The Puritan Princess
Page 10
This is the way of all of Father’s private rooms: fine textiles and fabrics, a great love of his – the best of the dead King Charles’s tapestry collection saved by him from sale – our own Indian sheets on the beds; but otherwise, little furniture, no plate (all now melted down in the Tower for the coin so desperately needed after the war) and few fine objects; no clocks, no mirrors. But the tapestries remain and I wonder, gazing at the one that hangs here, if it is something in the very texture of them, their truth and craftsmanship, that Father likes and also in the sight of classical and biblical stories made real. True too for his beloved statues scattered throughout the gardens.
‘Do you remember this, Fanny?’ Father’s warm voice brings me back to him and, standing before his desk, I take the small letter he hands to me, stiff in its square, folded creases.
I smile, smoothing the paper with my thumbs. ‘Of course. I wrote this to you during the war.’
He nods, smiling fondly. ‘It reached me at Marston Moor and I remember well the comfort it gave me to have a little piece of home amid all that horror. I missed my little wenches every day that I was away. I missed you all.’
I scan the letter, reading the trivial news from home I tell him: how the hens are laying, that Mary has a new doll, how Harry has grown a full five inches. The scribbles are foreign to my eyes – the letters large and round, Father and his horse Blackjack drawn in one corner, the hens in another – like they were made by someone else in a different time. As if this is a piece of another’s history. ‘It looks so childish,’ I laugh, embarrassed.
But Father doesn’t see it this way. He reaches to take the letter back from me. ‘It did not look childish to me but accomplished. You were always so quick with your letters, my little scholar,’ he says proudly. ‘All of my girls are cleverer than I am, cleverer than their brothers I dare say! But of the four of you, it was my Fanny who was so keen to get ahead, driving herself hard every day to catch up with her siblings. Look – here’s Mall’s from the same packet and your writing is quite the equal of hers, though she was a year older. But don’t tell her I said that!’ He takes one last look at the letters, almost breathing them in, before folding them carefully and replacing them in the letter chest on his desk.
I sense the shift coming in his tone even before he speaks again.
‘But you’re not my little girl any more,’ he says softly. ‘Here.’ He stands and fetches one of the spindle-legged chairs and brings it around the table for me. ‘I want to talk to you about the future, not the past.’
I lower myself into the chair and cross my legs, quite at a loss as to what he is going to say. I often feel this way when we are alone: excitable but apprehensive, my senses heightened, my mind whirring like a printing press to prepare the best responses to his words. I know this is not because we are uneasy together or because he intimidates me as so many fathers do their daughters. Rather it is because I love him so strongly that my desire to please and impress him overwhelms me. I steady myself as I wait, letting him come around to the point in his own time as he likes to do.
‘You know what is afoot here at the moment, Fanny,’ he begins at length. ‘This new proposed constitution, perhaps even the crown.’ He gives an involuntary shudder at the word as if he has blasphemed. ‘Well, it is time we began to make plans for you and Mary too.’ Father leans back in his armchair, lacing his fingers together in his lap. ‘Secretary Thurloe and I have drawn up a list of potential suitors for you both and we will begin to sound them out shortly.’
It is just what I feared. The moment my life is taken out of my hands and I am moved across the chess board. If Secretary Thurloe is involved, this will be a match not only suggested by my parents but negotiated by the government itself. A political union, not a personal one. A marriage to suit England before it suits me.
‘Don’t worry,’ Father puts a hand out towards me as if he has heard my thoughts, ‘we will not agree anything without consulting you. And, I will make sure you have plenty of opportunities to get to know anyone we consider seriously. You will have your say.’ The hand goes up again even though I have not interrupted him, almost as if he is arguing with himself. ‘And I will do my best to accommodate it.’
‘And Mary?’ I ask, wondering why he has not summoned us both for this conversation.
‘I will tell all this to Mall too,’ he says. ‘But I wanted to speak to you first, to set my mind at rest on one particular matter.’
If his mind is restless, mine is reeling. This is what I had always expected would come, of course, what I had wanted, even. And yet I feel strangely hollow. I have spent my life straining to be allowed to grow up. And, for a woman, growing up has always meant marriage. But hasn’t the war changed everything? It has turned Father from tithe collector to Head of State; could it not take me to unimagined places too? And that may include marriage, of course, but a marriage on my own terms.
I wait for his next words, my shoulders tensing. He is looking at me strangely, his greying brows knotted above knotted hands at his chin, as if I am a terrain to be mapped before a battle. I have no idea what can be troubling him.
Father licks his lips. ‘I have heard talk …’ he begins slowly, rising now from his chair – needing to move, as he always does, when he tackles a difficult subject. ‘Talk that you have formed an attachment with the Earl of Warwick’s grandson, Robert Rich.’
‘No! Certainly not!’ The words burst, blustering, out of me with an almost animal instinct, more words pressing behind them, waiting their turn. But they are instinctive words, void of meaning – tasteless in my mouth.
‘Good, good,’ he says quickly, his tone mollifying. ‘I am glad to hear it. Then the remainder of my speech hardly matters.’ He is watching me carefully, eyes narrowed.
