She bent and caught up the little brown and white spaniel chewing on the trailing train of her skirt and rushed over to the table by the window where a handsome gilt and ivory set of virginals sat. She set the little dog down upon the table beside the instrument and lifted a big, sprawling, fat orange cat from the chair and sat down and began to play, her fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys as the little dog began to yowl in time to the music. “Who’s a clever boy? Isn’t he wonderful? So talented, so clever!” Kate enthused, then turned smiling to me. “Now if I can only teach the others . . .we’ll have a whole choir! Just think, Mary, we might even be invited to court to entertain the King!”
I glanced over at Lord Herbert and saw that though this failed to fill him with delight, he nonetheless still forced himself to nod and smile out of indulgent affection for his bride.
Seeing the stunned expression frozen on my face, Henny took pity on me and offered to show me to my room, chidingly reminding Kate that I had only just arrived and as lady of the house she had neglected her first duty—to see to the comfort of her guests. But when Kate started to rise Henny stayed her with a motion of her hand. “Nay, love, Miss Mary and I are old friends. We’ll manage just fine. You stay ’ere and care for your poor ailing ’usband.” And, before Kate had a chance to protest, took me by the arm and hurried me toward the door just as Rosamund sat down before the virginals and, to Kate’s delight, began banging out a series of loud, discordant notes upon the ivory keys that set Fussy yowling and made Kate beam like a proud mother and praise them both for being “so brilliantly clever!”
Just before I reached the door, I tripped and would have fallen had Henny not caught me. I glanced down to see what I had stumbled over. I blinked my eyes and shook my head and wondered if the din had driven away my wits. There appeared to be a large tortoise staring up at me. His shell, unless I was very much mistaken, was set with a fortune in precious gems.
“Aye, my lady, doubt not your eyes,” Henny said as she took my hand again, explaining as we went, “ ’is name is Trippy. Miss Kate chose it on account of everybody always trippin’ over ’im. ’Tis another gift from the Earl of Pembroke; ’e dotes on so.” She shook her head and sighed, and I had the feeling that this troubled her more than she dared say, as though she feared putting it into words might somehow make it worse.
When the door closed behind us, I took the opportunity to warily ask, though I dreaded the answer and prayed it would not be the one I expected, “Is it always like this?”
“Aye, Lord save us, Miss Mary, it is, from morn till night Miss Katey—for that she still is to me and always will be—is chattering away, singing, and bouncing off the walls; I ’ave to give ’er a strong dose o’ valerian, lavender, and chamomile every night just to calm ’er down enough to sleep. Last thing I do every night before I lay me ’ead down, and first thing on rising, I pray that the Good Lord will see fit to move the Duke of Northumberland to send word that they may consummate their marriage, for if mother’ood doesn’t settle our Kate down, Lord only knows what will, for I certainly don’t!”
“Oh dear!” I sighed. I had so wanted to come to Baynard’s Castle, to be with Kate, but now that I was there, I was half wishing the invitation had come from Jane instead; though she was moody and sulky, and I would soon be pining for the sunshine of Kate’s presence, it would no doubt be quieter in the country in comparison to this combination menagerie and madhouse. Kate had always been bubbly and exuberant, but under our parents’ roof, where our lady-mother ruled with a riding crop she was not afraid to use on our bare buttocks and backs if we misbehaved, there had always been an element of caution and restraint; now that had been cast off and, in the presence of two men ready and eager to spoil her and indulge her every whim, Kate had become a whirlwind of giddy wildness and nervous energy.
I heard the sound of breaking glass and winced as the dogs and birds raised their voices even louder. “Naughty Percival!” Kate cried. “Look at him, Berry! He has stolen the cherries and dropped and broken the bowl! Come here, you naughty monkey, and let me see that you have not cut yourself! Quick! Someone catch him! He’s climbing the curtains! Down, Percival, down! You naughty, naughty monkey, I swear, one of these days I really will have to spank you! No, no, Rosamund, you mustn’t play with the broken glass! Give that to me at once, you naughty girl! Quick! Somebody catch her!”
