In spite of masks and hoods descry
the parts denied unto the eye
I was undoing all she wore,
and had she walked but one turn more,
Eve in her first state had not been
more naked or more plainly seen.
—From the seventeenth-century poet John Suckling’s ‘Upon My Lady Carlisle’s Walking in Hampton Court Garden’
Lucy Hay née Percy, Countess of Carlisle, and England’s most celebrated salonnière, cast a critical eye over the elegant little banqueting room at Syon House. It was not the standard to which she had become accustomed when she was lady to the Queen, but considering the growing scarcity of servants and the food shortages, it was a good enough show. Dozens of candles glowed in their crystal chandelier lighting a buffet table piled with sweetmeats and savories and spiced wines. A couple of ladies and a few silk-stockinged gentlemen perched on elegantly carved chairs, silk skirts and brocade doublets sighing against damask upholstery. The salon was gradually filling up, albeit with her second-tier guests, some of whom had endured the three-hour trek from London by boat.
Lucy’s favorite poets and musicians had gone to join the King. Robert Herrick was still in town and a decent fellow she had sometimes seen at court, but clerics—even Church of England clerics—didn’t really fit her little soirees. Her favorites of all the King’s poets, William Davenant and Sir John Suckling, had been exiled by Parliament for treason—good Lord how she missed them. Thomas Carew had frequented her salon once or twice, but as a favorite of the Queen’s he would not likely still be in London.
Soon after leaving court, she had established her own salon in Westminster and a reputation as a hostess whose entertainments were coveted. Once when she had given a masked event, Henrietta had even shown up. But this night the Queen was not likely to grace Lucy’s salon with her presence; she had escorted Mary, the Princess Royal to the Netherlands to meet her new husband. Whitehall was deserted, the King having first decamped to Hampton Court before fleeing to York. Most of the courtiers had likewise scattered with them, including the Queen’s favorites, Henry Jermyn and Lucy’s youngest brother, Henry Percy.
But literary and artistic repartee were not high on her agenda this night. This occasion marked a very personal anniversary for Lucy. Thomas Wentworth, the Earl of Strafford had met his death one year ago today thanks to the calumny of Parliament and a cowardly monarch. She did not wish to be alone. She could never forget, neither could she forgive, though she knew why Charles had signed the death warrant. It was an act of appeasement, an act that he hoped would save his Catholic wife from a Puritan Parliament’s condemnation. But it had not; nor was it like to, and Lucy’s dearest friend—and England’s wisest counselor—had died for nothing.
When Thomas Wentworth lost his head, Lucy lost a lover and protector. When Henrietta Maria fled London, Lucy lost a friend—from looking around this assembly a lot of friends, she thought. She blamed the King for those losses. He was a weak sovereign and growing weaker by the day whilst Parliament was going stronger. With the court failing, her protector gone, the country hurling headlong into war, Lucy Hay, Countess of Carlisle had to see to her own self-preservation. But tonight, there was still music in her salon and a few lingering courtiers, a resplendent remnant who failed to notice the royal tide had receded, depositing them like so much driftwood on a bleak shore.
The smell of exotic fragrance perfumed the air. The few ladies present were resplendent in shades of the King’s favorite blue satin, their royal allegiance proudly on display. One of them stood up from the harpsichord now and bowed. The jack-o-dandies applauded politely, then turned to talk of court politics, flattery and flummery.
Lucy Hay whispered behind her fan to another Lucy gathered at her intimate little soirée, the only other woman who was not dressed in blue satin. Lucy Hay was bedecked in a gown of burgundy brocade—let those present conclude what they would from her choice. Lucy Hutchinson, wife of Parliamentarian Colonel John Hutchinson, was dressed in a sober brown velvet, with a wide collar of exquisite white Flemish lace. When Inigo Jones mocked Lucy Hutchinson’s plain dress as the uniform of the enemy and thus a viper in their midst, Lucy Hay retorted that she had it on the highest authority that the young woman was a brilliant scientist and a Latin scholar and besides the Earl of Anglesey spoke highly of her.
