On this day a fast and feast do both jostle together and the question is which should take place in our affection … (the children) may be so addicted to their toys and Christmas sports that they will not be weaned from them.
—Thomas Fullerton delivering a fast day sermon on Holy Innocents’ Day, December 1642
25 December 1642
‘Mistress Powell’s roast goose was delicious,’ Caroline said, snuggling deeper into the beaver rug that William had tucked around her.
A light Christmas snow had started to fall, frosting the little mare’s harness. She put her head on her husband’s shoulder, luxuriating in the strong, solid feel of him. It had been two months since she told him about the baby. She had waited until she was sure the child was growing inside her. By her count she was a little over four months. Already she was wearing her loosest garments. As they sat at board, Mistress Powell had whispered that she had some clothes that might suit Caroline for the next few months. She was welcome to them. God knew she hoped to never need them again, she’d said smiling at the gaggle of children around her table.
William had said he was pleased when she told him, but she noticed he was more preoccupied. He worked harder than ever now to get their ‘affairs in order,’ sitting with his books and ledgers until late in the night, often riding far afield in the day to collect accounts still owing. The new plan was that if he should be called to the King’s service, she should go immediately to stay with the Powells until he returned, taking with her the contents of the secret drawer. But with each passing day her anxiety lessened. There had already been fighting at Edgehill with some heavy losses on both sides and still he had not been called.
‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it, William?’ she had asked.
He had answered with a smile and a wink, that maybe they thought he was too old, but what did they know?
‘Or maybe they think you’ve paid enough with all the money and arms you’ve provided. I certainly think so,’ she had answered. Then he’d gently chastised her for the resentment in her voice, saying they all had to do their part, reassuring her that he would take care of ‘my wife and my son.’ Sons, she’d wanted to yell at him, wanting to ask if he would someday throw away the son, or daughter, she carried in her belly, to satisfy some misplaced loyalty. But she did not.
‘I was glad to see you enjoying your food for a change,’ he said. ‘I take that as a sign that the sickness is finally over.’
She laughed. ‘Yes, I would say that is a sign. I could have eaten another helping but I didn’t want to appear too greedy.’
‘You should have signaled me; I would have slipped you some of mine.’
‘You are a good husband. But I dare say neither the babe nor I needed it.’
The wind picked up and William put one arm around her, pulling her closer for warmth, flicking the reins with his other wrist. ‘The bumping of the carriage over these frozen ruts is not good for the child. I’m going to take the shortcut road through the woods. It won’t be quite so rough across a carpet of dead leaves.’
The snow was falling harder now. Grateful for the sheltering canopy over the carriage, she snuggled closer as they entered the little path through the silent winter woods. ‘Look, William. How beautiful. Every branch has a wide lace collar to rival the King’s.’
‘This path is dangerous. Too many robbers, though less so in winter when there is scarce cover. Don’t you ever take this shortcut. In any season.’
‘It was good to see Mary. She seemed quite content to celebrate Christmas without her husband.’
‘I can’t think how that situation is going to resolve itself with a husband in London and Mary at home with her parents. I tried to ask the Squire about it, but he just brushed it off as if it were of no consequence. Quite content to have his daughter at home without the irritating Puritan he apparently despises.’
‘Well, it was all his doing. Did he not tell you that he practically sold her to Mr. Milton to satisfy a debt? What’s she to do now, just stay at Forest Hill, an aging,’—she looked for the right word and finally settled on—‘spinster until her parents die from old age?’
‘The squire never mentioned the debt to me. Probably too proud. Though given our long history together, I was surprised when he asked for the rent upfront. It makes some sense now that under financial pressure he might think he could stomach his daughter’s marriage to a Puritan. But don’t worry overmuch about Mary, Caroline. She seems content. It is not as though she will be destitute. Her brothers will inherit the estate from the Forest Hill lands and forest rights not to mention the Wheatley incomes from their mother’s portion. She will always have a home and hearth to tend.’
But not her hearth. Did he not realize that a good marriage with children was the only real currency a woman would ever have? But she held her tongue.
‘The squire is just going through a rough patch. An estate like Forest Hill is a money mire. That’s why I’d rather rent than own.’
‘There may not be anything left to inherit after this awful war, William. And even if there is, what then? Not being able to ever marry or have children? Their marriage was never consummated, you know. Mary told me that. Do you think she could get an annulment?’
