by Jane Feather
Rosamund stared at a point between Jenny’s ears, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. She was learning to enjoy the manifold pleasures of dalliance and clandestine liaisons, and now a potential husband was in the offing, not just the remote possibility at some point in the future, but a real man, right now. She couldn’t begin to unravel her feelings, but knew that she must somehow delay this.
“Thomas, he’s old and he’s a widower.” It was a feeble protest but she had to make some kind of rational objection.
“Old? I doubt he’s even five and thirty,” Thomas scoffed. “He’s hale and hearty, in the prime of life. Did you not consider him well-favored?”
“Well enough,” she was obliged to admit. “There is nothing objectionable in his appearance. But I do not know him, Thomas.”
“That will be remedied in good time.” They were approaching the palace now and Thomas let the subject drop as they rode into the mews. He escorted his sister inside, parting company with her at the bottom of the stairs leading to the dorter. “Rosamund, do not look this gift horse in the mouth. Sir Francis has worked this on your behalf. I know how headstrong you are, but I tell you, if Sir Roger is willing to marry you, it will be the greatest good fortune. If you refuse, you will offend Sir Francis and do yourself irreparable harm. Have a care.”
Rosamund nodded and was for an instant tempted to tell her brother the truth. But it was only an instant. Thomas might seem sympathetic, but he would never act against his own self-interest. If he could help his sister without damaging his own cause, then he would do so with the careless amusement he brought to so much of his life. But let her do anything to damage him and he would abandon her in the blink of an eye. She didn’t hold it against him. It was the way he had always been.
“I understand. Good night, Thomas.”
He looked relieved. “Good girl.” He kissed her forehead. “Sleep well. I understand the court is to remove to Greenwich for several months during the heat of the summer. There is rumor of plague in the city and Whitehall needs cleaning.” His smile was cajoling as he lifted her chin on his forefinger. “Life is much pleasanter at Greenwich, you will see. There will be plays and hawking parties, dancing and picnics on the river. The queen takes more leisure at Greenwich.”
Rosamund smiled. “It sounds delightful. I own it will be good to have a change of scene.” She ran up the stairs, pausing halfway up to blow him a farewell kiss.
Thomas, relieved that his sister had not proved difficult, went off in search of congenial company. If this marriage could be secured for Rosamund, it would be an enormous weight off his shoulders. Legally he was not responsible for his little sister’s welfare, that lay with Edmund, but he had always been fond of her and in some way recognized a kindred spirit. Like himself Rosamund chose the path less trod.
Rosamund paused outside the door to the dorter listening to the rise and fall of voices within. She knew that no one would acknowledge her when she entered the chamber. The conversation would continue, shoulders would be turned, and it would be as if she didn’t exist.
With a sigh, she braced her shoulders and lifted the latch.
She had been wrong. The minute she walked in, all conversation stopped and everyone looked at her. Only Joan looked away.
Chapter Nineteen
ROSAMUND STOOD NONPLUSSED. “Is something the matter?”
“That rather depends.” Lettice was sitting on her bed, filing her nails. She had an ominous smile on her face. “Where have you been this time, Rosamund?”
“What do you mean, this time?” But the cold fingers on her spine were telling her all she needed to know.
“Oh, just that when you were supposedly sick abed while we were all at Greenwich, you weren’t. The maid says she never saw you, although she came in several times. We thought perhaps you had gone adventuring again this afternoon.”
“I was at my cousin’s house. Sir Francis Walsingham.” She crossed to her bed, beginning to unlace herself with trembling fingers.
“On both occasions? I think not.” Frances Darcy was brushing her hair with long, smooth strokes. Her hair was her best feature, a rippling black cascade falling down her back.
“I felt a little better and went for a walk in the gardens.” Rosamund improvised desperately but she knew it was futile. She had no talent for lying, and the atmosphere in the dorter was so poisonous it made her feel truly sick.
