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ON FRIDAY EVENING, Francis Bacon sat again on a hard bench waiting for a feast to commence. This time, however, the seating plan had been arranged by a person who liked him. Not only was he near the top of table on the bride’s side of the dais, his supper companion was Michel Joubert. Lady Alice must have seen them conversing in the Presence Chamber. He appreciated the gesture, as well as the subtle reminder that the ladies sitting on their poufs kept their eyes and ears open while they sewed.
“Did you watch the bridal procession?” Michel asked.
“Only the first one.” The bride and her train of gentlewomen had paced solemnly around the Great Court, passing through the gate to circumnavigate the fountain in the Middle Court. They came to a stop before the steps up to the chapel where her groom awaited her, flanked by his gentlemen. “I didn’t see you inside the chapel.”
“Alas, I could not squeeze myself in, so great was the crowd. Did you witness the whole ceremony?”
“The vows, the rings, and mostly importantly, the signing of the contract afterward.” Francis raised his cup to acknowledge the most important component of a successful alliance.
“Ah, yes. That is the way of le mariage in France as well. But look!” Michel held up a bright copper penny. “I caught this from the groom during the second procession. It will bring me good luck, I hope.”
He twitched his dark eyebrows suggestively at Francis, who smiled into his cup. “You won’t need luck tonight, my friend. Not if the rest of the wine is as good as this first bottle.”
“Good wine, do you say?” A melodious woman’s voice sounded over their heads. Lady Penelope Rich had materialized behind them. She gestured toward the empty space on Francis’s left. “May I join you?”
“By all means, my lady.” He slid closer to Michel to make room for her skirts.
A waiter brought her a cup filled to the brim. She tasted it and murmured, “Mmm. It is good.”
Francis asked, “Have you been introduced to Monsieur Michel Joubert, my lady? He is the secretary to Monsieur Chaste, the new ambassador from France.” He leaned back so they could face one another.
“I have not had the pleasure.” She held out a hand covered in embroidered ivory kidskin.
Michel puffed a kiss a quarter inch above its surface. “It is a great honor to meet the famous Lady Penelope Rich, sister of that most excellent soldier and leader of men, my lord of Essex.”
“Any friend of Mr. Bacon’s is a friend of mine, Monsieur — and of my brother.”
They beamed at one another. Francis enjoyed the rare sensation of being surrounded by friends. “What good fortune to find you seated with us, my lady.”
She gave him a dry look from under her well-plucked brows. “Not luck, Mr. Bacon. I tipped the usher to move Lady I-Don’t-Care somewhere else.”
A tantara of horns announced the arrival of the wedding party. Boys in dark red livery entered first, followed by girls in pink dresses, followed in turn by half a dozen gentlewomen of the Privy Chambers arrayed in silver and white. Behind them came the bride on her father’s arm. Francis had never seen the Earl of Orford before, or didn’t remember doing so. He rarely came to court, preferring a life at sea.
Murmurs arose at his entrance. Lady Rich leaned toward Francis, pitching her voice so Michel could hear her too, “Well, it would appear she comes by that dramatic coloring honestly.”
Lady Alice — Lady Dorchester now — and her father had the same heart-shaped faces, vivid green eyes, and ink-black hair, though His Lordship’s short beard and moustache were streaked with silver. Both were short of stature but had the same erect carriage and martial stride.
Stephen walked close behind them. Though a head taller than his new father-in-law, he managed to seem to be in their train rather than of their party. Half a dozen lords followed him, including Sir Charles Blount, Lord Admiral Howard, and Sir Walter Ralegh. The procession moved sedately up the hall, separating into two groups to go around the upper table to their appointed seats. The newlyweds sat side by side in the center, with Lord Orford next to his daughter and Lady Stafford next to the groom. She must be filling in for the dowager Lady Dorchester, who reputedly never left her house.
“I believe every lord in Dorset is here today,” Lady Rich said. “Most impressive.”
“Is that so?” Michel studied the peers ranged along the dais. “Do tell me which is which, Mr. Bacon.”
Francis obliged, pointing with his chin. It was a compliment to Stephen that so many great ones had consented to attend. By tradition, he was their lord, but the character of the new earl must be known by the men of his own county. They probably didn’t want to miss the chance to begin shaping the soft clay of his malleable nature to their own ends. Stephen was lucky to have attached a woman with Alice Trumpington’s steel.
