LETTICE ASHERTON WAS alone in the dorter changing her stockings. A hole in the heel was causing a painful blister, and Lady Shrewsbury would not look sympathetically upon a hobbling maid of honor. She had only three pairs of stockings and examined the hole with a rueful grimace. It was almost too big to darn, but it would probably survive one more mending. She sat on a stool and eased the clean stocking over her foot.
The click of the door latch startled her and she glanced over her shoulder. A young maidservant came in carrying the chamber pots that she had emptied that morning. She curtsied. “Your pardon, madam. I didn’t know anyone was ’ere.”
“I won’t be in a minute,” Lettice said carelessly, taking up the second stocking.
The girl bent to push the chamber pots beneath the beds. “Is the young lady what was supposed to be sick better now?” she ventured from beneath Joan and Rosamund’s bed.
“Who was that?” Lettice looked over at her.
“The young lady what was supposed to be in this bed when you all went to Greenwich.” The girl backed out. “I was told to look in on ’er a couple o’ times, bring ’er some food. I brought milk an’ cheese, but she weren’t ’ere. An’ when I looked in again, she still weren’t ’ere and the food not touched.” She stood up, brushing a lank lock of hair from her perspiring forehead. “Ain’t it ’ot in ’ere.”
“Yes,” agreed Lettice impatiently. “When did she come back?”
“Never, not while I was lookin’. . . . Will that be all, madam?”
“Yes . . . no, get rid of those cobwebs in that corner. They’ve gone black with age. Aren’t you supposed to keep this place clean?”
The girl curtsied and hurried to deal with the offending cobwebs. Lettice fastened her garters and with a tiny little smile left the dorter, returning to the queen’s chamber.
Her majesty was working on a tapestry, talking softly with the Countess of Shrewsbury and Lady Pembroke while a young minstrel, seated on the wide window seat behind them, plucked a lute to accompany a sweetly youthful voice:
Doubt you to whom my muse these songs intendeth,
Which now my breast, o’ercharged, to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
“Sidney . . . such a poet,” Elizabeth said. “A poet and a soldier. A goodly combination, I think.”
“Sir Walter Raleigh is also blessed with both talents,” Lady Pembroke said.
The queen smiled. “My dear Raleigh, such a gallant gentleman.” She looked up from her tapestry. “Rosamund, have you a picture in your head of Sir Walter Raleigh?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Then do me a likeness.”
“Yes, madam.” Rosamund took a fresh sheet of paper.
Lettice leaned across to Frances Darcy. “Such airs. Who does she think she is? But I know something rather interesting about Madam Favorite. There’s rather more to Mistress Rosamund than meets the eye.”
“What?” Frances leaned forward, her sharp eyes bright with interest.
Lettice put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Later. In the dorter.”
Rosamund was overjoyed to find her brother waiting for her in the royal mews at three o’clock that afternoon, holding Jenny’s reins.
Thomas dismounted and embraced her warmly. “Are you well, little sister?”
“Well enough,” she returned, lifting her face for his kiss. “All the better for seeing you.” She buried her nose in the mare’s mane, stroking the velvety nose. “I cannot thank you enough, Thomas, for paying for Jenny’s keep in the mews here.”
Thomas made a wry face. “I had little choice, but I count the expense as little if it brings my sister pleasure.”
She turned her head against the mare’s neck to smile at her brother. “Such gallantry. But what of you, Thomas? Where have you been these last weeks?”
“Oh, around and about.” He shrugged. “I roam far and wide on our master’s business.”
“To France?”
“Questions are unwise, my dear girl. And answers even more so. Come, mount up. Lady Walsingham awaits you most eagerly.”
Rosamund mounted and settled into the saddle with a wonderful feeling of freedom. She reflected on how very different she was now from the virginal young girl who had ridden with such excitement and such hopes to London. She glanced covertly at her brother as they rode side by side out of the mews. Thomas could never imagine the change in his little sister. At least, she amended with a secret grin, he had better not be able to.
“There are to be other guests at dinner,” Thomas informed her. “You would be well advised, Rosamund, to show off your courtly manners. That is, if you’ve acquired any,” he added with a chuckle. “Although I must say in that gown there’s little left of the scapegrace I used to think you.”
