by Jeane Westin
When he returned to the carriage, Frances noticed that he moved with a slight stiffness, different from the one caused by her father’s swollen joints. Pauley swung his right leg so that it bent but little at the knee. He stopped at the manor entrance and picked up a bundle. The object was wrapped in an old doublet, which fell away to reveal an ivory-inlaid Italian-style guitar with a slightly curved head. Pauley hesitated outside the carriage.
Surely the man did not presume to ride inside with her.
With a flourish, Pauley bowed to Frances, assisting her into the carriage first, and with similar courtesy handing Jennet inside and waiting as she took the far seat beside her niece. “Lady Sidney, if it please you, may I leave my instrument in the carriage, since I think a westerly rain is coming on?”
He carried his bundle as if it were a newborn babe. Truly, it would be ungracious to refuse him so small a request. She nodded.
He laid the guitar flat on the unoccupied seat facing her, his doublet fastened around the instrument. For a moment he kept a loving, protective hand on the fretboard before bowing to Frances and climbing up on the wheel to sit above. The driver called to the horses, the whip cracked, and the carriage lurched forward toward the London Road.
For a moment, Frances wondered how a commoner had come to own an instrument of such quality. So, who was he? Intelligencers had secrets to sell, but if Pauley could not be trusted, surely her father would not keep him. She would discover Pauley’s secret by careful questioning.
They were scarcely out of sight of Barn Elms when the rain began, not an on-and-off misty summer shower, but a downpour that quickly turned the dusty road into a bog.
Pauley’s guitar bounced toward the edge of the seat, and she reached for it.
“What are you doing?” Aunt Jennet asked.
“I would not have such a beautiful instrument damaged.”
“Then the man should take it with him.”
“In this rain? Jennet, I could not countenance such destruction.”
Frances pounded on the ceiling and the coach stopped. “Master Pauley, please come inside.” At Jennet’s look of disapproval, Frances added, “You’ll be of little use to me if you contract consumption.”
“I thank you, my lady,” Pauley said, opening the door and bowing, rain running from his large-brimmed hat and sealskin cloak. He grasped the top of the door and swung inside.
She handed him his guitar.
“Thank you for your care of it, my lady. It was my father’s.” He began to shiver, but clenched his shoulders to control it.
She could see the resolve in his eyes and on his unyielding face. Where did a servant get such strength and assurance, and how did he have a father who could give such a rare gift? Her curiosity was aroused. Pauley’s fine features, his educated speech, and now this show of family pride marked him as from a good family of some consequence. He could be the by-blow of a shire knight or even of some higher lineage. But that stiff leg? She hardly realized that she was staring at him.
He answered her unspoken curiosity with no timidity. “Lady Frances, my leg was broken and badly set. When I was an apprenticed lad a loaded ale wagon rolled over me and a barber-surgeon was not called. I set it myself.” He smiled. “And discovered I had no skill for the work.”
She flushed at being caught out in her impolite and personal curiosity. He set it himself! She could not imagine it. “I am sorry for your pain, sir.”
Jennet pinched her, and Frances realized that she had given him a courtesy his station did not merit. But his bearing, his temperate, correct speech did. They no longer seemed bold, as she had first thought…. She must remember to be less hasty in her judgment.
“You are kind, Lady Sidney,” Pauley said. “I am limited in no way. Better you know, since I am to be in your service…except for special duties for your father.”
Aunt Jennet now sat in rigid, disapproving silence, often casting warning looks at Frances for being in such personal conversation with a male servant.
Frances ignored the warning. She was a married woman going to court. It was past time to escape her nurse’s constant scolding. “Can you play your guitar in this jouncing carriage? I have never heard such a fine instrument as you have.”
Pauley nodded so eagerly that his hat slipped to his lap, exposing hair as black and curling as her own. He smiled and unwrapped the instrument, and she saw it had five double strings in the Italian style. Holding it gently, he began to play and sing in a baritone soft and rich enough to lull Jennet into sleep.
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn her merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat…
“Under the Greenwood Tree” was a tender song Frances had always loved, and today, of all days, it brought tears to her eyes. Mothers sang it to their babes, and young lovers sang it to each other. She could barely remember her mother, and Philip had never walked with her under the greenwood trees. She didn’t even know whether he could sing.
Frances blinked and turned her head toward the passing fields glimpsed between the curtains hung to keep out the dust billowing up from the wheels, or as today, the rain. She must have a care and refuse to sink into self-pity, which could age a woman faster than years.
Pauley stopped playing, concern showing on his face. “I did not mean to sadden you, my lady. Forgive my poor playing. I have been in France and admit to being unpracticed of late.”
Now she saw something comforting in his manner, though by no means was it the fawning way of some servants. It was a positive attitude that invited confidence. She smiled, yet kept her mouth firmly shut on all her thoughts.
She waved her hand, dismissing his apology. “Not so, Master Pauley. You are very skilled at the instrument.”
“Is there something I can play to improve your sad humor?”
