by Tracy Borman
‘Which is why we must keep her at Longford for now,’ her father cut in. ‘She will live quietly here, free from suspicion. And when the time is right, and memories have faded, we will bring her to court, where she might choose from a whole host of suitors.’
Frances’s heart was pounding, but she could not help smiling at this last remark. Having married for love themselves, her parents were resolved that their daughters should do the same, no matter what the convention.
‘Very well,’ her uncle snapped. ‘But when the time is right, a husband will be chosen for her. It is my will, and I am the head of the family. Even my cousin the queen knew her duty well enough in that regard.’
Frances sighed quietly. Her uncle would never let an opportunity pass to mention his distant cousin, Lady Parr, whose marriage to King Henry had gifted the earl his seniority in the family. If it had not been for his borrowed royal blood, her mother would have held sway and decided her own fate – and that of her children. As it was, she might hinder the earl only by proving slow to fall in with his schemes. But she could not hold back the tide for ever.
‘Well then,’ her father declared. ‘It is decided. Shall we dine?’
He led the way into the dining room, where a splendid feast had been set out in the earl’s honour. As Frances followed dutifully in his wake, she could not help hoping that he might choke on it.
CHAPTER 6
22 May
Frances thumbed idly through the pages of The Gardener’s Labyrinth. It weighed heavily on her lap, its brown leather binding and gold lettering showing none of the wear and tear of the other gardening books in the library. Sighing, she closed the book and pressed her back against the cool stone of the window frame. Many times in the past she had occupied this seat in the library, which looked out over the River Avon. Even the noise of her siblings playing in the maze nearby, squealing with delight every time one of them found the other’s hiding place, had never distracted her from the worlds into which she had escaped through her father’s books.
Frances felt her eyelids grow heavy now. The rays of the afternoon sun still pierced the windowpanes, throwing diamond-shaped patterns across the polished oak floor and making the room unusually warm.
‘Master Hill is as diverting as ever, I see?’
Her father’s voice, soft though it was, jerked her back into consciousness. She smiled ruefully.
‘I fear that I will never be worthy of his teachings, Father.’
‘Is anyone, I wonder?’ Sir Thomas asked, his eyes sparkling with mirth. ‘He is surely an even greater oracle than your good uncle.’
Her smile faded as she remembered that evening three weeks before. Thankfully, the earl had left the following morning, eager to be back at court lest Cecil call a meeting of the council in his absence. Would that he might stay away for ever.
Frances watched her father as he walked over to the bookshelf containing his theological texts. He ran his hand along one of the rows as if looking for something in particular. She noticed that his expression had grown suddenly serious.
‘What are you looking for, Father?’
At once, his features relaxed, and he shrugged his shoulders as if conceding defeat.
‘Ah, it is nothing, my love. I was looking for a small jewel of a book – or rather, an author.’
He paused, noting his daughter’s quizzical expression.
‘But I can see that I have perplexed you as much as your Master Hill there,’ he said, nodding to the book on her lap. ‘I had not meant to play on words so dreadfully as he.’
Frances smiled as realisation dawned.
‘Father Garnet was ever a favourite of yours. See, there it is,’ she said, pointing to where the book was nestled between two larger volumes. Frowning, her father plucked it from the shelf and slid it into his pocket.
‘I must find a safer home for this. We do not yet know if King James has the same taste in literature as his predecessor.’
‘Surely he can take little interest in the libraries of his subjects, Father? Besides, the late queen had a good many Catholic texts in her privy chamber, even though she too was of the reformed faith.’
Her smile faded as she studied her father’s face. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then came to sit by her.
‘I do not share the hopes held by others, Frances,’ he said gravely. ‘Until we know for certain that our new sovereign will be as tolerant as the last, we must act with caution.’ Catching the alarm in his daughter’s eyes, he forced a smile. ‘So I shall confine my reading to the same dull texts as you favour,’ he said, with something like his accustomed humour.
They sat in silence for a few moments, then Sir Thomas reached forward and squeezed his daughter’s hand.
‘My dear Fran. How I shall miss you when we leave.’
Frances looked up into his kind grey eyes. There were deep wrinkles at the corners, and his light brown hair was flecked with grey. But he was handsome, and his body still bore the strength of youth.
‘Must you go so soon?’
He reached out to stroke her cheek, and smiled.
‘I wish that it was otherwise, and we could live out our days happily here at Longford. But your uncle will not be denied – and neither will your sisters. They are most anxious to return to civilisation. Besides,’ he added with a grin, ‘the royal hose cannot look after themselves. Neither can the doublets, shirts, and linens.’
Frances did not return his smile. She knew that he was making light of it, but the long-awaited appointment by the new king had been little short of an insult, especially given her mother’s status. They had heard of it from Cecil’s hand two days before. It stung all the more because of the knowledge that her uncle had been right.
‘Surely there are lesser officials who could take care of Richmond Palace? It is beneath your dignity, and that of my lady mother. The late queen charged you with defending the shores of her kingdom, yet now you are reduced to supervising the royal wardrobe. How will you bear it?’
