Ladies in Waiting

by Laura L. Sullivan

  “They’re plants, you can be sure,” Nelly whispered.

  The three men crouched and disappeared behind the box that obscured Philadelphia from the waist down. In thrilling, heavenly tones the top half recited:

  “With myrrh, aloes, and cassia your robes are fragrant.

  From ivory-paneled palaces stringed instruments bring you joy.”

  From below, hidden, came stirring and sound that indicated something quite worldly was occurring behind the box. Philadelphia kept reciting the psalm, but her breath began to come quickly and her eyes rolled in an extravagant mummery of conflicted pleasure. The audience cheered and loosed loud catcalls, but true to her advertisement, Philadelphia never stopped reciting.

  “Listen, my daughter, and understand; pay me careful heed.

  Forget your people and your father’s house . . .”

  A woman was supposed to leave her father with tears and cleave unto her husband and his family, in biblical times as now, Eliza thought. Well, I’ve done the first, at least. She stared hard at the grizzled patriarchal head, hating him, hating herself because she could not hate him as a man hates his enemy, his equal, but only as a slave hates his master, the cur hates the spit boy who puts coals to his paws. Because hating him was the only thing she could do. He had might and money and, for all practical purposes, the law behind him.

  Philadelphia’s phrases, rising, gasping, reached her piecemeal through her misery:

  “Then the richest of the people will seek your favor with gifts . . .

  They are led in with glad and joyous acclaim . . .

  I will make your name renowned through all generations; Thus nations shall praise you forever.”

  No, I’m not a slave, not a cur! Woman I may be, but I am man enough to best a worm who would have his own daughter raped to further his designs. I swear on my life, I will never marry that befouled Ayelsworth, or any other man my father may choose. That is not my destiny. Fame! Renown! The praise of the nation! I will be a playwright. I will live my own life, as I choose to live it, Father, in skirts or breeches, in a palace or a gutter, with the money you give me or with the money I earn.

  Because I can write damned fine plays, Father, she thought fiercely to the gray head. And I warrant I can act in them too.

  Furious (and yet still desperately afraid), she posed for herself one final test of her resolution.

  “Good lord!” her father said when, belatedly, he realized the mock-holy burlesque Pious Philadelphia was enacting. “What cloaca of vice have we stumbled upon!” His voice drowned out the next biblical piece, the Song of Solomon. “Blasphemy!” he cried as the crowd hissed him down. “Sinners, hellfire awaits you!” He stood and frowned at the audience, which had nothing but contempt for old bugbear Puritans.

  “I had no idea, sir!” Ayelsworth said, terrified lest his prize slip away. “Od’s fish, a man can’t even trust the Holy Book these days, I vow!” He tried to steer Eliza’s father away before the man could become any more incensed.

  “You’ve disturbed my lady once, sir!” growled a low voice from behind him. “Pray leave this place now, before she has cause for further complaint and you have need of a chirurgeon.”

  Eliza stood squarely with her hand on her sword. Her father, without looking up, started to shuffle away, looking suddenly old and diminished.

  “Are you a man, sir?” Eliza said. “Do me the honor of looking me in the eye as I chastise your bad manners.”

  He looked at her without recognition and tremblingly doffed his high-crowned hat. “I beg your pardon, sir. I’ll be going.”

  She stared at him a long moment, then sat down and composed herself as her father and Ayelsworth took their leave.

  I can best him, she thought. Whatever was I afraid of?

  Through the commotion Philadelphia never stopped her throaty recitation as the concealed men kept up their subterranean endeavors below her skirts.

  “The joints of thy thighs are like jewels,

  the work of the hands of a cunning workman.

  Thy navel is like an round goblet, which wanteth not liquor;

  thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies.

  Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.”

  Eliza looked at pretty, witty Nell and whispered aloud, “I will never marry a man.”

  Nell shrugged in agreement. “Why bother?” she said, looking up at her friend. “You have all you need already.”

