Ladies in Waiting

by Laura L. Sullivan

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Rich Man’s Daughter

  The Queen’s Pet

  The Peculiar Specimen

  The King’s Mistress

  The Three Elizabeths

  The Royal Seed

  The Forbidden Man

  The Rape of Love

  The Dream Made Flesh

  The Transfiguration

  The World of Men

  The Girl Who Says No

  The Highwayman

  The Collector of Beauty

  The Lucifer Light

  The Loving Father

  The Mulberry Grove

  The Healing Waters

  The Quickened Queen

  The Shrine of Sulis

  The Next Queen

  The Edge of the Precipice

  The Deathbed

  The Tyburn Jig

  The Naked Truth

  The Elaboratory

  Sample Chapter from DELUSION

  Buy the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2012 by Laura L. Sullivan

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Harcourt is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Sullivan, Laura L.

  Ladies in waiting / by Laura L. Sullivan.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In the seventeenth-century court of England’s King Charles II, three young ladies-in-waiting discover a palace teeming with love, intrigue, and treachery.

  ISBN 978-0-547-58129-3

  1. Charles I, King of England, 1600-1649—Juvenile fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—Charles II, 1660-1685—Juvenile fiction. [1. Charles I, King of England, 1600-1649—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—Charles II, 1660-1685—Fiction. 3. Courts and courtiers—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.S9527Lad 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2011027323

  eISBN 978-0-547-82246-4

  v3.0414

  For my sister, Maria J. Sullivan

  Chapter 1

  The Rich Man’s Daughter

  England, June 1662

  ELIZA PARSLOE, age fifteen, tickled her chin with her plumed pen and gazed levelly at her latest opponent, Lord Ayelsworth, second Earl of Lambert. To her great displeasure, he took it for flirtation and sidled closer until his foppishly beribboned thigh crushed the delicate moiré of her apricot skirt.

  “You slay me with those killing eyes,” he sighed.

  Those killing eyes rolled, for she knew he was looking not at her decidedly plain brown orbs, but rather at the fortune in emeralds at her throat, or perhaps, to give him credit as a man of flesh as well as avarice, at the swell of bosom lower down.

  Why did each and every suitor feel it necessary to harp upon her nonexistent physical charms? If just one had suggested they could use her vast fortune and his court influence to rule the nation, to set the mode, she might have been swayed. But no, they spoke of her languishing eyes, her enchanting hair; compared her neck to a swan’s and her skin to pearls, when she knew full well her only beauty lay in the acres of timber, the flotillas of merchant ships, and the masses of gold settled on her as the only child of the fabulously wealthy Jeremiah Parsloe.

  She turned away from him and dipped her quill in the ink, dripping a blob, unnoticed, on her buttercup-colored satin underskirt, and began to scribble.

  “What do you write, sweetheart?” Ayelsworth asked, craning his skinny neck to see. “I would pen you a thousand love poems daily, if only you would be mine!”

  Eliza dipped the pen again and flicked it as she turned to reply, spattering his multihued ribbons with blue-black. He squealed and leaped up. Eliza instantly kicked up her feet and crossed her ankles, reconquering the lost territory of her chaise.

  “It is a play,” she said.

  “What do you call it, sweet nymph?”

  “Nunquam Satis,” she said, and though he had no Latin, he knew the vulgar tongue. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or blush.

  “My dear, do you know what that means?”

  “‘Never satisfied,’” she replied evenly.

  “Ah, but in the common cant, it means . . . it means . . .” He could not tell her what part of a woman’s anatomy was, by popular jest, never satisfied. She was from a reputedly Puritan family. Very likely she was not even aware of that particular part of herself.

  Ayelsworth, though but twenty, was a habitué of Charles II’s court, and accustomed to whores, courtesans, and loose ladies of rank. He was not quite sure what to expect from this provincial heiress. All he knew for certain was that she was the catch of the season, and if he could secure her, his future was assured.

  Her father had given him permission to try for her hand, leaving them alone with only a maidservant within, for propriety, and a liveried footman without, in case he should try to claim his prize by force. Now, that was a thought, he mused. It had certainly been done before, though mostly through abduction. Still, if he managed to spoil the goods here on the chaise, she and her father would probably agree to let him buy what remained.

  He looked over her big-boned, recumbent form. She was at least a head taller than he, and he didn’t think much of his chances in a forcible seduction.

  He clung instead to what had worked with other ladies—wit and conversation.

  “Pray, what is your play about?”

  “An heiress deciding which of her many suitors to accept.”

  “A tragedy, then, for all but one lucky swain. Will you read me a snippet?”

  For the first time she blessed him with a smile—her teeth were good, at any rate, he noted—and blew on her pages to dry the ink before she picked them up to read.

  “This bit I just finished is a conversation between Lady Nuncsat and Lord Stormthebreech. He tries to persuade her of the chief benefit of having a husband, and she protests that if husbands are à la mode, another’s will suit her just as well:

  “‘Is carnal pleasure prize for married misery I’ll reap?

  I’ll ride the steed—or not—and let another pay his keep.

