Precious Bones Page 11

  A scrap of paper was peeking out from under my alarm clock, and I reached out a hand to take it. It simply said, “Call me if you need me. - A.T.” So he was gone. I snuggled back into the comforter not wanting to rise. Despite the horrible events of the day before, I felt slightly better. Adrian’s presence left me wrapped in an invisible bubble of cotton wool, shielding me from the tidal wave of grief and betrayal that was ready to break over me once again. I needed just a few more moments of peace before facing the ugly truth that this morning brought.

  Today was the first day of the rest of my life, a life which would no longer contain Tristan, with whom I thought I would spend the rest of my days and raise a family; or Joanna who had been my friend and confidant. As soon as I began to think these thoughts, the bubble burst, and I was smashed against the rocks of my despair by the rushing waves. I pulled the blanket over my head and curled into a fetal position. I wished that Adrian was still there, solid and comforting, and tactful enough not to ask any prying questions. I berated myself for being a pathetic weakling and forced myself out of bed. I needed to take a shower, throw some food into my hollow stomach, and find something to occupy myself with so completely, that I wouldn’t think about the fact that Tristan hadn’t even bothered to call to make amends.

  I was just pouring myself a cup of coffee, my hair still damp from the shower, when I saw a shadow pass in front of my kitchen window and heard a knock on the door. My first instinct was to pretend I wasn’t at home, but running away from things had never been my way, so I set down my cup on the counter and went to open the door. I wasn’t surprised to find Tristan standing on my doorstep looking as if his night had been much rougher than mine. His shirt was rumpled and he smelled of alcohol, his hair tousled, and his face covered in the stubble of a day-old beard. I simply stood aside to let him pass, following him into the kitchen and picking up my cup of coffee as calmly as I could. Seeing him looking so miserable had unsettled me and I felt almost sorry for him, offering him a mug of coffee. He took it gratefully, and leaned against the counter sipping the fragrant brew.

  “Cass, I know that I’m beyond forgiveness, but will you at least let me explain?”

  “What possible explanation can you have for betraying me with my friend, and lying to me for months?” I sounded a lot calmer than I felt. My insides were shaking, so I sat down, no longer able to rely on my buckling knees.

  “Cassandra, I was very angry when you went behind my back and bought this house. I felt betrayed and cheated of a future we discussed for so long, but then I realized something. It wasn’t a future I really wanted. Once we moved in together, the next logical step would be to get engaged and start planning a wedding, and the thought of that left me shaking with panic. I admit I called Joanna because I wanted to talk. I couldn’t discuss this with any of my male friends, and I thought that since Joanna knows you so well, she might be able to advise me.

  I didn’t go over there with the intention of jumping into bed with her. We had a glass of wine and talked. Once I began to voice my reservations; they seemed more real and valid somehow. I don’t remember who made the first move, not that it really matters. When I woke up the next morning, I was overcome with remorse. I left, intending to confess and beg your forgiveness, but when I reached for the phone, somehow I called Joanna instead. I felt the kind of lust that I hadn’t felt since we first met, and it wouldn’t be denied.”

  “Are you just trying to drive the knife deeper into my heart, or are you hoping for absolution? This is not a confessional, you know.” I was angry and upset and wished that he would just leave. He didn’t come here to beg my forgiveness, but to justify his actions. He thought telling me all this made him less of a cad somehow.

  “Cass, I didn’t tell you the truth because I wasn’t ready to lose you. I wanted to be sure of my feelings before coming clean.”

  “So, you were sleeping with both of us, comparing your feelings for further study, is that it? How very practical of you, Tristan. It doesn’t matter what your decision is because my decision is made. Please leave now.”

  “Cass, please. Joanna was just a fling. I don’t love her. I love you. I was clumsy in my explanation, but I’m willing to do anything to make it up to you. I got it out of my system and I’m ready to commit to you. I will even move in here if that’s what you want. I’ll give up my flat and live here in this spooky old house if that will make you happy.”

