‘That!’ Lady Catherine snapped, looking away. ‘Where I ought to have carried Elizabeth’s train, at the very least. Things are not as they were in Queen Mary’s time, I can tell you. She recognised my rank. My sister and I were her favourites.’
‘And who was it commissioned your portrait, Lady Catherine?’ said Etta. ‘Is it to be for an admirer?’
None of them could have missed the hum of giggles from the ladies on the cushions at the mention of an admirer. But Lady Catherine was not about to give anything away on that subject. ‘Family,’ she said, briefly. ‘Everyone has their likeness painted nowadays. You are new to court, Lady Somerville. Is it the Queen you’ve come to see?’
‘I hoped to—’ Etta began.
Lord Somerville broke into her conversation, knowing where it could lead. ‘We came to see my sister. This is the first time she and my wife have met,’ he said, for once careless of what such a woman could make of this information.
Lady Catherine was quick to take up the inference. ‘Oh, didn’t they meet at the wedding? Hurried, was it?’
‘Not particularly,’ said his lordship. ‘How do you like being one of the Queen’s maids? Obviously, you have more time on your hands now.’
Without admitting her humiliation at being demoted from Lady of the Bedchamber to mere Maid of Honour, there was little Lady Catherine could say to that, though she realised that in the matter of innuendo, she was no match for Lord Somerville. ‘Well then,’ she said, ‘I shall take my leave. We do have duties to perform, believe it or not, and the Queen is not one to be kept waiting. Come, ladies. Make your courtesies.’
Behind Lady Catherine’s back there was an exchange of sidelong glances and rolling of eyes. As if they needed her instructions on etiquette. They had also been newly chosen by Elizabeth, replacing all those who had served under Queen Mary, now only six instead of twenty-four. All of them were remarkably pretty. Lady Catherine turned to Etta as they passed. ‘She doesn’t see courtiers’ wives, you know,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to allow your husband to come here alone, even if she wishes to recognise you. Which she won’t, even if she does.’
‘Thank you for that advice, Lady Catherine,’ said Etta. ‘I feel sure she will, even if she doesn’t.’ She saw the last of the maids stifling her laugh with a hand, twinkling her eyes at Etta as she dipped a curtsy. She will, she mouthed, mischievously. The door closed, leaving the rest of them shaking their heads at the unconcealed malice of the woman.
‘Take no notice of her, Henrietta,’ said Levina, leading her by the elbow to a window seat overlooking the river. ‘She lost her sister and her father, you know. That’s enough to make anyone bitter. She knows the Queen dislikes her.’
Etta made the connection. ‘So that’s Lady Jane Grey’s sister. So why does the Queen have her at court when they made her sister queen? Is she not a danger, when her family are so closely related?’
‘Better here at court where she can keep an eye on her,’ said Somerville, helping Aphra to sit on one of the warmed cushions. ‘Her mother, you see, is the eldest daughter of your father’s sister. Elizabeth wouldn’t completely exclude her from court when she was once a Lady of the Bedchamber. That would be a dangerous snub to the family. But neither does she want Lady Catherine to be amongst her closest confidantes, as Queen Mary did. Naturally, the two Grey sisters, Catherine and Mary, are not too pleased to have lost the influence they once had.’
‘You’d do well to keep clear of them both,’ said Levina, who answered these days to the name of Mrs Terling. Her quietly spoken manner perfectly matched her amiable and honest face. Her hands were dainty, too, now being drawn into fingerless mittens to keep out the cold.
‘Thank you for the warning,’ Etta said. ‘We do look remarkably alike though, don’t we? This is all going to be terribly confusing.’
‘Not really,’ said the artist. ‘She lacks your loveliness, Henrietta. I can quite see why my brother chose you for his wife. And Catherine’s eyes are not like yours, either, and her hair is a little paler, more like Elizabeth’s. When you’ve studied them both, as I have, the differences are obvious, but of course people will compare you and so will the Queen. She doesn’t like competition, you see.’
‘Lady Catherine’s dislike of the Queen is rather obvious, isn’t it?’
Lord Somerville answered for his sister. ‘Lady Catherine doesn’t have the sense to hide her dislike,’ he said. ‘And the Queen is not obliged to hide hers.’
