City of Ladies

by Sarah Kennedy

  “Do not speak of my husband.”

  “Then I speak of the younger brother of my old university acquaintance.” Benjamin belched quietly and patted his stomach. “He struggles, Catherine. Trying to fill his brother’s boots without becoming a lickspittle to the king. You are quicker than he is. I hope you are not too Papist as well. The first will make William Overton a better man. The second will make him a widower.”

  Catherine looked around for the serving staff, but she was quite alone with Benjamin. “I have to be up before the sun,” she said, standing. “I will retire.”

  “You needn’t go so quickly,” said Benjamin, examining her over his goblet. “You are no servant, down with the sun.” He stood and moved to offer his arm.

  Catherine made herself smile. “In this house, that may be true. At Hatfield, I am a servant indeed. It is time Eleanor was in bed. I must fetch her.” She rose but he did not move away.

  He breathed deeply. “You do not smell of incense. You smell of roses.” His face was close to hers and his presence made her guts flutter. “You must not do anything that stinks of treason. Your husband will not be able to withstand it. Nor will you, despite your wits.”

  Catherine backed away. “You need not worry on that account. The Lady Mary is the king’s daughter as well as the Lady Elizabeth, and I will care for them as instructed.”

  “A politic answer, Catherine, as usual. If your husband were as skillful a navigator of rough waters as you, he would be an Earl by now.”

  “Goodnight, Benjamin.” Catherine curtsied slightly, her eyes on the floor. “Please don’t feel you need to rise in the morning to see us off. We will go very early.”

  “Goodnight, Lady Catherine. But I will see you off. I would never forgive myself if I were not there to set you onto your steed.”

  25

  Catherine lay awake most of the night, listening to the beams and rafters of the house creak in the wind. The baby gave a thin wail, and she rose silently, lifted the child from the cradle, and, sliding back between the sheets, fed her until the baby dropped back into sleep. The moon was high and its broad face drew Catherine to the window. The narrow back courtyard was empty, and she leaned her forehead against the glass until she felt the cold in her bones and returned to bed. Still she could not sleep. She thought she heard soft footsteps in the hall outside her door and sat up, sweating. The steps seemed to stop. A hand on the latch. Catherine stared through a crack in the curtains across the dark. Held her breath. She thought she had locked herself in, but keys were surely downstairs for anyone who knew how to get them. The latch seemed to click once, but the door did not open. A slight shushing faded down the hall, and Catherine was left to thrash the night away, alone with her thoughts, then with her dreams of Mary Tudor, who seemed to be speaking in her ear, though Catherine could not understand the words.

  “Madam?” It was Eleanor, standing in her nightgown by the bedside. Dawn was just fingering the eastern sky. “Is Veronica well?”

  Catherine rubbed her eyes, but they were still hot and itchy. She lifted the cover. Her daughter was curled against her side, breathing quietly. “She’s fine. It was too cold to leave her in her cradle.”

  Eleanor plopped herself onto the bed, and petted Veronica’s curls. “Babies do best by their mothers’ sides.”

  “Did you hear anything last night?” Catherine scratched at her scalp, trying to waken.

  “I slept like a stone. I dreamt that we were on a ship, and a storm rolled in from the far sea. The waves rocked us and rocked us, and Veronica laughed. I wasn’t afraid.”

  Catherine smiled. “You’re more anchored than some these days, Eleanor. I feel that I have not slept thirty minutes, though I seem to have done so.” She crawled from the bed and splashed her face with stale water from the ewer. “We must leave this house.”

  “Forever?”

  “For now. We will stay at Hatfield tonight.”

  “Will they have us? So soon?”

  Someone rapped on the door, and Diana Davies called, “Catherine? Are you awake?”

  Catherine nodded, and Eleanor opened up for her. The girl was dressed, waiting until Catherine motioned to her. She slipped inside and spotted the baby in the bed. “She is just tiny. May I hold her, please?”

