“I wouldn’t say that.” I let out a breath. “It’s actually a relief to finally know what made Brad’s mind up for him.”
“What … what do you mean?” Molly asked.
Jeff probably knows what I mean, I wanted to say. I saw him looking at me again in the rearview mirror.
I told them most of what Brad told me. I skipped the part about the night before, and Brad’s attempt to apologize for it. When I was done, Molly looked genuinely crushed on my behalf. Jeff’s eyes in the rearview mirror were expressionless.
As we pulled up to my brownstone, Molly asked if I’d like to go to a movie later or shopping. Anything. I declined, hugged her good-bye, and thanked her for loaning me the clothes and perfume. She had tears in her eyes as she got back in their car. Jeff walked me up my steps and handed me my overnight bag.
“Thanks for the lift.” I faked a bright tone.
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“Me too. But at least you don’t have to carry this secret around anymore, eh?” I smiled at him.
His shock only lasted for a moment. “He should’ve told you before now.”
I shrugged my shoulders and blinked back a few threatening tears.
“Molly didn’t know,” he said.
I nodded wordlessly. If I opened my mouth to speak, I would lose it. I said nothing.
“Call us if you need anything.”
“Will do,” I whispered.
I waved as they drove away, and then I headed inside my very quiet apartment. Once I was inside, I was aware that my phone was vibrating inside my purse. I’d missed two calls. I wondered if Brad had tried to call me, and I fished out my phone with trembling hands. One call was from Emma. She had left me a voice mail. The other was from Wilson. There was no message.
I punched the button to retrieve Emma’s message. “Hey, love. So I found the vendor who sold me the books. His name is Edgar Brownton. He bought them from the granddaughter of some old pensioner who died last winter. Had a shed full to the ceiling with boxes. She sold it all, by the box, at auction. Brownton doesn’t know her name. She doesn’t even live in the UK. Canada, he thinks. He bought them in Swansea. That’s about all I can tell you, love. You may have to just make up a good story for where that lovely trinket of yours came from. So ring me up when you get home. My offer still stands to come see me.”
The voice mail ended, but I put off working through my disappointment so that I could call Wilson back.
Wilson answered on the first ring.
“It’s me, Jane. Is everything all right?”
“Oh. Oh yes, Jane. Say, I’ve just come across something, and I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to tell you. It’s the most curious thing. Is this a good time?”
He sounded excited. As nice as it was to hear a happy voice, it would’ve been really easy to say it was a crappy time. But I slid into an armchair, kicked off my shoes, and told him his timing was fine.
“Well, my grandson Eric is here today, and he’s a political science major, you know. And so I was telling him about the ring you found.”
“Yes?”
“He said a person of noble birth would have had her betrothal recorded. You know? There would be a record of it.”
“Yes, but this Jane might not have married the person who gave it to her. Remember? The ring appears not to have been worn.”
“Indeed. My point exactly.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Wilson.”
“Eric went on his computer, and he typed in the words Jane—betrothal—sixteenth century into a search engine.”
My next breath wedged in my throat. “Yes?”
“Two names came up over and over. Jane Seymour is one. She was the third wife of King Henry the Eighth. But she and Henry were betrothed within twenty-four hours of Anne Boleyn’s execution and married less than a month later. It seems very unlikely to us Henry would’ve given her a betrothal ring. And it’s not likely the ring of an English queen would end up in a tattered prayer book.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“The other name that came up multiple times is Jane Grey. Remember her?”
The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “No. No, I don’t. Who was she?”
Wilson seemed put out that I didn’t know who this other Jane was. “Really? Ah, well, she also had a very short betrothal. Less than a month. Just like Jane Seymour.”
“Well, maybe young noblewomen didn’t wear their betrothal rings for very long.”
“Still don’t remember who Jane Grey was, eh?”
“No, Wilson. I don’t.”
“Hold on a minute.” I could hear Wilson talking to someone, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Eric says he will send you the link. What is your e-mail address at home?”
I rose from the chair and headed over to my desk as I rattled off my home e-mail address. I woke my computer from sleep mode and sat in the swivel chair.
“So do you have it then?” Wilson said a moment later.
The new e-mail landed in my inbox as he was asking. “Yes, I have it. Wilson, do you think this ring was hers?”
“It would be amazing if it was. But no. Still, it’s fun to imagine. Well, you have some reading to do. We’ll talk tomorrow. Bye, Jane.”
“Good-bye, Wilson. And thanks.”
I hung up, then pulled the ring from my front pocket and placed it on the desk so that the stones faced me.
I folded my legs under me and opened the link to an online biography of Lady Jane Grey.
I began to read.
Twenty-Six
The rooms at Richmond Palace were fragrant with the scent of first-of-May roses, but Lady Jane seemed oblivious to the exhilarating aroma.
She paced the carpet in her room with regal beauty, but still she paced. As I stitched a torn riding frock on the floor by her feet, she recited verses from St. John’s Gospel; first in English, then in Latin, then in Greek, then in a language I did not know. Her nervousness washed onto me, and I pricked my finger.
I winced and slipped my finger into my mouth. She did not notice.
