Beth knew the lascivious rumors weren’t true, simply because her Harry had denied them. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride that the man she loved was so desired by other women. Pride, and uncontrollable jealousy. She’d almost lashed out at Barbara when she’d joked openly before the amused Charles that she would take to riding the byways unprotected just to meet this rare specimen.
Gentle Beth had no compunctions about being in love with a highwayman. “I’ve never killed anyone, or harmed a man who hasn’t sought to harm me first. And I rob from none but gilded coaches,” he’d said, kissing her. “No widow’s mites for me; only the riches of lords and aldermen. Do you think they miss a ring or a few coins?”
“But what if you get hurt?” she asked, clinging to him.
“ ’Tis a rare man who will risk his life for coin,” Harry replied. “Besides, I’ve become a story, soon a legend. Everyone is pleased to be part of a story. They pay now so that, snug by the fireside in years to come, they can tell the tale of me. Most think it a fair price for an adventure.”
“But what if one day . . .” she’d begun, but he’d stopped her fears with yet another kiss.
No, she had no fear for her lover’s soul. How could she fault him his occupation when all around her men made their living by pimping to the king, stealing from ambassadors, and blackmailing their neighbors? The sole virtue her mother preached was chastity, and that only because it was in her best interests. Beth knew for a fact that her mother was enmeshed in the complicated palace spy system. Penniless, they had survived since their ruin on the coins passed for a whispered secret or a muttered message, or larger sums for the promise of silence. Many an illicit lover had slipped out of his lady’s chambers in Whitehall only to find a silver hawk’s beak glinting in the torchlight. Hush money was safer than a duel. Beth wouldn’t put it past her mother to pick a pocket, if it was convenient.
But she did fear for Harry’s neck. As they drove back to the palace, their carriage slowed, then halted, stuck in a crowd. “When you’re married you’ll have runners to beat these rabble back,” the countess said irritably.
Beth heard a bell toll, and with a start of foreboding realized where they had halted: St. Sepulcher’s Church.
A booming basso rang out. “Repent with lamentation, O ye condemned sinners, and you, good people, pray for the miserable souls of these criminals for whom the final bell hath tolled.” A black-clad minister was having his moment of glory as, before him, massive dray horses pulled an open cart upon which sat four bound men and one woman.
“Crow’s meat,” her mother said sourly. “Can’t they haul them to their just rewards at an early hour so the streets are cleared for decent folk?”
Their driver edged them to the far side of the road as the cart and the cheering (and jeering) followers passed. The nooses were already tied snugly around the prisoners’ necks, and their hands were bound before them in praying position, whether they repented or not. They perched atop their own coffins.
One, a scruffy fellow with blackened teeth who reminded her of Harry’s cohort, caught her eye as they came abreast. He pursed his lips in a whistle, then winked at her. Some of the pedestrians caught it and laughed; a prisoner was expected to put on a good final show. The end often went easier for him if the crowd was pleased. But Beth could see a sheen of sweat on his brow, and his hands in their hempen cords trembled.
She watched them until her mother jerked her back into her own troubles.
“I suggested an early wedding date, within the month at least.” Beth gasped. “But he must go abroad for a few months, so it will have to be after. He’ll be back in October or November. Now, listen here: whatever objections you might have to Thorne, get over them. He’s the best you’ll get, and we’re damned lucky he’ll have you.”
“Why does he want me?” Beth asked. “He doesn’t know me.” Of course, she thought briefly, neither does Harry, really, but that’s different.
“Have you looked in the glass lately, pet? You look like I did as a lass, and they said I could have had my choice of husbands. Of course, I had no choice, and neither have you. I daresay you’ll meet a better end.”
“Why isn’t he married already?”
“Oh, he has been, a time or two. Or three, perhaps. I remember one wedding just before the old king was killed, a grand affair. She was a dark-haired lass, not much in the way of family, but pretty as a kitten.”
“What happened to her?”
Her mother shrugged. “Died in childbed, I suppose. It was abroad, though. Then there was another, an orphan Lady Somebody.”
“Where is she?”
