‘She is only nineteen.’ Lady Fenner sounded stiff. She was touchy on the subject of marriage, having been an old maid when Sir Edward had plucked her from the shelf. ‘Besides, it is not easy, William. Not with Nell’s lack of dowry and your reputation.’
Will gave a bark of laughter. ‘My reputation is a blight on my sister’s prospects? By God, madam—’
‘You know it,’ Lady Fenner said coldly. ‘None of the Hungerfords would have her, nor would the Fettiplaces, or the Bassetts. They do not wish to be allied with you.’
Will gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Then marry her off into your own family. There must be a lowly Essex cousin somewhere who would be glad of the recognition.’
‘Or a Seymour cousin might take her,’ Lady Fenner said waspishly. ‘They owe us that at least.’
‘Ah.’ Will’s tone had changed. He sounded amused, mocking even. ‘Why such resentment, madam? Mary is a little sparrow of a thing—surely she cannot have cost us much to feed and clothe these past few years?’
‘I thought to profit by taking her,’ Lady Fenner said, ‘not lose by it.’
‘And so you shall.’
‘Oh, no.’ Lady Fenner seldom laughed and when she did it was not a pleasant sound. ‘Do not imagine for one moment, William, that you are to marry that chit. If that is your plan you must think again.’
I was trembling now. To marry Will had been my most ardent hope and it seemed that he wished it too. My breath caught as I waited for his reply.
‘Why should I not wed her?’ For all the laziness in Will’s tone there was a watchful note as well.
‘She has no money,’ Lady Fenner said, her voice cold, barbed. ‘Nothing other than a ring her father left her and few other worthless baubles. There are no estates, nothing at all.’ Her voice rose and she deliberately calmed her tone. ‘She is your pensioner, William, not your honoured guest and least of all is she a potential bride for you.’
The blunt assessment of my situation made me smart. For nigh on two whole months I had been enjoying my new status, easily believing, under the warmth of William’s attentions, that I had been elevated from poor relation to noble lady. To see it for the sham it was pained me, but I told myself fiercely that it would make no difference to Will’s regard for me. He loved me and if he wanted to wed me he would do so even if I were a pauper.
Swift on the heels of that thought came another quite different one. How did Lady Fenner know of my father’s ring? It was the only thing I had of his and though I had no notion of its worth, I guarded it like a treasure, keeping it safe in the box I had had from Alison. Yet Lady Fenner, it seemed, knew where to find it. She knew everything in this house.
The rumble of Will’s reply, too low to distinguish the words, brought my attention back. Then I heard Lady Fenner again:
‘So that is your plan? You are in a fool’s paradise! The Queen will never restore her lands. Why should she? Mary is no kin of hers. There would be no advantage to her. No, I fear, the Lady Mary is destined to remain another high-born spinster with no looks or fortune to aid her.’
‘It might still be worth the gamble.’ Will had moved closer to the door. I, correspondingly, shrank back into the shadows. ‘With Mary as my wife I could approach Her Majesty and ask for the restitution of Thomas Seymour’s lands in this locality at the least. Ramsbury, for instance, is a rich and fine estate and there are others. To ask only for those that are close by would swell our income but would look modest, and stand more chance of success than to claim the whole.’ He sounded pleased with his calculation.
‘Her Majesty would refuse you.’ Lady Fenner sounded even colder. ‘Thomas Seymour was a fool, marrying unwisely and gaining little profit from it. You should not follow his example.’
A fool. I bristled with indignation at the insult to my father, even knowing in my heart of hearts that he had been rash in almost all his dealings.
‘I hope you have not seduced her already?’ Lady Fenner sounded alarmed now. ‘Surely not even you could be so imprudent, William?’
‘You are correct.’ Will was as cold as she now. ‘Not even I would do such a thing.’
In my folly and ignorance this pleased me. Sir William Fenner was too much a gentleman to take advantage of me. His attentions were honourable. He wanted to marry me.