  “Do you mind us leaving now, Nelly? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  Chapter 17

  The Mulberry Grove

  ZABBY WOKE when Beth closed the door behind her. In a trice Zabby was on her feet and tugging up the breeches she’d saved from their night masquerading as men. If she wanted to catch Beth she’d have to hurry, and it was simply too hard to put on a gown quickly, and alone. She’d look disheveled and half dressed and everyone would assume she’d come from an assignation, with the king or an illicit lover. But in a few heartbeats she had breeches, shirt, and waistcoat neatly on, and struggled into high black boots so she didn’t have to fiddle with hose. A knot in her pale hair, a feathered Cavalier hat perched on top, and she was following Beth’s footsteps down the hall.

  She lost her for a moment, then heard the click of her friend’s heels down a servants’ passage that led out of Whitehall. She followed partly for the sake of curiosity, but mostly from a desire to keep Beth out of trouble. Her dreadful mother was always watching. If Beth was sneaking out for a whispered word of love, Lady Enfield might catch her and . . . Zabby didn’t know about Beth’s savage beating, but she knew her mother would stop at nothing to keep her untouched until her marriage.

  Skulking in the shadows, she followed Beth westward through the darkness, over smooth-rolled grass and the bowers of the king’s gardens, and beyond.

  Good Lord, St. James’s Park at this hour? By day it was a place for genteel strolls and flirting dalliance, frequented by the king and his courtiers; by night it was a hotbed of lechery, where moss and grass and tree trunks served as beds.

  Zabby quickened her step as she caught sight of shadowed couples half clothed and giggling in the shrubberies. No, dear Beth, this is not love! What, to rut in the mud with your Harry? If he is a gentleman, a man of honor, he would never ask you to meet him in St. James’s Park by night.

  From somewhere near she heard a muffled protest and then a gasp—of joy, of pain? I must be honest with myself, if with no other, Zabby thought. If Charles reached out his hand from there in the thicket and drew me into the mud, I would go, and willingly. Curse love! Curse lust! Curse this body of mine that is virtuous only because it lacks the opportunity for vice!

  Beth was a ghostly luster of moonlight on silk far along the path, and Zabby hurried after her. Let her swive in the park, then, if it is with the one she desires with all her heart. Who am I to tell her no? Perhaps that is love: resignation to degradation. But I’ll stay long enough to see her safe in his arms.

  The black mulberry trees were in full fruit, and the ground beneath her squelched in the droppings of the riot of birds who had gorged themselves on the berries. She’ll have to clean her gown herself in the morning, Zabby thought, else the maids will know where she’s been. The violet-black juice was very distinctive. This was the only grove of the exotic trees near the palace, planted by James I in hopes of starting a silk industry in England. He hadn’t done his research—silkworms prefer the white to the black mulberry, and though the trees thrived, his plans for domestic silk manufacturing failed.

  “Oh, Har . . .” Beth squealed, her voice suddenly muffled by a kiss or a cautious hand. Zabby pressed herself against a bush, straining to hear, to see.

  “My love, my light,” a masculine voice said, then broke off. “Hush, we haven’t time for that.” But from the audible sound of kisses and Beth’s delighted moans, they evidently had a bit of time after all.

  Zabby heard more murmured prattle, and thought, That
is exactly what Beth would say to one of the king’s spaniel pups. “Darling,” “precious” . . . Shouldn’t love be grander—or silent? The words of love struck Zabby as banal. She wouldn’t have breath or brain for words if she were in Charles’s arms.

  “Mother says I must marry that vile Earl of Thorne,” Beth said more clearly when the nuzzling ceased.

  “Never fear, my heart,” he replied, and Zabby saw a glint of very white teeth. “I almost have enough now, for you and all my family.”

  “I don’t need much, Harry, and if you should be caught . . .”

  He laughed. “They don’t want to catch me, love. I’m safe. Soon, very soon I’ll put that business behind me and I’ll just be another fireside legend. There’s only one more thing I have to do, one more prize I must capture.”