‘Maybe,’ but William’s attention had snared on something in the distance. They were emerging from the woods. She could already see the smoke of home curling from the chimney. And something else, less comforting.
‘It looks like we have company,’ he said, his voice tight. He flicked the little whip, spurring the horse on.
As they approached, Caroline could see two men, King’s men by their Stuart livery. One held the horse’s reins as the other dismounted and approached the front portal.
‘Oh, William,’ she said, her chest tightening.
‘Don’t assume the worst, Caroline. It could be just another request for money and arms.’
‘Of which we have neither.’
‘I’m going to take the carriage around to the side. You go in by the kitchen door.’ As he helped her down, he gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Go warm yourself by the hearth in the kitchen and try not to worry. It’s not good for the child.’
Opening the kitchen door, he motioned for the stable-boy and cook’s helper to punch up the fire, and straightening his shoulders went up the short flight of stairs where the messenger would be waiting in the hall. Caroline was huddled by the great hearth, scarcely breathing, when he returned almost immediately. One look at his ashen face and she knew.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘I’m to report to General Fairfax in Oxford in three days.’
But William did not report in three days. In the wee hours of the morning Caroline began to bleed and William lost a second son to the war. Squire Powell sent a messenger to Oxford begging his Majesty’s forbearance that Sir William Pendleton should be delayed. When he rode out a week later, Caroline’s body was recovering. But her spirit? That was another matter altogether.
Lucy Hay surveyed the great hall with a critical eye. Syon House was not Hampton Court, not Whitehall or Wilton House, but its hall was impressive. The house had not suffered much in that long night of cannon and musket fire from the river—only one broken window on the second floor and some gaps in the garden wall. For her Christmas dinner she could have chosen the more intimate, more elegant setting of the salon, but Lucy had not entertained in the salon since she’d sacrificed Wentworth’s diamond earrings. Not a happy memory.
And then there were the children. Now that they could no longer spend time outdoors they had quite taken over the salon. Spinning tops, whirligigs, and other youthful detritus lay scattered about. The gilded chairs, covered with plain linen to protect their damask upholstery, were stacked against the walls so that Elizabeth and Henry had room to play. Lucy had not the energy or inclination to restore it to its pre-child state. Nor did she have the heart to banish her young charges. They had been banished enough for a lifetime.
It was only mid-afternoon, and the light was already fading to gloom. ‘Carter, I think we shall need to light all the tapers,’ she said as she flicked away a burnt cinder from the rosy-apple mouth of a merely respectable boar’s head.
The feast was not up to her usual standards, but given her brother’s miserliness and her lack of staff, she had acquitted her hostess duties bravely enough. All the able-bodied male servants had volunteered or been conscripted for military service. The only real footman left was old Carter, limping along, assisted by his half-wit grandson, who could not tell a salt cellar from a silver salver. If Parliament needed musket-fodder, would it not have been more efficient to take these two who could not together make a whole servant? She would have gladly bargained two for one—especially when the one was her favorite footman. Robbie knew how to put a sparkle on a serving spoon. Knew too how to bow with just enough humility so as not to be considered cheeky. (Well with that wicked wink, maybe a little cheeky, but nothing that she could not handle with a lift of her chin and an icy glare.)
Watching old Carter grimace with pain as he stretched to light the tallest tapers, she instantly repented that thought. There were other measures of a man besides—well, loyalty must surely count for something. The thought about cannon-fodder, that was unworthy of a good Presbyterian woman. More than unworthy. Shameful. Lucy had, on more than one occasion, envied the Queen’s convenient confessional.
A clattering sound signaled another casualty to her cupboard—the third one in as many hours. She gave the boy her most long-suffering smile, an act of contrition, though she knew it was neither a real smile nor act of contrition. There was not enough contrition in the world for some thoughts.
‘Don’t worry about it, Tom,’ she consoled. ‘Just take the ladle to the kitchen and ask cook for another.’
Despite Carter’s limitations, the chamber soon glowed with a multitude of softly flickering lights. Perhaps Algernon would not complain about the cost of so much beeswax—not with his new bride coming to Syon House for the first time. Cook had done her best with her attenuated staff. Surrounding the burnt offering of boar’s head was a carved loin of beef and silver dishes heaped high with puddings and tarts, both savory and sweet, even a pie of lark’s tongues, though she suspected that bubbling beneath its golden crust was more leek than lark. (Who was left to tend the traps?) She hoped the food was plentiful enough; even this much was a feat given such short notice. It would be just like Algernon to spring unexpected guests.