‘And the Earl of Anglesey’s recommendation matters because?’
‘The Earl of Anglesey is one of the more moderate voices in Parliament. I respect his opinion greatly. He is in Ireland negotiating with the Duke of Ormonde, who, you probably don’t know, was a true friend to Thomas Wentworth.’
Thomas Wentworth. The name fell like stone amidst the chatter. Inigo did not take the bait. He sipped his wine, and said, ‘That whole Irish thing is so boring. Though probably not to an Irish countess,’ a snide reference to her Irish title gained through her marriage to the Earl of Carlisle. He might as well have said that whole ‘barbarian’ thing. But she let it go. She needed to keep him in her circle. He was close to the Queen, and he was a gossip with a careless tongue. He sat to her left, ears perked. Lucy seized her chance to be rid of him. Nodding toward Inigo, she said, ‘The man talking to Henry Lawes. I don’t believe I know him. Go and fetch him and present him to us, please, dear Inigo.’
He answered with the same petulant expression the Queen had inexplicably found amusing. ‘You invited him. I saw his name on the list. He is Dr. Thomas Browne. His new work has made him the talk of London.’
‘His new work?’
‘Religio Medici.’
‘I do not know it.’
‘It is a medical book and a book of sage advice, Countess. Not a book of love poems.’
Lucy ignored his sarcasm. ‘Present him,’ she said. ‘I would like to know one who is the talk of London.
The court architect bowed curtly and left to perform his errand.
‘Inigo is a boor—and a bore, albeit a very talented one. He is an artist,’ she said to Lady Hutchinson. ‘They must sometimes be forgiven their personal shortcomings for the sake of the sublime things they create. I must confess I am curious—’ She lowered her voice. ‘What does the wife of a reputed stalwart Puritan, such as Sir John Hutchinson, do for entertainment? This is the first time I have seen you at one of my gatherings.’
The girl blushed. ‘Yes, it is, and I am very grateful for the invitation. I must confess I was quite taken aback when I received it. Please don’t think me a spy. I am here because you have a reputation for gathering learned society as well as courtiers. I have little opportunity to speak with scientists and academics and others who share my interests.’
‘You are most welcome, my dear. As to politics, I try to steer clear of it. I am ill-suited to it, but I do have a passing acquaintance with John Pym. He, among others, recommended your name. His exact words were, ‘Invite Lucy Hutchinson. She’ll introduce a little gravitas to your frivolous little affair.’
In all honesty, ‘gravitas’ was not the sauce Lucy Hay was stirring, but how could she turn John down? ‘I am very glad you accepted my invitation,’ she said. ‘You are acquiring a bit of a reputation as a learned Latin scholar. Maybe it’s just because you dare to go where others of our sex do not. But John Pym says you have a brilliant mind. That is high praise.’
It was as though this shy Lucy suddenly sprang to life like one of those new dolls with gears and a wind-up engine. ‘John Pym also recommended to me that I accept your invitation. He spoke of you and your entertainments very highly. He said that there would be poets and music and he especially mentioned that you had invited Dr. Browne. I am very anxious to meet him.’
‘You know his work?’
‘I know it well.’
‘That does not surprise me. You share your love of learned tomes with my own father. They called him the Old Wizard.’
‘The Duke of Northumberland was your father. I would love to have met him.’
Lucy laughed. ‘Among his dusty old volumes, housed with him in the Tower you mean? I spent many forced hours there as a green girl, my only company his Latin books and Italian scientific theories.’
The other Lucy sat up, eyes wide, hands extended as though reaching for the Holy Grail. ‘What a joy that must have been to be surrounded by the original works of the greatest minds in history.’
Lucy Hay was a little taken aback at this other Lucy’s interpretation of her childhood home. ‘Well, yes, I suppose, but I had joys of another kind on my mind. My late husband, my dear Jamie—James Hay, the Earl of Carlisle—was paying me court, and I was too busy scheming ways to escape my father’s clutches and elope with a hated Scotsman to care about scientific theory and dusty Latin.’ She sighed and added, ‘That was a long time ago. But you are about to meet Dr. Browne. He will be better company than ‘the old wizard’ would have been.’