Her parents were at last making a final decision about her betrothal. They had told her to expect their summons sometime before noon. Finally, after all these many months, there would be a decision regarding Edward Seymour.
I would’ve been pacing too, had I been in her stead.
At nearly sixteen, she was very much the lady I had called her since the day I met her. She had been eleven then, mourning the death of a beloved queen, alone in a beautiful palace, and surrounded by people who decided her every movement. Today she was in another palace, surrounded by more people who were to decide her every movement.
The months leading up to this day had been fraught with ill news from all sides, starting with the execution of Edward’s father early the year before on a gray January morn.
I had returned to London after the Christmas of 1551, betrothed to my dear Nicholas, to the shocking development that the former Protector’s sentence would not be overturned as we had all hoped. Jane returned, already vexed, from spending the holidays with the Princess Mary—Jane and her royal cousin were not of the same persuasion in matters of faith. This news of the former Protector’s fate only served to increase her melancholy.
Talk below stairs and above, and even among lords and ladies at the breakfast table, was that the Duke of Northumberland had masterminded the elder Edward Seymour’s downfall to win the friendship and loyalty of powerful men who did not care for Seymour. Why John Dudley coveted so many influential friends was unknown to me. Nicholas told me this kind of posturing is how kingdoms rise and fall and that, sadly, it has always been this way. It would not have been so worrisome if His Majesty had not taken ill. There were rumors that Dudley, who was the young King’s closest confidante, was often in His Majesty’s sick chamber, bringing him this document and that document to sign, and at all hours. And some whispered that the Duke of Northumberland might be slowly p
oisoning the King.
To what end, I could not guess.
Jane did not hear these rumors in her own home, but she did hear them when her parents took her out and about. It was no secret that it was John Dudley who maneuvered Seymour into the hopeless position of being found guilty of conspiracy, a charge difficult for those of us not attached to court to believe.
Jane certainly did not believe it.
Her distaste for Northumberland and his politicking set her to distraction. Mrs. Ellen and I were forbidden to say his name in her presence, though we never had need to. Conversations between her and her beloved Edward, the few times they saw each other, were wrapped in veiled emotion I alone understood. I, of course, did not speak with young Edward on those occasions he called on Jane, but I would see his face from across the hall, or out in the garden, or alighting from his carriage. It was a troubled face; the face of a man who is chained to circumstances he cannot control.
I fully expected Jane’s parents to cancel her unofficial betrothal to Edward after the execution, though I said nothing of the sort to Jane. Nicholas told me if the duke’s lands and possessions passed to his son upon his death, young Edward would be a rich man, and still a worthy match.
But for many months, there had not been news of the disposition of the dead duke’s wealth and properties, and therefore no official contract between Jane and the man she loved.
A full year had passed, and still there was no official contract, and all the while, the King’s health continued to fail. In the meantime, Nicholas and I made plans for our own wedding, which was to take place in June. Jane had already decided I should stay with her when she and Edward Seymour married and that Nicholas could be the tutor for their children. I had laughed and told her it would be several years before any children would be ready for letters and sums, and she had said that Nicholas could just tutor us, then. She and I. Jane ever loved to learn. Were it not for her books and translations and correspondence with learned theologians on the Continent, she would have gone mad in those many months, waiting for her marriage to be decided.
It remained to be seen what I would do after my wedding to Nicholas. A position as the head seamstress in a married noblewoman’s home was enticing. And Nicholas would no doubt be an excellent tutor to Jane and Edward’s future children. But there were no children as of yet. My future husband would need a position before then. There was no guarantee he would have one at his uncle’s school in Worcester.
Mrs. Ellen stepped into the room at that moment, followed my lady’s footsteps with stern eyes, and then raised her hands to her hips.
“You shall wear out the carpet, lass.” Her tone, despite her set arms, was soothing.
“I care not for the carpet, Ellen.” Jane recited the first beatitude, in English.
“Perhaps you would like to write some letters, then. You love to write your letters.”
“No letters today.” Jane sighed and settled onto the couch in front of me. “Tell me again what your dress looks like, Lucy.”
“Not this again,” Mrs. Ellen murmured, and she moved away into Jane’s sitting room.
My wedding gown, which I was stitching by candlelight every night before bed, was a design of my own making. It was not finished enough to show anyone, not even dear Jane, but I had promised I would show her when it was done. In the meantime, I had described for her how I envisioned it.
I began to describe it again.
“Well, first, there is a long flowing skirt of the softest golden lawn, gathered here and there in billowy pleats like clouds. On the bodice, I will embroider, with silver thread, tiny thistles that will glisten like diamonds. Over the shoulders, there shall be puffings of white and silver gauze. And a needlepoint collar with more silver thread and trimmed with a length of Venetian lace.”
“And your veil?” Jane asked, smiling.
“It shall look like a waterfall, and there shall be tiny white roses and pink asters and larkspur, tumbling down from it onto my train.”
“I wish you would wear some of my jewelry.” Jane’s voice was wistful. “My necklace with the diamonds and amethysts would look splendid with that dress.”
