A Rose for the Crown

by Anne Easter Smith

  At sixteen she was no longer a child bride, and it was as a widowed woman that she knelt in the front pew of St. Peter and Paul’s a few steps from the house and prayed for the soul of her departed husband. Henry, the journeyman, had worked day and night to make a mourning gown for Kate in time for the funeral, one that his master would have commended. It was done at Kate’s bidding. She knew Thomas would want her to show off his finest fabrics on such a public occasion. He had taught her well.

  Next to her knelt Anne, who had ridden down from Ightham with Geoff as her escort as soon as she heard the news. Kate found Anne’s presence a relief. Kate’s family from Bywood Farm had also come to support her, although John was not well and Joanna fretted over him. Johnny and Geoff had exchanged an awkward salute. It was a year since Geoff had visited the farm, and the brothers’ different circumstances left them little to talk about. Geoff had grown tall and now outstripped the stockier Johnny, adding to the elder brother’s discomfort.

  The four older Bywoods had two half brothers, and their antics made Kate smile during the feast following the ceremony. Young Matty gazed in awe at her sister. Although Kate was kind to her, the closeness they had shared during childhood was gone forever.

  Over his ale, John looked in astonishment at his elder daughter. In the past two years, she had filled out and grown taller. Her tawny eyes still dominated her face and were her best feature—if one was not lucky enough to see her waist-length russet hair free of its cauls and headdresses. But it was her poise that gave him the most pride. He watched as she greeted the gentry of Tunbridge one after another as if to the manner born. Thomas Draper had been a well-respected member of the community and a member of the powerful Mercers’ Guild, and many citizens had turned out to honor him. Some of the men present were eyeing Kate with more than passing interest, and it occurred to John that she was now a desirable commodity—a wealthy widow. He noticed that Kate handled the leers with a coolness that spoke volumes, and he was reminded of Martha’s ability to stay calm in a crisis. He no longer knew his daughter well enough to know that panic lay behind her cool exterior.

  But Anne knew how Kate really felt. During their midnight conversations after Anne’s arrival, Kate confessed that she was sad that Thomas was dead, but even more she feared what life would bring to a sixteen-year-old widow without a protector. Anne told Kate of her impending marriage to John Gaynesford, a Wiltshire landowner, whom Anne had met on one of her visits to Westminster and whose connection to the mighty Stafford family pleased Richard. She was truly in love, she told Kate, and after his unhappy marriage to Elinor, Richard’s aspirations for his daughter had mellowed into a wish for Anne to be happy. And truthfully, Anne’s liaison with a retainer of the Stafford family would not hurt Richard’s chances of advancement at court. Young Harry Stafford was grandson to the first duke of Buckingham and had inherited the title and land, including Tunbridge Castle and adjoining forests, upon his grandfather’s death five years before. He also had royal blood.

  Kate was sincerely happy for Anne, knowing that her goodness would be rewarded. But a deep sadness for her own circumstances tempered the joy, and the imp on her shoulder asked, “What will become of me?”

  The two friends curled up under the bedsheet together as they had done so many nights at Ightham, Anne in the crook of Kate’s taller body, and the nightmare of Thomas’s last night in that same bed diminished slightly with the familiar touch of Anne’s back tucked into her stomach.

  “He died on top of you, my sweet Kate? How perfectly dreadful.” Anne shuddered involuntarily at the morbid scene. “’Tis sad for you not to have had a child to console your loss. Do you think”—she hesitated to bring up such a delicate subject—“that perhaps you are barren?”

  Kate gave a hoot of laughter and then, remembering she was supposed to be grieving, turned it into a sob in case Molly was still awake in the trundle bed.

  “You jest, Anne, surely!” Kate was glad that she could finally tell someone the truth. “My aged husband never succeeded in his lovemaking. I am no longer virgin, ’tis true, but Thomas never spilled his seed. Not once!”

  Anne tightened her grip on Kate’s hand, which she had clasped to her chest, and tears of pity welled.