“I like the matching costumes of the bride and the groom,” Michel said. “But is not the combination of red and pink somewhat unusual?”
Lady Rich shot him a swift grin. “That’s oxblood and carnation, if you please, Monsieur, with ivory pricks and bronze embellishments. Her Ladyship told us in gushing tones that His Lordship designed their costumes himself. Note how the brim of her hat is exactly the right width to support her garland of white roses, which echo the purity of his tall white feathers.”
“Oh, does that represent purity? I had thought another symbol appropriate to this joining. Note, my lady, how his feather stands up so stiff and straight, while her garland creates a nice round hole.”
Lady Rich swatted at him with her fan. “Monsieur Joubert! If I weren’t a married woman, I would be mortified!” They all laughed. This feast was already more fun than the last one, and they hadn’t even started the first course.
Ushers began to circulate through the great hall with parcels wrapped in fine linen, handing one to each guest. Francis’s parcel bore a small tag with his name written on it. These gifts had been assigned individually.
He loved presents. He untied the bow eagerly, unrolling the wrapping to reveal a pair of exquisite black gloves made of the finest Spanish kidskin. He balled up the linen wrapper and tossed it toward the front of the table where the servants could collect it, then held the gloves to his nose. “Civet.”
“Very masculine.” Michel’s pair were a silvery-gray. “Mine are scented with civet as well.”
“Mine are rose,” Lady Rich said, displaying a pair of scarlet gloves that matched her overgown. She stripped off her old pair to try on the new ones. “A perfect fit! My estimation of Lady Dorchester grows by leaps and bounds.”
Francis tried on his black gloves, which also fit to perfection. “I don’t usually wear black gloves.”
“They make you look very Italian,” Michel said with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Don’t tell me that!” Francis resolved not to wear them in front of his mother.
“Oh yes,” Lady Rich said. “Thoroughly Machiavellian. The gloves of a wise and crafty counselor.”
“A counselor with neither brief nor patron,” Francis said.
“Not so, Mr. Bacon.” Lady Rich smiled at him. “Not so.”
Before they could pursue that fascinating theme, servants appeared in droves, collecting the wrappings and setting forth the feast. The three friends gave the supper their full attention for a while, spooning special tidbits onto each other’s plates, passing dishes around, summoning the waiter to refill their cups or ask for a different wine.
Lady Rich sampled the latest offering, a sweet red hollock. She set her cup down and leaned across Francis to include Michel again. “The gentleman on my left says he has it on the highest authority that Lord Orford haunted the Bay of Biscay for an entire month to capture ships bearing cargoes of delicacies for his daughter’s wedding supper.”
“Oh, my lady, you fill my heart with sorrow!” Michel pretended to be dismayed. “I hoped to find a new friend for France at that table tonight.”
“This is Spanish wine, mon ami,” Francis said. “You needn’t despair of Her Ladyship’s friendship yet.”
“Aha!” Lady Rich gave him a coy look. “Then you assume the lady is the one to be cultivated?”
“But that is obvious, my lady Rich,” Michel said. “At least in this case. See how the bride watches the servants and the guests, making sure all is well, while her husband stares into the air as if he does not know how he came to be here?”
Lady Rich chuckled. “He does seem to be somewhat overwhelmed. I also notice that his bride never looks at him beyond the merest flick of her eyes.”
“To see that he is still there, perhaps,” Michel said. “And not fled in terror.”
The three friends grinned at one another, enjoying themselves at the groom’s expense. Then Tom emerged from the flow of gentlemen servers passing behind the great persons on the dais. His impeccable black garb stood out amid the colorful costumes of the others, making him look taller and more distinctive. Such a contrast to the garish young man Francis had first met so many years ago!
He had made one independent sartorial choice, decorating his black hat with ribbons of white and purple, the colors of Gray’s Inn. Not oxblood and carnation — not Stephen’s colors. A small declaration of his preferred allegiance.
Tom leaned forward to pour wine into Stephen’s cup from a silver pitcher, whispering something in his ear that made the new groom laugh. Stephen grinned and visibly relaxed. He flicked a neutral smile at his wife, then turned toward Lady Stafford with some pleasantry that made her embark on a lengthy speech.