She said it to tease me. Jane knew I couldn’t possibly wear any of her jewels at my wedding. She likely would not even be permitted to attend.
Jane rose from the couch. That day, she was wearing a gown of plain velvet with just a bit of lace at her throat. It was all she ever wore since turning fifteen, unless her parents took her out and insisted on opulence. She wore black, gray, and bottomless brown. As her dressmaker, it had been saddening to see her attired in such somber hues by choice. But Jane had begun to turn inward as her destiny hung day after day like a broken pendulum, swinging neither to the left or right, and her gowns reflected that. The duchess didn’t care much for Jane’s attempts at extreme modesty, but there was much the duchess didn’t seem to care about when it came to Jane. Though a Reformer herself, the duchess didn’t understand her daughter’s wish to be free of all things vain and impious and arrogant. I didn’t truly understand it either—beauty to me was also a creation of the Lord God—but Jane and I existed in different worlds. I knew this. And so I respected her choice. Even admired it.
“I wish you were the one who would be making my wedding dress.” Jane turned to face me. “It should be you. Mother will no doubt insist on her own dressmakers.”
“I am sure it will be lovely, my lady. I am sure of it. What shall it look like?”
She exhaled heavily. “How would it look were you to make it, Lucy?”
Her gaze on me was laden with equal parts trepidation and desire. It was a look that seemed out of place for a young woman about to be married. I spoke carefully.
“Perhaps a gown of Italian fashion, hmm? A skirt of silver tissue, with an overlay on the bodice of silvery netting sparkling with your favorite gems. Gently puffed sleeves to match—”
“And no farthingale,” Jane intoned. “I don’t want to look like a bulbous turret.”
I laughed. “So. No farthingale hoop. Instead, your skirt shall be made of narrow panels of silver tissue bordered with golden passamayne and laced together with pearled cords.”
“And no ruff. And a simple veil. With flowers. Like yours?”
“Of course.”
Jane again settled onto the couch. I went back to my stitching, expecting her to describe for me what Edward would wear. After a moment or two of silence, I looked up at her. She was staring at me.
“Are you afraid?” she said.
“Afraid?”
“Of … of being alone with Mr. Staverton?”
I colored slightly. As the weeks approached for Nicholas and I to be together at last, I had wrestled with a strange kind of anxiety that was more akin to yearning than fear. But I could see that Jane was afraid to lie in a man’s bed, even a man she was attracted to.
“My mother says ’tis natural to be scared of the unknown, my lady. Do not fret over it. ’Tis God who made the way between a man and a maiden, yes?”
She nodded. “Yes.” But she seemed far away in her thoughts.
“What is it, my lady?”
Jane hesitated for a moment. Then she looked about her room. “I have never known any life but this one. Mama and Papa have always decided everything for me, who I associate with, who I don’t, even where I lay my head at night. I have never been alone with a man behind a closed door. I have never been outside my parents’ wishes and control. It seems very strange to me that soon I shall not be under their roof. Or under their thumb.”
She was quiet for a moment before continuing.
“I wonder what it will be like to make the kind of choices Mama makes,” she went on. “She does make choices, you know. She is a woman, like me, and subservient like I shall be to the will of her husband, but she makes choices. She makes choices every day. I wonder what that will be like.”
Her spoken thoughts fell away, and I said nothing. She did not expect me to. Over the years, I’d been
privy to many of Jane’s innermost thoughts. Most of them she did not voice for me. She simply said them to hear them said. And have them heard.
A moment later, Mrs. Ellen swept back into the room. A page had been sent from Jane’s parents.
They were ready to receive her.
Jane rose slowly from the couch and smoothed her skirt, and I got to my feet as well. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. As she let the breath out of her lungs, she opened her eyes and the sixth beatitude fell from her lips, in Latin.
“Beati mundo corde, quoniam ipsi Deum videbunt.”
The English translation floated into my head. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
She took two steps toward the door and then turned to me.
“Wait for me here.”
I curtsied. And before I had completed it, she had turned again to the door and was walking away from me.
Mrs. Ellen went with her.
I waited for her on the couch, unable to take up my sewing. My thoughts were a jumbled weave of excitement and dread. It seemed my own future was being decided as well, at least the near future.
Mrs. Ellen and Jane were not gone long. When I heard footsteps rapidly approaching the closed doors, I stood. Someone was running to the door. My heart began to skip with anticipation.
The doors flew open and Jane swept in, clutching her breast, her face streaked with tears. She flew past me, her swishing skirt of black the only sound that came from her. She went into her bedchamber and closed the door, and then the first sound came from her: a sob racked with anger and hopelessness.
My own eyes were already moist with empathy, even though I did not know yet what had happened. I turned from Jane’s closed door and saw that Mrs. Ellen had entered the room too. She was biting her lip, shaking her head, and fighting back an emotion that might have been sorrow, might have been fury, might have been exasperation.
“What has happened?” I said.
Mrs. Ellen closed the doors behind her and eased her back against them.
“The duke and duchess have not chosen Edward Seymour,” she said.
Lady in Waiting: A Novel Page 19