In honor of the holy day Lucy had arrayed herself in a gown of pale green silk and scattered other touches of green about the great chamber: bunches of holly fastened below the wall sconces, a great wreath of it gracing the stone chimney, ivy twining through the candelabra. And in expectation of the most important among Algernon’s notable guests—at least to Lucy—a pinch of mistletoe adorned a velvet ribbon circling her neck.
The flames in their sconces flickered and damp air entered the hall. From the antechamber Carter’s nasal whine was followed by men’s low voices. Her ear picked out one special voice. He had come as promised. But she had thought he would. If not for her own eager self, which had proved not enough of late to pull him away from his intrigues, there was the added incentive of the distinguished dinner guests. She greeted them, surprised to find her brother unaccompanied by any female companion. Perhaps his new wife was coming later in her own carriage.
‘Here, Master Pym, let me take your cloak,’ she said, flicking rain drops from his simple brown mantle.
Averting her gaze, lest it linger too long, she handed the cloak to Carter.
After the most perfunctory of greetings to his sister, Lord Percy led the two sober-faced gentlemen in, indicating with a nod and swift motion of his hand who should sit where. He seated himself at the head. Lucy took her seat at the other end of the table, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, as though she had barged in on a private council meeting. Hardly the occasion for which she had prepared. She wished she could just flick her wrists and say begone to her brother and her cousin. How lovely it would be to spend this day with John, alone together, feasting, drinking, as though the world around them was not falling apart. Maybe later, when the others were gone. Her fingers touched the velvet ribbon at her throat, which now seemed foolishly chosen.
‘Algernon,’ she said in a bright voice, falsely cheerful even to her ears. ‘Where is the lovely Lady Northumberland? I was so looking forward to greeting your bride. Is she coming later? Should we wait dinner service for her?’
Algernon raised his chin in the dismissive way he’d acquired sometime between the death of his first wife and this marriage to his second, an admiral’s persona she supposed. My wife begs forgiveness for her absence but pleads her excessive duties at Northumberland House. She says she hopes you will attend us there sometime soon. When it is safe to travel again of course.’
A snub? Or just bad manners. The Howards had never been known for their diplomacy—or their loyalty. Why should her new sister-in-law be any different? ‘I was looking forward to entertaining her,’ Lucy said, ‘I had not noticed it was not safe to travel. Only this morning, I had a visit from Lady Pembroke inquiring about the children’s activities.’
Pym’s eyes widened in alarm, those intelligent gray eyes whose blue-veined lids she had kissed. ‘My dear Lady Carlisle, I hope you satisfied her that the children were not celebrating inappropriately.’
Lucy restrained a twitching smile. ‘I assure you, Master Pym, all of you,’ she added, her gaze including the others, ‘no Capuchin has darkened the doors of Syon House.’
She could tell by the anxiety playing around his brow that he was wondering whether she was lying or had smuggled in some French Papist to recite a Latin mass. But of course, she had not. She didn’t know where to find one. Most had fled to France when the Queen left. But she had done the next worst thing. First, she had tried to placate the devout little princess by promising they would celebrate their own mass. God would, of course, understand—and Maman too. There was precedent, Lucy had argued. At the Last Supper there had been no priest.
The girl had answered, jaw jutting upward, eyes squinting to a suspicious slant. That would not do at all. She needed to confess, and she could never confess to anybody but a priest and besides the disciples did not need a priest because Jesus was the high priest and he was there with them.
What kind of a sin could press so hard on the innocent soul of a seven-year-old? Finally, helpless before the child’s pious distress—and somewhat ambushed by her theologically advanced argument—Lucy had relented. In the end she’d smuggled in a Catholic recusant priest with the help of Carter, who had whispered to Lucy that he had an uncle who still practiced the old religion of Queen Mary,’ and if her ladyship thought it seemly—well, he could probably procure a priest. In the strictest secrecy. It was not seemly, of course, and dangerous. What if the priest talked? Parliament would be outraged if they should learn of it. Maybe even take the children away from Percy custody. But as instructed, Carter had brought the priest to the house unaware of his young penitent’s identity. Before she let him visit the royal nursery she had secured the Papist’s indignant reassurance of confidentiality. The secrets of the confessional were sacrosanct, he’d answered.