Tom filled Trumpet’s cup without looking at her, or she at him. He moved on to her father, who stopped him with a look of surprised delight, no doubt to say something about the late Captain Clarady.
“Who is that beautiful man?” Michel murmured.
The thrum of desire in his voice set Francis’s amour propre buzzing. “My clerk,” he answered crisply. He couldn’t compete with Thomas Clarady in terms of appearance; few men could.
“Ce n’est pas possible,” Michel exclaimed with a wink to show he was teasing.
“He isn’t just a clerk though, is he?” Lady Rich’s voice held that purring undertone that often afflicted women in Tom’s presence.
“Is he not?” Michel asked. “Do tell, my lady. I am all attention.”
She proceeded to give him a surprisingly complete account of Tom’s circumstances. She hinted at his role in the confidential commissions Francis had undertaken on behalf of Lord Burghley, but without revealing names or other sensitive information.
Perhaps she didn’t know those things, though it would seem the Earl of Essex had shared more with his sister than Francis would have guessed. He’d consulted the earl in strictest confidence, or so he’d thought. But if he examined his own motives with the ruthless candor taught him by his Calvinist mother, he was forced to admit those consultations had been pretexts for claiming a portion of the earl’s attention.
Now here was His Lordship’s favorite sister, pressed familiarly against his left elbow, gossiping away as if he were one of her oldest friends. She gave him the distinct impression that she wanted to be even better friends. Why, Francis didn’t know, but her attention was gratifying.
Michel was taking advantage of the opportunity to delve into the connections among the English aristocracy. Alliances shifted with every marriage and every death. “It appears this versatile clerk is a good friend of our newly married Earl of Dorchester. Is it not so? Also it would seem he is known to many of the lords here arrayed. Look how he is caught by one after another to say some words that make him smile that oh-so-charming smile he has.”
“His father was a privateer,” Lady Rich said. “People say they look very much alike. I suppose all these seafaring men do know one another. One imagines they meet in houses of ill repute in the Canaries.”
“St. Jean de Luz, my lady,” Michel corrected. “More convenient to the border of Spain.” They laughed together.
Francis smiled absently. His mind had caught on the fact that Tom did seem to know most of the lords of the West Country, at least those who were here. He’d never mentioned it; perhaps he’d forgotten. His father must often have brought him to watch ships setting out or returning from the New World. He would naturally have introduced him to the men of importance they met along the way. They would tousle the boy’s golden curls, make some joke about the resemblance between father and son, and think no more about it.
But now the curly headed boy was a grown man dressed like a barrister, with cultured manners, easy charm, and evident intelligence. The lords seeing him here tonight would think about him again tomorrow, wondering how they could make use of him.
Now he stood between Admiral Howard and Sir Richard Bingham, bending nearly double as he listened to something the admiral was saying. Tom nodded, then shot a grin at Sir Richard as he lowered his head still more to tell them some tale that made both men howl with laughter, slapping their hands on the table. Tom rose to fill their cups; bowing again, he left them smiling in his wake.
He had the gift of striking the right balance between respect and familiarity that had always eluded Francis. As he watched his pupil now, it occurred to him that he might have competition for Tom’s services one day soon.
The last savory course was removed, and a myriad of small dishes of sweetmeats were delivered. Wine cups were replaced, the fresh ones brimming with white canary. Candles were brought out and placed on the tables; more were lit in sconces attached to the walls. Evening must have descended outside the hall. Francis began to wonder how long this wedding supper would last.
As long as the bride could contrive to keep it going, he suspected, knowing she had no love for the man she’d married.
The servants departed, and horns sounded from the minstrel gallery above the screen, followed by a long rolling of drums. A troupe of acrobats bounded into the room, turning cartwheels and leaping into the air with breathtaking agility. Cries of delight and applause rose from the guests, who settled into their benches, making themselves comfortable for the serious drinking to come.
Francis took a deep draught of his wine, hiding a sigh inside the cup. He had chosen the life of a courtier in the forlorn hope of one day attaining a position that would allow him to achieve his destiny. That meant enduring many long evenings at crowded banquets, letting the clamor assault his ears and the antics of a band of strangely androgynous contortionists affront his eyes.
The drums began rolling again, so loudly Francis could not hear his own thoughts inside his head. The acrobats went through an even more astonishing series of leaps and twirls, ending with a flourish that won them a deafening thunder of applause.
