Royal Mistress (5 page)

What does it mean, Tom thought, disconsolate. It meant he must drop this promising affair like a burning brand. For once in his young and vigorous life he would have to spurn one of the most tantalizing prospects for a mistress he had ever met. Had he misread her flirtations? Her eagerness to meet with him in secret; her nervousness at his nearness at the shop; her presence here at his first suggestion of a tryst; and her very experienced kiss had suggested she was as ready for a tumble as he was, he had felt certain. But what was all this about true love? He was aware of the idea of courtly love, but it was out of fashion now—something troubadours warbled about centuries ago.

He had difficulty concealing his disappointment and got up impatiently, leaving her dejected on her cold stone seat. In other situations, he would have walked off, never given a backward glance, and sought out new prey. But this time was different, and he did not know why. He looked back at her, huddled in her cloak, her beautiful eyes imploring him to come back and take her in his arms, and her sincerity made him search his own heart. And he realized for the first time in his life that Jane had stirred something new in him. Was his heart engaged? Nay, he told himself, they hardly knew each other. But what he did know was those very things that had drawn her to him—her honesty and willingness to risk danger—were now making this awkward, he thought sadly: she thought she was in love and thought he was, too. Aye, he was truly attracted to this provocative woman. In truth, he had not expected
that his emotions upon seeing her sitting alone against the soaring buttress of the cathedral wall would have provoked such swift action. He should have waited to kiss her; he should have wooed her more, she was right. But he also wanted to take what she was so clearly offering and not have to compromise himself. For all her flirtatiousness, Jane Lambert was a virtuous young woman, he realized with chagrin. He must choose his words carefully. Dear God, but women were a trial.

“I am not who you think I am, Jane. You must believe me when I say I understood our liaison to be a flirtation only. I did not mean to mislead you, but I was misled by your eager response to my overtures. I confess I wanted to bed you, but I now see you are a woman of virtue, and I will bother you no further. I am not worthy of you.” It was feeble, but it was the best he could do, and he hoped he had quelled the unfortunate subject of marriage.

He expected tears and indeed her face was wet, but her eyes were defiant, and he saw the tears were simply raindrops. By now Jane was on her feet, repeatedly clenching her fists. “Not worthy of me? What is meant by that, pray tell? I can see by the cut of your cloth you are worthy of John Lambert’s daughter. I was so certain we both felt love on that first day we met. You only wished to bed and not woo me? In that case, ’tis
I
you thought unworthy, is it not?” Her accusations came at him like annoying houseflies, and when he turned up his hands wondering how to respond, she backed away from him. “Farewell, Tom Grey,” she told him. “I hope you know you have broken my heart this day. You are fortunate I did not break your nose.”

It took every inch of will not to laugh. Instead Tom honored her by kneeling in the muddy grass, and, finding one of her cold hands, he held it to his cheek. “I did not say I
could
not love you, Jane. I said I must not. God go with you.” She snatched the hand away, and he watched her run along the church wall and around the corner before he picked up his soggy bonnet and wandered
back to his mother’s house, hoping to avoid one of her lectures. He was in no mood for her censure, too. For the first time in his life, he understood he had hurt someone, and he did not care for the feeling one bit.

He could not know that Jane had only reached the other side of the cathedral before she had given way to sobbing. After thumping the ancient stone of a buttress several times, her sobs began to subside; her pride would not allow her to be seen in such distress, and so she used her wet cloak to clean her face before turning toward home. She could not stop thinking back on the scene and Tom’s sudden change of heart. She heard again his words: “I did not say I could not love you; I said I must not.” What could he mean? It was possible he was promised to another, but perhaps he did not love his betrothed and would return to her. A tiny ray of hope crept into her heart. Perhaps all is not lost, she thought; perhaps he needs time.

Jane’s head went up as her confidence increased, and she did not see a fat hen in her path until it ran squawking from underfoot. “The chicken!” she suddenly exclaimed, turning back and hurrying toward the poulterer. “I almost forgot the chicken.”

J
ane flung open the shutters of the bedchamber she shared with Bella and willed the day to dawn. The moon was retreating, and as the first shaft of the June sunrise shimmered off the towering spire of St. Paul’s, she looked out at the familiar view with a mixture of regret and excitement. What would her eye fall upon this time tomorrow, she wondered, feeling her heart beat a little faster while her fingers clutched the windowsill. She did not want to leave the safety of the house on Hosier Lane, but she wanted to be free of the twenty-two stifling years under her authoritarian father’s roof. And today she would get her wish.

It was her wedding day, and as the dawn’s rays turned the sky from purple to ruby rose and orange, she quoted: “
Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning.
Oh no, we shall have rain before long.” She raised her eyes heavenward, hoping it was not a portent. The thought of rain sent her thoughts back to the damp day and Tom Grey, and she could not help letting out a moan of pleasure when she again imagined his mouth on hers.

Disturbed by the noise, Bella turned in her sleep, but she settled back without waking, and Jane looked at her in their shared bed with a modicum of guilt. Certes, she would miss her mother and probably Bella for a little while, but she would not miss her sister’s jealous nature. Jane had never been able to confide her unhappiness to Bella, who had no complaints about their father.

