by Jeane Westin
Often enough so that she now refused to be too timid to know the truth.
Covering her heart with one hand, she quieted its pounding, then carefully opened the heavy vellum page that was folded into quarters, and whispered the words on the page aloud, some deep part of her vainly hoping to prove her suspicions wrong:
Philip, my dearest friend, you are most welcome to visit me on the morrow in the third hour after noon so that I may wish you safe journey to the Holland war and a swift and safe return to your Stella.
He was leaving? Going to war? And Penelope had been first to know it! Frances dropped the letter and clung to her writing table, fighting for air, her throat tight.
She took a deep, calming breath. Philip was going to war and had not told his wife. She tightened her hold on a goose quill until it broke into brittle pieces. A visit would have been bad enough, but it was not all. She was no longer a silly girl to believe in Lady Rich’s innocence, or in Philip’s.
The woman dared much to use that name from Philip’s great love poem Astrophel and Stella, even if she owned it. His long sonnet sequence had not yet been published, but it had been copied and recopied in manuscript until all the court and most nobles in England boasted of owning the manuscript, and those who did not pretended to it. As every person of consequence knew, the Baroness Rich had refused many times to marry Philip throughout their long, four-year engagement. Neither would she ever quite let him go. Frances searched her heart for any residue of jealousy and, finding none, slowly folded the vellum along its original creases. Reheating the wax seal, she gently pressed the edges into the very same place.
Undetectable!
Satisfied that her work was perfect, she waved the letter in the air to cool it. She did not have her husband’s love, but she had a valuable skill to ease her hurt. If only her father could see her ability, the equal, she vowed, of Arthur Gregory, an intelligencer who specialized in lifting wax seals, carefully opening dispatches meant for foreign ambassadors so that the tampering remained unknown. Was she really as good as he? She must know. And what other skills could Gregory teach her? Secret writing? That was Thomas Phelippes’s special skill, along with being the chief cipher secretary for her father. How she longed to learn what she did not yet know. It would fill her life with meaning and give it great purpose. And it would be enough, or almost enough.
Somehow—her hand became a fist—somehow she must convince her father to take her to court. Once she was there, she would find her way into his work. She was his only child; she knew he loved her dearly. There would come a time when he would not refuse her.
“Frances! Anon has most assuredly come and gone.” Jennet was at her door, a foot tapping impatiently.
“At once, Aunt,” Frances said, grabbing the post packet for her father from her bed, carrying both packet and Philip’s letter to the door with no time to smooth her skirts.
“What were you doing for so long a time?” Jennet asked, her tone scolding. “You have not changed your gown. I suppose you were at your books. Did you not hear the case clock strike the hour of noontide?” Jennet took a much-needed breath. “Well, no time for your long tale. Swiftly, now.”
Frances took her aunt’s hand and used her child’s name. “Dearest Jenney, I am sorry for your trouble.”
Jennet’s face yielded up its annoyance. “I dare not think what your husband will say if you go on—”
Frances rolled her eyes. “Go on studying mathematics and ancient cipher texts. It is said Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, does the very same, translating Latin into Greek for an evening’s relaxation.” And probably for the same lonely reason, Frances thought.
Jennet’s mouth was set as they approached the great stone hall. “Ah, but remember Queen Elizabeth is a virgin queen. You, my dear niece, are neither.”
Frances found her temper. “Jennet, are you saying this realm has room for only one woman who loves her books?”
“I am saying, sweetest clever girl, that your father and husband expect your embroidery to improve before your games of ciphering, though I do not ignore your skill at dancing—”
Laughing, Frances pulled Jennet along the planked floor toward the table, where a dozen guests gathered from leaseholds on Walsingham land rose to greet her. This was the quarter when rents were due, and like good tenants they had come to salute the landlord who treated them well.
She curtsied low. “My lord father and lord husband, gentlemen and ladies all, I beg your indulgence. Please you, forgive me the delay.”