  Zabby thought he was referring to Beth.

  “And then we can be married?”

  “As soon as I’ve done that last thing I’ll take you away, from your mother and that vicious Thorne. I’ve heard a tale or two of him. But Beth, I must not take you like a common thief. I don’t know that you owe your mother any special consideration after the way she’s treated you, but you are under the queen’s protection, and I am a man of honor who treasures you too much to carry you off like a baggage. I must ask the queen’s permission to marry you.”

  “Oh, but Harry, you can’t just walk into court! Not with a price on your head.”

  “You forget, no one knows who I am. But you’re right: if your mother were to see me, even if she didn’t know I’m your suitor, there’d be trouble. Maybe I can find the queen when she’s away from the court. Traveling, perhaps.”

  “Oh, yes! We’re to go to Tunbridge Wells and then Bath in a month or two to take the waters. They’re said to be a sovereign cure for barrenness. Will you be done with your last bit of business by then, do you think?”

  “I should be, if I play my cards well.”

  “And then we can be married?”

  “Once I find the queen alone and get her leave, I’ll carry you off on the fastest horse I possess.”

  “Oh, Harry, you really do love me, don’t you?”

  There was a long silence, and Zabby assumed they were kissing again.

  At last he said simply, “I need you, my Beth.”

  Oh, thought Zabby, those are better words than darling and sweetheart, the common cant of every flirt and adulterer. To be needed—now, there was something worthy! A traitorous body might succumb to fleeting desire, to sharp hunger and sudden satiety all in the course of a few moments—the hunt, the kill, the gorging, the repletion—but a need is profound, lasting, visceral.

  And so Zabby looked with deep, shameful envy at the young lovers clutching each other in the shadows. She’d thought they were children playing at love, their lust a fleeting touch of skin, excited nerves. Then he’d said I need you, his voice shifting from playful to deadly earnest, and Zabby believed that her friend had found the happiness of life. To be the beloved’s needful thing, to be his bread, his water, his air, his rest.

  Some deep devil part of her hated Beth for her luck, but the rest of her was blissfully happy for her friend and vowed to help her in any way possible. She thought the couple needed her assistance.

  How foolish of them to meet in St. James’s Park. It was such a common place for trysts that if Beth were seen coming from the park she’d be immediately suspected and condemned, by gossip if not fact, and whispered untruths could be more damning than verity proclaimed. It was clear that the naive couple needed the guidance of someone more clearheaded. The lad was no doubt determined and ambitious, having evidently found some way to make money, but if he pressed Beth into meeting him in such notorious locations, her mother would catch her eventually, and flay her.

  Shall I talk with Beth? she wondered. No, she loves him so deeply, she’ll fly wherever he bids her. I’ll find out who he is and tell him to be more circumspect. Those children might wind up happy if they’re a little careful now.

  Zabby, disappointed in her own love, felt infinitely wise.

  When the loving couple parted (and joined for another farewell, and parted again with lingering backward looks), Zabby left Beth to find her own way home. She meant to follow Harry, but he lingered in the park, so Zabby remained hidden, waiting, still debating exactly what to say.

  Before she could decide, another figure emerged from the darkness, a large man with blond hair so elaborate that it had to be a wig.

  “Did I give you enough time alone with your inamorata? Was she willing? Oh ho, don’t look so stricken, you with your gallant reputation! I don’t mean was she willing to quiff on the turf.”

  Zabby thought the voice was familiar.

  “The queen goes to take the waters soon, and Lady Elizabeth will be with her.”

  “Good.”

  “Her love and her hand are all I desire,” Harry said.

  “Sweet heaven, are all young creatures such fools? She’ll lose her looks after the first baby, her gentle temper after the second, and you’ll hop from one mistress to the next ever after. Love? Pah!”

  “I own, before we met again in the flesh she was but a means to an end, a way to restore my family’s good name. But now that I’ve tasted her sweetness, I must have her.”

  “You could have had her this night.”

