October 1662
Autumn leaves drifted across the gravel path of the privy garden and twirled about Catherine’s skirts. Around the garden, the great stone walls of Whitehall rose in many-windowed splendor. At her feet, Feliciana sniffed the path as though she were a much bigger dog tracking a boar—a performance spoiled when she started as a leaf danced under her snout. Catherine laughed at her little dog and her breath steamed in the air. She tucked her hands deeper into her pockets.
“Are you cold, Your Majesty?” Lady Eleanor stepped closer with a shawl she carried over her arms.
“No. No cold—I am not cold.” English grammar was so nonsensical with all those extra words, but she would speak it. “It is good. This weather. At home . . . that is to say, in Portugal, the autumn is not this.” The sky was a high, clear silver that erased shadows and left the world glowing in faerie light.
“It must have been a very great shock to come here.” The brisk air had brought a little color into Lady Eleanor’s cheeks, which made her seem less sickly. “The weather, and the language, and then getting married straightaway.”
“Always I knew I would be sent for marriage.”
“Was it . . . was the wedding what you had imagined?”
An image of Charles’s smile took up residence in her memory. “I still did not meet your question for our marriage?”
“I only meant that I would imagine, given your great devotion, that you must have wished for a Catholic ceremony.”
Feliciana barked and saved Catherine from a response, as the little spaniel ran after a squirrel. It was not in her nature to lie, but the Catholic ceremony that Charles had granted her must remain a secret. “Vem aqui, cadela parva!”
Feliciana’s plumed tail waved like flag into battle as she circled the tree the squirrel had gone up. Catherine clapped her hands to summon the spaniel back to them, but Feliciana paid her no heed.
“Shall I fetch her back, Your Majesty?”
“A moment.” Catherine shook her head. “A wonder there are squirrels still here, with all the spaniels of the king.”
She clapped her hands again and tried to use a firm voice as Charles did. “Feliciana! Agora! Vem!”
To her delight, the spaniel dropped back down to all four paws and trotted over to her, tail wagging. If only she were able to speak in such simple sentences for her regular communications in English. Catherine crouched to meet Feliciana and fondled her ears. The dog panted white clouds into the chill air.
“Boa menina. Como uma boa menina.” She straightened, smiling, until she saw Lady Eleanor’s face. Now she seemed quite drawn and pale despite the weather. The poor thing seemed to not be eating enough no matter what tempting delicacies were sent up from the kitchens. “Let us get in?”
“At your pleasure, Your Majesty.” She adjusted the shawl she held over one arm. “You were telling me about your wedding, I think?”
Catherine linked her arm through Lady Eleanor’s, which she hoped would steady the young woman. Young . . . in truth she was three years Catherine’s senior, but her fascination with Catherine’s wedding made her seem like a girl fresh from the convent. “I told about the ribbons at my dress?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Attempting to describe them in English took most of Catherine’s attention. She steered them back to the palace in order to get Lady Eleanor out of the cold; she was trembling as they walked. Catherine would have to bring a different lady when she next stepped out with Feliciana. The cool air was quite bracing, and the warm glow through the mullioned windows of her rooms promised the coziness of a fireplace. They entered inside the palace, and Feliciana raced ahead of them.
Catherine laughed. “She knows where we go.”
“Perhaps she smells her dinner?”
“That looks likely.” They caught up with the dog just outside the door to Catherine’s apartments. Feliciana stood on her hind legs, tail wagging furiously, as Jenny scratched her ears with one hand. The other held a tray from the kitchens.
At the sight of Catherine, the girl pulled her hand away and dipped into a curtsy, nearly upsetting Feliciana as she did so. The little dog hopped on her hind legs again and then rested her front paws against Jenny’s apron. Against the snowy fabric, small muddy paw prints left their tracks.
Catherine laughed and lifted Feliciana.
“Let me, Your Majesty.” Lady Eleanor held her hands out for the dog. “You will soil your dress.”
Catherine held Feliciana at arm’s length, though the position was far from graceful. Feliciana’s tail did not stop its wagging and her nose wrinkled and snuffled at the tray. Jenny’s face was flushed red and her gaze was fixed on the floor. Catherine turned to Lady Eleanor. “Would you be so good as for open the door. I will hold this bad dog.”
With a disapproving frown at Jenny, Lady Eleanor pushed the door open into a room of laughter. Lady Castlemaine’s voice belled over the group: “‘. . . my other weapon,’ and he reached for his breeches.”
From her position outside the door, Catherine could see Lady Suffolk blotting her eyes as she laughed at Lady Castlemaine’s story. Lady Buckingham had doubled over, hand clapped to her mouth as she giggled.
She had never heard such laughter from her ladies before.
Feeling more awkward than a queen should feel, she set the little dog down. Feliciana ran into the room. Stomach tight, Catherine stepped in after her.
The laughter stopped.
In the silence, Lady Eleanor entered behind her, trailed by Jenny and her tray. Catherine forced herself to smile at her Ladies of the Bedchamber. They had out their sewing and books, and all their faces were turned down studiously to their work. The roses on their cheeks betrayed the high merriment that had filled the room only moments before. Catherine turned about the room and sought Dona Maria’s gaze.
Looking up from the tapestry she was working on, the older woman’s lips quirked. In Portuguese she said, “It is like this every time you leave the room.”
“This saddens me.”
“They are beneath you.”
That was far from true. While Catherine might outrank them, she had little power in court other than that which was reflected from the king. It was all too clear that they were following Lady Castlemaine’s lead. While Charles might not visit her bed, her very presence proclaimed that she still had the king’s favor, because it showed that her wishes outweighed Catherine’s.