‘Perhaps not,’ I say, careful to lighten my own tone. ‘But I would hear it anyway.’
Father sighs. ‘Very well. What I wished to say was that I could not see you married to that young man, whatever my love for his grandfather. His own father, Lord Rich, is as inept in his private affairs as he was inconstant in the war – supporting the king then defecting to us. Not that I begrudge him that in itself; there are many former royalists that I trust now with my life. Men like Lord Broghill, for instance. But Lord Rich is not an estimable man.’
I think of the passing reference Robert made to his father when we spoke after the feast for Parliament: my stepmother takes as little interest in me as my father does. I remember the sweet lines of sadness etched on his face, and the protesting words which march up my throat to continue my denials die on my tongue, with no true thoughts behind them to give them life. ‘Father?’ is all I can say.
He turns away from me then and walks towards the window, his mirrored face candlelit in the glass. ‘I fear Robert Rich takes after his father and not his grandfather, my dear. He has a bad reputation, as a drunkard and a gambler … and worse.’ Father coughs over his embarrassment but I know he is alluding to the rumours of Robert’s recent visits to the whorehouses of Surrey.
‘He does not apply himself to any occupation,’ Father goes on. ‘I fear he is not steady, either in his manner of living, or in his love of the Lord.’
I think of Robert using the Book of Proverbs to warn me of my pride, and wonder at the exact colour of his faith.
‘And, Fanny.’ Father has turned back to me now, his large hooded eyes fixed intensely on mine. ‘I could not in true conscience see you married to a man so unworthy of your spirit, however noble his house. Marriage is a serious business. It needs love, of course, but also strength of character, resolve, care and devotion and mutual respect. It is the parents, at one step removed and with the wisdom of years, who can see how well their sons and daughters could fit with others – just as God knows what is best for us, His children. Be assured I am long-experienced at the art of a happy match: I helped each of my sisters to their husbands and have done the same for Biddy and Betty and for my nieces too. Lavinia and Robert Beke for inst
ance, and look at them – cooing like a pair of turtle doves. And, of course, I myself am lucky enough to live within the happiest of marriages every day. I know you, my little scholar, down to each hair on your head. I will make sure to find you a true partner. I will have all my girls happy.’
I am honoured: Father has marshalled all of his famous weapons of persuasion and turned them on me. I am a congregant listening to the sermonising of a great lay preacher, a Member of Parliament silent before his sovereign, an eve-of-battle soldier taking comfort from the glorious certainty of his general. I bathe in the outward warmth of Father’s words, even as I feel their concealed blade. Wilting under his shrewd gaze, I have the sensation I am gliding along a dark passage towards a dazzling shaft of light. With every moment I draw closer to the realisation which dawns on me only as Father speaks his very refusal to my marrying Robert: that I care deeply for him.
It is all I can do to nod and rise from my chair. ‘Of course, Father, thank you for your guidance,’ I find myself saying though the words have no connection to the thoughts in my head. It is the first time in my life that I must hide my feelings from my father, act the courtier to his sovereign. But I do not hesitate: I will not fight this battle now when I barely understand my own position. My sole desire is to end our conversation quickly and to be alone with the torrent of feeling sweeping through every inch of my body.
I am saved by Secretary Thurloe, who slides into the room with a bow and apology for interrupting.
Father beckons him in and Thurloe approaches us, brandishing documents. ‘The evening’s papers to sign, Highness, a briefing on the French ambassador’s latest treaty proposals and a schedule of your appointments tomorrow. Lest you may have forgotten, it is the day you have appointed to hear the poor men’s petitions brought by the Master of Requests …’
Curtseying, I slip through the study door and run along the carpeted gallery, wings on my heels flying me to my room.
Safely back in my chamber, I clamber onto the bed and draw the heavy curtains around me, wanting the smallest possible space free from distractions within which to think. I throw my head back and stare at the canopy. Is it possible that I do not hate Robert Rich? That I might in fact like him, even want him for myself? In spite of all his taunts and games, his arrogance and presumptions, his condescension. His laziness and entitled attitude, so at odds with that of me and of my family. Or were all of these features an illusion? The screen of smoke that masks a dampened fire? Where the professed opinions he always leads with paint him in this way, the words that often follow reveal him to be clever and well-informed. And his behaviour thoughtful and courteous, even. Or perhaps I tell myself this to justify an altogether less edifying reality; that it is his very infuriating qualities that attract me, speaking to the Cromwell spark deep within me that flashes and flares at the thought of a just rebellion.
But then again, I think, his actions contradict much of his posturing. If he really feels the disdain for my family I credit him with, how could he live at court and play the courtier? Why would he seek out my company so often, and that of Richard and John? And most of all, how could he speak to me of an alliance of Rich and Cromwell? My heart pounds at the remembrance of that moment. Was he indeed alluding to a marriage between us as I suddenly hope he was? That had been my instinct in the instant he said it, yet my embarrassment and fear that he mocked me still had prompted my spiteful response. I think back to our conversation after the feast, to the way that in our sparring we had moved together towards a greater understanding of our shared heritage and of the rebellion we wanted to effect in our own lives.