  Who’d buy with precious liberty what she’d get elsewhere gratis?

  I’ll keep my heart and hand and wealth,’ quoth Lady Nunquam Satis.”

  “Ah . . . ahem. She is a villain, then?”

  “Lord Stormthebreech thinks so, and calls her a fishwife and a mettlesome jade who ought to be forced to feel a man’s hand on her rein. She replies,

  “‘Touch me and you’ll find a fishwife verily, by gods!

  One who shucks your oysters and fillets your pretty cods.’”

  Ayelsworth’s hand cupped his own cods protectively, and it was not long before he excused himself with flourishing apology, never to be seen in the Parsloe household again. He would give a great deal to have Eliza’s wealth, but not that.

  “What did you say to this one?” her father asked sharply when he entered to find her alone.

  “Oh, he spoke to me of the theater,” she said nonchalantly, placing a book of sermons on top of her manuscript. Her father had no idea she’d read every play on the boards since the theaters reopened with the king’s return from exile. Her maid, Hortense, was liberally paid to smuggle them back from her monthly sojourns with the housekeeper to London for supplies that could not be had in the village.

  “You cannot allow yourself to become offended because a gentleman speaks to you of plays. Why, I’m told even the most pious go to the theate
r. I know you’ve been delicately reared, my dear, but when you are a married woman you might be . . . ahem . . . exposed to things your upbringing didn’t prepare you for.”

  Eliza affected the serene incomprehension of a novice in a nunnery and said, “In any event, sir, I find I cannot love him.”

  “Love! What nonsense. A pity I promised your mother on her deathbed I’d only give you away with your own consent. A girl can’t be expected to know what’s good for her.”

  She bowed her head in seeming acquiescence. Eliza had been there for her mother’s final breath a few years ago. “Let Eliza marry for love,” she’d pleaded as she fingered the embroidered hem of her sheets weakly. “See what my marriage has been, and let her give her heart and fortune where she pleases.”

  Jeremiah took it to mean that his was a love union and had worked out well. Eliza, who better knew her mother’s secret longings and frustrated passions, read those words otherwise. I had a chance at love with another man, her mother said in cipher. But I threw it all away at my family’s behest. I married where they bid me, for money, and had nothing but misery in it all, save for you, my daughter. You have money, her mother’s dying eyes had said so eloquently. You can afford to wait for affection.

  Eliza clung to that idea, since it so closely matched her own. Though her father was true in the letter to his wife’s deathbed wish, he had plans of his own he was not willing to abandon for the sake of feminine sentimentality.

  “What am I to do with you, child? Is there no one pious and decent enough to win you? Ayelsworth has a fair reputation among that stew of rakes.”

  So you believe, sir, Eliza thought. Hortense brought different tidings from gossip gleaned at the Royal Exchange, London’s vibrant marketplace. Ayelsworth was known to frequent the most scandalous brothels (Eliza thought she could perhaps forgive an occasional sojourn to London’s better brothels) and was deep in debt.

  “Also,” Hortense had whispered to her before the lord’s arrival, “Bab at the Queen’s Point Shop told me he takes a bolus regular, no doubt mercury for the pox.”

  “He’s a perfect match,” Eliza’s father went on. “The highest title to come for you so far.”

  “Sir,” Eliza said, “I know your opinions of the court. Why go to such lengths to ally our family with such a licentious place?”

  “I have money enough for Midas,” he said, patting her knee kindly. “But His Majesty won’t hear a word from me because I’m a commoner. I’m not pleased with his reign thus far. Better to have stuck with Old Noll and his line, though they were far from perfect. But daughter, hear me! I am a man of power, yet powerless. I have more gold than the king himself, yet this nation muddles on without my say-so. A man, however rich, cannot buy much real influence in the court. But if I can link my family to that of some great noble, I will have a voice at last! And my children after me! Your children, I mean, of course, my dear. Marry an earl, and I can catch the king’s ear!”

  And what do you hope to do, sir? Eliza wondered to herself. The Lord Chancellor is trying to moderate the king’s appetites, to no avail. Then when the king would do good, would bolster the fleet or let people worship as they will, Parliament thwarts him. Do you think because you’re father-in-law to some poxy coxcomb who cleans the king’s ears each morning you can effect change? The world is what it is, Father. Best to find your place in it, and not try to make the world anew.

  But all she said was “Yes, sir.”

  Jeremiah sighed. “You must marry, girl. You must marry a nobleman, and you must do it soon, while I can still do some good in that sinful court. I have made a difficult decision.”

  Eliza’s eyes flew open. “You must not force me to marry! You promised Mother!”

  “I will not force you . . . not yet. You have one last chance to find a noble you can respect. It pains me to tell you this, for I know what a moral and devout child you are. Eliza, I fear you must go to that den of wickedness, the court of King Charles II. My money cannot buy a place for myself, but I can purchase you a position as one of the new queen’s ladies in waiting. They say Catherine of Braganza is convent-bred, and though I don’t hold with popery, they do have a knack for keeping their girls pure-minded. She will keep you safe until such time as you find a suitable noble to wed.”