Catherine walked to the tray of dainties and picked up a piece of sausage for Feliciana. She bent down to give it to her, smiling as Feliciana’s delicate pink tongue wrapped around the morsel. If she could just win the affection of her ladies so easily.
She straightened, brushing the folds of her skirt smooth. Turning to the ladies by the fire, Catherine framed the sentence in her mind, thinking through the English until she was certain it was correct.
“I should like to hear your story, Lady Castlemaine.”
The room paused between breaths. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to still in astonishment. The beautiful Lady Castlemaine raised her head from the embroidery it seemed she had been sewing since she had become a Lady of the Bedchamber. No sign of surprise marred her countenance, though Catherine had acknowledged her presence for the first time. With a languid hand, Lady Castlemaine lowered her embroidery. “But of course, Your Majesty. I am entirely yours to command.”
She smiled. Gracefully. Elegantly. Bitterness filled Catherine’s stomach.
• • •
Jenny carried the tray back to the kitchen. It hadn’t been her job to take it to the queen’s chambers, but none of the other servants could be bothered to help Her Majesty unless absolutely commanded to. Oh, they wouldn’t go so far as to refuse, but they would dawdle. As she slipped into the kitchen, a scullion snorted.
“Rolling in mud with your Portuguese pig?”
Jenny kept her jaw tight and wiped the tray down. Running errands to the queen’s chambers kept her out of the kitchens, at least.
The scullion’s comment had attracted the notice of Master Giles Rose, the Royal Cook, who cuffed the boy’s ear and demanded, “What is all this hurly-burly?”
“Lookit Jenny. Her apron’s all over mud.”
Master Rose rounded on Jenny. “Here, now! What are you doing going about with a stained apron!”
“The queen’s dog—” A sharp blow to her ear cut off her next words.
“We keep ourselves tidy,” growled the cook. “No matter what the foreigners do.”
“She’s foreign herself now, isn’t she.” An undercook scowled at her over the pudding he was stirring.
“I was born here, same as you.”
“Oh, aye. You’re as English as the Queen of England.”
A wave of laughter rolled through the kitchen. At the far end, the Portuguese cooks looked around in question but with no understanding.
“She is the queen.” Jenny lifted her chin. “And I’m proud to serve her.”
“Too proud to know your place.” Master Rose narrowed his gaze. “I’d not have taken you on if it had been my choice, and Heaven knows the Lord Steward wasn’t happy to have you forced on the household. But if a foreign chit with no sense of cleanliness is what pleases Her Majesty, then so be it.”
Jenny drew a breath to respond. Across the room, Mavis caught her eye and gave a tiny shake of her head, and she let the breath out with her retort unspoken. That she was smarter than most of the menservants mattered not one whit. Her mother was foreign. She herself was from the wilds of Hampshire and common and—most unforgivable of all—a woman. She dropped a curtsy to the irate cook. “My apologies, Master Rose. I’ll fetch a clean apron at once.”
One of the Portuguese cooks turned from the stove and stepped farther into the room. He spoke in Spanish to Jenny. “Tell them I need you to go into the city for some herbs.”
There were boys for that, but Jenny tried to keep the impatience off her face. Master Rose would be glad of any excuse to see the back of her, and being cast out in a city like London would mean an ignominious return to Portsmouth and nothing to show for it but the grand silken gown the queen had given her. “Of course. I’ll be happy to fetch whatever you need.”
“Oh—I need nothing, but I thought you might be glad of a reason to be out of the kitchen.” The cook spread his hands. “They think I cannot understand, but it is clear that they despise the Infanta and take out their disdain on you as proxy.”
“Thank you.” Jenny folded the offending apron. Switching back to English, she told Master Rose, “They’ve some errands they need doing.”
“It is not their place to be giving orders to one of my staff,” the Royal Cook said stiffly.
“I thought you had no use for me?” Greatly daring, Jenny looked him straight in the eye. “Or have you another maid who can write and understand Spanish?”
With a frown, Master Rose waved her away and stalked back to the hearth, where he relieved his feelings by cuffing the boy watching the roast.
Mavis spoke up. “You can write?”
“In English and Spanish.” Jenny walked down to the Portuguese end of the kitchens. “I don’t intend to spend my life emptying chamber pots.”
• • •
As the priest intoned yet another interminable phrase in Latin, Barbara tipped her head back and stared at the chapel ceiling. She did not bother to stifle her sigh. Dona Maria, the Portuguese crone, glared at her. Honestly. Who wore black all the time? And the farthingales the woman continued to wear were beyond absurd.
They had been the mark of a well-to-do lady in Barbara’s childhood, but no one wore them now. For Barbara, they had taken on a taint as a reminder of her family’s impoverished years after the king was executed. She would never go back to that powerless state again.
Barbara shifted on the pew, trying to find a comfortable position. If she had realized that being a Lady of the Bedchamber would require her to attend Catholic Mass, she was not at all sure she would have insisted upon it. She might have liked it better when the queen was ignoring her.
Still . . . the gamble was paying off. The woman had finally acknowledged her, which only solidified Barbara’s position. Lord—now the musicians were playing something.
Did that mean the service was nearly over? With everything said in Latin instead of good, plain English, it was impossible to tell. Was she nearly free of this absurd masquerade? At least they were well-trained, even if the liturgy was incomprehensible.
She sighed again, and this time the queen looked around. Barbara gave a sour smile, making it as clear as she could that it was not sincere. She clasped her hands at her breast and raised her gaze heavenward in a mockery of the queen’s piety.