Suddenly weary of trying to engage with this scholarly young woman, Lady Carlisle looked around the room expectantly. ‘Inigo probably made a side trip to the wine bar, which necessitated another side trip. But I see a poet whom you might enjoy meeting is just coming in—a rare pleasure this night since so many have deserted our fair city.’ She motioned to Edmund Waller, who was already making his way toward them. Approaching, he thrust a rose in Lucy’s face, appearing not to notice Lucy’s attempt at stifling a sneeze or her companion.
‘Go, lovely rose,’ he intoned, ‘tell my Lady Carlisle that when I resemble her to thee how sweet and fair she seems to me.’ Then bowing deeply, even as she shoved the hand holding the rose aside, he continued in his flowery address, ‘Bid her come forth, suffer herself to be desired and not blush so to be admired.’
It was a delight to see him, but she feigned displeasure and scolded, ‘You may keep your rose and your fulsome lyrics. You are truly a man without shame. I know you wrote those lines for another. Your newest lady has fled to the country and you are merely seeking a diversion.’
The poet pulled a face of mock shame. God alone knew how she missed this: the carefree flirting, the fun, the lightness of it all.
She patted his shoulder and added, ‘Don’t be sad, Edmund. Handsome poets, no matter how fickle, are always welcome in my salon. Have you met Lucy Hutchinson? She is also a writer.’ The poet clicked his heels together and turned to take the other Lucy’s hand, who just stared at him with a curious gaze. But suddenly Lucy had an urgent thought and interjected, ‘By the by, Edmund, have you heard aught of John Suckling? They say he is in exile in France and very ill.’
‘Alas, Countess. I’m afraid it is worse than that, Suckling has died,’ he lowered his voice, ‘and it is rumored by his own hand.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Such sad news.’ No posturing here. She felt a sudden stinging behind her eyelids. ‘He was a good and steadfast friend and I loved his poetry well.’
John Suckling had been a friend of Wentworth’s too and loyal to the last. Now he too was gone. And by his own hand? The ranks of her admirers were thinning at an alarming rate.
Inigo Jones returned with the doctor in tow. The newcomer bowed stiffly. ‘My lady Carlisle, I am delighted. The hospitality of your salon quite surpasses its high reputation as the most admired in London. As does your beauty.’ He took her offered hand clumsily.
Here’s a new face and a pretty speech to cheer the mood. ‘You flatter me, Doctor, but it is a flattery much to be coveted because it comes from a celebrated author who surely has been entertained in many grand houses.’
‘Not really.’ The young man blushed. ‘I’m afraid I have little with which to compare your ladyship’s hospitality … but I’m sure you set a standard to which other hostesses only aspire.’
‘That is a very diplomatic answer. You are well spoken. I shall have to read your work.’ She flicked her fan with practiced skill. ‘Tell me, have you an opinion about the conflict between Parliament and the King? Who is most at fault? Mr. Pym or the King?’
‘Mr. Pym?’
Was he really that ignorant or just stalling for time? Lucy suspected the latter.
‘Why, man, the leading voice in the Commons,’ Waller said injecting himself back into the conversation. With nervous fingers he bruised the petals of the rose, releasing the sweet fragrance into the intimate space.
Browne smiled and acknowledged the poet’s comment with more grace than his tone deserved. ‘Ah yes, of course. My head has been too long in my medical books.’ Then, turning his back to the poet, he answered Lucy. ‘My lady, regarding the … ah … disagreement between King and Parliament, here among my betters, I shall listen so that my opinion might be instructed in order to be better formed—when it is formed.’