“All night?”
Anger came to her aid. “I fail to see what business it is of yours. Of any of yours.” She hung up her gown in the armoire and went to the basin to wash her face. The cool water cleared her head. “I was sick, and then I felt better and in need of air. It’s hot as Hades up here.” They couldn’t dispute that at least. She climbed into bed, turned on her side, and closed her eyes.
“Well, we heard tell that you enjoy the company of gentlemen overmuch.” Lettice’s voice was insinuating and muted laughter greeted her statement.
Rosamund sighed and sat up. “Who told you that?” She saw Joan redden, and she bit her lip. She had been all too aware of Joan’s interest in Will, but had foolishly dismissed it as unimportant. It certainly hadn’t occurred to her that in a fit of pique Joan might say something to cause her trouble.
“That hardly matters.” Critically, Lettice extended her hands to examine her fingernails. “The queen does not look kindly upon her ladies who like the company of gentlemen overmuch. Come, ladies. To bed.”
Rosamund lay down again, chilled. The mattress dipped as Joan got in beside her. The candles went out and she lay in the stuffy darkness. Had Lettice just threatened her, or was it simply another piece of malicious mischief?
She slept poorly and awoke early while her companions still slept. She lay for a minute trying to identify her unease, then remembered. She slipped from the bed and dressed rapidly, needing to get out in the air, somewhere she could think clearly. Her absence would be remarked upon when the others awoke, but what further damage could be done?
The corridors were already busy but no one seemed to give Rosamund a second glance as she joined the flow of people, all intent on their own business. She emerged into the welcome early-morning freshness of the gardens and made her way along the paths lined with ornamental hedges to the small privy garden.
It was deserted when she slipped through the gap in the hedge, and she went to sit on a stone bench, watching the great goldfish swimming among the lily pads.
She didn’t hear the soft footfall on the grass, and when he spoke her name, she jumped. “Will . . . ?” She turned on the bench as he walked across the dew-wet grass to where she sat. “You’re up early.” She smiled, trying to conceal the sudden surge of pleasure she felt at the sight of him.
“As are you.” His voice was light but his eyes were troubled. He stood behind her, looking gravely into her face. “I don’t know what to do,” he said simply. “I know what I must do, but it’s not what I want to do.”
“What do you want to do?” Rosamund stood up slowly, her blood pounding in her ears.
“You know the answer to that. I want to take you in my arms and kiss you, I want to throw you down on the grass, I want to see you naked, I want to make love to you. . . . Dear God, just talking about it is madness, Rosamund.” He ran his hands through his hair almost as if he would tear it out by the roots. “Just imagining it is driving me insane. But you know what we risk . . . complete disgrace . . . banishment from the court, the end of any future.”
“I know it.” She stood up. “The end of ambition.”
She gave him a rather sad little smile, and with a groan he cupped her face between his hands. “That sounds so harsh, and yet, it’s real, my sweet.”
“I know,” she repeated, then without volition she moved against him, running her flat palms down his chest as she leaned back, her hips pressed against his loins.
Will kissed her with an almost frantic passion. The softness of her body against him, the sweet scent of orange flowers in the gorgeous russet mass o
f her hair, the sweet taste of her mouth, overwhelmed him. Hungrily he ran his hands over her body, gripped her buttocks, pressing her ever harder against his own arousal. And she responded with little murmurs of pleasure, stroking his back as her hips moved against him.
When finally they drew apart, her eyes shone, her lips were swollen, kiss-reddened, and she was filled with an urge so powerful she could have ripped off her clothes there and then.
Will struggled to catch his breath. “Sweet Jesus, you are so passionate.” His fingers moved over the swell of her breasts above the low neckline of her gown, palmed the soft shape of them beneath her bodice, and her engorged nipples pressed almost painfully through the material into his palms. Desire deepened the blue of his eyes so that they glowed like sapphires in the sun.