  “I am so sorry, Kate. ’Twas my mother who sent you to this hell, I know. Why she hated you and Geoff I will never understand. Now that we are older, I am persuaded it was jealousy for the time Father spent with the two of you. Can you forgive her, Kate?”

  “Aye, Anne. She paid for her unkindness with her life. I cannot think badly of her now—well, not for myself, but sometimes for how badly she hurt Geoff. He was just a boy. I think she feared your father would transfer his affection from you to me. She never saw how much he adores you.” Kate spoke thoughts she had not shared with anyone before. “’Twas doubly difficult when Geoff came into the house. He was a daily reminder to Elinor that she had not provided her husband with a son.”

  “Father said the same to me one evening not long ago. He believed that her ill temper was due to her barrenness after I was born and that in some way she blamed me. He regretted he had not been kinder to Mother, but she tried his patience so. Poor Mother . . .” She tailed off sleepily.

  “Aye, that she did, poor man. What more did he say?”

  There was no answer. Anne was drifting off to dreams of John, leaving Kate to wonder.

  THE NEXT FEW MONTHS passed quickly enough with Kate running both the household and the business. She had a way with the customers, who were curious to see how a woman would survive in a man’s world. The guild members named executors of Thomas’s will watched her carefully, but even they had no quarrel with her management of the profitable business. Her taste was impeccable, and as long as she consulted with her patrons and the apprentice Henry kept the books, business went on as usual. Several eligible bachelors became regular customers, but mourning gave her the luxury of keeping her distance. Her nights were lonely, but she did not miss Thomas’s snoring, his groping hands or his lustful attacks in her bed. Kate asked Molly to sleep regularly in the trundle at the foot of the bed for company, and the maid made herself comfortable, happy to be near her mistress, whom she adored.

  Molly was one of twelve children born to a miller on the western side of Tunbridge. Hugh had made inquiries at the market soon after Thomas’s marriage, asking on behalf of his master if anyone knew of a young woman suitable to be a lady’s maid. The miller was the second person he approached.

  “Do I indeed!” the miller responded with glee, thinking that now there would be one less mouth to feed. “My girl Molly be looking for work now Mistress Brown has kicked the bucket. She were that lady’s personal servant for five years. A hard worker be my Molly. I’ll be sending her along to your master, young sir.”

  Hugh gave him instructions, thanked him and moved on, pleased with his morning’s work. He was confident that anyone who had worked for old Mistress Brown for as long as five years would certainly have patience with his young mistress. Kate seemed content looking after her own needs, assuring Thomas that she was unused to being waited on even in a great house such as Ightham. But Thomas was adamant that his wife should have the best of everything. So Molly came to live with them, sharing one half of the garret with the cook and a serving wench. Hugh and Henry had their own tiny space in the other half.

  The bond between Kate and Molly formed quickly, and Kate was soon depending on the servant for more than just assistance with her dressing ritual, hair brushing and housecleaning. She enjoyed the gossip Molly brought from the town and took Molly everywhere with her so that Molly could teach her where to buy in the market and how to bargain. There was a forthrightness in the older girl that appealed to Kate, who had no patience for simpering, a trait she detested in Jane, the kitchen maid.

  For her part, Molly was grateful than Kate did not stare at her in horror upon their first meeting, as many did. An ugly birthmark that spread its purple projections from the middle of her left cheek to her mou
th marred what looks poor Molly might have had.

  “One old hag accused me of stealing her blackberries. ‘See the juice left on your face, girl!’ she screamed at me. I was six.” Molly laughed at her own story, her green eyes flashing. Kate was in awe of Molly’s nonchalance and resolved not to complain so much about her freckles. In truth, they were disappearing with time, and she was not surprised. She had been convinced that she would be a lady, and ladies did not have freckles. But for good measure, Molly showed her how to make a paste that would conceal them. Molly had never seen anyone as beautiful as her mistress, and she made it her purpose in life to make sure Kate always looked her best—it was such a welcome change from dressing bloated, balding Mistress Brown. The two spent an hour every morning closeted in Kate’s chamber, Molly combing Kate’s chestnut tresses and winding them into plaited knots ingeniously piled on her head or encased in cauls that covered her ears. Kate was amused by some of the styles, but she enjoyed the attention. Molly had learned much in the employ of the old dowager, and she passed on her knowledge willingly to her new young mistress.