Looking at her belly always in hopes of a grandson, her father asked, “Are you quite well, Frances? We have already read from our Bible and thanked the Lord in prayer for His bounty.”
She had missed little. Reading from the Bible before meals had once been her job, but now was rightfully Philip’s. She was lady of the house, and motioned to the servants to proceed serving their not quite steaming platters and bowls.
“Father, husband, I am as well as ever I have been.” She smiled at Philip, since he looked worried. “Lord husband,” she said, giving him a curtsy of his own. She had scoured her heart of any animus, though Lady Rich’s letter had opened the old wound slightly. “You must think me a forget-me-all, Philip, but I was gathering the royal post,” she said, handing the post across the wide table, first to her father and then to her husband.
She seated herself and took a dainty draft of ale, taking pleasure in knowing her father had received the new Venetian glasses from the double spy he had planted in the Serene Republic of Venice right inside the doge’s palace. A dangerous post. What would that be like? Would she have such courage?
Her head down, seeming to concentrate on the bowl of ox broth set before her, she saw Philip’s eyes open wide as he recognized the writing on his letter and quickly slipped it inside the full slashed sleeve of his scarlet doublet worn in the court fashion over one shoulder with a sleeve hanging empty. Though his thirty-first birthday was near, his clean-shaven face was impossibly youthful under light brown, curling hair. To her own surprise, she smiled at him, and his face relaxed when he saw it. She could not, at that moment, regret her marriage. Perhaps this was the way of love outside poesy. If not, why would there be such a thirst for love sonnets? Did one ever really want what one already had? She never would, she stoutly proclaimed in her thoughts, although she was not so foolish as to completely believe herself.
Stop! Frances commanded her wandering mind. She would but sadden herself, or a husband going to war. And she could not allow Philip to see her melancholy or he might begin to guess too much. Now that there was no hope of winning her husband’s love, she must stay true to herself and to what she wanted: gaining a place in her father’s service and proving to him that his only child, though not a son, was a worthy Walsingham for more than having brought a brilliant poet into the family.
“Frances, you have not been listening,” Jennet said.
“Of course I have, Aunt. You were speaking of the latest embroidery patterns from France.” It was a safe guess. “I cannot wait until I see them, all the tiny birds, flowers, and horned unicorns guarding virgins. How exciting!”
Jennet pursed her mouth, unbelieving. “You would do well to think so,” she murmured.
Frances raised her glass, nodding to their other guests, and motioned the servants forward with the fish course.
Her father’s shadowed eyes watched her, seeming to see into her, and she had to hold herself rigid to keep from shrinking or blurting her every misdeed. For a moment she pitied the poor, tortured wretches in the Tower who fell under his dark, knowing gaze. But his usually tight mouth relaxed. “Daughter, you seem almost breathless. You should rest yourself later.” He turned to Philip with a knowing, even demanding look that said: Give me a grandson.
“As you wish, lord father.” She bent to the fish course, motioning for her rapidly cooling broth to be taken away; then, though she seemed to concentrate on her plate and reached for her favorite salted radishes, she heard every w
ord her father said.
“Philip.” Walsingham turned to address his son-in-law.
“Sir,” Philip said, shoulders held rigidly, as if preparing himself for battle.
“I am assembling the greatest intelligencer network in the world,” Walsingham said, between taking bites of the deer meat he’d knifed from the platter in the old way. “The new pope, Sixtus the Fifth, is determined to regain all the territories lost to Protestantism, including England. Traitors are hiding everywhere in the land, thirsting for Her Majesty’s blood to make a place on England’s throne for that devilish woman Mary Stuart.”
Philip nodded, dipping good manchet bread into his pottage. “But, sir, you capture them and give them a traitor’s justice.”