A man’s familiar laughter soared above their quiet conversation. Lucy’s fan stilled as she looked around for its source then turned back to her companions. ‘It is a rare but happy circumstance,’ she said, ‘to encounter one who is not overly eager to share his opinions, informed or otherwise. London is awash in uninformed opinion. Every fool with access to a printing press thinks himself wise and peddles his ordure on the street like rotting fish. It quite fouls the air.’ The fan snapped shut. ‘By the way, Dr. Browne, I wish to introduce you to one who has not only read your work but has endured the tedium of my salon to meet you.’ She turned to the other Lucy and drawing her new friend forward, said, ‘Lucy Hutchinson, meet Dr. Browne. He is a scientist whose discourse I am sure you will find pleasing.’
Mistress Hutchinson favored the young Dr. Browne with a shy smile. Almost a reverent smile, Lucy Hay thought. She only half-listened as the younger Lucy began to explain to her new companion about her latest work ‘… stumbled upon the most beautiful poem … Latin poet Lucretius. De rerum natura … particles in all material substances.’
‘Yes, atomism. I have heard a little about it. But the Latin is laborious.’
Lucy Hutchinson’s voice seemed to have risen an octave. ‘One day perhaps you can read it in English. I have already begun to attempt to translate On the Nature of Things into English. The poetry is exquisite; it is quite a labor of love.’
What a lot of bother over some ancient, dull books. Scanning the room for a means of escape Lucy saw the source of the laughter. James Whittier. Close enough to overhear the conversation. Her fan flicked open and fluttered again. ‘Please excuse me, Dr. Browne, Mistress Hutchinson. I must greet another guest. I shall leave you to your learned discussions.’
The two appeared not to notice the departure of their celebrated hostess.
‘My lord Whittier, how kind of you to favor us with your presence.’ She held out her hand to be kissed. Smiling, he pressed his lips against it. A small shiver quivered at the base of her spine. Silly woman. He is younger than you by a—well what was a few years. She could always read a man’s face and she read appreciation in his eyes. Here was a language she understood. A long, slow breath and then she added, ‘It has been too long, my lord.’
‘Yes, indeed, Countess,’ he said, his gaze never wavering, but he offered no excuse for his absence from her circle.
‘Your laughter, Lord Whittier, would indicate you do not agree about the importance of keeping one’s opinions private. I don’t think I’ve heard your thinking on the current contretemps between Parliament and his Majesty.’
He paused, a gentle mockery in his half-smile. ‘Oh, my dear Lady Carlisle, I quite agree with your assessment of Dr. Browne’s opinion. I shall follow his wise example so that I may likewise bask in my lady’s praise.’ He grinned. ‘I too desire to be taught and not to teach.’
Cheeky fellow and a practiced flirt. It was so tempting, but if Lucy Hay knew men—and she did know men—she didn’t think he was a man to be played.
He tossed his head so lightly as to be scarcely discernible, but her glance followed his to the door where the King’s Counselor, Sir Edward Hyde, filled the doorway. ‘Well here is a surprise,’ she said, noticing the rumpled clothing, the unkempt hair—why could the man not at least pretend to a little bit of courtly fashion? ‘He usually spurns such entertainments, too frivolous for his taste, I suppose,’ she murmured, but her voice carried clear as she hailed the King’s advisor, ‘Counselor, welcome, have you news of our beloved sovereign? We are all eager to hear.’
Conversation ceased. All eyes turned toward Edward Hyde, who looked so out of place and ill at ease that she felt a moment’s sympathy.
Hyde cleared his throat. ‘His Majesty is in York gathering arms and men to answer those arms and men being gathered by Parliament. I fear war is inevitable,’ he added picking at a dried spot of gravy on his tunic.
But the pronouncement, though matter-of-factly delivered, was answered with gasps and raised eyebrows. Were they unaware? So totally ignorant of what went on around them?
‘The treasury cannot sustain another war,’ Inigo Jones said, indignation pursing his priggish mouth into a pout. ‘I’ve barely enough funds to finish the new Banqueting House at White Hall as it is.’
Hyde gave him a long-suffering smile, ‘My dear Mr. Jones, this is not just another war. There is more at stake here than perhaps you are aware. If the King cannot raise an army, there may be no one to feast in your Banqueting House and Parliament will use it to stable its horses.’