Etta was thoughtful. This was something she had not expected, neither the physical similarity to another of Elizabeth’s relatives, nor that relative’s animosity. But whether the Queen would acknowledge Etta, too, was a question she preferred to see as a certainty rather than a doubt, since she herself was no threat.
As she and Aphra examined the tiny examples of Levina’s art, portraits of superb quality and the finest possible detail, their attention was wholly immersed in the skill of this talented lady. But the background hum of conversation between brother and sister had now taken on a slightly different tone until both Etta and Aphra realised they were listening to the Flemish tongue.
‘Do you know any Flemish?’ Etta whispered.
‘No. I wish I did. I expect it’s only sibling chatter, love.’
‘Yes, I expect you’re right.’ Nevertheless, Etta had caught two names amongst the other words; Elion was one and Cecil was the other. Her uncle, Sir Elion D’Arvall worked for Sir William Cecil, the new Queen’s Secretary of State. So why speak of them in hushed tones in Flemish? Could her Uncle Elion’s visit to Mortlake have precipitated their move to Cheapside, for some reason? Had her husband already visited his sister here at Whitehall in the last few weeks without telling anyone? Levina had not been so very surprised to see him, had she?
‘Come on!’ Aphra said, nudging her. ‘You’re taking it too seriously, Ettie. Everybody speaks in their own language when they get half a chance, don’t they?’
Etta smiled. ‘Yes, of course they do.’ All the same, she had been just a little dismayed by Lady Catherine Grey’s hostility and that was before she had even opened her mouth to speak. And now her husband had things of a private nature to be shared only with his sister.
With some kindly advice from Levina about the Queen’s movements that morning, they left her to follow another trail towards the Presence Chamber past fine rooms sparkling with candles and lined with colourful tapestries, over rush-strewn floors and past liveried servants with the red-and-white Tudor rose on their tunics. Here, well-dressed courtiers stood about in groups where others, less well known, wove in and out of the crowd, unsure where best to take their place when the Queen finally emerged from her Privy Chamber. At one end stood the Queen’s throne covered with a rich figured brocade and a canopy over it, under which everyone was being careful not to stand. The Lord Chamberlain recognised Lord Somerville at once. ‘Ah, Somerville, at last you grace us with your presence,’ he quipped, grasping him by the arm.
‘My lord,’ said Somerville, ‘well met. Meet my wife, sir. Lord Howard of Effingham, Etta. The very man who can direct us where to stand.’
Etta curtsied to Lord Howard’s bow and found herself being scrutinised by piercing eyes under shaggy eyebrows. She urged Aphra forward with a hand under her arm. ‘My cousin, my lord. Mistress Aphra Betterton.’
‘One of the Betterton clan, eh? I know your father well. But, Somerville,’ he said, turning to his lordship, ‘I can see why you might think it a good move to bring your lovely wife and her cousin here, but I must warn you that—’
‘Forgive me for interrupting,’ Somerville said, determined to portion the responsibility where it should be, ‘but it is my wife herself who thinks it’s a good move. You will need no explanation, I think.’
The piercing look continued. ‘But surely you must have warned her?’
‘I’ve done more than tha
t, my lord, but the lady sees things differently.’
Before the conversation continued above her head, Etta intervened. ‘My lord, we are half-sisters, the Queen and I. I have no other ambition than to see her.’
‘A worthy ambition, my lady,’ said Lord Howard, gravely. ‘But don’t expect Her Majesty to be overjoyed to meet you. She chooses who she wants to meet very carefully and those are mostly men. My two daughters, Douglas and Frances, are amongst her Maids of Honour. Be prepared for disappointment. Yes?’
‘Of course, my lord. Thank you.’
‘Well then, follow me, good people, and I’ll show you where to stand.’