Lady Fenner was not equally impressed. ‘Pshaw,’ she said. ‘Don’t seek to cozen me. This has nothing to do with Mary. You are still entangled with the Lady Anne Hungerford. You are like your father, intemperate in your affairs.’
Will laughed. ‘There was nothing intemperate in Sir Edward’s behaviour, madam. He sincerely loved Mistress Fortescue.’
‘Oh, you seek to provoke me,’ Lady Fenner said impatiently. ‘Do you think that I do not know how you like to prick at people until they bleed? Well, you will get no pleasure from baiting me.’ She sighed. ‘Heed me on this and leave well alone. Leave Mary alone.’
There was a pause. I waited for Will to tell her he would not, that we would be wed, but he said nothing.
After a moment I heard Lady Fenner sigh. Her tone had changed.
‘What are we to do, William?’ She said. She sounded almost afraid. ‘What are we to do about Thomas?’
‘Precisely nothing, madam,’ Will said. ‘Thomas cannot take Middlecote back. It is mine by law. His mother suffered when she tried to oppose me. Thomas will also feel my wrath if he troubles us.’
I was forced to move away at that point as the hall boy came down the corridor, wiping his hands on his apron. He looked startled to see me as well he might, but bobbed his head and scurried away, as did I, back up the stairs to my chamber. There I opened the box where I kept my father’s ring, nestled on a bed of rich sapphire velvet. It was huge, a great lozenge of gold, inscribed with the words ‘What I have I hold’. I had heard that my uncle Edward, the Lord Protector, had given it to my father not as a gift but as a warning. It was, I thought, a suitable dowry for Thomas Seymour’s daughter whatever Lady Fenner thought. I slipped into my bed and tried not to think about Lady Fenner goading Will about Anne Hungerford. My jealousy was a hot and horrible thing. In some curious way I thought of Will as mine now, though there had been no declaration from him. Any admiration I had felt for him as a worldly man with a string of mistresses was gone now. I would not share his affections.
I pulled the covers over my head to try to block out the dark thoughts but all I could hear as I fell asleep was Will and Anne’s soft laughter ringing in my ears as the bedroom door closed behind them.
Chapter 16
Adam threw down his pen and ran his hand through his hair in a gesture that Alison was starting to know well.
‘This is all amazing stuff, Ali,’ he said, ‘but without any kind of authentication it might as well be fantasy.’ He took a gulp of his coffee and grimaced. During their discussions they had let it go cold and now a waiter glided up unbidden with a silver pot to refresh the cups.
Alison had to admit that she liked the Travellers Club. It wasn’t the sort of place she would normally visit but the hushed elegance of the lounge was an oasis away from the bustle of the London streets at Christmas.
‘I realise that,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful but you did know that before we started.’
Adam was looking at her with a mixture of puzzlement and frustration. ‘I understand that a lot of this is family legend and hearsay,’ he said, gesturing to the lists of notes and family trees scattered on the table between them, ‘but who told you about it in the first place? I thought you were an orphan, but someone must have told you these stories about Mary Seymour and Wolf Hall.’
Alison shrugged helplessly. Her information came from memory and observation, neither of which she could explain to Adam.
‘I had relatives,’ she said. ‘Once upon a time. And then… Well, I went to genealogy websites and on to Internet boards.’
‘So it could all be fantasy.’ Adam shook his head in exasperation. ‘We all know how reliable
those are.’
‘I told you I couldn’t prove much of it,’ Alison said. ‘But you know there is often more than a grain of truth in family stories. Besides, you found reference to Mary at Middlecote yourself.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Adam said. ‘There’s too much speculation. It’s as though you want it to be true so much you’re trying to fit the facts to your version of events.’
The stark accuracy of this stung Alison. ‘That’s rich coming from you after the Anne Boleyn fiasco,’ she said coldly.
There was a tense pause then Adam laughed. ‘Okay, you have a point,’ he said.
‘Have you found any more connections between Mary and Middlecote?’ Alison asked hopefully.
Adam shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘The Fenner family papers are scattered across various different county records offices. Some of them are lost too. It all takes time.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You really do want this to be true, don’t you,’ he said, more gently. ‘It seems hugely important to you.’