I take a deep, slowing breath, willing myself to think rationally. I cast my mind back over my interview with Father and must acknowledge that I had not recognised these feelings for Robert until Father had told me I could not marry him. Do I really care for him? Or do I want him now only because he is forbidden? Or – a third alternative occurs to me – do I select him now that I know marriage for me is imminent, because he would be my own choice and not my father’s? It is no use. My thoughts dance around in circles like girls around the May Day maypoles that are slowly coming back now, their streamers circling, twirling and weaving. I close my eyes against the dizzying colours.
When I open them again, my balance restored, I know what I must do. I cannot know – I will not know – the truth of my feelings until I see Robert again with this fresh perspective. All the time we had spent together in recent weeks, I have not been looking at him in this way; I have not been assessing his true worth, merely playing his parlour games. And, more than this, I must see him urgently. If Father and Secretary Thurloe are indeed reviewing candidates for my hand, there is not a moment to lose. Before a few days or a week have passed, they may have assigned me to another noble, perhaps a political ally or an army colleague of Father’s. He could be old, a widower, a former royalist even. Or, if Father does indeed becoming king, perhaps I will be bargained to a foreign prince in a treaty of alliance, sent to wed some peacocking German or oriental potentate I will not see until my wedding day. I think of old King Henry, flinging his fourth wife – the ‘Flanders Mare’ – from his bed when she failed to live up to Master Holbein’s miniature portrait, and shudder: it was for arranging that ill-fated match that our forebear Thomas Cromwell went to the block. Paintings of Father’s unknown candidates for my hand shuffle before my eyes like a pack of playing cards, the deck only coming to a still when I hear Katherine come into the room.
She does not speak, assuming me already asleep perhaps, but I listen to her footsteps criss-crossing the chamber on her usual night-time tasks: laying out my nightgown; collecting my gloves, or fan or ribbons from where I have left them on the floor; taking out my comb. In that moment, I have an idea.
‘Katherine.’ I pull back a curtain and beckon her to me.
‘My lady? I thought you asleep. Shall we say our prayers or have you done them with Mary already?’
I shake my head in irritation: Katherine was never so attentive to my prayers before she wed the chaplain. ‘No, not that. I was thinking. I need you to deliver a message for me. Can you fetch me my writing things?’
She puts down the dress draped over her arm and brings me my writing set. Taking it, I sit back against my pillows and smooth the blank page waiting on the board.
‘I need you to find out if Robert Rich is at Whitehall and, if he is, to have one of the boys send him a message arranging a meeting.’
‘Fanny!’ She has used my nickname so rarely since our elevation that I know she is genuinely shocked. ‘You cannot possibly go and meet him privately at such an hour. What if you are seen?’
I hesitate, her shock rubbing off on me. She’s right, I cannot risk it. If I were seen it would be the end of my good reputation and that of the whole family by extension. Perhaps worse, it would damage me forever in Father’s eyes. But then Robert appears before me, standing in the stables at Hampton Court stroking Father’s new mare, his face hidden beneath his extravagant green hat. He is chuckling, pleased with the conversational trap he has led me into as he presses me for the name of my intended. ‘I am yet to make my selection, sir.’ I hear myself reply. ‘Though I will be sure to inform you the moment that I do.’
An idea begins to form in my mind.
Quickly, before I can think better of it, I dip the pen and write a few lines, fold the paper and press it into her hand.
‘I will not be seen,’ I tell Katherine slowly, emphasising the first word as I climb down from the bed. ‘Robert will expect to meet you. And if I wear your hat and cloak, anyone who happens to witness our meeting will think they see you and not me: they’ll think I am Lady Frances’s companion, running a late errand to the laundry, fetching a hot drink from the kitchen or taking a short cut to her husband’s lodgings.’
Katherine’s eyes widen in alarm. ‘You forget – I am a chaplain’s wife now!’
‘Please.’ I take her small, warm hand. ‘I just need your clothes.’
To my right, I can just see the outline of the Holbein Gate rising out of the dark, looming over the long wall that separates our private gardens from King Street beyond. Candles glow in the windows of the great Chairhouse within it and I think briefly of the Tudor kings who used it as their private study and would peer out of the slitted windows to watch their unknowing subjects bustle about their daily lives. Even though it is late, I can hear some of this same bustle from the street as it carries over the clipped hedges towards me: a carriage rolling by, some men shouting to each other as they leave a tavern. But, as I weave my way between the hedged gardens towards the sundial, these human noises fade until all I can hear is the crunch of gravel under my feet and the low hoots of a little owl from the orchard beyond which punctuate the still, night-time air. There is no one to see me as I walk but the ghostly figures of the marble statues who stand sentry-like at the centre of each square of grass.
I see Robert before he sees me. He is enveloped in a dark cloak, leaning against the huge sundial, scuffing the toe of one of his buckled shoes in the dusty gravel. I cannot see the expression of his downcast face, hidden beneath the wide brim of his familiar feathered green hat, but something in his overall attitude appears dejected, lacking the usual vigour evident in his limbs even when standing still. Robert peels himself upright when he hears my approach and, after a shallow bow, crosses his arms in a lacklustre posture of defence.