Royal Inheritance (19 page)

“Come, Mary,” the Duchess of Richmond said in a bracing voice. “Greet our guest.”

Lady Richmond, at least, was just as I remembered her, right down to the spaniel on her lap. I did not suppose it was the same one, but it might have been.

Mary required a moment to recognize me. “Audrey?” Her pale blue eyes narrowed. “How long has it been? You are a woman grown, and the resemblance is even more remarkable.”

Taken aback, I blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“She is rambling again,” the duchess cut in. “Come and see Father’s new garden.”

We went outside, with Edith and several other waiting women trailing behind, but while Lady Richmond sang the praises of the Duke of Norfolk’s head gardener, who had coaxed violets, periwinkle, and bluebells into flowering, I stole sideways glances at Mary. She showed no interest at all in the early variety of rose the duchess was showing me. After a moment, she withdrew a piece of paper from the pocket concealed in her black damask skirt. She did not unfold it. Merely looking at it made her cry. As tears streamed down her cheeks, a tiny sob escaped her.

The duchess whirled around with a sound of disgust, dropping the rose. “Give that to me!”

When she would have snatched the paper out of her companion’s hand, Mary clutched it to her bosom and backed away. “It is precious to me.” She sent a pleading look in my direction, over Lady Richmond’s shoulder. “Do not let her take it, Audrey. It is a copy of the elegy my lord of Surrey wrote to honor Tom.”

“And you know it by heart,” the duchess snapped. “As do I!”

“It is a beautiful poem!” Again Mary looked to me for help.

I wanted desperately to do something to ease her despair. “I have not heard this poem. Will you recite it for me?”

Smiling through her tears, she did so:

Norfolk sprung thee, Lambeth holds thee dead;

Clere, of the Count of Cleremont, thou hight.

Within the womb of Ormond’s race thou bred,

And saw’st thy cousin crowned in thy sight.

Shelton for love, Surrey for lord thou chose;

(Aye me! whilst life did last that league was tender).

Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsal blaze,

Landrecy burnt, and batter’d Boulogne render.

At Montreuil gates, hopeless of all recure,

Thine Earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will;

Which cause did thee this pining death procure,

Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfill.

Ah! Clere! if love had booted, care, or cost

Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost.

“It is a fine tribute,” I said, although I had not understood most of the references.

“Better than any of the three poems his lordship wrote when Sir Thomas Wyatt died.”

The duchess rolled her eyes. “Well, then. You have recited the
elegy. Put the paper away and come and sit in the shade of the rose arbor. We will talk of happier things. It is what Clere would have wanted,” she added when Mary began to protest. “He much disliked excessive mourning and well you know it.”

Mary’s grief and unhappiness could not so easily be set aside, but when she entered the duchess’s service she had sworn to obey her mistress. With at least the appearance of meekness, she did as she had been told.

The garden was lovely, colorful, and soothing to look at. Delicate scents filled the air. The faint buzz of insects and the distant shouts of watermen on the Thames were the only sounds to intrude on the peaceful quiet.

“Do you still write poetry?” the duchess asked me, breaking the silence.

“I have not done so lately, Your Grace.”

“But you still sing, I warrant.” She sent one of her maids indoors to fetch a lute. “Will you play something cheerful? One of your own compositions, perhaps?”

I did so, and after that one of the king’s songs. Then the duchess persuaded Mary to sing with us a piece written to be performed in three parts. By the time we had achieved some semblance of harmony, the faintest of smiles played upon Mary’s lips.

I returned to Norfolk House the following day, at the duchess’s invitation. To my astonishment, she had also invited Jack Harington.

“Come and tell us of your exploits.” She patted the cushion beside her on the window seat. A steady rain fell beyond the panes, discouraging us from venturing outside.

“There is not much to tell, my lady. On a ship, a great deal of boredom broken only by short periods of sheer panic. In truth, I prefer to fight on land.”

“That anyone should wish to fight at all is madness,” Mary said with something of her old blunt outspokenness.