As they followed the black-robed Lord Chamberlain to stand near the doorway to the Privy Chamber, Etta noticed how the babble of voices had hushed, how richly dressed courtiers and petitioners had turned to stare, how most of them were men and how their eyes swept her and Aphra from top to toe with whispered comments. Men’s appreciative looks were nothing new to her, nor to Aphra, but this was concentrated and overt, and anything but flattering. Both of them, however, had the satisfaction of knowing that their clothes were of the finest, their hair beautifully styled with jewelled billaments set back to show off the colour, Etta’s ruff slightly more extravagant than usual, framing her face to perfection. Feeling the tension in the chamber, she slid her hand into her husband’s, who pulled it through his bent arm and held it there for all to see while smiling across the room at a group of astonished acquaintances.
The double doors began to open, the two halberdiers pulled back their pikes with a snap of heels, the crowd fell silent and, with a gentle rustle of clothing, went down on one knee with heads bowed and eyes peeping.
‘The Queen!’ called the Lord Chamberlain, rather unnecessarily, as she began to move slowly into the corridor of kneeling admirers, pausing to look as he murmured into her ear and singling out those she might like to acknowledge. With the slightest crook of her jewelled finger, she signalled one or two to arise and to present her with small gifts which were passed on to her ladies with smiles of thanks, then allowing them to say whatever they had come for, to plead, petition, or to pledge their loyalty, in case it had been in doubt.
Stopping in front of Lord Somerville’s group, she beckoned him to rise. ‘So there you are,’ she said. ‘My one and only mercer baron. You were away across the North Sea this time last year, were you not?’
‘Your Majesty’s memory is phenomenal,’ Somerville murmured.
‘Yes, even as a princess, there’s never been much wrong with my memory,’ she replied, glancing towards Etta. ‘You were not married then, were you? This lady is your wife, I take it?’
At close quarters, Etta was now able to see the similarities and the differences in their appearance, highlighted in their choice of black in all its silky opulence. She thought the Queen’s gown was over-embellished and fussy. Her eyes, however, were sharp and wickedly perceptive, noting in one quick glance everything about Etta: the exaggerated ruff, the bright copper hair, the curvaceous figure within the confines of the boned bodice. But there was no gracious smile that Etta had hoped for, no delighted recognition, no warmth in the eyes as his lordship introduced her. ‘The stepdaughter of Lord Jon Raemon of Risinglea, Your Majesty. Lady Somerville and I were married last month.’
Etta sank into another deep curtsy, then rose to present her with the gift wrapped in fine linen which one of the maids opened for her. Over the past weeks, Etta had embroidered a pair of gauntlets, the fingers of which were of soft white kid, the cuff richly garnished with gold thread, silk and pearls with the Tudor Rose in the centre of each one. It had taken Etta many hours of work. Elizabeth’s hands were the source of her special pride and now she was impressed both by the value and the excellent workmanship. ‘Your own work?’ she asked, sniffing at them.
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Perfumed, too.’
Etta smiled, hoping that this could be the beginning of a conversation, but instead the Queen inclined her ear towards her Lord Chamberlain to hear his whispered explanation of Etta’s parentage. Then, as everyone within hearing distance waited to see what would happen next, she deliberately spoke to Lord Somerville, ignoring the expectancy in Etta’s eyes. ‘Snared at last, then? Well, don’t let that keep you from our court, will you? I need the advice of men like you. But whose idea was that monstrous ruffle? Don’t tell me it was yours.’
‘It was my idea, Your Majesty,’ Etta said, speaking without invitation.
The Queen did not look at her directly but at her husband. ‘Then perhaps you will explain to Lady Somerville, before she gets too wide for the doorways, that it is I who dictate the fashion here.’
As if to order, a buzz of laughter shook the air around them as the Queen moved on, leaving Etta still uncertain whether she had been recognised as a relative or simply as the face in the coronation crowd. Clearly, on this occasion, Elizabeth was keeping her cards close to her chest. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered to Aphra and his lordship. ‘I suspect she was taken aback to see me. We must give her time to become accustomed to the idea. After all, it must have been quite a shock to her.’
‘So you wish to try again?’ Somerville said. ‘I don’t think she was as much shocked as annoyed.’
‘Annoyed by what?’ Etta said as they moved with the crowd. ‘By the width of my ruffle? That was just a cover for her surprise. And she accepted my gift, didn’t she? She liked it.’