“What, do you think he keeps them in a closet, like Bluebeard? She’s dead and buried too, of course, else he wouldn’t be marrying you.”
“And there was a third wife?”
“Stop plaguing me, child. Life is brutal; people die. But not I! Look what your father did to me, and here I am.” She patted her daughter’s arm where the nail marks were turning purple. “You have my blood, my spirit. Whatever he gives you, you’ll endure, as I have. You’re like me, my girl. You’ll do well. I’m so proud of you!”
With a shudder, Beth realized how terribly her mother loved her, and how terribly hard it would be to escape that love and find a love of her own.
But I’ll do it, she swore. I’ll never marry that earl. I’ll marry Harry or . . . or . . . die trying!
She was to meet him that very night.
Chapter 15
The Lucifer Light
AFTER MONTHS OF LABOR, of trial and error and noxious fumes and blistered hands, they had finally recreated the German alchemist’s Lucifer light. Zabby shaded the specimen with her body and peered at the uncanny green-white glow. There was light, but no heat. Fire, without apparent consumption. All from the king’s urine, the distillation of a luminous piece of his soul.
He was not there to see it.
In the beginning he’d been as enthusiastic as Zabby, meeting her by appointment every day and often colliding with her in the elaboratory when they both got the whim to work at odd hours. He was dedicated to finding the soul light, and, Zabby told herself, to finding it with her. But lately under the lure of the elusive Frances Stewart, his scientific passion had all but vanished, replaced with an unsatisfied passion of the flesh. He had no interest in his soul.
Now here it is, whether he cares or not, Zabby thought with triumph. It is his work as much as mine. I just had the final inspiration. Once he sees this, he’ll remember his first calling and forget all about Frances.
As she dashed through the cool corridors of Whitehall with her glowing specimen held before her, she told herself she was doing it for science, for discovery. When he sees it, she repeated to herself, he’ll remember what is truly important.
“Knowledge,” she whispered aloud.
Me, she could not help thinking.
She asked the servants, the courtiers, and finally her old friend Chiffinch, who told her with averted eyes that Charles was in the climbing rose bower in the gardens.
Chiffinch was page of the backstairs (that is, the private passage to His Majesty’s personal rooms), a job that encompassed spymaster, wine steward, and pimp. He was particularly known for the last, handling assignations with clerical organization and utmost discretion. He’d seen women come and go—mostly go, except for Barbara, and her time would come sooner or later—and Zabby was not like any of them.
She ran with her skirts gathered high above her knees, her pink stockings looking fleshier than real flesh ever had. She was laughing, forgetting all her past fretful hours, putting aside, for a time, that troubling scheme for power. Here was something pure—knowledge! Discovery!
There it was, a bosky cave, a sweet bower of roses climbing upon an unseen frame to make a perfumed nook. It was a notorious place for lovemaking, but somehow Zabby never thought . . .
She caught herself at the sound of voices.
“I’ll do anything!” Charles
’s deep, virile voice said. “A dukedom, a county, my heart, my soul!”
Zabby clutched the glowing vial to her own heart. She had Charles’s soul.
“There’s only one thing I desire in this world,” Frances said primly.
“Name it and it’s yours.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been pleading for hours.
“I want to be an honorable wife. I’ll have no man under other circumstances.”
Charles groaned.
“I can’t, don’t you see? If I were free I’d marry you, but it isn’t possible. Sweet nymph, I promise you’ll be queen of my heart. You’ll never want, never hear an ill word spoken of you. Please!”
“Never without marriage,” she said.
“But what of love? Love is better than marriage.”
Zabby stepped out from behind her wall of roses into the sunlight at the bower’s mouth. Charles was on his knees, his breeches muddy, while Frances looked a tall, sulky child.
“Animals,” she whispered, not in derision but in pure fact. There was no escaping it. Whatever else we are, we are beasts too, she realized. Gluttony, lust, greed . . . they are not mortal sins but the stuff of our flesh and bone. There is nothing more natural.
The real sins are the human ones. Pride. Jealousy. My sins.