As the clamor behind the door grew even louder, with the parrot determined to outshout them all with his incessant demands for another cherry, I sighed and had to wonder if, when the time came for me to quit Baynard’s Castle, I would leave my mind behind to join the clutter in Kate’s parlor.
Over the next week, every day I bore witness to such scenes. The entire household seemed to revolve around Kate; pleasing her seemed to be the entire household’s sole purpose in life. Her husband and father-in-law were like rivals to see who could spoil her most. On chilly mornings when Kate rose from her bed, her shift-clad body was instantly enveloped in a robe of purest white ermine. At every meal the table was laid with her favorite foods, and there was always a dessert as pretty as it was delicious to please her. The Earl of Pembroke was always giving her pets, songbirds in gilded cages, and new puppies and kittens, and he had given her all his late wife’s jewels and was constantly buying her more. If Kate admired a sunset, the very next day a bolt of shimmering satin evoking its color would arrive in the arms of the dressmaker, ready to fashion whatever gown, cloak, or petticoat that would please Kate best, or a jeweler would come and open a velvet box to reveal a magnificent fire opal, ready to be set in a ring, pendant, or brooch, whichever Kate fancied most. If perchance, whilst strolling in the garden, she happened to enthuse about the beauty of the flowers blooming there, a jeweler would soon come bearing some beautiful bauble that captured them in an eternal sparkling bouquet of costly and precious gems. The dressmaker came to Baynard’s Castle so often she might as well have set up shop there and hung her shingle from the upstairs parlor window.
Every day brought fresh delights for Kate. Packages arrived every day for her. And, more times than I could count, I saw the Earl of Pembroke sit Kate upon his knee and hang a fortune in jewels about her throat, stroking and caressing her neck and adjusting the necklace and smoothing it down in front to ensure that it lay just right; other times I would watch him pin a brooch to her bodice, though I wished he wouldn’t do that as it quite unnerved me the way his long, elegant fingers casually grazed my sister’s small, pert breasts and seemed to linger there inordinately long. It just didn’t seem right—she was his son’s wife—but when I tried to timidly broach the subject with Kate she just laughed and shrugged it off. “Better that my in-laws adore than despise me, Mary. Now come,” she would wheedle and cajole. “Smile and don’t spoil it for me! Don’t be sour and serious like Jane!” And Henny told me that the Earl of Pembroke always came into Kate’s bedchamber every night, after she was already abed, to kiss her good night, standing proxy for his son as it was feared that Berry’s “youth was insufficient to overpower and restrain his lust.”
Kate took great delight in flirting outrageously with both father and son. Being older now, as I look back, I can better understand that she found the effect her feminine wiles had on these men heady and empowering, exhilarating; she was reveling in these new sensations, like a monarch drunk on power, only it was her beauty that intoxicated. But back then, when I was only eight, as I watched it all unfold before my youthful eyes, I felt only confusion and a deep, persistent fear that tightened like a noose around my throat and made it hard at times for me to breathe. But still my beautiful, vivacious sister flounced provocatively from the arms of one straight into the other. She was so free with her kisses and embraces, I prayed every night that God would grant her the will and good sense to better govern and restrain herself. She loved finding excuses to lift her skirts to show off her pretty ankles and sometimes, even more boldly, her knees, and give a glimpse of the plump and rosy flesh above her garters. Whenever
Henny was helping her dress, primly tugging her bodice up high to show less bosom and cover the curves of her shoulders, Kate would stubbornly push and pull it back down. More than once, when she was down on her hands and knees playing with her pups, I noticed both father and son staring raptly at her bosom. But it did no good to voice my concerns to Kate. Every time I tried to talk to her about it, she would pout and implore me not to spoil it. “I’m just having fun!” she would insist. “Where is the harm in that?”