The queen compressed her lips and turned her gaze to the front of the chapel. She bent her head, eyes tightly closed, and mumbled some papist phrase.
The musicians finished their song and Father Patrick stepped forward, with his arms raised. Barbara straightened in her seat. The benediction. That meant she was nearly free of this wretched duty.
He intoned, “Uni trinoque Domino, Sit sempiterna gloria: Qui vitam sine termino, Nobis donet in patria. Amen.”
“Amen!” Barbara’s enthusiasm made the word echo through the chapel. She sprang to her feet, stretching her back.
The queen rose more slowly. “If it hurts you for attend Mass, Lady Castlemaine, you may excuse yourself.”
Oh, no. Barbara would not fall into that trap so easily. If she refused to attend the queen, then the woman would be able to make a case to Charles to get rid of her. With Roger gone, the forty pounds per annum that came with her position was more necessary to her than she would have liked. “I serve at your pleasure, of course, Your Majesty.”
Lady Eleanor kept her head lowered. “The music was lovely today. Does His Majesty ever attend with you, ma’am?”
“No.” A shadow of a frown crossed the queen’s face. “He no does. It would be not appropriate.”
“But surely, if you asked him, nothing would be untoward about pleasing his queen.”
“He pleases himself often enough.” Barbara lifted her chin to study the bas relief of the cherub behind them. “He pleases me. Frequently.”
Lady Suffolk laid a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. She had wisely taken a seat behind the queen rather than in the position of “honor” that Catherine had granted to Barbara.
“Oh? You had pleasure of company of the king recently? I did not realize.”
Barbara’s cheeks burned. The Portuguese wench’s command of English had improved drastically. Even if her grammar were still faulty, her aim was true enough. The king had not, indeed, visited her bed of late, but she would not give the queen that comfort.
Barbara smiled enigmatically and chose to let silence be an answer rather than the truth. “Oh, His Majesty takes pleasure in the company of many. For instance, I have been most grateful to him for introducing us to Mister Crofts, and his interesting story.” She took that opportunity to turn to face the queen fully. Jamie and his claims of being legitimate offered so many delicious possibilities. A vein pulsed at the queen’s temple. Would she faint again, or scream? Another nosebleed would be amusing enough and do nothing to improve the woman’s standing in court, queen or no.
“Yes. The king told me much of the history of his son.”
Ah. A point to the queen—she parried more coolly than Barbara would have expected. A sharp inhalation came from Lady Eleanor, and for once the meek woman looked up, eyes blazing. She must not have heard the rumors yet, which Barbara would hasten to repair. If she had her way, the whole of the court would hear of it, and the path would be laid for Jamie to produce his proof. Which, frustratingly, remained vague; the youth did not entirely trust her yet, and would only hint at certain letters he had in his possession. She would draw more from him soon, no doubt.
The Portuguese woman had turned her back on Barbara and left the pew for the aisle. “Lady Eleanor, you enjoyed the music?”
“I did, Your Majesty.” The country mouse, Barbara thought, followed the queen like one of those cursed spaniels. “It is a pity that no one but your ladies can enjoy it.”
The queen looked up to study the musicians who sat in a loft overlooking the chapel. “Perhaps . . . In Portugal, for times they would play outside chapel. It is something to consider.”
“I am certain that people would enjoy hearing them.”
Barbara ran a finger along the back of the pew as she walked down its length to the aisle. With a legitimate heir, Charles would have less urgent need for the queen. Even with the desire for extra sons in case of the death of the heir, he wouldn’t feel pressed to bed his wife quite so assiduously. The simplest course would be to give the queen room to make mistakes. In this case, their mutual animosity could be an effective tool.
Sniffing, Barbara flicked a speck of imaginary dust from her fingers. “If you wish to alert people to your . . . unique taste, then, by all means, Your Majesty, invite them to hear your musicians. I am certain everyone would find much to interest them in such a curiosity.”
Barbara suppressed a smile. The foolish woman would do it just to spite her, and then the whole court could mock her papist songs.
• • •
Jenny had provided herself with a clean apron and tucker and recoiled her hair under her starched coif before heading out on the “errands” that the Portuguese cook had requested. She trotted down the plain whitewashed stairs which led from the maids’ dormitory at the top of the palace to a backyard where she could set off into London.
Below her, footsteps rose from the lower levels, along with a pair of men’s voices. “How did you come to learn of these stairs?”
A laugh and then an aristocratic drawl. “Well . . . the servants are supposed to move unseen among us, and so I simply made the . . . acquaintance of a serving maid.”
“An acquaintance . . . I see, indeed, my Lord Rochester.”
“And, of course, it has served me well to be able to visit Babs.”
“Are you so familiar with Lady Castlemaine?”
“As familiar as she will let me be, which is more so now that the King’s fancy is turned elsewhere.”
A scoffing laugh followed. “The king’s fancy—that Portuguese usurper.”
“Patience, dear Jamie. That’s what we shall solve with the help of my dear Babs.”
Jenny stopped on the stairs. If they were going to visit the Lady Castlemaine, then they would need to go through the door she had just passed. She could continue down the stairs, or attempt to retreat up them and escape their notice through another door. She dared a peek over the banister, and saw their plumed hats bobbing not half a flight below her. They were too close, so her best recourse was to continue down.
“Think you that she can truly help?”
“She has the ear of everyone that matters. And you yourself are an object of great interest here at court. Your so-called proof of your legitimacy aside—and you know you’ll have to produce it at some point, we can’t take it on faith forever—did not the king acknowledge you as his son?”
Jenny lowered her head and pattered down the stairs as though she had some urgent business.