Aye, she had no regrets about leaving the Lambert hearth, she decided. She saw her marriage as an escape from her uncomfortable
familial relationship and into the freedom of her own household. Growing up on the streets of England’s largest city, she was wiser than her counterparts living pampered but lonely lives behind the high, thick walls of their fathers’ castles. She had thwarted many a youth intent on claiming her maidenhead, and had done it with a swift kick and clever retort, followed by a sympathetic smile. She had witnessed cutpurses run off with their prizes and drunkards brawl outside a tavern; pelted unfortunates at the pillory who had cheated on their customers; twice escaped the humiliation of the cucking chair for her ready tongue; had felt compassion for the grotesquely formed beggars vying for every prominent street corner; and she had seen her fair share of death, both young and old. Aye, Jane was no innocent, and she now idly wondered why she had guarded her virginity so vehemently. Sophie was married these past seven years, and Jane had eked out as much confidential information as her friend was willing to divulge about marriage and the business of bedding. Jane had been envious of Sophie’s wifely status, but her friend had also confided that her duty between the sheets was nothing more than that: a duty, to be borne whenever her husband desired. The only good thing about it, she had told Jane, were the children that followed; in truth, it was Sophie’s motherhood that Jane envied the most.

Listening to the bells for matins ring out, she watched as people more faithful than she hurried up the street to St. Mary-le-Bow on the corner. Up until four months ago, she was resigned to being a spinster of the parish, and at twenty-two, she was older than most brides, but now she was about to embark on a new life.

Tom Grey’s face intruded on her thoughts again, and she felt the familiar tugging in her heart as she had every day since she had met him. “I did not say I could not love you, Jane.” She heard his words running through her mind for the thousandth time. Aye, Tom, but you dissembled.

A few days after the disastrous tryst at St. Paul’s, she had received
another message, this time delivered by the apprentice Matthew, who gave it to her upon his return to Hosier Lane, where he shared a room under the eaves with two other of John’s apprentices.

The Swan at Newgate, Monday at four o’clock
, Tom had written, and Jane’s spirits had soared. He has come to his senses, she had congratulated herself on that chilly February day. She remembered slipping out of the house as the late-winter sun hung low in front of her on her way along Watling Street, having once again invented a visit to Sophie as the reason for her absence.

The Swan was an imposing inn hard by the Newgate, and she shivered when she looked up at that part of the city wall and the gate that housed a gaol, imagining the poor creatures huddled for warmth behind the barred windows. The tavern door stood open, and a welcoming light from the fire in the wide hearth had cheered her as she walked boldly through into the large taproom, the smell of ale and roasting meat making her mouth water. She had immediately seen Tom sitting alone at a small table, and he rose to greet her, his face serious but his words kind.

“Mistress Lambert, I am pleased to see you come. I was afraid you would not.” He led her to the table and called for a cup of ale for her. He pulled up another stool opposite and asked about her health. Jane had noticed he had not touched her, not even taken her hand to kiss or to help her onto the stool. Being impatient to hear what he had to say, she had dismissed the omission and leaned in, anticipating a declaration of love, or at least of affection.

“I have not stopped thinking about you since our meeting,” he began, and Jane’s pulse had quickened. “I was certain your regard for me was lost forever, and I must confess my conscience has been pricking me.”

“As it should, Tom Grey,” Jane retorted. She smiled seductively at him. “And you are telling me that you have changed your mind.” She saw by his wide eyes that she had again surprised him and so gladly spoke her mind. “I do not require much of you to
be happy, in truth. Not a fortune or a mansion. Nay,” she assured him, “I just want to be with you always and know what real love is between a man and a woman.” She wanted to reach out and touch his hand that was fingering his cup. “So, Master Grey, do you wish to court me?”

Tom instantly regretted the meeting. Aye, he had had feelings for this woman, but only in the rarest of circumstances did people of his rank find love in a marriage contract. He had lost one child-wife and had no feeling for his second, and he was still only twenty. Jane could have been his lover and consolation. He tried to let her down gently: “Do you remember that I said I
must
not love you, Jane?” He saw her nod, but her face clouded. He plunged on, hoping she had understood. “You have guessed the reason, have you not?” he implored her, with his look saying the words for him. But she was silent. He took a deep breath. “I swear I did not lie to you, although I confess I was a coward not to tell you why then. The simple truth is, I am not free to love you as you believed, because . . . because I am a married man.” He turned up his hands helplessly. “And there is naught I can do about it. You would not have me unless I asked for your hand, so I had to withdraw my attention. But, please believe me when I say I was drawn to you, Jane.”

Jane sat perfectly still. She watched him fidget with the ribbon tie of his gipon, his eyes avoiding hers while her stomach heaved and her heart constricted. She wanted to throw the remains of her ale in his face, spit in his eye, kick over his stool, run out into the cold evening air and scream. Instead a familiar children’s rhyme fell unbidden from her lips:
“Tom, Tom the whoreson, Stole a heart and away he run,”
she improvised bitterly. “You took me for a harlot, Tom, while I offered you my heart.” Her eyes glittered now like sun on the sea. “And if you understand nothing else, you should understand that a woman’s heart is not your plaything. You have sat here this evening and once again allowed me to reveal my
heart, and then you rebuffed me—again. Dear God, how could I have been so foolish.” And she had run from the warm tavern all the way home.

Aye, how could she have been so foolish, she thought now on her wedding day, looking out over London. And yet she knew if she had it to do over again, she would have given herself to Tom Grey—wed or unwed—and risked the consequences for love.