  “Do you know how?” asked Catherine. Diana shook her head, and Catherine demonstrated, lifting the baby with one hand behind her head. “You see? Like this so that her neck does not give way. Her bones are not fully formed yet.”

  The girl allowed Catherine to transfer the infant into her hands, and pulled the small body up against her own. “They are like small flowers,” she said. “I won’t crush her, will I?”

  “I believe she will let you know straight away if you squeeze too tightly,” said Catherine.

  Diana backed up until her shins found the seat of the rocking chair, and she lowered herself into it. Veronica continued to sleep, and the girl relaxed the baby onto her lap. “You do not believe in swaddling?”

  “I do not see that it does infant or mother well. There are books that say babies grow as well with their arms and legs free. Better, even.”

  Diana nodded, solemn. She took the baby’s left foot in her hand and the tiny pink toes curled against her finger. “Your husband has gone to get your son?”

  “So he says.” Catherine peeled off her damp nightdress and washed her breasts and under her arms. She could feel Diana staring at her woman’s body and pinched her side. “You see what two children will do to your waistline.” She dried with a bath sheet and pulled on a fresh shift. Eleanor helped her with her corset, and she lifted her breasts to settle them into place. “It will do wonders for your bosom, though, at least for a few months.”

  Diana giggled and Eleanor helped Catherine with her sleeves. She brushed out her hair and fixed it at the back of her head before situating a fresh coif. Diana watched the whole process, her hand in her own hair as Eleanor worked Catherine’s, and finally said, “There is no one to show me what to do.”

  “Get you a husband,” said Eleanor. “He’ll show you.”

  Catherine elbowed her in the ribs and Eleanor yelped.

  “He will show you to a big belly, for sure,” said Catherine, rising from the dressing table, “but do you know any man who can show a woman what to do once she gets it?”

  “The belly?” asked Eleanor. “No, Madam, you win the wager there. Most of the men I know flee when they see a woman in full sail coming their way.”

  Diana’s face was white, with blooms of red on the cheeks.

  Catherine put her hand on the girl’s arm. “Have we shocked you? Forgive us. We are from the wild north, and I am bred from women who did not hold their tongues.”

  “But I want to hear how women talk. My father will not let me converse with our servants, and I have no aunt or cousin near me. I feel a prisoner here. I talk more to the dog and my lute-master than to any other person. And he is ancient and decayed.”

  “The dog?” asked Eleanor.

  “No.” Diana laughed. “My lute-master. He has whiskers like an old cat.”

  “Then you must clip them,” said Catherine, powdering her cheeks. “Here, let me do you up.” She dabbed Diana’s skin. Then she loosened the girl’s hair and rebound it so that it showed off her smooth forehead better. “Bite your lips and they will be redder. There. You are ready for court.”

  “Tell me about the convent,” said Diana. She put her fingertips gently against her chin, skimming the powder. “Tell me what the women did there. Were you great scholars? Did you keep lovers under your beds?” She was breathing hard, and the red spots in her face were even brighter.

  “Oh, yes, we kept the men for a month or so each, and when we tired of them, we whipped them down the road with our beads. We liked to keep them tied upside down by the legs like chickens.” Catherine sat back and smiled. “You don’t believe that, do you? In all soberness, we were scholars, as much as we were able. We prayed for the villagers and taught the
small children. Some embroidered and sang, those who could. I was a tragic seamstress. I made books and tended the sick. I kept a great garden.” Veronica began to squirm, and Catherine took her. “And I kept not even one lover under the gooseberry bushes.”

  Diana whispered, “It sounds to me like heaven, but my father would beat me for saying so.”

  “Then do not say so,” said Catherine, “at least not out loud. But you must study your letters and your music because you can never tell when you will need them.” A bell sounded downstairs, and they all stood. “Eleanor and I must go break our fast.”

  Diana held Catherine back by the hand, her face strained and earnest. “You will not leave me, will you? Alone with my father? He is a good man and kind to me. But please tell me you will stay and teach me all about the communities of women.”