  Once dressed and primped, sixteen-year-old Kate managed the daily running of the house, tended to her customers, and dictated correspondence to Henry, whose penmanship put hers to shame. The November after the funeral, Kate supervised the buying of two hogs and curing of the meat for the winter months, and she made sure the wood was piled high, the root cellar filled and the house had a good supply of candles and rushlights for the long winter evenings. Her respect for Richard’s calm management of his large estate grew with each passing week as she ran from one task to another.

  On Sundays she gave her people a day to themselves, and after matins, she hurried home, put on her plainest dress and ran through the meadows to the riverbank. Her mourning clothes thrown off and her hair loose about her shoulders, she took pleasure in watching kingfishers swoop, otters play and large fish glide by. In a quiet stretch far out of town, she found a fallen tree where she could sit and daydream to her heart’s content. When the weather turned cold, she stayed in her chamber by the fire, playing her harp and singing.

  She still dreamed of George. His handsome features were etched on her brain; he was the epitome of her ideal man. But during those months after Thomas died, she became more and more convinced that George must now be married to some heiress and had forgotten all about her.

  HE HAD NOT. There he sat a few seats from Kate at Anne’s wedding feast a week after Easter. George was now many inches taller, his face still beautiful and his eyes like dark sapphires.

  Kate watched through her black veil, taking in every detail of his lithe body, long fingers and strong jaw. She caught him giving her glances every so often, and she thrilled to every one. She felt cheated that her mourning prevented her from dancing and watched him lead other ladies forth in a saltarello, a piva, or a lively country dance. She also watched Anne and John, who sat side by side lost in each other’s eyes until Richard nudged Anne to pay heed to a well-wisher who had come forward to the head table. Richard looked at Kate and winked, turning his palms up in a gesture of helplessness.

  Kate had never seen Anne look lovelier. Her warm brown eyes shone with love, her cheeks were flushed with pleasure and heady wine, and her pale-blue brocade gown accentuated her creamy skin. She wore a headdress of spring flowers—primroses, periwinkles, and cowslips—and her brown hair hung loose around her shoulders. John was comely enough, though his rather prominent nose and large Adam’s apple made him look like a heron that had just swallowed a fish. But he was young and had kind eyes and a gentle manner—perfect for Anne, Kate thought, but dull as ditch water for me.

  Kate soon got tired of hiding and threw back her veil over her plain black hennin, holding tight to the loop over her forehead to prevent the precariously set headdress from falling off. Her head itched, and she longed to cast her headdress off, let her bound hair fall naturally and give her scalp a good scratch. She hoped she had not contracted lice again. She had had a case last spring, and it had taken Molly days of combing carefully through every tress to pick off the tiny eggs. Oil of pennyroyal rubbed into the head was supposed to repel the irritating insects, but Kate was not convinced it worked. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the memory and during this unpleasant reverie was unaware for a moment that George had seated himself next to her.

  “And what makes you turn your nose up, madam? Is it the company? The food? The music? Me?”

  Kate’s hennin very nearly did fly off as she whipped her head around on hearing his voice so close. He was peering at her, and she felt self-conscious.

  “Fiddle-faddle!” She tried to sound nonchalant. “All is most pleasant, sir. I was recalling a . . . a dead fish odor I smelled when I was walking near the stewpond earlier. ’Tis right pleased I am to see you again, Master Haute. Much has happened since last I saw you.”

  “Aye, Kate, I was sorry to know of your husband’s death.” He waited a beat. “Do I understand you are now a woman of means?”

  Kate’s hands were trembling, and she hid her nervousness by crumbling up a wafer. She was aware of his body leaning close to hers. He could have told her he was an angel sent from heaven, and she would have been no more suspicious of that than she was of his pointed question.

  “What did you say? I . . . I beg your pardon, I did not hear you.” She forced her mind back to his words.