John’s warning gaze lingered on hers a moment longer than necessary. Lucy looked away first, motioning for Carter and Tom to begin serving. Her cousin, Robert Devereux, third Earl of Essex, and newly appointed captain-general of Parliament’s forces—one of the five ‘flown birds’ for whom she had betrayed her king—turned in Lucy’s direction. With each word his pointed beard penetrated the lace of his old-fashioned starched ruff, the kind his father had worn to the block. ‘Was Lady Pembroke satisfied, then?’ he asked. Before she could answer, he asked, ‘Are we to be allowed to see the children tonight?’
‘Only if you insist, my lords. They are very tired after our morning prayers as you might imagine, it being a different ceremony than what they are used to, and with Lady Pembroke’s unexpected visit. But yes, Lady Pembroke was quite satisfied—as far as Lady Pembroke could ever be satisfied.’
All three men nodded and smiled in acknowledgement of that lady’s reputation, but Algernon raised an eyebrow and inquired, ‘Ceremony, Lucy? What ceremony?’ His voice was demanding, reminding her that he was master here.
‘We may still celebrate our Lord’s birth, I hope, gentlemen. It would be a sorry thing if we could not. It was just a simple prayer, a reading from Isaiah, then from the gospel of Luke. You cannot have forgotten, brother, the babe in the manger, the angel’s announcement of his divine birth,’ she said archly. ‘Father used to read it to us when we were with him in Tower Prison. Oh, I forget—only baby brother Henry and I were forced to live with the old wizard, while you and sister Dorothy celebrated at Alnwick.’ She glanced down at her plate then, not quite able to deliver the straightforward lie, not with John Pym present, and added, ‘And the Princess did read it in English.’
This seemed to satisfy the three worthies at her table: Her brother, her cousin, and her lover, in their postures as Lord High Admiral of the Navy, General and Chief Commander of Parliament’s army and the most influential man in Parliament. Or had she got it backwards and they were not posturing at all and it was their roles as brother, cousin, and lover that were subordinate. No matter. Whatever relationship was dominant at whatever moment, each of them was in her debt. But if growing up in the confines of the Tower had taught Lucy Hay anything, it was that both family loyalty and Cupid’s strings could be as easily broken as a virgin’s maidenhead. What a clamor would ensue if these three knew that Lady Pembroke, who had come to spy for her husband, had entered the front door of Syon House even as the Papist priest was being ushered down the servants’ stairs by Carter.
‘Mister Pym, I see your cup is empty.’ She motioned for the boy, watching relieved that though he moved clumsily around the table refilling each cup, he did not spill the wine. Half-wit, he may be, but he was doing his best and didn’t deserve abuse by her guests. He refilled her cup too, and she lifted it to her lips, content for a moment to be ignored as the men ate heartily, talking Parliament business between bites. There had really been no time ’til now to ponder her good fortune that the morning’s activities had not been discovered. Lady Pembroke would have gone screaming to Parliament had she encountered any evidence of the priest. Upon entering, her gaze had not lingered on the children, but darted restlessly about the room, looking for signs of some Romish altar, or some little detail to prejudice Parliament against the Percy guardianship in favor of her husband. Lucy’s heart had leapt into her throat when she saw that the Princess still clutched the Latin prayer book in her hand. But Princess Elizabeth, with a grace and understanding beyond her years, suddenly dropped to the floor as if to retrieve a doll that had fallen there, and rising pushed the offending missile under the bed with her toe. Lady Herbert was too busy gazing at the painted miniature on the table beside the girl’s bed to notice.
‘Do you think that appropriate, Lady Carlisle?’
‘What, my lady? Is what appropriate?’ But Lucy had known what she meant. Beside her the girl froze, like a fawn at the edge of the forest.
‘The picture of that … that French woman. England is well rid of her.’
Princess Elizabeth lifted her chin.
‘It is a picture of the child’s mother,’ Lucy said quietly, placing one arm lightly around Elizabeth’s tense shoulders. ‘It eases her loneliness. Would you, a Christian woman, take that small comfort from her?’