“Lady Walsingham has been most kind,” Rosamund said. “She had two of her own court gowns remade for me and refurbished my other day gowns. And this gown arrived for me just the other day.” She ran a hand over the turquoise taffeta skirt, adjusting the position of her bent knee over the pommel of the side saddle. “It is most elegant. But I am in sore need of stockings, Thomas, and no money to buy them.”
Thomas grimaced but said, “I’ll see what I can do. Edmund should be providing for you, but even if he can be pried from between the thighs of his latest harlot, I doubt he’ll be sober enough even to see me, let alone part with so much as a groat.”
“Well, if you can persuade him to do so, I need another pair of shoes also.”
Thomas shook his head. “I can but try.”
Rosamund let the matter drop. She had no more confidence in Edmund’s honoring his brotherly obligations than did Thomas, but Thomas, if she didn’t nag at him, might well feel a prod of conscience. “So who are the other guests, do you know?”
He glanced sideways at her, a curiously speculative glance. “Oh, a simple enough group. Lady Sidney, Sir Francis’s daughter, is to be present, I believe, and my friend Thomas Watson. And Sir Roger Askew, an old friend of Sir Francis and Lady Walsingham.”
Rosamund frowned. “I do not think I have heard his name before. Is he at court?”
“He was with Sir Philip in the Low Countries until very recently. His wife died in childbed during his absence, and he’s been attending to matters on his estate in Shropshire since his return. He is but newly arrived in London. I am sure he will attend at court. The queen looks kindly upon him.”
Thomas rattled off the details in careless fashion, but Rosamund’s curiosity was piqued. “Does he also acknowledge Sir Francis as his master?”
“Why would you think that?”
She shrugged. “For two reasons. Firstly because it seems to me that almost everyone known to you, Thomas, is in some way involved with Master Secretary’s secret service. And secondly Sir Francis is always working. I doubt he would invite guests to his table who were not in some way connected to that work. It would be a waste of his time.”
“Once again, little sister, I will tell you that questions are as unwise as answers.”
“Then I will draw my own conclusions.” She smiled to herself. She really didn’t need Thomas’s affirmation of her suspicions. “Is Master Marlowe to be there?”
“I don’t believe so. How goes it with your fellow maids of honor?”
“I confess I don’t much care for their company, except for Joan Davenport. But fortunately one is not obliged to be in that company for too many hours in the day. And I do find court life immensely diverting at times.”
Thomas glanced at her with a touch of suspicion. “Not too diverting, I trust. You are here to find a husband, don’t forget. Once you have one, your status will change immediately even if you continue to serve the queen in your present position. No one will trouble you as a married lady.”
“Except for the husband.”
Thomas gave her a hard look. “You must learn to curb your tongue, miss. If you say things like that in company, you will ruin yourself. This evening you must be especially careful.”
Rosamund didn’t argue. She had no intention of letting her tongue loose at the Walsingham dinner table.
When they reached Walsingham’s mansion on Seething Lane, Thomas helped Rosamund dismount and gave the horses into the charge of the groom who had accompanied them. They were shown immediately into the large apartment that Rosamund knew was used when nonfamily guests were invited.
Lady Walsingham came forward to greet them, embracing Rosamund warmly. “I have sorely missed your company, my dear. Let me look at you.” She stood back, surveying the girl. “The gown becomes you very well. I’m so glad. Now you must come and meet my daughter, Lady Sidney.” She drew Rosamund towards a tall, rather angular young woman, somewhat older than Rosamund.
Rosamund curtsied. “Lady Sidney, I’m so happy to meet you. Lady Walsingham has told me much about you.”
“Only good things I trust.” Frances Sidney had her mother’s warm smile. “And indeed, my mother has been singing your praises.”
Rosamund murmured something suitably modest and acknowledged Thomas Watson’s bow with a demure curtsy. “You are already known to Master Watson, I understand,” Lady Walsingham said. “But not I believe to our old friend, Sir Roger Askew.”