  “No, Tristan, that wouldn’t make me happy. I’ve had a few revelations of my own, and I no longer desire a future that you’re a part of.” I walked over to the door and held it open, in a silent invitation for him to leave. He threw me a pleading look, but I looked away, continuing to hold the door open wide. He finally walked through it into the summer morning that had turned overcast and dreary, just like my mood.

  Chapter 34

  “So what’s wrong?”

  “What makes you think anything is wrong?” I said, as I ducked out of the way of the plastic fire truck that went sailing right past my head. “Your child is a fiend.”

  “I know. He so reminds me of you at that age,” said my sister with a grin, as she scooped up the little monster out of the high chair and handed him over to the nanny, who magically appeared as if on cue. My nephew gave me a charming smile as a parting gift as he was carried out of the kitchen toward the nursery for his nap. I heard the nanny saying something to the other two children in the playroom and then things got quiet.

  I had arrived in Brighton about an hour ago to visit my sister, Camille. Despite speaking on the phone regularly, I still had the overwhelming need to see my sister when things weren’t going well. Camille had always been my best friend, confidant and defender. She comforted me when I scraped my knee or broke a toy, and later listened to my stories, gave constructive criticism, and nursed me through several broken hearts. I didn’t need to tell her that something was wrong. She already knew.

  Camille had taken the day off to spend time with me. She managed to have a full-time career as an optometrist at her husband’s ophthalmology practice, while raising three kids under the age of five. Despite having a nanny, Camille and Ken spent as much time as possible with their children, and were a model family, in my opinion. I had once thought Tristan and I would end up like them, but that train had left the station with Joanna riding first class.

  Camille took the tea tray, and I followed her outside into a garden bathed in a golden, summer haze. The heady smell of Camille’s roses wafted toward me as I settled into a comfortable wicker chair under a canopy of leaves, the sun shooting arrows of light through the gaps reminding me of enchanted forests in fairy tales. The air was filled with bird song and the chirping of insects, and I closed my eyes enjoying the lovely summer afternoon. Camille set down the tray and poured us some tea, eventually settling into her chair with her cup and assuming her Sigmund Freud expression. It was time to talk.

  “Let’s analyze this one thing at a time, shall we?” she asked, as I finished my pathetic narrative. “I’ll start with the easy one -- Tristan.”

  “That’s the easy one?”

  “In this case, yes. I think Tristan subconsciously began the relationship with Joanna hoping that you would find out and end things, therefore taking the decision out of his hands.” She looked at me over her tea cup, satisfied with her summary of my relationship.

  “But why?”

  “Opposites attract, but they rarely go the distance. Tristan is reserved, analytical and devoted to schedules and lists. He makes lists of lists according to you. He likes order and tries to find certainty wherever he can. He works with numbers because numbers always make sense. You, on the other hand, are emotional, irrational, and spontaneous. You earn a living by creating stories in your head. That’s very intimidating to a person who’s so rigid. I think the idea of starting a family with you was too unsettling for him. You buying that mausoleum was probably the straw that broke the camel’s back. Another cup of tea?” Camille poured herself a second cup
and looked up to see my reaction to her analysis.

  “So you don’t think he’s a complete tosser?” I asked disappointed.

  “No. He’s just a man who’s afraid to face his fears, so he did what men have done for centuries, and stuck his prick where it didn’t belong hoping it would solve things, one way or another.”

  “Interesting theory. What about Joanna?”

  “Joanna is not the first woman to steal her friend’s man out of desperation. She’s single, divorced, in her thirties, and starting to hear the insistent banging of that damn clock. She won’t keep him though.”

  “How did you get so smart?” I asked laughing.

  “By watching other people, and trying to learn from their mistakes. Now, let’s move on to Adrian. He sounds dishy.”

  “Oh, he most certainly is. He’s also smart, witty and enigmatic. I never know what to expect from him. In my crazier moments, I think he panned my book just so that he could come and apologize, and lure me out to dinner.”