  He repeated the question. For a moment she noticed his haughtiness, and she was confused. Did he not feel what she was feeling? She searched his face, but his expression never changed.

  “If you mean comfortable, then yes, I suppose I am.” She knew George was not yet attached, and the information had made her spirits soar. He must have pined for her so much after she had married—just as she had pined for him—that he would have no other woman. In a few months, she would be free to marry again and take her fortune with her. All she needed was Richard’s blessing. In his will, Thomas had requested that Richard take charge of Kate’s well-being—and her business interests. Might George be interested in her? She felt his warmth next to her. His breath smelled sweet after Thomas’s sour mouth, and her pulse raced. She was so unnerved by his presence that she rose and made her excuses to leave the hall for some fresh air. He stood and offered to accompany her.

  They made a handsome couple, she in her black satin gown trimmed with gold brocade ribbon and he in a short peacock-blue gown with slashed sleeves and multicolored hose. Several heads turned to watch them walk out into the courtyard. The April afternoon was mild; the early-morning showers had given way to some blue sky and sunshine, but one never knew with April. Kate found her hand trembling on George’s arm, and she removed it abruptly to pull her veil over her face again.

  “I thought widows in mourning were banished for a year,” he said, as they strolled through the gate and over the moat. “I do see, Mistress Draper, that you care naught for convention. In that respect, I believe you have not changed.”

  “Oh, and in others I have?” she countered, flirting with him. “Such as what, sir? I pray, do tell.”

  “It seems to me you have lost some of those freckles you hated so when I was here before. But that is all.”

  Kate had hoped he would say that she was now a beauty or more grown up, and she was peeved. She flounced off in the direction of the flower garden, intending to ignore him. Hampered by his very long, pointed shoes, he had trouble keeping up with her.

  “What did I say, Kate? Are you displeased? Tell me you are not displeased. I did think to pay you a compliment. I remember how you disliked your freckles.” He did his best to placate her, and she slowed her pace and smiled behind her veil. Mother of God, she thought, he is interested! Now what shall I do?

  “Aye, George, I hated my freckles. But surely you can see I have become a woman since you last saw me. I am bold to say so, but I pray you have noticed.” She was immediately embarrassed by her outburst. “I . . . I am sorry, I should not have spoken so. Forgive me.”

 
They were out of view of the house, close to the brick wall that separated the gardens from the orchard. George suddenly pulled her to him and kissed her roughly on the mouth through her veil. Kate was thunderstruck. This was not the reaction she had anticipated.

  “Aye, mistress, I noticed.” He gave a short laugh. “And a right fair woman, if I may say.”

  He lifted her veil and kissed her again, a quick, hard kiss that gave her no time to react. She had dreamed of this moment many times over the past two years as she wandered in the meadows at Tunbridge or lay awake listening to Thomas’s snores. Now that it had happened, she felt cheated. I was supposed to kiss him back, open my mouth, let him linger, she thought. She stood, her eyes closed, her face lifted to his and willed him to try again—more slowly this time. But he turned away, and she opened her eyes on his back. He had had his fill, it seemed.

  “Come, Kate, we shall be missed. We should return to the feast.” Remembering his manners, he turned and took her arm possessively. Kate hesitated for a moment but then swallowed her pride, lifted her chin and allowed him to lead her back to the hall. In truth, this was the first time she had been kissed by a man her own age, and she wondered if her imagination had run amok and perhaps this was all there was to kissing. It had not been unpleasant, but she had not experienced anything more than a mild fluttering of her heart. Thomas’s kisses were slobbering, and his breath smelled so foul that she would immediately turn her head and allow his lips to find her neck or any other part of her that was as far from her mouth as possible. She was reminded of a long-ago conversation with Martha about womanly matters the summer before she was sent to Ightham.

  “It be rough sometimes, Kate, but you must endure, for it is your duty to your husband to give yourself whenever he desires you. ’Tis not so bad, but methinks a man do profit from the act far more than a woman,” Martha told her. Kate grimaced as she recalled the talk and thought how right her mother had been. She pondered on this as she walked with George.