“I’ve found it, Your Majesty,” she said, formally. “The light of your body. Your soul.” She held out the vial and, when he did not take it right away, let it slip from her fingers. The glass splintered on the sunbaked cobblestones, and the lumpen waxy ball, its light dulled by the summer glare, rolled to the king’s boot. He stared after Zabby as she walked slowly away.
A moment later there were shrieks and cries of “Fire!” Zabby hadn’t gone far enough in her experimentation to know that phosphorus is combustible at moderately warm temperatures. In a moment the dry grass caught, and soon the bower was engulfed in flames.
“Yet it is not consumed,” Charles said wonderingly. Indeed, though the sere grass around the bower sent flames licking skyward, the well-tended roses were too green to catch easily. The outer buds singed and curled into blackened capers, but after the first flare the fire subsided to creeping embers and writhing smoke, leaving most of the full-blown roses untouched.
“Witchery!” Frances said, and for an instant Charles lost his temper.
“Never speak of her so again!” he snapped, and made as if to leave her. But a word and a pout brought him back, and they went to blow soap bubbles for spaniel pups to snap at.
“You may not be the king’s doxy, but you play the part of a jealous mistress well enough,” Eliza said as they settled into bed that night. “They say you set a spell on that chit Frances, or else tried to murder her, no one’s sure. Even Barbara chuckled at it, though the queen took it amiss for some reason. Perhaps ’twas the talk of sorcery; you know how papists are. You’d think she’d be glad to have someone fight her battles against Frances, and as she knows you’re nothing to Charles, she shouldn’t mind one bit . . . Zabby? Zabby, dear heart!”
It was too much. She could keep her secret no longer.
“I love him! I love him!” she cried into her goosedown as Eliza and Beth embraced her. “I’ve tried so hard not to, but I can’t help it. Why? It seizes me and shakes me like a rat, and never lets me go.”
“Oh, sweetheart, the king’s an easy man to love. Why, half the court . . .”
“I hate them! Every single one. Barbara, that sniveling idiot Frances, even, heaven forgive me, the queen. Oh, the poor queen. She must know. It was an accident, truly. I didn’t know it would catch fire, but now she must believe I did it for jealousy. I didn’t, I swear, but oh, if Frances had burned I would have been glad!”
“You don’t mean that,” Beth said placidly.
“But I do. Is this what love does to a person? I thought love would be something pure and ennobling, but it must be a curse from the devil himself if it makes rational beings behave like mad beasts, like criminals.” She looked up, wild-eyed. “Save me from love.”
“If you love him, really love him, then there’s nothing you can do,” Beth said.
Eliza stared at her. “What, you too? Don’t tell me you’ve succumbed to that black earl’s charms. It never does to love one’s husband. In fact, the experts—the playwrights, that is, who are expert in all aspects of the human condition—believe a certain degree of hatred and contempt is vital to a happy marriage.”
Beth ignored her. “Zabby, look at me. If you truly love him, it will never leave you. Even if there is no hope. Even if the world laughs at you.”
“You’ve grown wise a mite too swiftly,” Eliza said. “No half-century earl can inspire that sort of rumination. You’ve found yourself a young buck. Who is he, now? That captain who’s been giving you sheep eyes, or perhaps the Russian ambassador?”
But Zabby and Beth were locked together, face to face, thought to thought. Each had loved in isolation so long, and now a great dam had burst. Beth had yearned for a confidante, but never thought to look for one in stolid, sensible, impermeable Zabby. “It’s like a pain, isn’t it, like hunger when you smell the feast? And a terrible fear all the time. It’s not happiness, no, nothing like. Perhaps it is almost-happiness, or something beyond, something that is peace and terror all in one. Peace because you have found the reason for your life, and terror lest it be taken away.”
“Yes,” Zabby said, “and the schemes I can’t control, and the jealousy. I’m not this person. I don’t want this love. I should have gone away at the start. I should leave court now.”
“It would follow you, though you never see him again. When I hadn’t seen Harry for—”
Eliza caught Beth’s slip. “Harry . . . hmm . . . Lord Stargate’s a Harry, and there’s the eldest Paget. Who is it you love, Beth?” Zabby’s outburst had unnerved her, and she wanted to change the subject to something more believable. Beth in passionate love she expected, but if rational Zabby could be torn asunder by her emotions, why, then, no one was safe.