Sometimes, in the morning when she rose, Kate would summon her “darling Berry” to sit and keep her company while she made her toilette. He had given her a beautiful Venetian glass hand mirror; the handle was shaped like a mermaid, her tail and person beautifully jeweled and enameled, and her long golden hair, adorned with pearls and precious gems, flowed up, as though it were floating, spread out and billowing in the sea, to encircle and frame the costly glass. Kate had a shimmering seaweed green silk dressing gown, and she loved to let it slip from her shoulders as she sat at her dressing table and pool around her slender waist. There she would sit, like a mermaid sunning herself on a rock, brazenly bare breasted, leisurely brushing her hair, sighing and arching her back, and admiring her reflection in the glass while Berry gazed adoringly at her, discreetly drawing the folds of his own dressing gown tighter over his lap, as the cool morning air caused Kate’s little coral pink nipples to stiffen. I noticed, to my dismay, which, by her worried face I could see Henny also shared, that when the Earl casually strolled in, Kate showed no concern and made no attempt to cover herself. The Earl of Pembroke would cross the room to stand behind her, and lay a hand on her bare shoulder as he gazed down long and admiringly, before at last bending to kiss her cheek and bid her good morning. Once he even brought a rope of pearls, a magnificent lustrous strand shimmering with hints of gold and green, and bent to drape it around her neck, saying as he did so, “Pearls for our pearl, but we must take care that this enchanting siren does not lure us to our deaths and doom.” Though they seemed spoken only in playfulness then, given what came after, my memory always wants to tint them a more ominous shade. Such are the tricks of memory, which is why any writing their recollections many years later must take care.
Another time, I was there while Kate was lounging in her bath when Berry and his father came in, without knocking, each bearing a big straw basket filled with red and white rose petals—a coincidence or a subtle reminder of Kate’s Tudor heritage?—which they upended over Kate’s head. She sat up in the bath, bare breasted and bold, laughing, and stretched up her arms, urging them to bend down so that she might kiss them.
Though I know, even as my pen records these memories, these things sound so lewd, and my beautiful sister appears a heedless wanton, yet I cannot bear that any who read this might think of my sister in these lascivious terms. It is so hard to explain! But there was such an aura of innocence and blind trust about her as she did these things, my heart breaks all over again to recall it. Even though Kate clearly encouraged them, and most eagerly too, it is the men I blame most; in my eyes they were the despoilers of her innocence. Though she was growing into a beautiful, shapely woman, more so every day, her nakedness was like that of a baby—natural, sweet, and pure. But no matter how hard Henny and I tried, Kate simply could not understand how some might construe her behavior, how it could tar and feather her reputation forever and make people think her something she was not, and it might even lead some men to believe they could freely dally and trifle with her and treat her body like their own toy. Each time she would stare back at us, befuddled, with a quizzical frown crinkling her brow. To Kate it was all “good fun,” and she simply could not comprehend how anyone could see it any other way; if they did, they were the ones who were lewd, not her, she insisted.
I didn’t know how to say it without hurting her or seeming ungrateful and unkind, but, as much as I had wanted to come there, I now wanted to leave Baynard’s Castle even more. I felt always a sick and queasy dread, like one standing beside a scaffold must feel, hoping, praying for a reprieve, while waiting to watch a loved one die. I felt such a great fear for Kate it tainted everything and sucked all pleasure out of life. My appetite deserted me, and many a time though I loved a certain dish and thought I wanted or even craved it, the moment it was set before me, fancy fled and queasiness took its place, and I could not bear to look at it let alone eat it. The very air seemed bad to me, and when I overheard the Earl of Pembroke telling his son that the young king was ailing, with “a cough and rheum following a mild attack of measles” and that his feet were swollen and he “ejects from his mouth matter sometimes colored a greenish yellow or sometimes the color of blood or even black,” I didn’t wonder at it. It seemed a very marvel to me that the whole of London wasn’t ailing, infected with the same fear and malaise that beset me.
Another sleepless night when I desired a book from the library, I overheard the Earl entertaining a late night guest—the Duke of Northumberland. They were talking about Jane, and I heard Northumberland say: “She has imbibed the Reformed Religion with her milk and is married in England to a husband of wealth and probity, and the King holds her in the highest esteem for her learning and zealous piety. In time, she could be the thunderbolt and terror of the Papists.” Even though they were praising my sister—Jane would have particularly liked that last bit—their words frightened me. They were plotting something, and I knew it, and I was so afraid they were going to do something that would hurt Jane more than a forced marriage to Guildford Dudley ever could.
