Betrayal (28 page)

             
‘All that has trespassed could not have been foretold when I was a young girl and first set foot in London town. ‘Twas late in May 1527, aye barely nine years ago that through my father’s ingenuity I came to serve a Prince of Holy Mother Church,’

             
“1527!” Lydia gasped, nearly dropping the book.

             
‘but not just anyone, nay, ‘twas Wolsey himself with whom my place was sought. Who could have thought a plan so well conceived could have gone so amiss, that a pawn I am and bound to stay. Marked by my love and so destroyed as all were

destroyed.’

             
“Wow!” Lydia said as she tucked her long legs beneath her, snuggling deeper into the chair.

             
‘I served my lord Cardinal in his household at York Place as a scribe. Brother Michael did labor on an illuminated Gospel of Saint Mark and I his aide did become. My sweet nuns of Cornwall having taught me to read and write and thus did save me from the scullery. There I did remain ‘til a dark cold night in late October 1529, when for reasons of politic my lord Cardinal was sent from York Place in disgrace.’

             
“York Place? York Place? Where is that?” Lydia asked the sparkling fire. “Oh, I know, it’s Whitehall!” Lydia stared unblinkingly, her gaze locked on the dancing flame. “But, how can this be?” Her eyes were once more drawn to the written page.

             
‘My lord King did take possession of my home for his Lady Anne. Though I liked her not, for she was said to be the King’s whore, I was chosen to serve her kitchen. And so I came to serve the Lady Anne Boleyn.’

             
“I don’t believe this!” Lydia gasped.

             
‘My first memories of Court life are confused with those of the progress from York Place to Hever. On our travels there, my lady’s body-servant died of fever, and my lady raised me to the job. And so I have served her faithfully these past six years.’

             
‘The King had often come to York Place when my lord Cardinal was in residence, where he sought my lord’s advice and solace in his Great Matter. At that time I had no idea what it was or how it would affect me.’

             
“The divorce!” Lydia cried.  “I wish I could remember my history lessons better. I used to know all of this, but how different from a textbook this diary is.” Lydia read on.

             
‘We were aware of the King’s desire to put aside his wife Queen Katharine to marry the Lady Anne, servants, clerics and all, whispering of it amongst the halls and chapels. Yet never was I in his presence before that fateful day. There is much to tell, I am not doing it very well.’

             
“Yes, you are, Elisabeth, keep going. You can’t stop now,” Lydia urged.

             
‘Needs must I tell how I came to London town in the first place. Sweet Brother Michael did always say the best place to start is at the beginning. And so ye may know the teller better it is there that I shall start.’

             
Lydia licked her dry lips and wished for a drink, yet she was reluctant to put the book down for even a few minutes. “The turkey, oh no, I forgot to put the turkey in.” Lydia looked at the clock on the mantle. “Hmm, three hours to cook, or is it four. Wonder if I should plan for mid-afternoon or even a late dinner. Hmm, I guess I had best plan for late afternoon, Dan will surely be home by then. Well, I guess I can read a little longer.” She was pleased she didn’t have to put the diary down just yet.

             
‘Aye then, first things first, oh Cornwall, will I ever see you again? My earliest memories are of Rumford and the convent of Saint Michael in the Woods in North

Cornwall. I came into the care of the nuns in June 1518 at the age of eight. What passed before seems shrouded in mist. I remember my mother, more like I remember her death. ‘Twas the sweat that carried her and my little sister off, leaving me alone to tend our small rocky farm tucked just within the walls of old Tintagel Castle.’

              “Tintagel Castle, home of King Arthur, Merlin, and now it seems the girl in my nightmares! Well, I suppose,” Lydia hesitated, “they all have that mysterious, mystical aura about them.” Lydia struggled to understand what she was reading.

             
‘My father, a cobbler by trade, traveled the warm months selling the boots and slippers he had made during the long cold nights of winter. That he knew of her death I did not learn until many years later. I was taken to the sisters for there was none to care for me, our neighbors having enough mouths to feed.’

             
“Poor kid; so young to be left on one’s own. Mother dead and father never around,” Lydia whispered, “too busy to know or care what happens to his daughter.” Lydia felt a rising renewal of her own feelings of rejection. Her thoughts turned to her own youth and memories of lonely days at boarding school and boring holidays spent alone with her father. The old resentments bubbled to the surface as she struggled to push them back down into her unconsciousness. Lydia drew her attention back to the slim volume in her hand.

             
‘I remember the night as if it was yesterday. I remember singing in the chapel. T’was there angel spoke: ‘Who have we here? A cherub, come in answer to our prayers?” She spoke gently as she glided across the cold stone flags. “Bring a lamp, Mary Martha,” the vision directed. “Here, child, come out, let us have a look at you. What is your name and how came you here?” She asked, holding a candle high to light my darkness.

             
‘Elisabeth,’ I mumbled, my chin pressed hard to my chest and my hands fisted tight in my pockets. ‘Elisabeth Beeton, Mistress. I come with Tom Arrow, but he has gone.’

             
Lydia gasped; here was the girl of her dreams. She was real; Elisabeth was a real person! Lydia’s fingers caressed the worn leather cover of the diary in wonder as she settled in to read more.
                           

             
‘Why came you here?’ asked the vision in white.

             
‘My mother is dead and my father away; there is none to care for me; so they said I must come here,’ I said as bravely as I could. ‘I can cook!’ I shouted, fearing they would send me away.