Rosamund exhaled slowly, steadying her breath, struggling to regain her sense of self, of her place in the world. She combed her tousled hair with her fingers and gave him a weak smile. “You are right, this is madness, Will.” As if to underscore the statement, a crunch on gravel heralded the arrival of a pair of gardeners wielding secateurs.
“I will leave first,” Will said swiftly. “Wait five minutes before you follow me.”
Rosamund nodded and, with a quick glance at the gardeners, who at present seemed not to have noticed them, moved away from him, strolling casually over to a sundial at the far side of the garden.
She stood deep in thought watching the beam of sunlight move fractionally on the smoothly raked gravel at the sundial’s base, then reluctantly she headed back to the palace. She must make an appearance at breakfast or draw more pointed comments on her absences.
For once Lady Shrewsbury did not preside over the breakfast board, and the maids of honor were left to themselves. Rosamund was not included in their chatter, but she was aware of covert sidelong glances, and every now and again her companions would exchange knowing smiles. She felt as if everyone knew something, and she alone was in ignorance. Her sense of foreboding increased when a messenger announced that Lady Lettice Asherton was wanted in the queen’s presence chamber. Lettice rose instantly, exchanging another complicit smile with her friends before hurrying away.
Rosamund glanced at Joan, who immediately lowered her eyes to her plate, her cheeks pink. She was the picture of guilt, Rosamund thought, cold fingers marching along her spine. What could they have discovered? They could know nothing beyond her seeming absence from the dorter when she was supposed to be sick in bed. And no one could know for sure how long she’d been gone. But somehow she was not reassured.
Lettice did not return until they had taken up their usual places in the queen’s apartments. Lady Shrewsbury was still absent when Lettice came back. She cast Rosamund a quick look, then huddled with Frances and several of the other women in a whispered colloquy. Joan, excluded from this congress, sat with hunched shoulders over her tambour frame. She radiated misery, and if Rosamund had not been so agitated herself, she would have felt sorry for her.
At last Lady Shrewsbury returned. The rich, deep blue velvet folds of her gown swayed with her wide Spanish farthingale as she marched rather than walked into the room. Her face, framed by her large, open, lace-edged ruff was set in lines of cold anger. “Mistress Walsingham, come with me.”
In many ways it was a relief when the sword finally fell. Rosamund set aside her pen and without a word followed the countess from the room. Lady Shrewsbury said nothing to her, marching ahead of her through the antechamber and into the queen’s presence chamber. Rosamund felt an instant of relief when she saw that the queen was not in her chair of state. But it was short-lived.
“I advise you to be honest in your answers,” the countess stated without preamble. “Any prevarication, any outright lies, will be discovered, I can promise you that. Where were you when the court was at Greenwich?”
“I was here, Lady Shrewsbury.” Rosamund stood holding her clasped hands tightly against the front of her gown. She tried to meet the older woman’s eye but the blazing fury seemed to scorch her. “I did leave the dorter several times when I needed some air. It was very hot up there.”
“I do not believe you. But if you will not confess the truth to me, then you will confess it to those better able to get the truth from you.” Her voice was as cold as her eyes were hot.
Rosamund felt a nut of nausea lodge in her throat. There was no mistaking the threat. She understood that the countess was responsible for the conduct of the maids of honor, and any lapse in morals would be laid at her door. It explained her rage, but it didn’t make it any the easier to experience.
If she stuck to her story, they could prove nothing. No one had seen her leave or return, she was sure of it. It was just innuendo and spiteful tale-telling at this point.
“Madam, I don’t understand what I’m accused of.” She kept her voice low and moderate, trying to keep it steady. “I cannot defend myself or answer a charge without knowing what it is.”
“Do you deny you left the dorter that night?”
“I left it in the afternoon for a while.”
“To do what?”
“To take the air.”
“And when did you return? Be careful how you answer. We have the evidence of the maid who was to look in on you. She said you were absent on the three occasions she went to the dorter. Three occasions separated by several hours.”