The look of outrage on the architect’s face was laughable. The man was a genius, but his self-importance and perfectionism were hard to bear, as though the world depended on the graceful drape of a curtain fabric or the placement of a tree in one of the Queen’s elaborate masques. As though the loss of his latest project was the be all and end all of war’s horrors.
Appearing not to notice the architect’s apoplectic expression, Hyde accepted a plate of cheese and a Banbury cake but refused a glass of the French wine which Lucy had purloined from her brother’s cellars. He took a bite of the cake, brushed a crumb from his double chin, and cleared his throat. The murmuring ceased.
‘There are many within the kingdom who are already sacrificing for the royal cause,’ he said. ‘Masters at both Cambridge and Oxford have sent this day a goodly supply of plate to be melted down, which I am on my way to deliver.’ He paused, took another bite then put down the plate and, pushing a swath of his fly-away hair from his forehead, looked around at the silk-clad courtiers. ‘Indeed, if any in this august company should decide to part with an expensive bauble or two or some gold coins in that good cause, I shall deliver your contributions and solicitations, which will be gratefully received by his Majesty.’
This was answered with nervous laughter, as though the King’s chief advisor was making a joke when any fool could see that he was not. This was followed by an awkward silence and then a rush of chatter. From the corner of her eye, Lucy watched her new young friend being led by Dr. Browne through the garden door, an easy escape from an awkward moment. Lucy put down her fan and picked up the last biscuit from a silver plate on the table. Handing the biscuit to Edmund Waller, she said matter-of-factly but loud enough to quiet the whispers in the room, ‘Here, fair poet, pray you make a lyrical metaphor out of this. Or eat it—whichever suits. I have need of the plate.’
Slowly, deliberately, she removed the diamond and emerald ‘baubles’ that dangled from her ears and held them up. The flickering glow of the candle flames enhanced the sparkle. ‘These were given to me as a token of affection from a dear and departed friend,’ she said, placing them in the plate with a clink. Struggling to keep her face a mask of equanimity she paused before adding, ‘Consider them a gift to Charles I of England from Thomas Wentworth, Lord Strafford, who served his King admirably and his country faithfully—to the very end.’
A collective gasp was followed by a lone ‘bravo.’ This from the handsome Lord Whittier, though she wondered exactly what it was this sentiment applauded since he had so lately refused to offer even verbal support for the King.
Sir Edward Hyde’s gaze met hers as he gave a nod of understanding. ‘That is a very generous gesture, Lady Carlisle. Thomas Wentworth was likewise a friend of mine. I shall inform his Majesty of your unparalleled generosity.’
‘Inform him or not as you wish, sir. It matters not to me. These ‘baubles’ evoke a painful and very personal loss. I only wore them this one last time as a tribute to his Majesty’s most loyal servant who died … needlessly.’ The words of accusation and royal blame hung unspoken in the air as though they were written there.
She handed the plate with its glittering burden to Lord James. ‘Please pass this around so that others of the King’s loyal subjects who wish to contribute to the royal cause may do so. It will cost them much less than it did Thomas Wentworth to prove their loyalty.’
Lord Whittier with an inscrutable smile on his face, took the silver plate and moved with it around the room. Reluctantly, her guests fumbled with rings and gold chains in awkward silence. When he had paused suggestively in front of every single person in the room, she rose.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘let us have no more talk of things political. Lady Hamilton, please return to the harpsichord and sing for us. We shall eat and drink and be merry, whilst we still can.’
But a pall had been cast over the little assembly. After a few half-hearted attempts at merriment, Lucy wearied of their company. Sir Edward Hyde left with his loot; Lord James Whittier shortly thereafter. When these two worthies had departed, Inigo Jones, emboldened by another flagon of Algernon Percy’s finest, grumbled about a waste of good gold on toys of war. Lucy had noticed that he made a very slight contribution, less than a handful of coins, which he thumbed out one by one like the Pharisee in the temple. Her guests made excuses and drifted away in search of the watermen who would convey them back to their own uneasy beds. Finally only the brilliant artist was left dozing in a corner, a half-filled wine glass tipping red stains onto his blue satin doublet. Lucy summoned a hired footman to rouse Inigo and see him home.