Jack sent a sympathetic look her way. The duchess ignored her.

“Will our troubles with France ever be over?” I asked. “I thought the war ended months ago when the king came home.”

“King Henry returned, but not his troops,” Jack said. “The French do not give up easily. Their fleet continues to harry our coast.”

“There’s talk at court of a curfew in London,” the duchess remarked.

“And perhaps a special watch of citizens from nine at night until four in the morning,” Jack agreed. “Everyone needs to be on the lookout for French agents. They are more than capable of planting explosives that could set the entire city on fire.”

The very thought terrified me. Wooden buildings and thatched roofs burn quickly. It would not take much to start a conflagration that would spread from house to house, street to street until there was nothing left of London but ashes.

Seeing the color drain from my face, Jack leapt to his feet and took my hands in his, murmuring comforting words. Mary’s eyebrows lifted but she made no comment.

We both stayed to dine and later that day, after the rain stopped, Jack escorted me home. He did not speak of the kiss we’d shared when last we’d been together. Nor did he give any indication that he intended to see me again. He left me at the gate to the yard—out of sight of father’s shop—without lingering. His parting words were a reminder that he was the vice admiral’s man and therefore was expected to remain close to Sir Thomas in Dover. They would be there for some time to come. Sir Thomas had been named acting warden of the Cinque Ports.

“How far away is Dover?” I asked Edith after Jack had left us.

She gave me her usual disapproving look and answered in a taut voice. “It is a journey of two or three days. Not one to be undertaken on a whim or without proper escort.”

I knew already that I could follow Watling Street, which had started life as one of the old Roman roads, nearly all the way there, but for the nonce I was forced to accept that it would be some time before I saw Jack Harington again. This did nothing to lessen my determination to be reunited with him at some point in the future.

As usual, I remained in London throughout the summer.

In July, a ship called the
Hedgehog
blew up on the Thames at Westminster. The explosion could be heard everywhere in the city. We were fortunate indeed that the fire did not spread to any houses.

The very next day, in Portsmouth, where the king and the Earl of Surrey and the English navy had been gathering to repel the expected invasion by a French armada, a much more important ship, the king’s own
Mary Rose,
sank in the Solent. King Henry, it was said, watched helplessly from the ramparts of Southsea Castle as almost all aboard were lost. In an entire summer, the French fleet did less damage to morale.

Shortly thereafter, the Duchess of Richmond returned to Kenninghall. She took Mary Shelton with her.

In all, it was difficult year, filled with bad weather and bad luck. A great tempest struck Derbyshire, Lancashire, and Cheshire. A dearth of corn and victuals affected every county. There was famine, and the sailors manning those ships at Portsmouth suffered from an epidemic of the bloody flux followed by an outbreak of the plague. The only good news was that the French fleet turned tail and sailed back to France.

I prayed nightly that Jack would remain safe in Dover with Sir Thomas Seymour, but in September Sir Thomas was relieved as acting warden and took up new duties with the fleet in Portsmouth.
Jack stopped at the house in Watling Street on his way through London, but only long enough to pay his respects. Father and Mother Anne were present throughout his visit and he said nothing to indicate he had any interest in asking for my hand in marriage.

Father saw him on his way. By the time he returned to the hall, Mother Anne and I had resumed work on a large piece of embroidery held in a wooden frame.

“Sir Richard Southwell has settled Horsham St. Faith and other properties in Norfolk on his son,” Father announced.

“A gentleman’s portion.” Mother Anne looked approving. “And young Richard will be entering the Inns of Court ere long. The law is a respectable profession, and lucrative, too.”

I feigned a yawn. Country gentleman, courtier, or solicitor, it made no difference to me. I did not intend to marry the offspring of a murderer.

Determined upon resistance, I ignored every effort to change my mind. Lectures from Mother Anne did not move me. Father tried logical arguments, stressing the advantages of marriage to a comfortably well-off husband. I affected deafness.