Rosamund made her curtsy, keeping her eyes lowered, raising them only as she rose from her obeisance. Sir Roger, dressed in rich black velvet slashed with silver damask, was tall and held himself erect with the posture of a soldier, a posture accentuated by the very modest ruff at his sun-browned throat. He had, of course, been in the Low Countries with Sir Philip, so presumably he had seen battle. His dark brown hair was thick and slightly curly, a frivolity that seemed at odds with the gravity of his gray eyes and the rather stern set of his mouth. Not so much stern, she thought, as saddened. Perhaps his marriage had been a love match.
“Mistress Walsingham, I am honored.” He bowed over her hand and she noticed the single emerald on his finger. An understated gentleman. He had the air of an elder statesman and she thought he must be more than thirty years of age. Almost in his dotage, although apart from the solemnity of his expression he didn’t look particularly elderly.
“I bid you welcome, Rosamund.” Sir Francis nodded at her with his usual lack of expression and she curtsied demurely.
“Let us go to table.” Lady Walsingham walked to the door. “Rosamund, I have placed you beside Sir Roger. Master Watson, you will be seated beside Lady Sidney.”
They took their places and dishes began to appear on the long board. It was a lavish feast, more so than Rosamund remembered from her days as houseguest, and she wondered in whose honor the roast swan and the glazed leg of kid were presented. There were greens cooked in almond milk and a rich oyster stew, all accompanied by asparagus and mushrooms in butter. The wine flowed copiously and she thought how merry Kit Marlowe would have been. Too merry for this company certainly. She couldn’t suppress a smile as the words of one of his raunchier songs came to mind.
“Something amuses you, Mistress Walsingham?”
She turned to her neighbor. “Oh, just a memory, Sir Roger. The words of a song.”
“Oh, pray share them.”
Her cheeks warmed and she said hastily, “I cannot remember them very well.”
He looked at her with a half smile. “I think you prevaricate, mistress.”
The smile was somehow reassuring and it lightened his somber expression. She confessed, “In truth, sir, the words are not suitable for dinner-table company,” and waited to see how he would react.
His eyebrows lifted. “Do you keep tavern company, then?”
“No, sir.” Rosamund managed to inject a degree of indignation into the fib. “But sometimes it’s difficult not to overhear the stable boys, particularly in the country.”
“Doubtless” was his only response, but then he smiled again, deftly changing the subject. “You are at court, I understand, attending upon the queen.”
She nodded, pushing a mushroom around her plate with her three-pronged fork. “It’s still very new to me.”
“And not much to your liking?” he hazarded, leaning forward to slice meat from the leg of kid with his knife. He put a slice on her plate before taking some for himself.
“Some of the time I like it very well, sir.” She left it at that and forked the meat into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. “How was your time in the Low Countries, Sir Roger? You accompanied Sir Philip Sidney I believe.”
He accepted the new direction without hesitation. “The Spanish must be driven from there, their persecutions are appalling. The Inquisition is in every town and its spies are in every hamlet.” His voice was passionate, although he still spoke as quietly as before. “We must prevail for the sake of the people.”
“And surely more importantly to keep the Spanish from establishing a foothold so close to our shores. It would be easier to launch an invasion from the Low Countries than from Spain.” Rosamund had put her time acting as the queen’s amanuensis to good purpose, her ears attuned to every conversation. The members of the queen’s council had frequently discussed the Spanish threat from the Low Countries.
“That is certainly the short-term aim. But I believe the human issue of rescuing a population from persecution to be of greater importance.”
“Have you seen any plays at court, Mistress Walsingham?” Thomas Watson, sitting opposite, leaned across the table, his knife point poised to capture a piece of roast swan on the dish in front of him.
Rosamund welcomed the interruption. “Not as yet, Master Watson. There was a play performed by the Earl of Leicester’s company at Greenwich last week, but unfortunately I was unable to attend.”
“You enjoy the play then, Mistress Walsingham?”
Rosamund turned back to her neighbor, her eyes shining. “Of all things, Sir Roger. I would attend every night if it were possible.”
“I daresay traveling companies put on entertainments for your family in the country. Tell me what it is about the plays that you enjoy so much.”