“Hist—someone is coming.”
She rounded the corner of the stairs, and a young man with the look of the king about him stood with his hand upon the chest of a nobleman with curling blond locks. Lord Rochester. She had seen him in the halls often enough, but the other man was unknown to her. Given his unmistakable resemblance to the king, though, he could only be Mister Crofts, the royal bastard everyone had been talking about this month and more. Lord Rochester pursed his lips and stepped away from the other’s hand, squarely into Jenny’s path.
“Good day, my pretty. Where are you off to this fine afternoon?”
She widened her eyes and answered in Spanish. “No le entiendo.”
“What’s that?”
“No hablo inglés.”
Lord Rochester slapped his thigh in delight. “Portuguese! She understood not a whit of what we were discussing.”
“She’s pretty enough.” Mister Crofts came up the stairs and studied her as if she were a horse. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “I’ll wager there’re other languages she understands.”
Jenny’s heart raced. She tried to pull her hand free. “El burro sabe más que usted. Tírese a un pozo.”
The young man turned to Lord Rochester. “No one takes these stairs, you say?”
“None but the servants.” He smacked Mister Crofts on the buttocks. “But you forget that fairer treasures await us in my Lady Castlemaine’s apartments. And that those are but a taste of what is yours by right.”
With a kiss to the inside of her wrist, the king’s bastard released Jenny’s hand and sighed. “Until later, then.”
They continued up the stairs as if she had never been present. Jenny leaned against the wall of the stairs. If she couldn’t win friends among the servants, at least she could continue to prove her devotion to the queen. And should not the queen know what Jenny had just overheard?
• • •
The sedan chair ride from Whitehall did nothing to steady Lady Eleanor’s nerves. In his reply to her message, Lord Russell had been insistent that she come to him, without fully understanding how difficult it was to get away from the palace. She knotted her fingers in her handkerchief and wiped her brow clean with the linen. It was too cold outside for her to be sweating, and yet she was.
As the sedan chair settled on the ground outside Westminster Palace, she inhaled the rank river air and tucked the kerchief into the pocket beneath her skirt. Stepping out, she walked toward the door. She felt half-naked, on the street without a chaperone, but there was nothing for it. It was certainly not the first time, but it never became comfortable.
When the door opened, she was led through the now-familiar hallways to the office where Lord Russell awaited. He sat behind his table, scribbling, determined to make her wait for notice again. The petty games he played sickened her, but if she had any hope—either for revenge or escape—it was through his good graces.
Today, though, she hoped her news would satisfy him. Without waiting for leave, she dragged a chair closer to his table. The wooden legs groaned across the floor.
Lord Russell looked up, lip curling. “Well, my lady?”
Spreading out her skirts, Lady Eleanor sank into the chair. “I have two pieces of information for you, my lord. The queen is going to host a concert.”
“What care I for that?” He cast his quill down on the table, and ink spattered across the pages. “I gave you specific instructions to discover the details of her Catholic marriage.”
“The concert is to feature her chapel musicians.” She tilted her head to the side, watching his pale eyes for understanding. “Her chapel musicians, sir. A concert of religious music, beyond doubt. It is the first step at attempting to convert the court to her papist beliefs.”
He snorted and tugged on his chin. “Ah. Yes . . . we may perhaps make use of that. It will certainly look bad, and increase ill will against her. A grave misstep on her part. And the second?”
She smoothed her skirts and let the silence stretch between them. He had toyed with her so many times, but she could match him today. For her second piece of news was much better than a simple concert. After the exchange between Lady Castlemaine and the queen in chapel, Eleanor had taken care to be where the countess could find her and spill her rumors into her ear. Whatever Lady Castlemaine’s reasons for doing so—Eleanor assumed it was simply in her nature to spread vile gossip—the information had both shocked her and given her hope.
Eleanor smiled triumphantly, and said, “Have you heard of Mister James Crofts?”
“Of course. Who has not? The king’s bastard, off the notorious whore Lucy Walter. That is nothing to our purpose.”
Eleanor stared at him, speechless and brought up short. Russell frowned impatiently. “Ah, this is where your ignorance of the wide world fails you. Of course you would not have heard of it, mewed up in the country. But it is not a secret to the court.”
“Not a secret? That he is the king’s son?”
“Young Crofts is openly acknowledged.”
Eleanor rallied, leaning forward and placing her hands on his desk. “Ah. But is it as well known that his parents were secretly married? Making him the legitimate heir to the throne?”
Russell went still, fixing her with his pale blue gaze. “Where did you hear this?”
“The Lady Castlemaine.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Hm. And did she tell you how she knew? Did she mention any proof of such a claim?”
Eleanor hesitated, thinking. “Well . . . not precisely. She seemed very sure of it, however.”
Russell made a scoffing sound, pushed back from his desk, and stood, going to pour himself a glass of wine from a small cabinet. “Do you think I have not thought of this? How convenient it would be if the king had married the woman in youthful impulse, and thus provided a Protestant heir ready to hand? And yet, here the boy is, nearly of age and no evidence yet produced of any such thing. I am not such a fool as to grasp after phantoms, simply because they promise what I would wish to believe.”
Eleanor stood and drew herself up, not yet willing to give up her prize. “And yet should we be foolish enough to ignore a weapon that comes to hand, because we mistrust it? What if it were true? You did not hear the lady; she was very persuasive.”
He said drily, “I can easily imagine what Lady Castlemaine gains by spreading such a tale. But that is no reason for us to be taken in by it. You must sharpen your wits, lady mine, if you are to prosper in this matter.”
