surprise.

"The city of Hamburg is on the brink of granting the Merchant Adventurers a charter with wide privileges to settle and trade there. It is poised to become the principal gateway for the export of cloth and the import of timber and naval stores. At last, we English will no longer be dependent upon Antwerp for our prosperity."

He did not need to explain further. Susanna knew that a healthy economy required markets and that, with the recent religious and political turmoil in the Low Countries, merchants like Nick were in desperate need of alternate ports on the Continent.

"Hamburg,” she murmured. “But must you journey there in person?"

"Aye. I think it best.” He turned to face her more fully on the hard stone seat. “I may be gone for some time. Perhaps a year. Perhaps longer."

"I will miss you."

"You might come with me. As my wife."

There. It was out. Nick held his breath and watched her expressive face for a reaction.

She was not a beautiful woman but Susanna Appleton's features had character. Dark, unruly hair, which always seemed to be escaping from beneath her caps, surrounded a face dominated by intelligent blue eyes. They widened slightly at his words. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Carefully, she withdrew her fingers from his.

"I will never remarry."

Susanna's reply did not surprise Nick, but neither could he contain the brief burst of resentment he felt at her refusal. She claimed to care for him, yet she would not trust him.

Tamping down the spurt of irritation, he reminded himself that she stood to lose a great deal by marrying again. A wife's person, as well as all her possessions, belonged by law to any man who became her husband. Susanna had endured an unhappy marriage for many years and treasured the freedom she had gained as a widow. These days she made all her own decisions.

Nick struggled to sound reasonable. “There is more between us than friendship, Susanna. You know that I—"

"I know that I will not change my mind, Nick. Not even for you."

"We are ... well suited."

A faint wash of color stained her cheeks, pleasing him beyond measure. “I am honest enough to admit that. If I were willing to marry again, Nick, I can think of no one I'd prefer to you, but marriage is not for me."

And without marriage, he could not with honor take her with him into a foreign land. He'd tried to imagine her living openly as his mistress but a life of deceit, hiding their true relationship by pretending she was his housekeeper or his sister, would go against her nature.

"When do you leave?” she asked.

How could she sound so calm? Nick tried to match her tone. “My presence is required in Maidstone for the summer Assizes.” He noticed her startled look and hastened to explain that he'd not been charged with any crime. “I have a civil case before the justices. Once they render their decision, there will be no further need for me to remain in England."

Noting the preoccupied expression on Susanna's face, he once more turned to contemplate the landscape below. If she would not agree to marry him, there was an end to it.

He scowled at the nearest part of the garden, which was full of plum and apricot trees as well as flowers. It gave way to another laid out in eighteen parallel beds planted with vegetables. Nick had come to know Susanna's crops almost as well as she did. He could pick out sections planted with onions, garlic, leeks, and shallots, and see where they vied for space with beans and pease, sorrel, lettuce, turnips, and skirrets. There were other crops, too, everything from carrots, endive, and cress, to fennel, parsley, chervil, coriander, and dill.

Closer to the house, tucked in between Susanna's stillroom and the kitchen wing, was the physic garden. Roses and lilies bloomed there for color, but most of the space was given over to healing herbs. Just as Susanna had learned the names of Nick's ships, what cargoes they carried and what ports they visited, he could rattle off the names of the most common medicinal plants. Just as she knew that wool and fells from the sheep he raised on his lands in Northamptonshire were carried by cart every spring and autumn to the clothiers in Kent to be made into broadcloth and, more recently, what were called the new draperies, he was able to list the ingredients in a dozen of Susanna's favorite remedies.

They had, he reckoned, spent hundreds of hours together since Sir Robert Appleton's death. She had grieved with him when his old cat, Bala, died. She had helped him deal with the local folk, many of whom still regarded him as an outsider, calling him the London Man behind his back.

"Nick,” Susanna said softly, interrupting his ruminations. “It has been some time since I visited Maidstone."

His heart leapt.

"Did you not tell me that you sought a new tenant for the house you own there?"

"Aye. At present it stands empty.” Did she mean what he thought she did?

"If Jennet accompanied me, my staying there with you would raise no eyebrows."

"But will your Jennet agree to come? She does not approve of me and I cannot claim to be easy with her, either.” Susanna's housekeeper had a mind of her own and a tongue sharp as a rapier. And it had been Jennet whom Nick had wrongly accused of theft.

Susanna's eyes gleamed with mischief. “If not Jennet, then mayhap we can ask your mother to accompany us."