  “Maybe that’s not so crazy. If I were a betting woman, my money would be on him.”

  “Oh, wipe that smug smirk off your face. You have it all figured out, don’t you?” No matter how bad I felt, Camille always had a way of putting things in such a way that eventually made me laugh. The truly funny part was that she was usually right.

  “Hmm, let me see. Smart, attractive, unpredictable, and probably very passionate. You’re right. I’m way off base. The chances of you falling for him are less than zero. NOT!!!!!!” I threw a stuffed toy at her as she ducked out of the way.

  “You’ve fallen for him already, dear sister. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Oh, I think I do.”

  Camille gave me a look of pure satisfaction and let the subject of Adrian drop. “Tell me about this new book.”

  “It’s very strange, Cammie. In the past I always created my characters and then manipulated them to my satisfaction. I was like a puppet master, pulling the strings and watching them dance, but this time it’s different. I feel as if I’m just taking it all down. It’s like the characters were there all the time, and I’m just telling their story. It’s more like a long-buried memory rather than a product of my own imagination.”

  “Could it be that you’re just remembering a book you read or a movie you saw a long time ago?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Cam, when I saw that news report on the telly, I knew who the woman was. That was no book.”

  “Cass, how could you possibly know who she was? They said she died about five hundred years ago.” Camille gave me a worried look over her cup, no doubt thinking that I was starting to sound deranged.

  “That’s exactly it. I knew who she was and I felt as if I’d known her. I felt such despair when I saw them carry her out.”

  “Cassandra, you’re a writer. You have made up stories since you were old enough to speak. This story touched you and gave you an idea for a new novel, but you didn’t know this woman. You couldn’t. She lived in the sixteenth century. It’s just your creative juices flowing. Write this book, tell her story and then move on. Truth be told, I think you should sell that house, and get as far away from Blackfriars as possible. It’s obviously not doing you any good. You just need a fresh start. Can I convince you to move to Brighton?”

  “Not a chance. You’d get rid of your nanny and expect me to babysit.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. It would be nice to have you closer though.” Camille turned her face up to the sun. The afternoon was getting warmer, and she suddenly got up. “Let’s get the kids changed and go for a swim in the pool. I feel like a dip.” She was already putting the tea things back on the tray, and I looked at the inviting blue water of the pool. The water was sparkling in the sun, a gentle breeze caressing my face as I helped my sister carry everything back into the kitchen.

  “Camille, I am so glad I came. You always know how to make me feel better.”

  “That’s what big sisters are for. Now go report for Aunt Duty.”

  Chapter 35

  August 1586

  Edward Norris was the last to arrive at the house of Francis Walsingham. This briefing was being held in secret, and the Secretary’s house was a safer place to meet than his rooms at the Palace. Norris took off his hat as he took his seat at the table, nodding a greeting to Walsingham and the only other man in the room, Robert Poley. A servant poured some wine into the silver goblets in front of each man and let himself out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Walsingham looked even more tired and ill than usual, the whiteness of his ruff accentuating the sickly color of his face. His skeletal hands held an unrolled piece of paper in his hands which he was studying intently, comparing it to something else on the table.

  “You may preceed, Mr. Poley,” Walsingham said without looking up. He steepled his fingers in front of his chest and looked down on them as Poley began.

  “The letter in your hands is a copy of a letter written by Sir Anthony Babington to Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, on July 6 of this year. It is written in code, but we have been able to break the cypher, translating the content. Babington is informing Mary that he is planning to assassinate the Queen with a few other conspirators. He is seeking Mary’s approval of the plan, since the death of our beloved Queen would clear the way for Mary’s succession.”

  “That’s very impressive, Mr. Poley. Please be so kind as to fill in Sir Edward on how you have come by this information. I want him to be fully cognizant of the depth of this conspiracy.” Norris sat up listening carefully. This was riveting stuff.