Somerville kept hold of her arm. ‘That’s as maybe, but if we come here again, we shall have to make sure—’
‘If I come here again?’ Etta said, crossly. ‘Of course I shall. She’ll have to get used to seeing me here if she wants to see more of you. Which is what she said.’
‘Etta, the Queen doesn’t have to get used to anything, if she doesn’t want to. If you want to come again to see her, you’ll have to get used to her manner.’
‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ Etta said. ‘I can see through all that well enough. Those are Tudor manners. I’ll win her over. Just give me time.’
‘Well,’ Somerville said in a low voice, ‘if it’s time you want, here comes one who might help you with that. Lord Robert,’ he said, more loudly. ‘Well met, sir. How do you?’
The tall, debonair young man who had been doing more than his fair share of eyeing Etta while the Queen was speaking to them now found his way to their side, taking full advantage of those who stood back in deference to let him through. The Queen’s new Master of Horse, and high in her favour, was not the man to let anyone forget it. ‘Somerville, what have you been up to since the Queen bestowed her favour on you? Blinding beauties with your new title, eh?’ His blue eyes seemed to sweep over both women as if to discover what lay beneath the rich fabric and whalebone stays, his stance arrogant and graceful, his rich voice well modulated, his figure that of an athlete. The few women in the room were already plotting his whereabouts, especially the young Maids of Honour who ought to have been paying more attention to their royal mistress.
Somerville entered into the jest. ‘So I have,’ he said, ‘but only one so far. Allow me to present Lady Somerville and Mistress Aphra Betterton to you.’
Lord Robert’s eyes never left Etta’s face as he bowed. They knew he was a man to beware of, for although his position as the Queen’s most favoured male friend put him on a higher plane than most, this did not prevent other women from showing their desire for his attentions. His skin was tanned from his outdoor pursuits, earning him the nickname of ‘The Gypsy’ and, as a horseman, he had few rivals in England. ‘Ladies,’ Lord Robert said, graciously, ‘what a delight it is to see two who put all others except one into the shade. You light up the room with your beauty. Shall we poor courtiers be seeing more of you? It would be a shame indeed if Somerville kept you from court.’
Etta pretended some unsureness, hoping he might insist on it. She glanced up at
her husband, getting her reply in before he did. ‘Her Majesty has left me in some doubt about whether I would be welcome to accompany Lord Somerville.’
Lord Robert bent a little to catch her eye. ‘Of course she would welcome you,’ he said. ‘I can vouch for it personally. She liked your gift, my lady. It was an inspired choice for her beautiful hands.’
His confidence sent a thrill through her. It was exactly what she had hoped to hear after so many warnings not to expect too much and now she could hardly hide her triumph that the decision about a future appearance had been taken out of her hands by none other than the Queen’s favourite, Lord Robert Dudley, younger son of an executed duke, no less, a man of great personal charm and outstanding good looks.
Lord Robert was about to move away when the Queen’s sharp voice was heard from the end of the room. All heads turned in that direction, assuming that one of the petitioners had caused the royal displeasure. But a physical wave of shock sent the white-clad Maids of Honour swaying backwards as their irate mistress rounded on the nearest of them who had stepped upon the trailing fabric of the royal skirt as she moved forward. The maid swerved away to avoid the slap to her head and, as she came upright, red-faced, they saw that it was the Lady Catherine Grey who had literally put a foot wrong. Under the Queen’s glare, she hid at the back of the group, catching Etta’s eye as she did so. There, she seemed to be saying. That’s what she’s like.
In no time at all, Lord Robert was at the Queen’s elbow, bending his head to hers, smoothing her temper with a whispered comment that made her smile. But the incident surprised Etta who had never in her life aimed a blow at a woman’s head.
Several men recognised Baron Somerville on that eventful morning, stopping to speak to him as a friend and being introduced to Etta and Aphra. There was one, however, who recognised her when, if she had seen him beforehand, she would have done her best to avoid him. Surreptitiously, he manoeuvred his way to her side as Lord Somerville’s attention was diverted. ‘Etta, my dear,’ he said. ‘Things are looking up, I see. Will you introduce me to your lovely friend?’
Taming the Tempestuous Tudor Page 12