             
‘Aye, yes, but Mary Andrew does her best to fill our need,’ the woman said smiling playfully at a young nun who blushed brightly.

             
‘I can,’ I started.

             
‘Yes, my child, I am sure you can. Here, come with me.’ She took my hand and led me before the great altar. ‘Blessed Saint Anne,’ she prayed, ‘we come before you tonight with a motherless child in need of a home. You, who our Blessed Virgin called mother, will you mother this child?’  I watched in awe as she drew the sign of the cross on my forehead saying, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost I claim you for Saint Michael in the Woods. Welcome home, daughter. Are you hungry, child?’

             
I nodded yes and was taken to the kitchen where Mary Andrew set a plate of cold rabbit pasty and a cup of sweet milk before me. I ate hungrily, for it had been a long time since my last meal.’

             
Eyes heavy, Lydia slipped into a dream-filled sleep.

                                                                               ***

             
Lydia awoke with a start as the mantle clock struck two. “Time to put the turkey in,” she said, laying aside Elisabeth’s diary. She hurried about the kitchen gathering ingredients for her homemade chestnut dressing. As she sprinkled sage into a large china bowl she heard Dan close the front door. She hurried to stuff the turkey as he came down the hallway.

“I’m starving!” he said entering the kitchen. Why isn’t that turkey done yet? Oh, let me guess, your mother’s journal. More interesting than you thought, eh?”

              “It’s not my mother’s journal!”

             
“What? Of course it is. Henry and Ella found it in the attic.”

             
“They may have found it in the attic, but it is not my mother’s diary,” Lydia said as she slid the turkey’s roasting pan in the oven. Lydia wiped her hands on a terry cloth kitchen towel. “Now come with me. I have a surprise to show you.”

             
Dan had to hurry to keep up with Lydia’s quick steps. Collapsing on to the sofa he beckoned Lydia to join him. He frowned when she took her place in the large armchair near the hearth.

             
Lydia, oblivious to Dan’s frown, carefully picked up the old book as she settled in.

             
Dan waited what he thought was a reasonable amount of time for her to begin. But Lydia sat straight in her chair, her eyes downcast, seeing only the small book in her hands. Dan grew impatient, scraping his shoe against the hardwood floor.

             
“Okay Lydia, tell me why you are so sure it’s not your mother’s diary.”

             
Lydia hesitated. Silently, she wished she had not told Dan. She wanted more time to get to know the girl, Elisabeth.

             
The telephone on its small table in the foyer began to ring. Lydia smiled. Dan groaned. With his hand on the receiver he said to her, “Saved by the bell this time, but we will continue this when I get home.”

             
“Of course,” Lydia replied. She tightened her grip on the slim volume. Lydia settled back into the chair, her long legs tucked up under her. Hearing the heavy front door close behind Dan, she opened the book, not at the beginning as before, but to the middle. Taking a sip of tea she started to read.

             
‘While it is with joy I remember my happy meeting with Jamie Hays, son of my mother’s brother yet ‘tis with fury I think of his friend Tremayne.’

             
“Hays? Tremayne?” Lydia gasped.  The black cat leapt into her lap as she called out. Lydia tried to calm the cat whose tail whipped close to her balanced teacup.

             
‘Aye, Tremayne, my husband, ‘tis as if he stands before me as on the first day we met. His head of unruly black hair with eyes of coal, the dimple carved deep in his

chin; his skin tanned to a golden brown. The sun lowering in the sky cast a halo about his fine form, his eyes clear dark pools, reflecting, not giving out a hint of what lie within. Tremayne, the name lies bitter on my tongue. Were not Jamie sweetness itself I would not have suffered Master Tremayne to tidy my chamber pot. ‘Twas at York Place, now styled Whitehall, that my cousin did present himself to me, a bare two years ago; he came as representative of his father, my uncle.’

              Lydia’s eyelids grew heavy, the scrawling hand of the journalist difficult to follow. Resting her head against the pillow back of her chair she drifted, now watching the girl, Elisabeth, as she stood amongst the yellow roses.

TWENTY

SEPTEMBER 1534

             
“A letter, Elisabeth, a letter has come for you,” called the young page. He held the parchment high as if it were a flag as he skirted the boxwood hedge.

             
“A letter, for me?” Elisabeth’s blue eyes took in the shape and form that was held out to her. “It cannot be for me. There is none that I know that has need to write me a letter.” Her eyes searched her mind. “A letter for me?” she whispered, wonderstruck.

             
“Aye, it has your name on it. Look here, big as life it says Elisabeth Beeton, so could be for none other than you.” The page beamed a wide toothless grin.

             
“How is it you know it is for me? You cannot read, Benjamin, who told you?”

             
“My lady Rochford,” he said shyly, his chin tucked tightly to his chest.

             
“Has she read this?” Elisabeth snapped, waving the letter just inches from the boy’s nose. “Has she read it?”

             
He hesitated as she turned the letter over revealing that the seal was intact. Brightening at Elisabeth’s bemused smile he taunted, “A letter from your love mayhaps?”

             
Elisabeth’s eyes took in the clear print of the letter H in the blood red of the wax seal. It meant nothing to her and was no aid to the identity of the writer. ‘No, it could not be a letter from George.’ She breathed a sigh of relief as her skin flushed as she thought of her lover.

             
Keen to detect any sign from the girl, Benjamin began to chant repeatedly in the way of small children. “I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. A letter from her love,” as he skipped back towards the palace.