  “No, I can’t be like that.”

  “You’re a man—you are like that.”

  “My family wronged hers, and I must make amends.”

  “Well, I suppose a fellow must get heirs, so go, be fruitful and multiply. Only, a family devours a fortune, so take care lest you come to me for another job.” The unknown man chuckled.

  “It is shame enough I do this vile thing. Henceforth, I’ll live lawfully and in peace with my bride.”

  The unknown man made a noise of disgust. “Just remember you’re not to meet your sweetheart again until the queen goes afield. It’s too risky. That mother of hers has a spy system to rival my own, though how she does it is beyond me. Do you know, I spend near twenty thousand pounds a year in bribes and payoff, and she, on the strength of nothing but her own foul visage, discovers nearly everything that passes in Whitehall. Perhaps I ought to recruit her. Now be off, and don’t contact me until the thing’s accomplished.”

  Harry strode off into the night, and the other figure stood a moment. He gave a short, sharp laugh, whispered, “Fool!” then turned on his heel and walked past Zabby back toward Whitehall.

  She still could not pierce the darkness enough to see his visage, so she followed him, through the park, the gardens, and into the palace. He strode without hesitation through the labyrinthine halls—evidently he was a resident or regular visitor, but who? Who would help a young man win a penniless girl, yet speak so cynically of love? Was he an uncle or patron, determined to help a favorite have his whim, even if he personally disapproved? At least he’d done the couple the service of telling them not to meet until they could be honorably married. What a noble idea Harry had, to petition the queen herself for Beth’s hand!

  Zabby’s rosy thoughts collapsed in confusion when the unknown man let himself into a door she recognized all too well—the private chambers of Barbara Palmer, Lady Castlemaine.

  Immediately she was full of suspicions, nebulous but certain. Barbara had never helped another human being in her life, unless it was to somehow further her own ends. Zabby recalled the time she’d rushed to help the injured boy—surely that had been only to win the goodwill of the people. And when she’d seemed to confide in Zabby about the threat of Frances Stewart, why, that wasn’t camaraderie at all. Barbara wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of Frances, Zabby, the queen herself, to ensure she continued her reign as the most powerful woman in the land.

  If Barbara—or any friend of hers—was involved, then surely something sinister was afoot. Why would Barbara help Beth? Or Harry Ransley, a very minor lord no one had heard of? She must have some ulterior motive. Perhaps she saw Beth’s beauty as a threat
. Certainly Beth was far lovelier than Frances Stewart, though it wasn’t the kind that drew every man’s eye. A man didn’t notice Beth immediately, but when he did . . . Perhaps the king had finally realized there was a greater beauty than Frances among his queen’s ladies in waiting. If Barbara had the opportunity to help Beth get married and farmed safely out to the country, she might spare herself future competition. Perhaps that man was simply her agent.

  She waited a while, but no one emerged, and finally Zabby crept off to bed. Though she couldn’t imagine Barbara being up to any good, she couldn’t clearly see that her meddling was doing anything bad. If her will was advanced by giving Beth exactly what she wanted, why not let her practice her machinations?

  Still, it bothered her, and as she snuck back into the room and tucked herself beside the blissfully sleeping Beth, she wished she knew who that familiar man had been.

  The next evening Zabby had her answer—one that served only to raise more questions. While the highest of the high, and the sycophants who continually reminded them of their lofty status, gathered in the king’s presence chamber, Barbara turned her attention from her monarch and lover to her cousin (and, some said, lover) the powerful Duke of Buckingham. He was third in rank, just behind the king and James, Duke of York, but far wealthier than either of them. He was a provocateur, a plotter, a poet, the king’s closest friend since boyhood—and the only man to ever scheme against him and live.

  He was another creature like Barbara—self-serving, with an intense love of power. Unlike Barbara, he had a particularly keen mind and was always using it to make trouble. Barbara contrived only for her own gain; Buckingham plotted for sheer love of a good plot. He was a periwigged Loki.