Francis shrank back from the noise to find Michel’s comforting bulk at his back. A warm voice murmured in his ear, “Good enough for the Palais des Tuileries, do you not agree? The Lady Dorchester, she has excellent taste.”
“She does know how to please an audience.” Her maidservant had traveled with a troupe of comic actors in Italy for many years before finding her way to England. These acrobats might be her former colleagues, for all one knew. Lady Dorchester had already collected a most unusual set of retainers and allies.
Another fanfare announced the next entertainment: a small troupe of actors dressed like Italian ladies and gentlemen of the previous century. They bowed all around and began performing a comedy about mistaken lovers.
Francis had to look twice at the last one to enter. He’d thought it another actor arriving a bit late, but it was his cousin Robert, stumping along with the air of a man who had torn himself away from vital business to pay the minimum respect to a tedious occasion. He walked toward the upper dais until a steward caught him and ushered him to the bottom of the table on the groom’s side.
Robert’s evident displeasure at that location was softened by swift service of food and drink, though they neglected to bring a cushion to raise him up, so he looked like a careworn child sitting grumpily by himself.
Francis glanced toward the dais and happened to catch Trumpet’s eye. She raised her cup to him, surprising a short laugh out of him. She smiled in acknowledgment before turning back to her father.
Michel said, “I see the lady appreciates you almost as much as I do, mon ami.”
“She shouldn’t have done it,” Francis said. “It was meant to be disrespectful, and he knows it. He’ll make her pay later somehow.”
“Not much,” Lady Rich said, “especially if she delivers a healthy baby boy in nine months’ time. That would make her untouchable, for a while. But observe the new couple, gentlemen. I see interesting implications for the future.”
Trumpet and her father sat turned toward one another, hands clasped, shoulders touching as they watched the actors. They laughed together, clearly enjoying each other’s company more than any other part of the wedding supper. She kept half an eye on her guests, as she had done all evening.
Stephen, on the other hand, had shifted from his center seat as soon as the acrobats arrived, moving to the lower table, where his boisterous friends regaled themselves loudly with quantities of drink. The lady held her post, while the lord abandoned his. She divided her attention between her family and the guests; he hid among the worst-behaved group in the hall.
Michel quirked an eyebrow at Francis. “I did not realize you were such good friends with the new countess, mon ami.”
Francis was glad to be able to offer him a portion of the truth, enough to serve for the rest. “She lived in Blackfriars for a year with my aunt, Lady Russell, who is also the guardian of my clerk, Mr. Clarady.”
“Ah, the webs of connection! So subtle can they be, yet so important, n’est pas?”
Lady Rich said, “So true, Monsieur Joubert. I also observe that the lady has hitherto unsuspected talents. I predict she will cease to play the ninny in a matter of months.”
“Two weeks,” Michel said.
Francis shook his head. “She won’t last that long. It must be exhausting for a woman of her intelligence, and now it isn’t necessary. She’s won her place.”
“Now she must work to advance her husband,” Lady Rich said, “using all the skill and patience she used to acquire him.” She leaned past Francis to wink at Joubert. “The lady will need a wise counselor to guide her through the intricate and shifting alliances at court, won’t she, Monsieur?”
He gave her an answering wink. “We should all have such good counselors, my lady.”
“My lord brother has told me he esteems the advice of Francis Bacon above that of any other man,” Lady Rich said.
“As do I, my lady,” Michel replied.
The two had moved closer toward one another, snugging Francis between the barrister’s smooth gabardine and the lady’s costly taffeta. The scents of civet and rose and the sound of their mellow voices enveloped him in a sensuous cocoon of friendship. He felt cushioned and supported between these most congenial companions — boon companions, he might almost say.
His head bobbled a little as he turned to meet Joubert’s twinkling eyes, and he realized he was almost as drunk as he’d been on Midsummer Eve. He also realized he was being seduced by both of them at once. He liked it; he liked it a lot. It was so much better than being snubbed and held at arm’s length by his own kinfolk.
He noticed that Robert’s eyes were turned in his direction, undoubtedly observing the closeness of the trio and drawing his own conclusions. Let him. It was high time for Francis to give up on the Cecils and find a patron who appreciated his service.