‘Yes.’ Alison knitted her fingers together tightly. ‘It’s a sort of personal quest.’ She took a breath. ‘I promised someone,’ she said carefully. She had thought this all through the previous night when she had been doctoring her documents to remove all references to an Alison Banestre. It had seemed simple when she had planned it: she would tell Adam everything except for her own part of the story. Now, though, beneath Adam’s cool, analytical gaze, she felt as though she was treading on ice that might splinter at any moment.
‘My grandmother told me the stories of Mary Seymour when I was very young,’ she said. That much was almost true: Old Lady Banestre, who probably had not been old at all but in her fifties, Alison thought, had spun endless fairy tales to her grandchildren, mingling fictional princes and princesses with tales of their ancestors’ famous deeds. She had been brought up on stories of the illustrious Banestre family and its proud intermarriage with all the great names of the time—the Howards, the Berties, the Devereux. The Seymours had been parvenus in comparison. Even now, with the passage of so many years, Alison could remember the lilt of her grandmother’s soft voice as she told the tales by the light of the fire, the red and silver of the Banestre coat of arms rippling in the golden glow.
She had felt secure then. She had understood her place in the world before chaos and darkness had set everything awry.
‘Grandmama knew all about the family ancestry,’ she said. ‘She knew how we were originally related to all the great families. I don’t know where she had gained all her knowledge. I suppose it was word of mouth down the generations, some true, some false, much embroidered to tell a good tale.’ She shifted. ‘There was someone she asked me to find: a boy, called Arthur.’ She swallowed hard. It was odd how difficult it was to lie. She wanted to claim Arthur as hers, not pass him off as some distant cousin.
Adam stirred. ‘You mean she wanted you to find out what had happened to him?’ he asked.
Alison realised her slip. Arthur’s fate felt so present to her that it was impossible not to refer to him as though he were alive now. To her he was, and she would find him.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘sorry, I meant she wanted me to trace him on the family tree. She said that he had been special and that his story should not be lost. She had been illegitimate, you see, just as he was. She had been erased from the family tree…’ Her voice faltered as she embroidered the lie. ‘I think she felt a kinship with Arthur. So I… I promised her, before she died.’
The silence that followed felt to her as though it rang with half-truths and falsehood. Alison could hear all the distinct and separate sounds: the chink of china, the low murmur of voices from the lounge to the right, the hum of traffic outside, even the call of the birds. Adam waited. He was good at silences. It made her feel even more uncomfortable.
‘It’s strange,’ he said reflectively, ‘when you were talking about it just now you sounded quite different, as though you were telling a story. Your grandmother must have been very special to you.’
Alison felt a rush of emotion. Colour stained her cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She was.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Adam said, leaning over to touch her hand. ‘Sorry you lost them all.’
Alison moved her hand away from his. It felt too dishonest to take his comfort when she was lying to him.
‘Thanks,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Well… it was a long time ago.’
‘So it’s this Arthur you are particularly intent on tracing?’ Adam said, after a moment. ‘Is there some connection between him and Mary Seymour?’
‘He was the illegitimate son of Mary’s cousin, Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford,’ Alison said. ‘I think Mary knew what became of him.’
‘Find Mary and you find Arthur?’ Adam raised his brows.
‘Exactly,’ Alison said. ‘Or,’ she added hastily, ‘so my grandmother said.’
‘Was Mary Seymour his mother?’ Adam asked.
‘No.’ Alison realised she had spoken too quickly and moderated her tone. ‘I mean, I don’t think so. Arthur Seymour was born in London whilst Mary was at Wolf Hall.’
‘So who was his mother?’ Adam said.
Alison studied her hands intently. ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t called Seymour either,’ she added quickly, glancing up to see that Adam was watching her. ‘That’s why we can’t trace him. Edward Seymour sent him away to be fostered and that’s where the trail dies out.’
‘Right…’ Adam said slowly. He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Illegitimate children are notoriously difficult to trace. So often they slip through the gaps in the records.’