  Catherine opened her mouth, but the bell rang again, and her name was called from below. “I must not betray your father’s trust, but if you can get his permission, you may come with us. Only with his blessing, though, do you mark me? I will not be called a child-snatcher as well as a witch.”

  26

  The road seemed shorter this day. Benjamin Davies had lifted Catherine into her saddle, requiring her promise to visit before he would let go of her waist, and Catherine set her pony at a trot as they turned from his house. Men were to follow with her belongings, and before she and Eleanor were fully on the road, with Benjamin’s horse master at their side, Catherine could see the small caravan behind them. The day shone fine and blue again, and a smiling Kat Champernowne met them at Hatfield’s door. “The child is bright again and playful. Come in, come in. She will want to see you.” The woman hurried up the broad stairs, and Catherine, throwing her reins to the stable boy, followed. Elizabeth was on the floor of her bedroom, rolling a small terrier onto its back. She stood when they entered, and Catherine curtsied to her.

  “How do you this morning, Lady Elizabeth?”

  “I am well, Catherine Overton.” The child patted her stomach. “I have my full health again, and I thank you for your pains.”

  “Listen to the girl,” said Kat. “She is her father’s daughter.” There was no trace of irony in her expression.

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “Every inch.” She almost expected the child to offer her a coin.

  Elizabeth crossed her arms like a grown woman and said, “You have a daughter, like me?”

  “Not just like you, Lady. My daughter is a little baby. But she has red hair, like yours. Would you like to meet her? She is downstairs in the kitchen with my woman.”

  “Bring her,” demanded Elizabeth. She punched her palm with her right forefinger. “I want a girl baby.”

  “You do not like boy babies?” asked Catherine. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “We will fetch the infant for you, Elizabeth,” said Kat.

  “My brother the prince is a boy baby,” Elizabeth said. “He is my father’s best child.”

  “Yes, Lady,” said Kat, ushering Catherine into the hall. She shut the door behind them. “Do not excite her.”

  They descended to the kitchen in silence. Eleanor was at the table, and Ursula Baynham was tickling Veronica with a feather to make her smile. Eleanor’s small traveling box sat in a corner, beside Ursula’s milk bucket, with Catherine’s cases around it.

  “Where is my large trunk,” asked Catherine, “the one with my books in it?”

  Eleanor said, “By my troth, I told the men that this was not all, but they would not stay. They said this was all they were told to fetch, and then they were gone.”

  Catherine toppled the cases onto the floor and shoved them apart. The trunk was not there. “God’s Mother, I will slay someone if they have lost my books along the way. Have they gone?”

  “I fear so, Madam,” said Eleanor. “I saw them ride off as Ursula brought the cream.”

  Kat went to the door. “I will send a man to Davies House to see after your trunk. What does it look like?”

  “Brown, ordinary,” said Catherine. “It has my initials stenciled on the top: CH.”

  “Not CO?” She halloed, snapped her fingers, and beckoned at a passing stringy-bearded man who came slouching up to the door, pulling the cap from his head.

  “I had it when I married,” said Catherine. “It contains all of my notes and records.”

  “I see. Hutchinson, you will ride to Davies House and get Catherine Overton’s trunk. It is brown and has the initials CH stenciled upon it. Take a light wagon to haul it back.”

  The man dipped and departed, one eye twitching as he cast his gaze over the women.

  “Is the baby clean and dry?” asked Catherine.

  “She is, Madam,” said Eleanor.

  “I will feed her before we go upstairs,” said Catherine, untying her bodice.

  Kat took a step backward. “You nurse her yourself? Your woman doesn’t do that?”

  “My woman has not given birth,” said Catherine. She cut a look at Eleanor, who blushed hotly. “She is not even married. Yet.” She took the baby and opened her shift.