The woman paused, muttered defensively, ‘Perhaps not. At least not until she gets used to the idea that her mother is not coming back.’
Lucy longed to slap the hateful harridan. ‘My lady, you are quite mistaken in your characterization. The Queen has not ‘deserted’ her children. She has only gone to Holland to visit with the family into which the Princess Royal has recently married. A mother’s natural duty, I would think. Now, may I offer you some refreshment or must you take your leave?’
Lady Pembroke pressed her lips into a thin line, then answered. ‘No. I’ll be going. But I shall come again. Lord Pembroke is very interested in the children’s welfare. I will be frank with you, Lady Carlisle. My husband thinks the royal children would be better looked after at Wilton House. The King brought Prince James and Prince Charles there to hunt, before—’
‘You may remember, my lady, though you may not, since you were seldom at court, the children are also very familiar with me. I frequently played with them in their mother’s presence. Before the present unpleasantness of course. They are happy here. And well protected from all—’ she paused, ‘injurious influences.’
Lucy could tell by the stiffening of her guest’s spine that her barb about court had hit home. John had said that the only reason Philip Herbert had sided with Parliament was because he’d been unable to find sufficient favor with the King. The woman pinched her lips together and asked with fake nonchalance. ‘What of the dear older boys, Lady Carlisle, do you know of their whereabouts? Are they with their father?’
Lucy shrugged. ‘I am sure you know more of that than I. You might ask your husband, I am a mere woman, hardly privy to Parliament’s intelligence.’
After the snoop had left it had taken half an hour to soothe the child, to tell her that of course her mother was coming back. Hadn’t they received a message from her only last week, telling them how she could not wait to be reunited with them? By the time Elizabeth had sniffled into silence, her little brother had awakened in his cradle and was wailing for Maman too. Before Lucy could rush off to array herself in the green silk, she’d had to tell the children a story about The Hague—a made-up adventure about a heroic Queen named Henrietta who missed her beloved children so much on Christmas Day that she vowed she would never spend another Christmas without them.
Carter placed a confection on her plate, star-shaped and sparingly dusted with golden flakes. Lucy returned her attention to the task at hand, whispering that he should remind the kitchen to send the children the marzipan she had ordered for them. She listened to the political chatter, trying to find her way back into the conversation. Apparently, her guests never realized her attention had wandered. They were talking war, hardly noticing as Carter removed their empty plates and placed the confections in front of them.
‘Congratulations on turning back the King, Robert,’ Algernon said. ‘At least he and his troops were denied entrance into London. It was a stroke of pure genius to retreat and join forces with the Trained Bands.’
‘More fortune’s stroke than genius, Lord Percy,’ Essex admitted. ‘After the casualties we suffered at Edgehill, we had no choice but to retreat. I’m afraid our troops took out some of their frustration on the way.’
‘I read in the news books about the looting of Buntford.’ John’s tone did not sound congratulatory. ‘I hope the report was exaggerated. If we are to gain the support of the surrounding towns, you need to discipline your men, my lords. And feed them well so they don’t have to plunder to survive.’
Essex bristled at the blunt criticism. ‘Where do you suggest I procure the stores to feed them well, or at all? Is Parliament prepared to vote the revenue?’
‘Parliament is set to levy a new tax on the populace of London. It will be a hardship, but it is inevitable. If not now, soon,’ John promised.
Lucy’s carefully planned Christmas feast was turning into a contentious strategy session. The three most powerful men in England right here at her table and none took any more notice of her than if she were a serving maid. She would not be ignored. ‘So you turned the King’s forces back, cousin. What about Charles? Did he join the fight?’
‘The King was there. And the young prince and his brother James as well.’
‘The King took his children into battle? That seems unlikely.’
‘Not unlikely at all when you think of it, Lucy. They did not, of course, actually engage. But young Charles is old enough to learn the ways of war. And I expect the King’s nephew is teaching him. Rupert was right there, trying to live up to his reputation, striking a warrior’s gallant pose in the saddle, shouting commands this way and that.’ Essex shook his head and added, ‘I must be getting old. He looks hardly more than a youth himself.’
‘He’s twenty-three and very fond of his uncle Charles,’ Lucy said. Then added casually. ‘He was here, you know.’
Now she had their attention.
‘Here? At Syon House?’ her brother asked in alarm. ‘You saw him?’