Except me, Eliza thought smugly.
“I . . . I can’t say.”
“Well, good thing you’re marrying an old man. I know nothing of that Thorne, but anyone past forty must be easy to cozen.” It seemed such a tremendous age to Eliza. “Marriage is but a business, a woman’s only business, so it seems to me she must find love elsewhere. Perhaps a few may be fortunate enough to love their work, but for most it is no more than a way to keep the body fed and clothed. The heart needs other food.”
“I’m not marrying Thorne,” Beth said.
“But your mother is telling everyone it is all arranged.” Eliza was quite practical when it came to anyone’s marriage but her own. “He’s astoundingly rich, from all I hear, and you’ll learn to bend him to your will in a fortnight, and have all the lovers you care for.”
“He’s not like that,” Beth said. “There’s something hard and dark about him, unnatural. He makes my skin crawl. I don’t think he’s the sort to let anyone control him, or even sway him. I was only in his company for a few minutes, and I hope never to be again.” She shuddered.
“Are you running off with your mysterious Harry? Your mother will only have you hauled back and annul whatever you’ve accomplished, though then perhaps the earl won’t have you after all.”
“That would be a mercy.”
“Indeed? Are you so pleased with your poverty? I don’t mean to sound hard, Beth, love, and you know I want you to be happy, but it seems to me marriage isn’t the way to achieve happiness. I mean, it matters little who you marry, so long as he’s well off. If you marry for love, you’ll only be brokenhearted when he takes a mistress or spends his days with dogs and horses, but if you marry a mere man, not a lover, why, you’re each free to follow your own heart, apart. At least, so it goes on the stage.”
“But life isn’t the stage,” Beth said. “You have no idea what it feels like to love someone. If I marry Harry I’ll be joyous forever. If I don’t, I’ll die. That’s that.”
“Now who’s talking out of a play? No one dies for love. Every woman must marry. What, lead apes in hell?” This was the proverbial fate of an old maid. “It is the way of the world.”
“Even for you?” Zabby asked. Her outburst vented, her tears brushed aside, she looked as calm as ever, her large tawny eyes examining Eliza quizzically. “I thought you had no wish to marry.”
“Oh, I’ll pick a likely old duke someday, one with three or four wives buried and a slew of heirs, one who won’t trouble me with childbearing and gives me free rein to write.”
“But will he let you dress in a man’s clothes and carouse as you do now?” Zabby asked. “A husband is a master.”
But Eliza wasn’t concerned. “I have practice enough managing my father. He wants a noble son, and grandson, but he made a vow on my mother’s deathbed not to marry me off against my will, and so long as I play the Puritan with him, he’s easy enough to control.” She affected a prudish voice. “Marry him, Father? But he takes the Lord’s name in vain. Him? Oh, laws, no, Father, he once hunted on a Sunday. No, he’ll never force me into a marriage. I’m free as long as I want to be, and I’m enjoying my life. When carousing and gambling and the company of loose women begin to pall, I’ll settle down with my nice gray gentleman. But for now, I do what I like!”
“Every person does what he likes,” Zabby said. “Only some decide they like to give in to what the world wants.”
“And what does the world want for you, Zabby?” Eliza asked.
For me to be queen, she couldn’t help thinking. For me to rule heart and mind at Charles’s side, and lead England to a glorious age of understanding.
“The world wants me to go to sleep,” she said with uncharacteristic crossness, and pulled the linen sheet over her face.
“Then you’d best give in,” Eliza said, and began to get ready for her night, stepping out of her petticoats and replacing them with a pair of snug breeches. “Ugh, I liked the full ones better, but times and fashions change. Here, Beth, hand me that waistcoat and my sword, would you? Don’t fret so, Beth, and certainly don’t listen to me. I know so little of the world.” She laughed at her own sarcasm, for she thought herself the worldliest of creatures. “Does your lad have money?”
Ladies in Waiting Page 15