  Kat raised an eyebrow. “There is a young man? Go to, girl, it is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “He is in Yorkshire, seeing to the new draperies. His master will be there soon,” said Eleanor.

  “Yes,” said Kat. “Better that he continue there since you are unmarried. We will have no breath of scandal in this household. It’s danger enough that—”

  “That what?” asked Catherine.

  “Nothing. I meant nothing at all.”

  “That I came out of a convent?” Catherine’s chest tightened and she swallowed hard to keep the temperature of her voice down. “Is that your nothing?”

  “You say you are reformed. You are married to an Overton. You have a name for learning and for teaching the young and for sober judgment. That is all I need to know about your past, and your conscience is your own and the king’s. Your present circumstances, however, are my concern. Better that your woman’s suitor is absent. Better that you stay here. You cannot sleep under the roof of an umarried man without your husband.” Kat was talking very quickly.

  “Benjamin Davies has a daughter. Diana. She is as solitary as the goddess she is named for.”

  “A pity for the girl. Yes, I know of her. He neglects her domestic education and training. She will be in trouble before she reaches sixteen if he does not watch her more closely.”

  “He knows nothing of raising a female, that’s all, though he believes he does. I am fond of her, and she needs a woman’s hand,” said Catherine. “Perhaps she could come here and help with the children. It would be a steadying task for her. If I am to see to the Lady Elizabeth’s diet properly, I could use another pair of hands in the garden.”

  Kat’s face cracked, almost into a smile. “I see how you managed to accumulate a school in Yorkshire.”

  “Who has said I have a school?”

  “You think we are so far out in the country that we do not hear the news? There has been talk of the little school for girls in Yorkshire, indeed there has.”

  Catherine’s heart wobbled. “What do they say?”

  Kat shrugged. “That you have gone from the convent to the hearth with your circle of women. There is word that some of your women have run off.” Kat’s face contracted. “You are better off using your skills where they are needed. The nuns of old England will need to conform to the new world. They should return to their families.”

  Catherine’s face was hot. “The women of my household guide the local girls in gardening and cookery. They teach some lettering and embroidery. If they choose to leave Overton House and go elsewhere, we do not hold them where they do not want to be. Many of these women do not have families to take them in, and their dowries have been eaten up by the church.”

  Kat’s right eyebrow arched. “You do not say by the king.”

  “I do not blame the king for what he has not done. He has enough to answer for on his own.” She swallowed past a hard sp
ot in her throat. “As do we all.”

  Kat studied Catherine for a long moment. “Let me see this Diana and I will take the matter to Lady Bryan to decide.”

  Catherine shifted Veronica to the other breast, and the baby cried out. “Hush, child.”

  Kat plopped onto a bench and put her chin in her hand until the baby was fed. “She is a hearty girl. With hair like a Tudor. There is no need to hide her in the scullery.” She fondled the fine curls. “Does your son look like his sister?”

  “Not much,” said Catherine. “He looks the image of me, as black haired as he can be.”

  “Green-eyed, as well?”

  “Yes, but with streaks of gold.”

  “You must want him by your side.” Kat did not look at Catherine now, but played with Veronica’s chubby fingers.

  “Every minute.”

  Kat looked up at Catherine. “What woman would not want her children near her?”

  My husband promises to fetch him here.

  “Fathers often promise more than they deliver,” said Kat, softly now. “Come, let us take this doll up to the princess.”

  “Very well. Eleanor, will you gather me some onions from the cellar? And did someone kill me a bird this morning?”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “Pluck it and put it on to boil, and cut plenty of the onions into the broth.”

  “Very well.”

  “See if there are apples. Old ones will do.”

  “It’s done, Madam.”

  Catherine went back upstairs with Kat. “Does Mary Tudor never come down to visit with her sister and brother?” she asked, without looking directly at the other woman.

  “Now and then. They take the air in the garden together sometimes.” Kat stopped on the landing. “Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason,” said Catherine. “We are almost of an age, and I think she must be lonely.”