Eleanor thought bitterly of how little she wished to be at this business at all. And yet, since she had no choice, it was doubly bitter to fail.
Russell crossed to her, and standing close, picked up her hand and pressed his wine glass into it. To offer her his own glass was too intimate a gesture, intended to fluster her, his usual game. She put the glass down on the desk and looked up into his face, her lips pressed together.
He looked back down at her, his expression hard. “Have you nothing, then, to tell me of the Catholic wedding?”
“Nothing yet, my lord. But I believe she was near to confiding in me this morning. Her trust deepens. I promise you, it is merely a matter of time.”
He nodded, going back around his desk to sit. “I hope so, my lady. I hope you are not forgetful of your duty to me, and of the consequence to your family if you are.”
Her stomach tightened, and her breath quickened. She said, “Trust me. We shall soon have the tools we need to pry the papist woman from the throne.”
And if she had her wish, she thought, King Charles would go right along with the queen. She would see both of them all the way to hell.
• • •
The next day, Jenny bent her head to scrubbing the tea stains from the queen’s teapot. Her Majesty might never see the inside of the pot, but that was no reason to leave it brown. Across the table, Mavis had a silver ewer and was buffing it for the table.
She glanced up and raised her brows. “I can put that away for you. Promise, won’t let none of the others touch it.”
“But I’m not finished yet.”
“Pardon, mistress.” The soft voice was accented and rolling. “The queen wants you.”
Jenny turned on the bench. Standing behind her was the little page boy, Samuel. Born in the Indies, he had been a wedding gift from some noble lord to His Majesty, who had in turn presented him to Her Majesty. Poor lad seemed nearly as lost at the palace as she was. “Oh, Sam. Did she say what she wanted me for?”
“The tailor is here again.”
“Right.” She placed the teapot carefully in Mavis’s hands. “Thanks, dear. I owe you.”
“Just promise to tell me every word your young man says.”
“Don’t be stupid.” But Jenny checked her apron for stains. “I’m just helping with translation.”
“Mm-hm . . .” Mavis pulled the teapot closer. “Don’t forget to pinch your cheeks. You’re looking pale as milk, my girl.”
Jenny stuck her tongue out at Mavis, but hurried after Samuel. She didn’t need to pinch her cheeks, not with the stairs between them and Her Majesty. She’d be flushed enough from the climb.
“How’re you settling in, Samuel?” she said to the small, straight back.
“I am very happy, mistress.” He said it as if by rote.
“Do they treat you well?”
“I am very happy.” He gestured to the door in front of them. “The queen is waiting.”
She tugged on her apron to straighten it. And then she pinched her cheeks, just in case. Ah, she was an idiot. Who would look at her when the Queen of England was present? Not to mention the splendid Lady Castlemaine? Sighing, Jenny stepped into a room filled with ladies and a consort of musicians.
The room also contained Mister Hammett—he stood next to a pile of fabrics, stretching out lengths for the tailor to show to Her Majesty. And the king.
Jenny’s heart thumped sideways in her chest. The king. She swallowed and shot Samuel a glare. He gave her a shy grin as if to say that he had known full well that the king was here. He might have warned her, now mightn’t he? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen the king before, but she’d never spoken to him, and if the queen wanted her usual help with the tailors then Jenny would be doing a fair bit of speaking. She swallowed again. It would be fine as long as she kept her head.
Mister Hammett didn’t seem the least bit nonplussed about showing fabrics to the King of England. Perhaps he did it regularly as part of his duties. As he folded a piece of linen and turned to set it back on the pile, his dark gaze caught hers.
He smiled, inclined his head, turned back to the tailor, and murmured something.
Jenny’s feet seemed to have grown roots; she had to yank them up to make herself move forward. It wouldn’t do for the queen to see her standing there and staring. She crossed the room and sank into a curtsy before the king and queen.
“Ah. This is the young woman you were telling me about?” The king said it as if he had no memory of having seen her before, which likely he didn’t. Her job was to be invisible, after all.
Except to the queen.
“Yes. Jenny is most helpful.” Her Majesty gestured for her to rise.
To Jenny’s surprise, the king switched to Spanish. “Then let us give thanks that she knows the words for ladies’ clothing, as I do not. Not even in English.”
At some point, the queen or the king or the tailor was going to use a word that she could not translate. She must learn more about the trade so she would be prepared for whatever the queen asked. She straightened from her curtsy, keeping her gaze respectfully lowered, and backed up until she stood next to Mister Hammett.
“I was rather hoping you would be here,” he murmured, and shifted so that she had a clearer view of the material.
To make it seem as if they were discussing fabric, she lifted a fold of deep red velvet. “Do I make your job so much easier?” she murmured.
“Among other things.” His lashes were so very long and dark. With one hand, he gestured toward the stack of fabric. “What do you think we should show them next?”
“What is the queen having you make?” She glanced at the musicians.
“Costumes for an opera, I think. Or a ballet. I’m not entirely clear.”
“I’ve never been to the theater.” Her throat closed a little. She truly would not know any of the right terms for this sort of garb.
He paused in the process of pulling out a length of green velvet. “Have you not? Well, perhaps . . .”
She put her hand on a periwinkle blue silk. “If it’s for the queen, try this. The green will make her look sallow. And—perhaps, what?”
“Thank you.” He slipped the silk she’d indicated from the stack and handed it to the tailor. “In that case, if it is not too forward, might I be allowed to escort you to the theater?”
“Oh.” She turned her attention to the queen, who was running her hand over the periwinkle silk with evident delight. Such an excursion would be an opportunity to ask Mister Hammett questions about costumes. Nothing more than that. Her interest had nothing to do with the appealing timbre of his voice. “I could ask for leave, I suppose.”