  “Sir Anthony Babington is the third son of Sir Henry Babington and Mary Darcy. Although the family is publicly Protestant, they have been devout Catholics for generations. They do not believe in the legitimacy of our Queen’s claim to the throne, being the bastard daughter of Anne Boleyn. They don’t recognize Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn as being legitimate and support the claim of Mary Stuart.

  In 1577, Anthony Babington was briefly employed as a page boy in the household of the Earl of Shrewsbury, where he must have come into contact with Mary Stuart, as the Earl was her gaoler. Babington left his employment and eventually married, keeping up the pretense of being a royal subject and a faithful Protestant. It is my belief that while traveling on the Continent, Babington met with other supporters of the Catholic cause and was recruited to carry letters to Mary at the home of his former employer, and even helped smuggle Catholic priests into the country.

  Anthony Babington was introduced to me a short while ago, seeking my assistance in leaving England with a view to settling in France. I have been posing as a faithful friend and fellow Catholic in the hope of gaining his confidence. I was able to obtain copies of several letters that Babington was carrying, and make copies of them while he was in his cups.” Poley finished his narrative and took a long sip of wine.

  “Mr. Poley, I would have you continue your friendship with Babington until we have indisputable proof of Mary’s perfidy. We have enough evidence to convict Babington and execute him for treason, but I want proof -- in Mary’s own hand -- of her involvement in the plot. Once we have her, the Queen will have no choice but to sign her death warrant, ridding us of that poisonous viper once and for all.”

  Walsingham turned his attention to Norris. “Edward, it has come to my attention that Babington is not only plotting murder, but conducting a dalliance with a certain young woman who happens to be no other than the sister-in-law of our own Richard Carlisle. I would have you keep an eye on the girl and her family from afar, not giving away the game. Carlisle is to know nothing of this, as his loyalty is questionable at the moment. No moves are to be made against Babington or the Thornes until I command it. Is that understood?” Both men nodded their heads. They could smell blood, and the promise of it excited them. They would bide their time and strike at the most opportune moment.

  Walsingham rose from the table signaling that the meeting was over. He rolled up the letters and took them with him
as he left the room. Poley and Norris followed him out of the door and into the street, parting ways as soon as they walked down the steps. Norris walked along Seething Lane contemplating what just took place. He would like nothing more than to take Babington right off the street and torture him into confessing, but Walsingham had expressly forbidden that, and he wasn’t about to antagonize the old man. He would just have to be patient. His time would come. The Thorne girl being involved was an interesting development, and he would keep a close watch on her. She might not be guilty of anything more than spreading her legs, but a way to get back at Carlisle lay through attacking the Thornes, and that prize was just handed to Edward on a silver platter.

  His desire for Richard had cooled, replaced by a burning hatred that sprang from his thwarted passion and professional rivalry. Sometimes, revenge could be just as sweet as love, and maybe he would still get to use Carlisle’s body in the process. Taking him against his will would be even sweeter. Norris smiled to himself and turned his steps toward the Palace. He had business to attend to.

  Chapter 36

  August 2010

  I sat on the sofa with my arms wrapped around my knees. The rain outside was lashing mercilessly against the windows, draining all the color out of the room, and making it look like an old sepia photograph. I hadn’t budged since I arrived back from Brighton this morning. My thoughts and emotions were like a typhoon spinning out of control through my brain, leaving behind a path of destruction and despair. I was slowly coming to accept that my relationship with Tristan was over. There was no going back, no matter what he said or promised. Whether he chose to pursue his relationship with Joanna was irrelevant at this point. The damage had been done.

  However, there were other doubts that were plaguing me. Both Tristan and Joanna had let it drop that I had been weird, and not myself since I’d heard about the “Bones of Blackfriars”, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I had to admit that they were probably right. The story had affected me deeply and drove me to buy this house, which was probably not something a sane person would do. At the time, it seemed like absolutely the right thing, but looking back, I was wondering if I was on some sort of path of self-destruction. There was no denying that the house had an effect on me.