Sir Edward Hyde leaned back against the hard leather of the carriage seat and belched loudly. He should have known better. Court society always interfered with his digestion. A sober and honest man had no place among such vanities. He rummaged in his voluminous pockets for the leather pouch, extracted Lucy’s earrings, and held them up to the single candle in the lantern above his head. Poor Strafford must be turning in his grave. Wentworth probably gave them to her so they would not go into the crown’s coffers with the rest of his estate. Who could ever know the mind of a woman? One thing was sure—with this gesture the dead man’s paramour had lined up solidly behind the King who had signed his death warrant. Charles would be singularly pleased by her gift. He’d been burdened by Wentworth’s death and a man of his morose nature could only stand so much guilt. The Queen’s departure had wounded the King deeply, and he’d been in agony at being forced to abandon his motherless children.
The youngest children were still at St. James’s Palace, but his spies said their household was about to be dismissed and they were now under the ‘protection’ of Parliament. Edward felt tremendous pride to have been entrusted with the care and safety of the two older boys, but the heavy burden of it robbed him of sleep. He had the Prince of Wales and his brother James in a safe house for now until their father could send for them, but he would need to devise a better strategy. No one place was safe for very long. He as well as anyone knew to what depths the Commons would seek to gain control. If they could get Prince Charles, the war would be over before it began.
He was contemplating his strategy for young Charles when the coach pulled up sharply. Probably making way for another to pass on the rutted lane. The horse neighed. He heard the crack of a whip and a loud curse. Still the coach did not move. Bother! An axle stuck in the mud—where was the crown to get enough money to fix these roads? But at least his driver was a skilled and burly man. He should be able to extricate the wheel.
Edward leaned his head out and shouted into the darkness, ‘Tom, you want me to get out to relieve the weight?’
A small laugh and then a voice answered. ‘’Twould would make my job easier.’
Though the man’s voice had a familiar tenor, it was not the coachman’s voice for all the affected country brogue. Edward could not quite match that voice with anyone of his acquaintance. But he had no trouble discerning the silhouette of a black-clad horseman waiting beside the coach door, his face well hidden in shadow. But in the light of a suddenly breaking three-quarter moon scudding though the clouds the pistol pointed at Hyde was unmistakable.
After her guests had departed Lady Carlisle did not go to her bed. Heart pounding with anticipation, her spirit light as though it had been removed of a great burden, she went instead to the back garden, where she waited under an overhanging eave in a drizzling rain.
It was too early. He would not risk being seen. She breathed deeply, drawing in the damp, cool air. It was good to be alive on such a night as this. Her head felt light from the spiced wine and the absence of the heavy earrings—and her heart lighter than it had been since Wentworth’s execution. In giving the earrings to the King’s cause, she had achieved a kind of absolution. Take these, your majesties. Now let me go in peace.
The minutes passed. The clop-clopping of a carriage—she arched her neck to peer though the gloom—then the sound faded.
What if she had made the wrong choice? Cast her lot on the wrong side? But nothing could be proven, she was sure. Had she not this very night shown herself a loyal supporter of the King? Edward Hyde would report her gift. If he reported her words, Charles—fool that he was—would think them a sign of her forgiveness, and she fervently hoped those same words would sting his conscience with sharp remorse.
The rain ceased, and the clouds parted for a three-quarter moon.
The mist clung to her skin, now more stifling than refreshing. She thought of the Queen separated from her children—say what you will, Henrietta was a devoted mother. Why did the news books not print that? The tiniest tinge of remorse threatened when she thought of the royal children, but their fates were beyond her influence. Then her mind caught on a more immediate need.
What if he didn’t come? It would not be the first time he had missed an assignation. But as she watched the moon hide again in a cave of clouds, he emerged from the shadows of the yew-lined garden.