‘Ah, but you forget, daughter. The gardens, too, are to be given over to our care. And I hear they are in a sorry state, perpetually flooded at high tide. You above all others cannot wish us to neglect those sodden plants and hedgerows?’
His smile faded as he saw his daughter’s stricken face.
‘I know that we shall be leaving Longford in safe hands, my love. What you don’t already know about the estate, you will soon learn. I will make sure of that. And I shall be happy to think of you here’ – he glanced out at the gardens – ‘with your cherished companions to keep you from loneliness.’
He stood silently for a few moments, clasping her hands. Then suddenly, as if remembering himself, he said: ‘Well, now. We must not tarry here all afternoon. We have a visitor, after all.’
Frances jerked her head up in surprise.
‘Someone here now? But I did not hear anyone arrive. Who is it?’
‘Come now, Fran,’ her father replied, enjoying her bemusement. ‘The Reverend Pritchard will think us rude if we keep him waiting any longer. He must have been in the parlour for fifteen minutes already.’
Sir Thomas noticed his daughter’s eyes widen, but his expression was unreadable as he held her gaze. Frances might have known that her mother would tell him everything she had confided. There were no secrets between them. Dutifully, she followed her father out of the library.
The parlour door was open, and as they approached Frances could hear the sound of footsteps pacing up and down. They stopped abruptly as she and her father entered the room.
‘Lady Frances,’ Pritchard said, inclining his head. ‘My lord.’ A deeper bow this time.
Sir Thomas nodded in greeting.
‘I am glad to see you again, reverend.’ Frances noticed the fleeting look of discomfiture on their visitor’s face as her father spoke. ‘How good of you to call on us, and on a Sunday too – your busiest day of the week. I often wonder what you clerics do on the other six days,’ he added cheerf
ully.
Frances suppressed a smile. Before Pritchard could respond, Sir Thomas crossed to the largest chair by the fireplace and gestured for him to sit opposite. Frances moved to stand behind her father, her hands resting on the back of his chair.
‘How may we be of assistance, reverend?’ her father asked pleasantly.
Pritchard cleared his throat and straightened his back.
‘Sir Thomas, I have been most anxious to call since you did me the honour of visiting the parsonage last Friday.’
‘We are indebted to you, reverend. Especially on such a warm day.’
Frances saw Pritchard’s eyes dart across to the decanter on the table next to the fireplace, but neither she nor her father made any move to offer him a glass.
‘I know that the marchioness and your lordship will soon be departing for Richmond – much to my sorrow and that of my parishioners,’ he said at length. ‘And I wished to convey my heartfelt desire to be of service to your daughter, should she ever require it.’
Sir Thomas cast a sideways glance at Frances, who was watching the cleric uncertainly.
‘I am sure my daughter is most grateful, reverend,’ Sir Thomas replied affably. ‘Was that the sole reason for your visit, or did you have something else to impart?’
Pritchard fidgeted in his chair again.
‘My lord, your benevolence is well known throughout the parish. Indeed, barely a day has gone by since my arrival but that one of my flock praises your generosity and—’
‘I am very grateful to you for relaying such heartening news, reverend,’ Sir Thomas interrupted. ‘Now, I am sure that Frances and I must not detain you any longer. You will have evensong to prepare for.’
‘I trust that I might be assured of your lordship’s beneficence towards myself also?’ the reverend persisted. ‘As you were kind enough to remind me at our last meeting, my tenure at Britford very much depends upon your continuing favour.’
Frances smiled, understanding suddenly dawning.
‘Naturally,’ replied her father. ‘I am sure that if you follow the example set by your predecessor, there will be no need for any intervention on my part.’
He stood abruptly, signalling an end to their conference. ‘I wish you well, reverend. Should I ask my chamberlain to escort you from the castle?’
‘I thank you but no, your lordship,’ Pritchard replied with a curt bow. ‘I can easily find the way by which I arrived.’
As Frances watched him step briskly from the room, an angry red flush creeping up his neck, her mouth slowly lifted into a smile.
‘Well then,’ her father repeated with satisfaction. ‘All is well.’
1604
CHAPTER 7
23 June
The warm, sweet scent of ripening wheat wafted on the breeze as Frances rode back through the parkland. Craning her neck from the saddle, she could just see the green stalks swaying gently. Although she enjoyed the long, warm days of summer, it was harvest time that she loved best, with all of the riches of nature on display, promising to reward and nurture the villagers during the long winter months ahead. She looked forward to watching the wheat being scythed and gathered around each field in neat stooks, which would then be set out to dry before being moved to the barns, safe from the elements and thieving hands. Despite the gloomy predictions of the astrologers and soothsayers, the rains had stayed away, and if the summer continued in this way, it would bring forth one of the most bountiful harvests for many years. Perhaps God was smiling on the new king after all, Frances mused. She wondered if the sun shone as brightly in London.