‘I know,’ Alison said, miserably, ‘I know.’
‘I’ve got to be honest,’ Adam said, ‘I think this is a wild-goose chase. I know you promised your grandmother and that this matters to you a lot, but I think you’re just set for more disappointment if you’re pinning your hopes on the portrait and the box telling you anything useful.’
Alison bit down on her lips so hard she tasted blood, bit back too her sharp response. As far as she was concerned there was no alternative. The portrait had given her clues. The box must contain further evidence of Arthur’s story. She could not contemplate a world where it did not.
‘I don’t expect you to understand how I feel,’ she said, ‘and I did promise I would see this through, and so I will.’
Adam sighed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Well, I agreed I would show you the box anyway.’ He reached for the briefcase, placing it flat on the table and snapping the catches open.
‘Here it is,’ he said, lifting it out and passing it to her. ‘Be careful with it.’
Alison ignored him. She barely heard him. It was the most extraordinary feeling to be holding the box again. Across the centuries she recognised it immediately. The wood was duller now, polished by time to a grey brown hue. The black initials in the top—AB—were almost worn away. It looked smaller than she remembered.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Adam said and she found that she could not speak; her throat was blocked with tears. So she nodded.
She reached out a tentative hand, stroking the wood. She could remember the precise moment she had been given it. It had been before her parents had died. The estate carpenter had made it for her as a natal day gift and her father had given it to her on a morning bright with sunshine and hope. It had been shiny then, the initials a bold black, the wood smelling new.
The sweating sickness had come swiftly after that day, wiping out the sunshine and the hope and the happiness along with her parents and siblings. She had often wondered why she had survived and wished she had not been stronger than they.
She blinked back the tears again and lifted the lid. The box opened smoothly. It smelled faintly of sage and camomile, rosemary and orange. She recognised all the different scents individually.
The box was empty. The disappointment was crushing.
Too easy.
Hadn’t Adam said that there had been items in it wh
en it had been found? It had been stupid of her to imagine they would simply leave them there for her.
‘Are you all right, Ali?’ Adam was looking at her quizzically. ‘Do you need more coffee?’
‘No, sorry, I’m fine.’ Alison gave herself a shake. ‘Just some water, thanks.’ She poured for herself, splashing the water into her glass. ‘Sorry,’ she repeated. ‘You mentioned that there were some items in the box when it was found,’ she added. ‘I don’t suppose you know what they were?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Adam said. ‘They were taken away…’ He unfolded a piece of A4 paper and handed it to her.
Alison’s hand was trembling. She tried to conceal it by holding the paper in her lap whilst she read it but the hammering of her heart betrayed her. She knew Adam could see she was shaking.
She read down the list. It was detailed and annotated, as she would have expected an academic document to be:
A twig of wood, badly rotted, but identified as Rosmarinus officinalis (rosemary).
A piece of satin weave cloth of gold, degraded, pinned to a silver button in the shape of a shield with a bear.
One hammered silver penny, dating from 1560, showing the profile of Queen Elizabeth I on the obverse and a quartered shield of arms on the reverse. Very worn.
One pencil drawing, subject unidentified.
One plate from a falcon.
One knight from a chess set carved from holly.
One woollen thread in green tied, to a piece of catgut.
‘Catgut?’ Alison said, startled. And then: ‘What on earth is a “plate from a falcon”? A serving plate?’
‘It was similar to a ring,’ Adam said. ‘Falconers used engraved rings to mark the ownership of their birds. As for the catgut, they used that for stringed instruments. It came from sheep’s intestines, though, rather than cats.’
‘The things you know,’ Alison said. She had had a falcon once, a merlin, which had been the approved hunting bird for a lady. She hadn’t cared for it. It had such a sharp predatory gaze and a mean spirit. She had hated hunting in all its forms and hated that she was despised for her soft heart even when she tried to hide her aversion. One of the other children at Wolf Hall had rubbed stag’s blood on her face once and she had screamed and screamed.
The Phantom Tree Page 18