‘I was afraid you had been detained, my love,’ she said rushing to meet him. But when she saw what he held in his arms, she stopped short. ‘John Pym, is this what it looks like—?’
‘My lady, allow me to introduce you to young Henry Stuart,’ he whispered, so as not to wake the King’s youngest son.
Breathless, he sat down beside her, the child’s head resting on his shoulder—the same shoulder she’d cried on that first time they had met, when she’d approached John Pym to beg him to intercede with Parliament for Wentworth’s life. She’d waited for three days outside of Parliament House. When she’d called out to him, he had granted her an audience in his private office, lest such a beautiful woman amongst so many angry men cause a riot, he’d said.
He had listened patiently to her impassioned plea, but to no avail, saying his hands were tied and the Commons had already decided. The argument against him was too strong. The evidence showed that Wentworth was not an innocent man. He had suborned treason even if he had not directly committed the act. The evil counsel he’d given the King was enough to earn him the death penalty.
‘Whose argument, Mr. Pym, if I may ask?’ she had said quietly.
‘Mine was the loudest’—then he’d added with the ghost of a smile—‘and perhaps the best delivered.’
She had not appreciated the flippancy of the callous remark, but she had admired his honesty. It was a rare quality among the sycophants of her acquaintance. The smile had vanished, and his tone turned somber. ‘Thomas Wentworth is an arrogant counselor. As long as he has the King’s ear, there will be no sharing of power with Parliament. Despite your tempting pleas, I will not intercede on his behalf because’—he paused and fixed his level gaze on her so she could not doubt the import of his next statement—‘it is less damaging to the kingdom to remove a counselor than a king.’
That was when she had started to cry, real tears, not the easy tears summoned on a whim—real eye-reddening, nose-dripping tears—and after a few awkward attempts to calm her, he had taken her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder. She had darkened the brown velvet of his doublet. And when he had called on her after Wentworth’s execution to convey his sympathy, she had done it once again.
The sleeping child stirred now against that same shoulder. John Pym winced, his face growing paler in the light of the emerging moon.
‘Here, give him to me,’ she said. ‘Your arms must be weary.’
He gently transferred the child to Lucy’s shoulder. ‘It’s not my arms. My stomach. Probably an excess of choler.’
‘Let’s get him inside. It’s damp out here. I’ll see if I can find a tincture for your stomachache.’
The two-year-old child was a solid chunk of boyish slumber, heavy against her breast, his breath forming wetly on her neck. She supported his back with her free hand as they slipped in quietly through the back stairs and up to her chamber. The baby smell of him broke her heart.
‘Why ever have you brought him here?’
‘You are the Queen’s friend; he’s the Queen’s child. Do you want Parliament to decide who holds him when he cries out in the night?’
Or who helps him say his prayers. ‘John, I am in no way prepared—is he still nursing?’
He opened his eyes wide and blinked hard as though that thought had not occurred to him. She laid the child in the window seat overlooking the carriage house and dragged a chair against it so he would not roll off. John sat down on the bed.
‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ he said as if suddenly too exhausted to stand. ‘I’ve just come from a meeting at Westminster. They have decided to dismiss all of the children’s Papist guardians, the entire household.’
‘You just marched right up to St. James’s Palace and snatched a royal child from his cradle in the middle of the night. That is a treasonous offense.’
‘Treason? Parliament decides what is treason now. I just thought—he is very young to be in the care of strangers. I can talk them into letting you keep him here.’ He smiled weakly. ‘After all, even though you’re a friend of the King’s Catholic wife, you are a good Presbyterian. You are Algernon Percy’s sister and Essex’s cousin. They and at least three others in Parliament have reason to be grateful to you.’
She sighed looking at the sleeping child and reached out to smooth back a damp curl clinging to his temple.
‘I am a stranger to him, too, John. I haven’t been at court since before he was born.’
‘Yes, but I know your heart. I’ll not worry that we’re wounding the innocent if he’s with you.’