Rosamund needed no second invitation. She launched into a vivid description of the plays that she had seen, of the magic of the words, the wonder of the fights and the comedy, the ingeniousness of the plots. Only when she fell silent, aware that everyone around the table was regarding her in some astonishment, did she realize that she had given herself away. Only someone who had frequented the public theatre on more than one occasion could have launched into such a detailed rhapsody.
She dropped her eyes to the table in confusion. Sir Francis knew she had attended, as did her brother and Master Watson, but the two ladies and her present neighbor would have had no idea.
“You have a most vivid imagination, Mistress Walsingham,” said Lady Sidney, coming to her rescue. “You make me long for the experience myself. Next time there is to be a play at court, I am determined to attend.”
“Yes, indeed,” murmured her mother, still regarding Rosamund with a degree of bewilderment.
“You paint a most detailed picture, mistress.” Sir Roger smiled but his eyes looked askance.
“Rosamund has a great talent with pen and parchment,” Sir Francis said drily. “She can render the most accurate portraits or scenes entirely from memory. Her brother is a devoted patron of the theatre, and I daresay she augmented her own childhood experience with Thomas’s descriptions of the scenes in the public theatre that he has particularly enjoyed. Eh, Rosamund?”
“Yes, sir.” Rosamund reached for her wine cup and drank deeply. She caught her brother’s eye, and he didn’t look best pleased.
Somehow dinner was completed with no further disasters. Rosamund kept her remarks to the most anodyne, and her neighbor seemed content to turn his attention to others around the table.
At last Lady Walsingham rose. “I’m sure you gentlemen have business to discuss, so we shall leave you. Come, Francis, Rosamund.”
The ladies left the dining parlor and Ursula led the way to the intimacy of her own private apartment. Bowls of roses scented the air and the windows were open to the garden and the soft summer-evening air. Ursula took her usual chair and picked up her embroidery frame. Her daughter sat down and retrieved a tambour frame. “Rosamund, my dear, if you wish to draw, there are drawing materials on the table as usual. I know that you do not enjoy needlework.” Ursula’s smile was serene.
Rosamund thanked her and took a seat at the table as she had done so often in the past. She had wondered if Ursula would question her further about her theatrical knowledge, but it seemed that Lady Wal-singham was prepared to let sleeping dogs lie. Her husband had made it abundantly clear that he knew all about it and had raised no objection. It was not for her to question her lord’s decisions.
“Sir Roger is such a charming man,” Frances observed, setting her stitches with great precision. “Did you not think so, Mistress Walsingham?”
“Most charming. But he seemed sad to me. I understand he lost his wife in childbed recently.”
“Last year,” Ursula said. “It was a great loss, there was great affection between them.”
“Did the child survive?” Rosamund glanced up from her sketch.
“No, he was born too early.” Lady Walsingham sighed. “ ’Tis so often the case.”
She glanced wistfully at her daughter. Frances had been married to Sir Philip for almost three years and so far there had been no hints of a pregnancy. Of course with Philip governing Flushing, in the Netherlands, there was no present opportunity for conception. He had been adamant that his wife not accompany him, maintaining that the Spanish threat to the Low Countries made it too dangerous. Ursula kept to herself the wish that her daughter had stood against her husband. But of course Frances was too well schooled in a wife’s rightful place to argue with her husband. And who other than her mother was to blame for that?
“It is indeed very sad,” Frances said tranquilly. “I find him a most sympathetic man.”
“He must marry again, and soon,” Ursula said, returning to her needlework. “He will make a good husband.” She paused, then continued, “I do not believe he is interested in a woman’s fortune, since he has ample of his own.”
Something in her voice made Rosamund look up again. But Ursula was continuing placidly with her sewing.
When Thomas came to fetch Rosamund to escort her home, Lady Walsingham and Frances both kissed her affectionately.
“I hope to see you at court soon, Rosamund.” Frances pressed her hand. “I must wait upon the queen in the next day or two.”
“I look forward to it.” Rosamund smiled, grateful for this genuine offer of friendship. She couldn’t imagine Frances Sidney engaging in the malicious backbiting of the other ladies-in-waiting.