‘I spoke with him. Those were his musketeers firing on you from the garden wall.’
‘My God, Lucy. Do you know that we lost two barges that night just below here? Scuttled by those brave soldiers under fire, most of whom drowned in the Thames, to keep Rupert’s men from getting their slimy hands on the heavy cannon and ammunition they carried. You let them set up snipers knowing—’
‘Let them? What else was I to do? This is your house, Algernon, as you are quick to remind me. Why weren’t you trying to protect it? You should be thanking me. Unless you have forgotten there are children in this household for whom you are supposedly responsible. Without my cooperation they would have destroyed Syon House and put the cannon on the wall anyway.’ She looked at Robert Devereux. ‘And you, dear cousin? Oh yes, you were otherwise engaged. Celebrating, because you thought you had turned the King’s forces back. I had no choice.’
‘Quite right, Countess,’ John said. ‘Under the circumstances, you acted wisely and courageously. Did Prince Rupert—’
‘He did not see the children and I do not believe he knows they are here.’
But his eyes still held a question, so she added. ‘He remembered me from court. He behaved courteously to me.’
‘He’s just an upstart youth with a few nasty little tricks up his sleeve. That’s all. No real substance,’ Devereux sneered.
‘If I were you, Lord Essex, I would not dismiss his youth too quickly,’ John said quietly. ‘He has more than braggadocio. He brings strategies he learned in the German war. There is rumor that he mixes foot soldiers among the horse to great effect. And imagine coming all this way just to help an uncle.’ He sipped at his wine and said quietly, ‘You’ve got to love the contest for that.’
Contest? Why was everything a competition with men? Politics, the battlefield, even love? ‘How do you know the young princes did not engage?’
‘I saw them all through my telescope,’ he said. ‘Charles and James were in their tent, well behind the lines, looking bored and restless. They appeared to be under the guardianship of William Harvey, who was largely ignoring them. With my new Kepler telescope I could even see the book he was reading. Galen. Some Greek philosopher, I think. Or maybe medical. Harvey’s not one for poetry.’
Lucy couldn’t help wondering if Henrietta would approve Charles taking her sons into battle. But when you come right down to it, they probably were safer where the King could see and protect them from his enemies—and theirs.
‘Where are they now? Charles and his two older sons?’ Lucy asked.
‘Fled back to their Royalist nest in Oxford, I suppose,’ Robert Devereux said.
Pushing his empty plate back, Devereux fished into his pocket and placed a coin on the table in front of Lucy.
Base metal. More token than coin. But it bore a portrait of Lord Essex on one side and a crude engraving of Parliament on the other.
‘Go ahead, look at it closely.’
Around the Parliament engraving was the motto—she held it closer to the closest candle, squinting to make it out—In the multitude of Counselors there is safety. Well that could be debated, she thought. And on the reverse, surrounding Devereux’s portrait, The sword of the Lord and of Gydeon. She wanted to laugh at her cousin’s outrageous conceit, but she suppressed a smile and handed it back to him without comment.
John coughed behind his hand, an understanding glimmer in his eye and changed the subject from Essex’s vanity. ‘By the way, my lords, have you heard what Lord Whittier is up to?’ Pym asked. ‘He doesn’t seem to have entered the fray on either side.’
Lucy’s ears perked. That was a name she had not heard in a while, regrettably. She had not laid eyes on James Whittier since the night she had given away Wentworth’s diamonds.
Essex frowned as though his wine had just turned bitter. ‘Haven’t seen him since he refused his seat in the Lords after the death of his brother. Probably gone abroad to wait out the war. Whittier wouldn’t risk his little finger for either side unless he had a wager on it. Good riddance I say. The last time I saw him he beat me at that Italian card game. Can’t think of its name.’
‘Bassett,’ said Algernon. ‘He lightened my purse as well, I regret to say. He’s shrewder than he pretends to be. I tried to recruit him into the navy. Even offered him an officer’s command He just laughed. Said he never played a game where there couldn’t be a winner.’
‘Well, my lords,’ Pym smiled, ‘you’d best hold onto your wallets because Whittier is not abroad. He’s in London. And he has, as you might expect, found a way to turn the present circumstances into profit.’
‘After the scandal surrounding his brother’s death, I would have thought he would have preferred remaining on the Continent. This can’t be a new venture; he hasn’t the resources,’ Essex said. ‘Last I heard he lost what was left of the family’s shipping fortune in a bad venture.’