Worry about wounding the innocent? The man was a study in contradiction. Both naive and cunning, both sensitive and cold. ‘John Pym, you are a fool to think you can protect the innocent. This thing you and your compatriots have prodded awake will devour many innocents before it bleeds out.’
He looked at her directly with that open, honest gaze that had first attracted her to him. ‘But this one we can save, Lucy. You and I.’
‘And what about the other children?’
‘The two oldest boys have gone with their father—I think. They’re not at St. James’s Palace. Rumor says that Princess Mary may have gone with her mother. She is betrothed to Elector Frederick’s son.’
‘Mary is ten years old. Things must be bad if the Queen is willing to let the House of Orange get their clutches on the girl so soon. What about Princess Elizabeth?’ It hurt to think about the little girl with her quick mind and wise ways being punished by some stern Puritan because she chanted the Latin prayers her mother taught her.
‘She’s still at St. James’s Palace. I was hoping you would agree to accept both.’
She shook her head wearily. ‘Syon House is not even my house, John. It is my brother’s house. Algernon is not here. I cannot ask him—’
‘All the more reason they will be safe here. The Earl of Northumberland will not object. King’s High Admiral or not, when he obeyed Parliament’s order to send ships and arms to Ireland to put down the Catholic rebellion, he showed where his loyalty lies. Besides, he’s in Suffolk with the Royal Navy. The children will be with a friend of their mother’s and Parliament will not object—with a little persuasion.’ He paused and looked directly in her eyes. ‘Lucy, consider this. There is some talk of giving them to the guardianship of Lord Pembroke.’
‘Phillip Herbert!’ The thought of the Earl of Pembroke with little Elizabeth made a queasy spot in Lucy’s stomach. The Queen had hated Philip Herbert. And the feeling was reciprocated. Henrietta would be enraged to think he had her children, and as for Lucy, well Herbert was another who had vigorously argued for Thomas Wentworth’s death, but unlike John Pym, he held no charm for Lucy. She would not so easily forgive the self-righteous man, and it would be a pleasure to thwart him now.
‘I think Lord Pembroke is not above seeking revenge upon the Queen’s children to feed his resentment at being passed over at court.’ This was John Pym’s last and best argument, and from the look on his face he knew it.
She just looked at him and nodded, thinking how her midnight rendezvous was not turning out at all as she had hoped. The child whimpered in his sleep and worked his mouth in a sucking motion. ‘Go get his nurse,’ she said with resignation, ‘and hurry. And bring back his clothes and nursery things. See if there is a poppet in his crib.’
‘Poppet?’
‘A soft plaything, rag doll. If not, bring his blanket. It will be familiar to him.’
He nodded gratefully and kissed her, just a quick kiss on the lips, not at all the passionate embrace she’d anticipated as she waited in the rain.
‘Bring Elizabeth, too,’ she said. ‘It will be a comfort for them to be together.’
Hours later, Lucy Hay wondered as she lay beside the sleeping John Pym just what it was about powerful men that she found irresistible. In the light of a faintly breaking dawn, she considered her lover’s round face, tipped with a little pointy beard so sparse she could see the pink knob of his chin shining through. The soft hairs of his mustache feathered with each even breath, and besides being neither young nor handsome, he had a wife—a fact which seemed to trouble his Puritan conscience more than it did her Presbyterian one. Yet there was that unnamable something that drew her to him.
How surprised and touchingly grateful he had been when she’d warned him about the King’s plans for arresting the Parliament leaders, though later, after they had become lovers, he had teased her about trying to have a foot in both camps and had then said soberly he admired a man or a woman with mind enough to discern which way the wind was blowing.
When he had returned with the nurse and Princess Elizabeth, he had helped her set up the makeshift nursery and then, kissing her lightly on the lips, had said he thought he’d rest a bit while she finished settling the children. She touched him gently now, hoping he would wake to fulfill the long-delayed expectation of their lovemaking. He did not waken. She lay back upon her pillow. I’ll write to Henrietta in the morning, she thought. I’ll tell her I’ll see Henry and Elizabeth will have every comfort. She owed her that much.