Sir Francis and his two other dinner guests were not in evidence as she left the house with Thomas. “Where are Master Watson and Sir Roger?” she asked as Thomas helped her mount Jenny.
“With Sir Francis, talking business.” He swung onto his horse. “What did you think of Sir Roger?”
“He seemed pleasant enough.” Rosamund frowned. There seemed to be rather a lot of interest in her reaction to Sir Roger Askew. “Why do you ask?”
He didn’t look at her as they rode side by side, the groom following. “He is a widower in search of a wife. He is somewhat in Sir Francis’s debt for some past favors, and he’s not overly particular about a dowry.”
Rosamund’s eyes widened. “Does he look for a wife in Seething Lane?” she asked carefully.
“Perhaps.” Her brother looked at her now in the waning light of evening. “You would do well to consider your position, Sister. Edmund will do nothing for you, and I certainly can’t. Sir Francis is offering you the chance to establish yourself. Askew is wealthy enough not to need a rich wife. He’s a solid Protestant with good connections, the queen looks favorably upon him, and if you’re fortunate enough that he takes an interest in you, and the queen is pleased to agree to such a marriage, then you should be on your knees with gratitude.”
Rosamund stared at a point between Jenny’s ears, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. She was learning to enjoy the manifold pleasures of dalliance and clandestine liaisons, and now a potential husband was in the offing, not just the remote possibility at some point in the future, but a real man, right now. She couldn’t begin to unravel her feelings, but knew that she must somehow delay this.
“Thomas, he’s old and he’s a widower.” It was a feeble protest but she had to make some kind of rational objection.
“Old? I doubt he’s even five and thirty,” Thomas scoffed. “He’s hale and hearty, in the prime of life. Did you not consider him well-favored?”
“Well enough,” she was obliged to admit. “There is nothing objectionable in his appearance. But I do not know him, Thomas.”
“That will be remedied in good time.” They were approaching the palace now and Thomas let the subject drop as they rode into the mews. He escorted his sister inside, parting company with her at the bottom of the stairs leading to the dorter. “Rosamund, do not look this gift horse in the mouth. Sir Francis has worked this on your behalf. I know how headstrong you are, but I tell you, if Sir Roger is willing to marry you, it will be the greatest good fortune. If you refuse, you will offend Sir Francis and do yourself irreparable harm. Have a care.”
Rosamund nodded and was for an instant tempted to tell her brother the truth. But it was only an instant. Thomas might seem sympathetic, but he would never act against his own self-interest. If he could help his sister without damaging his own cause, then he would do so with the careless amusement he brought to so much of his life. But let her do anything to damage him and he would abandon her in the blink of an eye. She didn’t hold it against him. It was the way he had always been.
“I understand. Good night, Thomas.”
He looked relieved. “Good girl.” He kissed her forehead. “Sleep well. I understand the court is to remove to Greenwich for several months during the heat of the summer. There is rumor of plague in the city and Whitehall needs cleaning.” His smile was cajoling as he lifted her chin on his forefinger. “Life is much pleasanter at Greenwich, you will see. There will be plays and hawking parties, dancing and picnics on the river. The queen takes more leisure at Greenwich.”
Rosamund smiled. “It sounds delightful. I own it will be good to have a change of scene.” She ran up the stairs, pausing halfway up to blow him a farewell kiss.
Thomas, relieved that his sister had not proved difficult, went off in search of congenial company. If this marriage could be secured for Rosamund, it would be an enormous weight off his shoulders. Legally he was not responsible for his little sister’s welfare, that lay with Edmund, but he had always been fond of her and in some way recognized a kindred spirit. Like himself Rosamund chose the path less trod.
Rosamund paused outside the door to the dorter listening to the rise and fall of voices within. She knew that no one would acknowledge her when she entered the chamber. The conversation would continue, shoulders would be turned, and it would be as if she didn’t exist.
With a sigh, she braced her shoulders and lifted the latch.
She had been wrong. The minute she walked in, all conversation stopped and everyone looked at her. Only Joan looked away.