Mister Hammett smiled. “I shall have to see what is playing. With luck, The Coffee-House will be running that day.” He reached for the green velvet again and showed it to her. “Think you that this might convey a summer day with the periwinkle? For the musicians’ dress?”
“Grass and sky?” She nodded and he handed it to the tailor. “What is The Coffee-House?”
“A play that I have been most interested in seeing because it is about a man of my own heritage.”
“Might I then ask where you are from?”
“London.” He flashed her a brilliant smile. “But I thank you for not asking until now. My father is from Turkey, and the play concerns a coffee-shop owner from the same country. I suspect everything about it is wrong.”
“Then why do you wish to see it?”
“Because I am curious.” He had a dimple when he smiled. “And Turks are so exotic, who would wish to miss the spectacle? Will you come?”
For a chance to see him smile again? “Yes, thank you.”
• • •
The night air caught against the sweat on Charles’s skin and sent a shiver down his spine. He kissed his lover’s cheek and rolled off her. At their feet, Rogue readjusted himself on the bed with a little whuffle of protest. In the dark of their drawn curtains, Charles could not see her, but could feel the gooseflesh on her arms.
“Cold, my love?”
Catherine snuggled against him. “Not when you are here.”
“Well . . .” He drew the coverlet up higher, wrapping it around her shoulders. “I shall be here all night, then.”
She sighed, but it was not the sigh of contentment that she had uttered during their lovemaking. He raised himself on an elbow, wishing that he could see her, but she was a mere shadow. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing. Not really.”
“Do you not wish me to stay?”
“Oh! No. No, it is not that at all. Only . . .” Her hand slid under the covers and cupped his hip. “I was only thinking how nice this was.”
And yet, her sigh had sounded discontented. Charles worked his arm out from beneath the coverlet and found her cheek. He traced the soft curve and worked his fingers back into her hair. He would hazard a guess, and if he was wrong, then her correction might lead him closer to the truth. “Do you miss Portugal?”
“What? No—I mean, yes. But that is not why I sighed.”
“Aha! So you do have a reason to be discontent.”
She rolled toward him and found his lips in the dark. Her breath was warm, and for a moment she managed to distract him. His loins stirred in response to her touch. Lord knew there were not many women who could awaken him so easily a third time in one night. Barbara—
He pulled back, suddenly certain what had caused her to sigh. “Dearest . . . the nights that I do not spend with you are not spent with another.”
“I spoke to her.”
“I—I had heard.” From Barbara, but it did not seem politic to say so, nor to report how the lady had crowed. “Thank you.”
“I did not do it for you.” The sheets rustled as Catherine rolled onto her back.
He waited. He had hoped the two women would find a way to get along. There was little chance of that now. Likely he should not have forced the issue by making Barbara a Lady of the Bedchamber, but what was done was done.
Catherine sighed again, more heavily this time. “She is a sower of discord.”
“No. No, love, she is truly not.”
“Not for you. But she has little fondness for me. I was hoping that if I acknowledged her we could put our animosity behind us. All it has done . . . All that has happened is that she is even more convinced of her superiority.”
Charles laughed loudly enough that Rogue started awake. The dog huffed a low bark of protest and turned in a circle before settling down again. “There. See? Even Rogue knows that is not true. You are the Queen of England. No woman is your superior.”
“Many women are, and on the most important point. I am not yet with child.”
“That will come.”
“It has not yet. The assumption is that I am not yet with child because I am either barren or you are choosing to spend your time elsewhere.”
Charles sighed, aware that he echoed her own aggrieved noise from before. “I have told you that I am ‘spending time’ with no one but you.”
“It is not as if I can say that. People judge your favor based on the evidence that they can see.” Catherine sat up, and her pale skin was an echo of moonlight in the darkness. “You are king, yes, but I have to move in women’s circles, and there Barbara rules.”
A chill from more than the night air wrapped around him. “What—” No. He did not need to make her tell him that. He was well enough aware of the evidence that seemed to place Barbara first. Short of removing Barbara from her post, which he would not do, there was little that he could do to make it clear how high Catherine stood in his esteem. Sitting beside her, Charles wrapped his arms around her cool flesh and pulled her into his embrace. “Dearest. I promise. I will think of something to make everyone regard you with the same affection that I do.”
• • •
Standing outside the Theatre Royal, Jenny had no difficulty at all in spotting Mister Hammett amongst the crowd. Though he was not the only foreigner, the scattered few others were mostly Africans. A group of Chinamen passed her in sumptuous silks that would have made half the court faint with envy. What made Mister Hammett stand out was his height and his carriage.
At court, he kept his head bowed in the deference befitting an apprentice tailor, and wore his hair tucked under a tailor’s cap. Here, he carried himself with confidence, his hair flowing over his shoulders in a glory of black silk waves. He moved through the crowd as if none of the rest of the people existed. When he saw her, his face lit, and that charming dimple reappeared by his smile.
“Mistress Martin.” He sketched a very pretty leg, as if she were a lady.
“Don’t make fun of me.” She brushed at her dress, wishing she’d been able to bring herself to wear the silk gown the queen had given her. But of course, he’d have made his own clothes and was not allowed to be shabby, being a tailor’s apprentice.
He straightened, frowning. “I am not.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not used to having anyone bow to me.”
“I hope you do not mind that you might have to become accustomed to it.”
She was a wretched bore, getting upset that he bowed to her. Jenny wet her lips. “Thank you. And I’m sorry, Mister Hammett.”
