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Frivolous but endearingly open, Lavinia soon became a real friend, and Co
rnelia grew to value her visits.
Sometimes she suspected her husband was rather more than fond of the pretty, blonde girl whom he had known all his life. The ease of their relationship spoke volumes. They chatted lightly, referring constantly to old memories, and Lavinia cheerfully teased Rendel about his new status of respectable husband. In her company Rendel was relaxed, amiable, and the three of them spent many pleasant hours together, hours which gave Cornelia a different angle on her husband’s character.
It was Lavinia who, when she heard that Cornelia was to go to Whitehall to curtsy to the King, hesitantly warned her against listening to gossip about Rendel. ‘People can be so spiteful,’ she had said wistfully, her blue eyes evasive.
Cornelia had looked a query, at once alert.
‘I am very sure Rendel would be angry if he knew I had even breathed a word to you,’ Lavinia said slowly. ‘But gossip has a way of getting back to one. Someone, someday, is bound to tell you, and I have always felt that it is best to know the truth rather than hear a garbled version of it.’
‘Tell me,’ Cornelia commanded.
‘What I know of it I heard from Rendel himself,’ Lavinia said. ‘He would not lie to me—he never has. But I have heard another story, quite different, and if you heard it you might be wounded.’
Cornelia laid a hand over Lavinia’s small, restless fingers. ‘You are making me fear the worst,’ she said, half laughing.
Lavinia sighed. ‘It is just that before he met you, Rendel was the Countess of Wolverton’s lover.’ She blushed and made a face. ‘It is best to be frank. They were lovers. He told me as much. But he had already grown tired of her company before he met you. The affair was over.’ She smiled at Cornelia. ‘Truly, I know it was. But, you see, she is now the King’s mistress, and the Court gossip has it that Rendel was ordered to marry so that she would be free to go to the King.’
Cornelia swallowed, her throat tight. ‘I see.’
Lavinia hugged her half-angrily. ‘No, you do not see. It is not true. The King knew nothing of Rendel’s marriage. Nor did the Countess—indeed, Germaine is furious that he has married so soon. She is a possessive creature. I would not put it past her to speak of it to you herself. She is spiteful as a cat. I wanted to warn you before you met her at Court. There is so much back-biting and envy among them all. I would hate you to be hurt.’
Cornelia listened, but she did not quite believe Lavinia’s impassioned protests. The story explained, for her, many things which had puzzled her; why Rendel had suddenly desired to marry her, why he had delayed so long in taking her to be presented at Court, why, for all his passionate lovemaking, she always felt him to be somehow withdrawn, aloof, almost as though he were watching her from a distance.
Being a man, he had no hesitation in pursuing the desire he felt for her, but she was convinced that he felt nothing else for her than that. Desire sometimes looked at her from his eyes, but the love which glows like a candle flame had never shone at her from his face. Even at his most tender he said no words of love, revealed nothing of himself.
They were strangers in their bed at night, exchanging passion for passion, wordless and apart despite the intimacy they shared.
She looked at Lavinia sharply. ‘If the gossip is not true, why does the King permit it to go unanswered? Surely he would silence such scurrilous rumour?’
Lavinia shrugged. ‘The King, as you will discover, is a lazy man. He does nothing, out of preference. He only wants a quiet life and to be left alone.’
Lavinia helped her to choose a design for the gown she was to wear at Court. Rich, lustrous peach-coloured satin, full and sweeping in the skirts, the sleeves bound with thin ribbon in a deep green shade, the neckline fashionably low and revealing, it enhanced the healthy bloom of her cheeks and gave added sheen to her chestnut curls.
Rendel’s coach was silvered over, the horses had their tails and manes plaited with scarlet ribbons which fluttered in the breeze as they drove along, and the leathers and brasses were polished to a mirror-like brilliance for the occasion.
Rendel himself chose to wear the black satin which gave him so magnificent a presence, sombre and magnetic in his full-skirted coat, his cascading lace falling over the long hands.
Cornelia was nervous; her throat dry, her nerves jumping. Rendel, noticing, made her drink a glass of wine before they left for Whitehall. The reassurance of his manner soothed her more than the wine could do.
They walked in the galleries of Whitehall so that she might admire the beauties of the palace which, sprawling near the river, was always somehow filled with the freshness of the park beyond, the windows overlooking green walks and leafy trees.
In the Long Gallery, bowing to the many curious looks they received, Rendel suddenly nipped her arm. ‘Here’s the King,’ he hissed softly.
She knew His Majesty at once, recognising the ugly mouth, sleepy eyes and sauntering gait. The King, as she had suspected at the time, had indeed been one of the revellers who, on that windy autumn night, had stopped her and her mother in Thames Street.
He came towards them, like a great galleon escorted by a flock of little ships, a small dog in his arms, his courtiers walking with him on either side.
Cornelia, as he drew near, looked down and, at Rendel’s silent gesture, made her deep respectful curtsy.
‘Well, well, Rendel—so this is your new little wife?’ The drawling voice was filled with amusement.
She looked up, very flushed, and met the sleepy eyes. He smiled. ‘Damn.’ He glanced at Rendel, raising one crooked eyebrow. ‘I fancy I have seen that pretty face before!’
Rendel bowed without replying. A lady slightly out of earshot laughed loudly. Cornelia saw Rendel shoot a look across at her. She looked, too, receiving an impression of dark-red hair, clustered in curls under a broad-brimmed, feathered hat; a cold, lovely mouth, high bony nose, and eyes which darted hostility at her.
Her swift suspicion was confirmed when the King, lazily turning his head, said, ‘Germaine, your husband is looking for you, I think.’ Beneath his amiable tones flashed a hint of sternness.