“I am not in a sad humor; I am merely thoughtful of my new position with the queen,” she said, determined to crowd out the heartache that she was surprised to feel, and even more surprised to hear he understood. She would not mourn a husband who did not love her, or long for more than she had.
Jennet, awake again, had heard more than enough. “Frances, let us have silence, I beg you,” she said; yet as they complied, she almost instantly nodded off into a slack-mouthed, snore-filled slumber.
Frances looked at Pauley and they shared muffled amusement, then sat silent for a time as the carriage slowed for a stream crossing, the downpour having ceased. But she could manage only so long in her own thoughts without conversation to distract her, especially since this Robert Pauley intrigued her. He had the carved features of noble descent to go with his speech. There was a story there, and any good spy would want to discover it.
She did not sleep easily, as Jennet did, or close her mind against the crack of the driver’s whip and the snorting of horses dragging the heavy carriage along a road never free of ruts even in high summer.
He didn’t break the silence again until he smiled at a particularly loud, rumbling snore from the older woman. “Is there any place where your good nurse cannot find deep sleep?”
“I have never found such a place,” Frances said softly, smiling as his sense of the comical met hers.
“Yet it seems your aunt can sleep in a jouncing carriage and you cannot, so the talent is not in the blood.” He grinned, showing white, even teeth that suggested he must use the best tooth cloths from France. “I truly wish I could do more for your comfort, my lady.”
“You could tell me about the special duties you perform for my father.”
His gaze became cautious and his voice dropped to little more than a murmur she strained to hear. “What do you wish to know?”
“Are you an intelligencer? What did you do in France? Do you know Thomas Phelippes, the cipherer?” She pulled the Steganographia from the pocket under her kirtle. “I study this at every opportunity, and I long to talk with Dr. Dee about his grille ciphers. Do you know them? Do
you know him?” She ran out of breath before she ran out of questions.
“My lady, you have a great curiosity.”
He did not smile, but answered her seriously. She liked him the better for that.
“Yes, I have read Trithemius,” he said. “I know Dr. Dee and Thomas Phelippes. As to my work, I cannot discuss that, as you must know, but I have your father’s trust or he would not have made me courier to our Paris embassy…or have placed me in your service.”
She held up the Steganographia. “You’ve read this book?”
“Aye. In the Latin, my lady.”
She was startled.
“I see that surprises you.”
“A little,” she admitted, rather than tell an obvious untruth. But his knowledge of Latin was unusual. A servant who was educated above even some with noble titles was…well, unheard-of. There was no way to question him without prying, and he was already looking at her with some amazement.
“Lady Frances, please you, allow me…if your father had a son with such a questioning mind, I would have little employment.”
He was trying to be kind, but she would not have it. “Master Pauley, as you see, my father has a daughter with such a mind and a longing for knowledge and occupation.” Her voice was too loud, so she softened it, not wishing to awaken Jennet to certain reproof. “That is, if he would but recognize that I can reason and would put my gift to good use.”
“I see that you, like every man, want your talent to be recognized.”
She sensed that he had left something unsaid. And a lack overlooked. His leg and his low birth had hindered him, as being a woman had limited her life. She did not speak the thought, or need to. She saw in his steady gaze that Robert Pauley could see and understood.
Robert tried to keep his gaze on the passing countryside, but he could think of nothing but the young woman who sat across from him. How could her husband seek the reluctant and overused favors of Lady Rich, when he had this astonishingly beautiful and intelligent woman to wife? He wanted to touch her to satisfy his curiosity about her skin. Was it as soft as it looked, or was there steel there, the same steel that flashed from her eyes when she spoke of ciphering?
Her mouth, even when set in anger, had a touch of amusement showing in the way it turned up above a pointed chin. Her high forehead was partly covered with very dark curls blown about into a most becoming tangle above large, pale, clear gray eyes with dreams locked inside. She did not wear the white Mask of Youth or the red wig that were so fashionable, but she was all the more beautiful for being herself. He realized that he was staring fully at her now, and abruptly ruled his face into that of a polite servant, although he had never properly managed that downcast gaze.
“My lady, the court will be very lively in the next months. The Earl of Essex is attending upon the queen.” He hesitated, wondering whether he should tell her that her husband’s lover would come to court at Christmastide, and decided the lady Frances should not be taken by surprise. It was in his power to keep her from the humiliation that the court would anticipate seeing in her face. “And I understand the Baroness Rich will be appearing before Her Majesty with the Earl of Leicester’s players.”
“Women are not players,” she said.
“If Her Majesty requests, they are players, my lady.”
Her face showed no emotion at his answer, and he wondered at her resolve, at her composure beyond her years. Or was it indifference? Why did he think it, or wish it?
As the curtains bounced about in the rocking coach, sunlight slanted in, lighting the hollows of her cheeks and throat. To his mind she was far lovelier than Lady Rich, whose life of being adored had left her face somewhat used and empty, a hollow beauty. This lady was alive with a curious intelligence and, he thought, quiet courage.