  Eliza looked at her hands and bit her lip. It was all she could do to keep from screaming with joy.

  “Do not fret, my child. A heart as pure as yours is incorruptible. You have nothing to fear from the court.”

  Her voice trembling with emotion, she said, “I will do as you wish, sir.”

  Within her breast, her heart exulted.

  “Now you may take off that silken frippery I know you despise, and put on your good sober grays again. At court I suppose you must dress like the rest, but here at home you can be your own self.”

  She ran upstairs and Hortense changed her into her customary charcoal wool. The high neck itched, and she tugged at it in irritation as she told her maid the news.

  “No matter, ma’am. Once you get to court he’s lost his hold over you. You’ll be your own mistress.”

  Eliza smiled at her somber reflection. My own, or someone else’s, she thought.

  She caught herself up sharply. No, that’s a good line for a play, but not for me. I don’t want to be kept in check by anyone—not my father, not a husband, not even a lover. I want to be free.

  Chapter 2

  The Queen’s Pet

  QUEEN CATHERINE OF BRAGANZA, married a bare two moths, sat amid her Portuguese attendants and rubbed each of her fingertips with her thumb in slow succession, counting the prayers of the rosary she was too timid to show in this gaudy, profane aviary that was her husband’s court. Bright, winsome creatures moved with a flutter of silks and feathers near the outskirts of the room. It was an honor to be admitted to the queen’s presence, but none of them took the trouble to speak with her after the initial ceremonial greeting. At first Catherine excused them, thinking they might be shy. She was almost shy of herself, now that she had transformed from convent girl to this great thing, a queen. She soon realized the ladies and gallants of the court held her not in awe, but in contempt.

  Her shoulders ached from holding herself unnaturally straight within the confines of her boned gown. “I’ll take a turn,” she murmured to her ladies, and as one they rose after her, bobbing their respect and making up a train.

  Catherine heard titters and words she only half understood— fright, monster, olivaster-skinned bat. She had very little English, but she did not need to speak the language to be aware of the court’s disapproval. They mocked her farthingale, the stiffly buttressed hoop skirt that was a Portuguese lady’s best defense against the male sex, for no one could approach her within arm’s reach. They shook their own tight fair curls in derision at Catherine’s soft black waves. They were all so beautiful! She had once been proud of the wardrobe prepared for her union with Charles. This dress was a particular favorite, deep midnight and silver, with yards of black lace. At the convent it had glinted in the firelight as her maids packed it. Now, beside the roses and robin’s eggs and spring greens, she felt the way she looked in their eyes—somber, sallow, foreign.

  “I think tomorrow I’ll wear the blue silk His Majesty gave me,” she said with forced calm to her chief Portuguese attendant, the Countess of Penalva. “The one over cloth-of-gold, with seed-pearl slippers.”

  “Nonsense,” Penalva said, like a governess to a child, not a noble attendant to a queen. “You must never succumb to their loose morals and indecent dress. You are their sovereign. It is for you to set an example of modesty and decorum. The farthingale is your national dress. You are still Portuguese. Let them imitate you.”

  I am English now, she longed to say, but she was a little intimidated by Penalva, and all of the other older, more experienced women sent from her home court. She knew Penalva meant well, but all the same she longed to feel the caress of silk against her legs, to know that every breath revealed a
scandalous swell of bosom from a very low neckline.

  This is my home now. I should fit in. Charles will like me better for it.

  She did not walk long. She could not bear the eyes upon her. At least when I sit they forget about me, she thought. Oh, I wish Charles would return. He had departed without explanation on an endeavor he said was of vital importance to England, and she’d accepted it. Only later did she think he might be having a liaison. He’d been gone two weeks with no word.

  She loved Charles to distraction, first in gratitude for elevating her to the highest feminine seat in the world, and later, when after a year of courtship by proxy they met face to face, she loved him for his handsome, manly courtesy and his convincing show of affection. She thought it was for her alone. Now she understood that he was gracious to every lady, though as queen she was entitled to an even grander show of seemingly sincere gazes and fond caresses. Why, the king doffed his hat to the milkmaids. He was a paragon of masculine respect for the feminine sex.

  Still, she thought, I am his wife, and I will make him love me beyond all others.

  The only weapons in her arsenal were gentle love, enduring courage, and faith. She looked out at the billowing sails of the gaudy ships gliding around her audience hall. They carried a veritable battery of charms—bare skin, paint, bold eyes, and lively tongues.

  What do I have to offer His Majesty? Only a dowry, half of which my country has not paid. And maybe, someday, an heir.

  Barbara Howard, Countess of Suffolk, parted the tossing fleet of ladies with her own bright galleon and strode languidly toward the queen, her heavy-lidded cat eyes sparkling with mirth or malice, or most likely both.

  She made a deep, ballooning bow and handed Catherine a sheet of heavy parchment. “The list of ladies in waiting, Your Majesty. Five ladies of the bedchamber, four dressers of the bedchamber, and as of now, six pretty little maids of honor, though they get married so fast, you’ll be picking a new one every month.”