“Aye, but there are too many of them. Traitors in the north country, and in France…and especially in Spain, intent upon conquering this island nation and installing the Inquisition. Spain has now taken Portugal and her large fleet and harbors, and all the new world flies the Spanish flag and fills her treasury with endless gold and silver. Philip, they mean to root out every last believer in the true Protestant religion.”
Sir Walsingham’s voice had risen, and a tense muscle jumped in his cheek. “English traitors are hugger-mugger in London, and some in the court itself!” He dropped his voice to a whisper, though Frances could yet hear him. “I have them close-watched in hopes they lead me to their fellow conspirators.” He picked up his knife and plunged it deep once more into the deer haunch stuffed with wren wings, as if to make sure it was quite dead.
“Sir,” Philip said in his softest voice, having heard every word more than once, “you have many good intelligencers helping to keep the queen safe.”
“It is true that I have good men in plenty, but never enough…never enough whom I trust.” He put down his knife and lowered his voice so much that Frances had to read his lips. “Philip, it is my firm wish that you join me. A poet would not be suspect by Mary’s agents.”
Frances could see that Philip was startled into a quick response, though she suspected it was well thought out, even practiced. “I thank you, sir, for your confidence in my poor power of poesy, but my duty to the queen lies elsewhere. Within days, I will take ship for Holland in advance of my uncle the Earl of Leicester’s army. The Spanish are preparing to invade the northern provinces. You and I will be doing the same duty for the crown, Sir Walsingham, you fighting the Inquisition here and I fighting Spain on the continent.”
Frances held her tongue when Philip glanced her way with a somewhat sheepish smile, since he had not told her this news. For an instant her heart slammed against her breast, as if she had not seen this information in Lady Rich’s letter. It was one thing to read, another to hear the words from Philip’s mouth. Now his imminent departure was made totally real.
Aware of their tenants looking on with curiosity, she raised her glass to him, acting the good, brave English wife sending her husband to war with eyes open and back straight. At least she was on his mind, for a short time. The sudden color rising in his cheeks told her that he knew he had been undutiful in not telling her earlier, and that was some recompense.
Why was he watching her? Did he think her some fainting lady? Had he forgotten her until this moment? That such thoughts still had the power to wound was maddening. She refused to survive as a broken heart, a pitiable creature to others and a burden to herself.
Walsingham nodded. “I understand a clever young man wanting to make his mark as a soldier, but I could use that man’s brains and daring.”
Philip smiled, shaking his head with humor. “Your pardon, sir, but I think the queen would not welcome me in her court again.” He smiled slyly, like a boy caught out in a mischief. “A few years ago I made the great mistake of writing the queen my true feelings about her intended French marriage to the Duc d’Alençon. Her Majesty does not receive unwanted advice well…or ever forget it.”
Sir Walsingham nodded without smiling. “I know that truly, Philip. Still, it is my duty to give such advice to her grace most every day.”
Frances stopped playing with her cold fish. Impatience had risen in her throughout this discourse. She could be docile no longer. “Your pardon, my lord father, but there are women with brains and courage. I am born of your blood and have skills….” Before she could offer herself to her father’s work, Philip laughed, and her father’s dark face darkened still more.
“Women intelligencers? Nay, daughter, women are too tenderhearted, unless they be whores, and then they can too easily be turned by gold.”
“But, lord father, allow me to show you—”
“I’ll hear no more on this matter, daughter. Have a care for our guests, as is a woman’s duty.”
Fearing tears, Frances stood and curtsied to the openmouthed tenants about the table, who were rubbing their necks after straining so hard to hear.
Jennet, always alert to her charge, stood and took her arm with a hard pinch.
Frances pulled away. “I am no longer a child, Aunt.”
“You do not act the lady withal, and I see the forward child come again.”
Frances took a deep, consoling breath. She would have to prove herself to Jennet, too.
Lady Frances curtsied again politely to her guests and moved quickly to the stairs. Every step out of the great hall and up the stairs was accompanied by a muttered vow: “Father, you will one day have your mind changed for you by a woman…by this woman.”