He did not wonder that Sir Walsingham had kept his daughter from court, the lascivious court that Queen Elizabeth swore brought credit to her name because she chose to think so. The truth was always difficult for Her Majesty, if it wasn’t her truth. He could see at a glance that Lady Frances was a rather cheerless young woman, despite being married to the man every woman in the realm thought the greatest lover. If that were true, Lady Sidney’s face would not be so searching, looking for a thing she did not have, perhaps did not know.
He would keep her in close sight during her time at court, where the titled hounds were certain to sniff out such delicious prey, especially the Earl of Essex, the leader of the pack. And if Robert had it in his power, he would bring a smile to her face when he could. But he would have to be clever. Lady Frances was a Walsingham born and would accept no pity. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.
The spymaster had not ordered him to guard her past this day, but he would take that future task upon himself. He did not question this desire. He did not dare plumb why he cared. She was little more to him than a beautiful face, enough for most men. Still, she had luminous eyes that looked on him with understanding, and a voice that enveloped him even in this rattling carriage.
He sensed that she was a woman who needed his caring. Later, he might question the wisdom of this decision, but he could not when she was turned to the window, the curve of her cheek showing a lonely melancholy that he understood as if it were his own.
Frances knew Robert Pauley was watching her. That was his current mission. How wonderful to have a servant, a companion in truth, who played music and sang to her. It would lighten her heart. She must remember to thank her father.
They rode on toward London and Whitehall, smelling the too-human scent of a crowded London and the river Thames long before they reached the city’s gate, plunging deep into the throngs of merchants, women with their maids and shopping baskets watched closely by thieves and doxies. Many houses along the way sported the greenery of a tavern serving the double ale allowed by the queen, although the more popular double-double had been banned, a prohibition that Frances doubted was strictly observed.
Both Lady Frances and her servant were sunk profoundly deep into their own thoughts, avoiding any exchange that might reveal more than they already had. Once again they assumed the roles of mistress and servant only.
CHAPTER THREE
“He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his, because in me it bides….”
—Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney
Late August
WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON
Frances awoke with lines from one of Philip’s sonnets in her head. What had put them there?
Last evening she had been busy settling into her new rooms, which were small but adequate, until she had gone to her new bedchamber and immediately slept, still with the sense of jouncing about in the carriage. Today she would face the queen for the first time as a woman. Taking a deep breath and with a final smoothing of her pale green satin gown and a tug of her brocade bodice, Frances walked into the anteroom of the royal apartments. She carried her head high, though she was somewhat angry that Robert Pauley had been nowhere in evidence when she had needed him that morning. He had left flowers for her rooms, but no explanation for his absence, no by-your-leave. She did not know what to make of such behavior in a servant who obviously did not think or act like one. Perhaps she had been too friendly in the carriage, as Aunt Jennet had warned. She determined not to make that mistake again.
Frances took a deep breath and composed her face, knowing it would not do to scowl at Queen Elizabeth.
The royal antechamber with its gilt ceiling was hung high with rich arras tapestries portraying unicorn hunting scenes. On one end wall hung a huge portrait of the queen’s father, Henry VIII, displaying his monstrous codpiece and powerful thighs. On another wall hung a scene of the queen’s ancestors, fading into dim history all the way back to Adam and Eve. That would mean that she, Frances Walsingham Sidney, was a quite distant cousin of the queen, since her father’s historians had paid for a similar pedigree, as had many English gentlemen.
The overwarm antecham
ber was full of the queen’s gentleman pensioners and hopeful petitioners, sweating perfume. No wonder it was said the queen held a pomander to her nose and rarely set it aside.
In some near chamber the boys of the Chapel Royal choir sang in their high, clear voices, casting the net of God’s approval over the queen’s morning activities.
Frances paused to listen at the huge double doors leading to the inner royal chamber, and gathered her breath to think through her next steps.
The doors swung open and the guard announced, “Lady Sidney, Your Majesty.”
Elizabeth, crowned and wearing a magnificent white satin gown laden with pearls of every size and luminous hue, sat at a large writing table facing Frances. The Earl of Leicester and Mr. Secretary Walsingham stood by the queen with armfuls of dispatches and warrants for her to sign with the goose quill she had in hand.
Though Frances kept her eyes half cast down, she could see that the great Gloriana was no longer young. Her skin was lightened with egg white, vinegar, and white lead, the application she called her Mask of Youth. She had outlived many who had started her reign with her, yet her eyes were as bright as the diamonds she wore, her legs strong and her wit stronger.
Frances knew she was in a presence, and the others who sought the queen’s favor knew the same; even Frances’s father looked subdued.
By his worried glance, it was obvious to Frances that he feared his daughter might trip on her new wooden heels and sprawl before the queen in a quite undignified heap, to his shame.
That made Frances even more determined to show herself graceful.
The queen looked up with interest and waved Frances forward.
“Ah, yes…‘My true love hath my heart, and I have his,’” said the queen, quoting from Philip’s verses. Her Majesty’s gaze was turned to Leicester, still her favorite, though gray showed in his dark beard and his doublet stretched tight across a thickening waist. Still, in the earl Frances could see the remnants of the splendid youth whom the queen must have known and must yet see.