“Not at all.” He brushed his hair back from his face. “May I ask for a small amendment? It is an easy mistake to make, so I hope you will forgive me . . . Properly, it should be Hamed, not Hammett. Actually, that is also not entirely true. Hamed was my father’s given name, but when he came to live here they thought it was Hammett, and that, of course, must be a surname—and so here we are.”
“Look at that. We have more in common than I thought.” She smiled at him. “My baptismal name is Genoveva, though everyone presumes it is Jane.”
“Genoveva is a lovely name, but I will not presume to use it . . . not yet.” He glanced at the theater, which sat well back from Drury Lane. “Mistress Martin, shall we go in?”
“Thank you, yes, Mister Hamed.” Laying her hand on his arm, she followed him down the narrow passage between buildings to the door.
The interior of the theater was an enormous vaulted hall, with no ceiling save a glazed dome, to let in the light. It was surrounded on three sides by ranks of boxes with gilt balustrades. Mister Hamed led her to one of the benches arranged in semi-circular ranks facing the stage. They were cunningly arranged so that each row was higher than the one in front. She settled onto the green baize bench and tucked her skirts in so she did not infringe upon her neighbor.
The people attending were as spectacular as the hall itself. Jenny had become used to fine clothes, living in Whitehall, so the proliferation of silk and embroidery seemed more common than the plain woolen coat of the merchant on her right. A woman two rows in front of them had so many black plaster stars and moons stuck to her face that she must have been hiding horrible pox. A group of young noblemen had brought an amusement of their own, and shared a young woman between them—she went from lap to lap, giggling and flashing her bosom. Walking between the rows, a young girl carried a tray of oranges.
“Oranges!” Her mother’s uncle used to send a crate of oranges from Spain for the holidays.
“Should you like one?” Mister Hamed raised his hand. “Here, girl!”
“Oh, no—”
But before she could stop him, the girl had run up the aisle and curtsied to Mister Hamed. “Sixpence, sir.”
“Two, please.” He handed the girl the coins and took two of the golden orbs in exchange. He held one out to Jenny. “Here you are.”
“You oughtn’t have.”
“But I can’t enjoy one myself, if you don’t have one as well. That would be rude.”
He had a winning smile. Jenny took the orange, her finger just brushing his. “Thank you.”
Her cheeks were too warm, and she bent her head to busy herself with peeling the orange. As she dug her thumbnail into the soft, leathery rind, a mist of scent sprayed upward, carrying a sweet citrus tang. The last time she had eaten an orange, she had been sitting in front of the fireplace with her sisters. Her mother had been in the window doing some lacework and Papa had been playing a little tune on his viol. She missed them so very much.
The juice of the segment lit the inside of Jenny’s mouth like a sunbeam after rain. She closed her eyes for a moment to savor the beads of flesh bursting between her teeth. It was warm, sweet, and the juice trickled down her throat. When she opened her eyes, Mister Hamed was smiling at her with his head tilted a little to one side.
Jenny swallowed and cleared her throat. “It’s been a long time since I had an orange.”
A commotion behind them stirred the crowd. Jenny glanced back and everyone was looking up. Above them, the king had entered the center box seat, surrounded by courtiers and ladies.
Biting her lip, Jenny faced the front again and crossed her arms.
Mister Hamed leaned down and murmured, “Not fond of the king?”
“Oh, no, that’s not it. That is . . .” Jenny screwed up her nose and sighed. If what she’d overheard on the stairs was carried to the wrong ears, she could be summarily dismissed. Telling the queen might lead to some appreciation in a more tangible form but . . . She bent her head and picked a scrap of orange peel off her skirt. “You seem like the sort of person who knows what o’clock it is.”
His long, expressive fingers twitched as if he were going to reach for her, and then he rested them on his breeches. “What happened?”
“Who said anything did?”
“Well, given the way you are shredding the orange peel, let us say that your fingers expressed some . . . concern.”
She snorted. “Do you know who Mister Crofts is?”
“You have the better of me.”
“He’s the king’s son.” She dropped the orange peel and brushed her fingers down her skirt. “I overheard him and Lord Rochester saying that he was in truth legitimate and that Lady Castlemaine would help him prove it.”
“You—you haven’t told anyone that, have you?”
Jenny shook her head. “I thought to tell the queen.”
“Don’t.”
“But she ought to know, oughtn’t she? What if he divorces her?”
“It is no concern of ours.” Mister Hamed shifted on his seat and leaned closer. “This is a matter for the nobles, and you should not get mixed up in it.”
“I thought that maybe . . . if I told her, she might appreciate the service.”
“Likely she already knows and . . . people like us, the ones on the outskirts of society, have to be better, and cleaner, and quieter than anyone else. The queen does not want to hear about trouble in her own home from one of us.”
“People like us?” Jenny raised her head to glare at him. She was nothing like him. “What do you mean by that?”
He cocked his head with a wry smile and ran the tip of his finger down his long curved nose. “People who no one can believe are English.”
“My father is English!” She fell silent at his raised eyebrow. The grief she received in the kitchens was because she looked foreign, no matter that she was born in England. “No . . . you’re right. Mum is Spanish and that . . . you’re right.”
“My father is not English. My mother is, but . . . were it not for the current fascination with Turkish fashion, I would be relegated to the docks or sailing, at best.”
While they were talking, the candles had been lowered over the stage, and now the play began. A young man in a barman’s apron entered, cleaning a mug with a rag, and two more actors, dressed in the rough linen and wools of knaves, entered after him, laughing.