When she reached her bedchamber she threw herself on the bed, but refused to allow herself to dissolve in tears. If she did, her father would learn of it, and tears would prove to him that she was an empty-headed maid, unfit for work designed for men.
Her aunt entered but said nothing, busying herself picking up books and straightening them on the writing table with a disapproving smack of her lips.
Frances closed her eyes until the door opened and Jennet said softly, “Your lord husband is here, my lady.”
Frances heard her leave.
Philip approached, removing his doublet as he came to her bed, the doublet that held a letter from Penelope Rich. She heard the vellum crinkle as he laid the garment down. He had not thought to remove the missive.
He knelt upon her soft down mattress. “Here, my dear, drink this,” he said. “My physician says it is a tonic known to ensure a babe if drunk on the day of a new moon.”
His voice was soft but insistent.
Frances half sat up in bed and downed the bitter brew, still warm from the mixing. She made a face.
Philip looked sympathetic. “Forgive me, wife; I should have added some carvings from the sugar loaf.”
She wanted to tell him that it was not the bitter physic that near sickened her; it was the lost chance in her lifetime to adore and be adored. She had wanted desperately to love Philip, had expected that emotion to o’erwhelm her. Now she felt nothing but the duty a wife owed to a husband. She would now never know love. Her chance was gone, and it saddened her more than she could have expected.
Yet men were able to go from wife to other women. Philip could come to her bed and then hie to Lady Rich, ever hoping to gain her love by sheer, dogged devotion.
“Are your nether parts warming?” he asked, looking down on her with a hopeful expression that made her feel like one of his brood mares.
“Yes, husband,” she lied, crossing her fingers for a third time in one day.
He unlaced his codpiece and lifted her dress, quickly dispensing with endearments. His ready manhood had little to do with his heart. He would do his duty, plant his seed, and be gone.
Frances knew her wifely task. She moved and groaned to speed him, trying to give every appearance of wifely pleasure, which was his due, which was the due of any soldier going to war for queen and country. Oh, Philip, you are so blind. Don’t you know that there is so much more you could have of me? So much more…
He would not take the most she could give, but from his Stella he would take less and be grateful. She was
the woman he longed to gaze upon ere he sailed for Holland…the heav’n of Stella’s face.
He pushed and pushed until he emptied his seed into her, then fell to one side, panting until gradually quieting. “Wife, I did mean to tell you privily that I was leaving for Holland, but I waited long, not wanting to concern you overmuch…. You are too young to understand.”
Frances said none of the many things she could have said, only what she must. “Of course, Philip. You are ever careful to hide any hurt coming my way.”
She felt his head turn to her, but she did not satisfy the puzzlement that must be on his face. “I hope I gave you pleasure, husband,” she said, dutifully enough to please even Jennet.
“Of course, Frances. You need not ask. If you will only surrender these wild thoughts of yours and leave off plaguing your father about becoming”—he groaned, unable to say the word intelligencer—“you will please me greatly.”
“As you wish.”
“Good,” he said, sounding satisfied with his powers of persuasion.
She watched him relace his codpiece and, with a bow to her, take up his doublet, Stella’s letter crinkling in it like musket fire aimed at her heart. “I must oversee the rest of my packing. We will say good-bye in the morn.” He left, shutting her chamber door behind him.
Frances, her heart aching anew with the question of what could have been, felt aflame with unsatisfied desire for something…someone. She had not said the bitter words to Philip that she could have; nor would she ever act the hard-used shrew. Her heart would shrivel and become a parched and withered thing, good only for beating against her breast but not ever used for love. Let it be! She was numb to all emotion. In its place, she would live on within her head, where she found her pride.
Turning away from the door where he had left her, closing her away, she shut her eyes and, not to be denied, slipped her hand to the burning place and pleasured herself.
CHAPTER TWO
“‘Fool!’ said my Muse to me