Tread carefully, Rosamund told herself. “I do not recall how many times I left my bed, madam. But I was restless and feverish. I lost count of time.”
The countess closed her lips to a thin line. “You have been seen in intimate conversation with certain men. You have been seen walking alone with these men, in circumstances that lend themselves to lewd conduct. Will you deny it?”
“I deny the lewd conduct, Lady Shrewsbury. I cannot deny the conversations or the walks. I made no attempt to conceal them. They all took place in full view of the court.”
“You will explain yourself to her majesty. Remain here.” The countess made her way to the door at the far end of the presence chamber that led to the queen’s bedchamber. Rosamund stood in petrified stillness where she had been left. Everything was unraveling and she cursed her stupidity for ever imagining she could keep anything secret in this court so rife with gossip and malice. Lady Walsingham had warned her clearly enough, and she had not heeded the warning closely enough.
The door to the queen’s bedchamber opened and the countess called sharply, “Mistress Walsingham, come here.”
Rosamund crossed what seemed a vast expanse of parquet floor where scattered Turkey carpets lay like little bright-colored islands in the sea of glowing wood. She followed Lady Shrewsbury into her majesty’s bedchamber and immediately knelt with head bowed low.
She was left in that position for what seemed an eternity, then Elizabeth spoke, her voice harsh. “Stand up, girl.”
She stood slowly, but did not raise her eyes. Humble submission seemed the most politic position at present.
“So, you deny these accusations?”
“Madam, I have been accused of nothing that I can deny. I have walked and talked with courtiers, but in full view of Lady Shrewsbury. I have done nothing of which to be ashamed, and I have nothing to hide.” Her voice was low but clear.
“Look at me.”
She raised her eyes at last. The queen was sitting beside the empty grate, her beringed fingers tapping the carved arms of her chair. This morning she sparkled with diamonds. A thick choker around her throat, heavy bracelets on her arms. The lining of her sleeves was studded with pearls. The lining of her open ruff was sewn with sapphires, and at her waist she wore a loose girdle made entirely of the same stone. The sight of her dazzled the eye and Rosamund blinked. Then she saw that Lady Pembroke was also in the chamber, standing just behind the queen’s chair.
“You have been absent from your dorter without explanation or permission. You have been seen in intimate conversation with my courtiers, do you deny that?”
“Not intimate, mad
am. Merely playful.”
“Playful?” Scorn throbbed in the royal tones. “Are you virgin?”
The question was so sudden and unexpected, Rosamund couldn’t catch her breath for a moment.
“Well, girl? Are you?” The rings on the fingers played percussion to the impatient question.
“Of course, madam.” Rosamund closed her eyes on the lie and prayed as she had never prayed before.
There was a long silence, then the queen said, “I don’t know whether you are telling the truth or not. But there is a simple way to discover, and we will put this matter to rest. Lady Shrewsbury, send for the midwives.”
Rosamund thought she would vomit where she stood as she saw the trap that had been laid for her. “No,” she gasped. “I beg you, madam, please.”
But her pleas fell on deaf ears. Lady Shrewsbury seized one arm and Lady Pembroke the other, and between them they half marched, half carried her from the queen’s presence. In a few minutes she found herself alone, locked in a small inner antechamber where the only furniture was a long bench against the wall, the only illumination a sconced candle high on the wall.
She was shaking with fear, fighting back tears. At first she could think only of Thomas, of how her disgrace would reflect upon him. He would never forgive her. And her cousin . . . his reaction didn’t bear contemplating. Everything he’d done for her, even if it had been done for his own benefit, she’d squandered, and Ursula . . . Ursula would see her kindness thrown back in her face. Rosamund could no longer hold back the tears and they poured down her cheeks. But after a while she began to get a grip on herself. She would not let them find her here in abject terror, drowning in a sodden puddle of tears.