‘I don’t think he had a fortune to lose,’ Pym said. ‘By the time he inherited the title, his older brother had already squandered everything. He was the wastrel. James, being the second son, has always had to live pretty much by his wits. He even studied for the clergy but decided that was not a fit either. Clergy or military are the only ready choices for a second son.’
‘What is this latest scheme, then, since he has rejected both those choices?’
John Pym toyed with his wineglass. ‘Scheme or shrewd investment. Time will tell. He’s become a printer and publisher of news books and broadsheets.’
Lace cuffs flopping around his wrists, Essex reached into his little enamel snuff box, and raising a bit of the nasty brown dust to his nostrils, sniffed. ‘Broadsheets! You mean those scurrilous little pages that ragamuffins sell on the street!
‘More than broadsheets—pamphlets, news books. A brisk trade in Paternoster Row.’
‘Surely there’s no profit to be made there?’ Algernon chimed in, shaking his head in response to Devereux’s proffering of the snuff box.
‘I don’t know about profit. Time will tell, I suppose. Some of the content of the news books is ridiculous, unfounded nonsense, some mere rumor and innuendo, and of course all lurid and sensational or extremely partisan—exaggerated reports of casualties, sensationalistic reports of brutality—’ Pym raised his hand and jabbed at the air as though he were making a point before Parliament, ‘but do not be deceived. There is coin of another kind to be found beneath that smudge of black ink—influence. Profit always follows influence.’
‘Influence, John, surely you jest,’ Algernon said. ‘How can there be any merit or worth in such untrustworthy sources? Who reads that bilge water anyway?’
‘All of London reads it, my lord admiral. Everywhere you go, outside our lofty meeting rooms, the pamphlets are all the people talk about in the streets, the taverns, the counting houses, even in the stews.’ He reached inside his tunic pocket and pulled out a pamphlet. Slapping it down on the table, he shoved it toward Devereux. ‘You might be interested in this one, my lord commander, it relates in gory detail your men’s recent ignoble passage through the village of Buntford.’
Pym held up his hand, stopping Essex’s protest. ‘My lords, the people’s opinion matters to the success of Parliament’s enterprise. And that opinion is fickle and easily swayed. Whittier is no fool. His effort may turn out to be as crucial to the outcome of the war as yours or mine.’
The general and the admiral looked at him as though he had just said a pile of horseshit was worth a king’s ransom.
But Lucy scarcely noticed their reaction. It was influence of another kind she had in mind. ‘When you next see Lord Whittier, Mister Pym, please tell him Lady Carlisle wishes him well in his new venture. He was always a favorite at my London salon.’
Pym looked at her directly. ‘You may tell him so yourself, Countess. He has set up a press on Fleet Street. I’m sure he would welcome any gossipy tidbits and insights favorable to our cause that you might feed him.’ He looked away from Lucy then, gazing directly at his companions. ‘Indeed, my lords, I think we too should endeavor to renew his acquaintance. We may have news which would interest the public.’ He picked up the pamphlet and waved it in the air. ‘This could prove to be a valuable tool for our cause, if we have the foresight to grab hold of it. Or a bludgeon with which to beat us, if we do not.’
Shortly after, the three men left together, with scarcely a thank-you to their hostess. Apparently, they had arrived together. Perhaps that was the reason John did not stay. And for once she was almost too weary to care. Carter and Tom came in to clear the remains of the table.
‘I’ll take that,’ she said, as Carter picked up the pamphlet.
After she had checked to see the children were sleeping peacefully, after she had undressed, removing with a sigh the green velvet ribbon with its drooping mistletoe, after her sometime maid had brushed out her hair and helped her into her nightdress and given her a perfunctory good-night curtsy, Lucy sat at her dressing table for a long time, reading by the light of her bedside candle. When the flame began to gutter, she laid the pamphlet aside and closed her eyes. She did not sleep well.
Her dreams were filled with images: Wentworth’s gleaming diamonds resting in the gaping mouth of the grinning boar’s head, the sound of cannon fire and the bodies of drowned men floating in the Thames, flames leaping from burning rooftops, mothers screaming, children crying. And over all the screams and blood and chaos, she heard James Whittier’s easy, charming laughter.