The largest of the men pounded his stomach and clapped his companion on the back, making him tumble forward. “I have made an escape as hard as one of Jupiter’s to see thee, Rasy,” he declaimed. “The heat of our morning business is over and now my stomach’s more raw and cold than the weather. Therefore prithee one half pint of the best, if thou lovest me.”
Rasy replied, “I know thy meaning; thou shalt have it.” He gestured to the youth. “Lad, a pint pot!” He watched the young man in the apron bow and run off stage. “An honest rogue, I warrant him.”
“Here can I drink at any time a pint of sack would make a cat speak Greek or Hebrew for a groat.”
Jenny laughed along with the rest of the audience and thought no more of intrigue or the palace.
• • •
For the queen’s concert, Charles had given orders to convert one of the ballrooms of Whitehall into a theater. On either side of the hall, raised platforms provided seating for the crowd that had assembled.
Catherine and Charles were seated at the front and center of the audience. She had brought all of her Ladies of the Bedchamber, and Samuel as well. The young boy sat at her feet on a cushion, his eyes nearly as wide in astonishment as hers. She fidgeted in her chair, trying not to look around every time someone said “Her Majesty.” Why had she thought this was a good idea? The curse of having learned English was that she could understand the murmurs.
Leaning over from his chair, Charles rested a hand on hers. “Nervous, my dear wife?”
“Everyone is expecting scandal.”
He chuckled. “No. They are hoping for a scandal. It is all they have to discuss.”
She turned her hand so that she could clasp his and gave thanks to God that she had instructed her musicians to plan a secular opera. What she would not have given to have Feliciana here as a distraction, but she had barked too much in the rehearsals to be trusted. Even Charles had left his spaniels with their attendant. Catherine glanced to her left, where her Ladies of the Bedchamber were seated in a position of honor. It galled her to have Lady Castlemaine present, but there was nothing for it. She had taken the precaution of placing Dona Maria and Lady Eleanor between her and Lady Castlemaine as a barrier.
She glanced at Lady Eleanor and smiled. Her color was up and she looked around the room with more animation than was her usual wont. She had been so keen for the musicians to perform for everyone, and Catherine hoped that she would be delightfully surprised by the selection.
She and Charles had decided upon the most English of themes. Onstage, the machinery of the theater came to life and great shutters unfolded to depict an English countryside. One of her female singers walked onto the stage, dressed as a peasant boy, and began an aria about the joys of England. As she sang, another singer entered, older and dressed in a long blue robe scattered with stars.
In the course of the following duet, it became clear that the soprano represented the renowned King Arthur in his obscure youth. The music continued straight through, interrupted only by the occasional recitative, taking the young Arthur and Merlin through a series of adventures ending in a great tournament. The climax was the moment when Arthur drew the mystical sword from the stone, revealing himself as the rightful King of England. The scenery changed around them, spectacular and ingenious, but the real focus of the event was on the queen’s Italian musicians. They sat proudly at the front of the stage, not to the side or hidden behind a curtain, dressed in blues and greens like springtime brought to life.
When Arthur pulled the sword from the stone and sang the last ringing note of the first act, Catherine gripped the arms of her chair, waiting for the audience’s reaction.
The applause came with swift enthusiasm. Her chest unclenching a little, Catherine clapped with everyone else and resolved to reward the musicians. Rings, she thought, and a heavy gold chain for the concertmaster. She had more jewels than coin nowadays.
A motion to her left drew her gaze. Lady Eleanor had stood, hand to her chest as if she were having difficulty breathing. All the color had drained from her face. Stumbling from her chair, she made her way out of the room.
Catherine leaned forward to Samuel. “Follow her, my dear, and make certain she is well.”
He nodded and sprang to his feet.
As the applause died away, Charles held out his hand to hers with a wink. “Shall we dazzle them?”
She had almost managed to make herself forget about this aspect of the evening. All her fear came back with full force, and she locked her gaze on her husband’s to keep from fainting. Catherine rose from her chair. Behind her—but she would not look—fabric rustled as the assembled audience began to rise with their king.
From the stage, one of the performers spoke with the clear ringing voice of a trained singer. “Their Majesties invite you to remain seated.”
She swallowed and proceeded to the stage with Charles. This was no different from their dance at the ball. Though she had been trained to be quiet and invisible, she had danced then and not perished.
They took center stage. Charles bowed to her, holding her in his gaze. The corners of his eyes crinkled with the hint of a smile that seemed meant only for her. Catherine curtsied.
The steps were no more complicated than the first dance they had done together. A simple chassé started it off, and then she turned in circles as the mirror of her husband. Their dancing master had conceived the performance as being a bridge between the glories of England’s past and present. For Catherine, the language of the dance was as foreign as English, but the physicality of it was freeing. To be able to move and stretch her legs and leap, with her skirts flaring about her, was pure heaven. All the while, Charles turned and bowed and had eyes only for her. It was exhilarating.
The final forms led her to face out toward the audience with him. She had almost forgotten they were there. As the music came to an end, she found herself curtsying. She had done it.
The audience leapt to their feet, applauding with great gusto. The glittering ladies and gentlemen of the English court shouted their acclaim. She squeezed Charles’s hand, silently thanking him for lending her prestige as a shelter from the scrutiny of the court.
Unbidden, her gaze sought Lady Castlemaine. Her complexion had gone decidedly green.
Charles waved to the audience and then released her hand, stepping back with a gesture toward her.
And then someone, she could not see who the blessed soul was, shouted, “Long live the queen!” Lady Castlemaine’s mouth had twisted into a sour line. Catherine met her gaze and smiled as she curtsied again for the audience.
The opera was not yet over, but she had already triumphed.