It would not be so very bad, I thought, to continue just as I was and never marry. I filled my days with music and reading, sewing and works of charity in the parish. I had Father and Mother Anne close at hand and sisters nearby. I had Pocket, who loved me unreservedly. I told myself I was both happy and content.

I lied.

K
ing Henry spent the last part of the year in Surrey, moving between Nonsuch, Petworth, Guildford Castle, and Woking, but when he came to London for the opening of Parliament, he sent for me. It was the first time I’d seen him since that long-ago progress, more than two years earlier, when I had met Prince Edward and Princess Elizabeth.

Once again we met at Whitehall, this time in the privy gallery that overlooked the gardens. The king, even more obese than when we’d last met, sat in a wheeled chair. He had no reason to rise when I entered and made my curtsey, but I had to wonder if he could. All that had once been muscle had turned to fat. His Grace had always had small eyes, but now they were nearly swallowed up by the abundant fleshiness of his face. A faint, unpleasant odor clung to him, in spite of the strong sweet perfume he wore.

“How is that little dog we gave you, eh?” the king asked.

Father had prudently retreated. The king’s attendants also moved out of earshot.

“Pocket is well, Your Grace.” I did not think I should mention
that my dog, like my king, showed the effects of overindulgence in rich food. Early on, Pocket had learned to beg table scraps from me and my sisters. Even Bridget had tossed him choice bits of meat and bread.

For several minutes, the king spoke of trivial matters. I was considering how to broach the subject of Father’s post as royal tailor, in the hope of preventing its loss to Richard Egleston, when King Henry placed one bloated hand on my arm. His words, although gently spoken, had the force of a command.

“It is our wish that you wed young Richard Darcy.”

I bit back my first response, well aware of the folly of outright refusal. “I am too young yet to wed,” I temporized.

The king chuckled. “Many girls your age are not only married but mothers twice over.”

Greatly daring, I answered him. “And many wait until they are five and twenty, with a good dowry saved up and a chest full of linens ready for their new home.”

Maidservants like my Edith, if they wed at all, did not do so until they were able to afford to leave service entirely. Some never reached that point. Or they failed to find anyone to marry them.

“You may wait awhile if it is your wish, Audrey,” the king said. “It is true that you should come to the marriage with a proper dowry. It is a father’s duty to provide one. We will talk with Malte about that, never fear. But marry young Darcy you must. I have promised his father.”

I could not bring myself to agree, but I dropped into a subservient curtsey in the hope that the king would not ask for more. His Grace seemed satisfied. When I rose, he waved me away. Father was waiting to lead me back outside.

“His Grace is not well,” I said as we made our way to the water stairs.

“No, he is not. He must use what he calls ‘trams’ to get around inside the palace and there is a winching device in use to hoist him up flights of stairs.”

“His Grace should lose some weight.”

Father stumbled on the uneven walkway and I had to catch his elbow to keep him upright. “Pray do not tell him so. I should hate to see you sent to the Tower.”

“His Grace does not hesitate to tell me how I should proceed.”

“That is his prerogative. He is your liege lord. You owe him obedience.”

“I will not marry Richard Darcy.” I grew tired of repeating this, but no one ever listened.

“If you think to wed young Harington instead, abandon that idea at once. He is no fit match for you.” Father signaled for a boatman to bring his watercraft closer and offered a hand to help me climb in.

I ignored it and managed by myself, muttering under my breath that if that were the case then I would not marry at all. I’d said that before, too, and had not been believed. Every woman was supposed to want a husband and children.

We made the journey back to London in stilted silence. I did not want to talk anymore about marriage or betrothals or dowries. I recognized Father’s right to make such arrangements for my future, but what business was it of the king’s who I wed or when? That Sir Richard Southwell had somehow influenced King Henry made everything worse.

Home again, I said as much to Edith as she helped me out of the elaborate clothing I had put on for my visit to the court: “Why should His Grace
care
who I marry?”

“The king has known you since you were a little girl,” Edith said. “He is fond of you and wants what is best for your future.”