Then, like the answer to my prayers, letters came flying like frantic doves from Surrey. Apparently its bucolic splendor had little effect on Jane. The newlyweds were scarcely settled in at Sheen before she fell ill. In a hasty hand, she dashed off frantic letters to “my sisters, the only ones I can trust,” imagining herself being poisoned upon the orders of Northumberland. Though why her new father-in-law would want her dead I could not even imagine. Surely Guildford didn’t find Jane so disagreeable that he must resort to murder in order to be rid of her? In a hysterical scrawl that sprawled across the tear-blurred pages, she told us how her skin was itching so abominably that she had to sit on her hands to keep herself from scratching it off, and even without the intervention of her nails, it was sloughing off on its own, peeling away in great flaky patches and strips that revealed a smooth, burning, tender redness beneath, and her hair was falling out, every time she ran her fingers through it, they emerged dripping with long chestnut strands, and she could keep no nourishment within her stomach, which ached inside and out, as though it contained a great, tight knot, both hot and tender, and whenever she tried to eat, one or the other end would soon disgorge it, leaving her even more sick and weak and sore. She said she spent hours, agonizing hours, squatting over a chamber pot with a basin balanced on her lap, never knowing from which end the sickness would erupt, and her belly and bottom ached so as a result she could hardly stand it; each expulsion brought fresh torment. “I will die if I stay at Sheen!” she insisted, underlining the words with such force that the pen bit through the page.
After a fortnight at Sheen, our parents and Jane’s newly acquired in-laws finally gave in to her complaining and transferred the young couple to the handsome redbrick Thames-side manor of Chelsea, where Jane had spent such happy times with the Dowager Queen Catherine Parr. There it was hoped that nestled amongst the pink roses, lavender, strawberries, and peach and cherry trees Jane would recover her health and blossom like a rose, “all velvety, pink, and sweet, the better to tempt Guildford to pluck.” Northumberland hoped the young couple “might become one soon,” and by that time he wanted that young lady “restored to the full bloom of health and beauty.”
But all Jane did was sit on a bench in the garden or park, staring morosely at the pink orange sunsets, sighing and lamenting the loss of Catherine Parr, and, I am sure, in the most secret depths of her heart, that handsome rogue, Tom Seymour, though in all the years since whenever I had dared remind her of that
time, Jane’s temper would erupt and she would stamp her foot and angrily rail that it was cruel of me to remind her of that girlish folly she had let befoul and besmirch her soul when all she wanted to do was forget her “wretched foolishness.”
“Why can you not understand?” She would round on me, angry tears falling from her eyes. “It is a stain on my soul I can never wash clean no matter how hard I try!” Then with her hands pressed to her temples as though she wished to crush her skull to kill every memory of Thomas Seymour that still lurked there, she would dramatically flee the room.
I never could understand it; we all make fools of ourselves at one time or another in our lives, and each of us harbors memories that make us cringe, humiliating instances that cause our faces to flush red with the flame of shame or embarrassment, but why did my sister think it was such a crime to let a little love, however unworthy the recipient of it was, into her life? Why did my sister believe that feelings were a sign of weakness and failure? Why did she aspire to be like a pure and perfect white marble saint instead of a woman pulsing with life, love, and longings?
Even though I am her sister, I cannot say for certain, only that I sometimes think that Jane was afraid to be real and imperfect, and this inspired her futile and impossible quest for perfection; she spent her whole short life chasing a dragon she could never conquer and slay.
4
My mind was already pondering how I might best persuade our lady-mother to let me go and stay with Jane, to help nurse her back to health, when Kate bounded into my bedchamber one morning and shook me from my sleep as she shouted for Hetty to hurry and pack a trunk for me.
“Wake up, Mary!” she urged, shaking me insistently. “We’re going to see Jane!”
Before I was even fully roused, she was skipping off, calling back over her shoulder that we would breakfast on strawberries and cream in the barge on our way to Chelsea.
Brandy Purdy Page 16