Although it had been more than a year since her parents and sisters had left for Richmond, the sadness of their parting still struck her keenly whenever she allowed herself to think of it. Closing her eyes, she could feel the warmth of her mother’s hand as she had gently stroked her cheek, wiping away the tears that, despite her best efforts, Frances had not managed to suppress. There had been letters, of course – precious missives that she had greedily devoured over and over until she could recite each one as she ground the seeds of valerian into a thick yellow paste, or made a salve of feverfew and cottonweed. She was glad that they contained little news of court, the king being content for her parents to remain for the most part at Richmond – much to her sisters’ irritation, and that of her uncle. In the last letter, her father had spoken of a visit to Longford, before the onset of winter made the roads too treacherous. This alone made Frances impatient for summer to pass.
Yet for all that, she was grateful for the peace and beauty of Longford, and could not deny that she enjoyed being its sole mistress. Dymock excepted, all of the household servants treated her with as much reverence as if she were the marchioness herself. In the village, too, she was respected. Her first visit to St Peter’s after that satisfying encounter with her father and the Reverend Pritchard had allayed any lingering fears that he might be tempted to make fresh trouble. His weekly sermons had settled down into a pattern of dreary homilies, irritatingly self-righteous, but uncontroversial at least.
She ducked as Hartshorn passed under the gate at the entrance to the drive, then paused for a moment while the horse dipped his head and tugged at some grass by the side of the path. In the distance, the castle seemed to have assumed an almost ethereal glow as the honey-coloured stone reflected the sunlight. Her mouth lifted into a slow smile, and she chided herself for having wished that things had been otherwise. For as long as she remained here at Longford, she could withstand the pain of separation.
‘My lady!’
Dymock’s voice rang out across the stables as Frances was unsaddling the horse.
‘My Lord of Northampton is here, and demands your presence.’
Frances stopped what she was doing. She was aware that her breathing had quickened, and she could feel small beads of sweat forming on the back of her neck.
‘Tell him I will be with him presently,’ she replied at length, when she could trust her voice not to betray her.
Dymock hastened away, eager no doubt to curry favour with the earl, Frances reflected bitterly. A moment later, Ellen came bustling into the stables.
‘My lady, nothing is made ready for the earl. His visit is most unexpected.’ She eyed Frances closely.
Frances knew that Ellen loved to gossip, but she was in no mood to indulge her. Deliberately avoiding her old nurse’s gaze, she calmly fetched water for Hartshorn and gently stroked his mane as he drank.
‘I am sure it is no cause for concern, Ellen. Perhaps he wishes to convey a message from my lady mother.’
There was no time for further conjecture. The earl was not a patient man. Ignoring Ellen’s pleas to straighten her hair and change out of her riding clothes, Frances walked determinedly towards the house.
‘Good afternoon, niece,’ he addressed her, unsmiling, as she entered the hall. The earl was seated in the best chair – usually reserved for her father alone. Frances paused to glance at the portraits of her parents that hung on either side of the fireplace, drawing strength from them as she had as a child when court business had taken them far from Longford.
She had always loved this room, with its large bay windows casting light across the bright marble floor and illuminating the intricate plasterwork of the ceiling. She and her sisters had spent many hours picking out the intertwined initials ‘H&F’ among the elaborate, twisting vines, ivy, and roses that the expert craftsmen had carved across the expanse of the ceiling. Her brothers had had little patience for such games, preferring to run amok through the long panelled corridors and sheltered courtyards beyond.
The chair creaked as her uncle shifted impatiently. Frances lowered her gaze and swept a deep curtsey.
‘My lord, forgive me. I had not expected to see you.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ the earl replied, smirking. ‘You must have thought to hide away here for the rest of the reign.’
‘Longford is my home, Uncle,’ she replied evenly.
‘Not any more,
’ he retorted with obvious satisfaction.
Frances felt her chest contract.
‘Don’t trouble yourself. There is to be no talk of betrothal.’ Her uncle often seemed to know what she was thinking, she noticed.
Frances tried to conceal her relief.
‘At least – not yet,’ he added, clearly enjoying her discomfiture. ‘There is a fish swimming close to my hook, and with the right bait I should land him in time.’
He took a swig from the glass that had been placed on the table next to his chair.
‘But Uncle, my parents wish me to choose a husband for myself, as you know. I cannot marry where there is no affection.’
‘Affection?’ her uncle sneered. ‘What use is affection when marriages are made? I met my wife on the day of our betrothal. I cared nothing for her looks or accomplishments. Her dowry was handsome enough.’
‘I hope she felt the same disinterest, Uncle,’ Frances replied coldly. She had never met his wife, for she had died in childbed after only a few years of marriage. Their child – a boy – had only outlived her by a day. Frances knew that the lack of an heir born of his own blood had driven her uncle to direct all of his attention to the fate of her own family. She wondered if it was also to distance himself from his late brother, who had been executed for treason during the last reign.
‘She would have been a fool not to – like that damned cousin of mine,’ the earl snapped, jolting Frances back to the present. ‘Paying court to your mother like a lovesick boy, when he was a man of fifty-two and she a girl of sixteen. She can have found no joy in the marriage bed, but no matter – she did not long endure it. My cousin was dead before the year was out.’
Frances could no longer keep her silence. ‘My lord, you insult my lady mother. She was of noble birth, and a favourite of the queen. She had no need of the marquis’s riches. She greatly esteemed him, and always talks of him in the most respectful terms. Would that you might pay her the same courtesy.’