“Mistress LeSieur,” Kit Hatton broke the tension, tearing his gaze from her husband to smile at her. “We will move Jane back to your rooms as soon as she is strong enough.”
“I thank you for your kindness, Master Hatton.”
“Think nothing of it, Mistress LeSieur,” Hatton responded, bowing low over her hand.
“She won’t, I assure you,” Henry interrupted, pulling her arm away from Hatton’s grasp. “Frances, if I might have a word?”
“Of course, my lord husband,” she said, inclining her head with a magnanimous bow. There was no reason for him to be rude. What did he think Hatton was going to do? Molest her hand?
Mary and Mistress Parry remained in Jane’s sickroom as Frances followed Henry down the narrow stairs and out into the sunlight. She could almost keep time by the steady tick in his jaw.
“I trust this morning has found you well.” Frances feigned a casual tone that she did not feel.
His mouth quirked in a half smile and, still holding her gloved hand, he leaned against the arched gatepost in the guardhouse kitchen garden. “I do very well and thank you for asking.”
She heard the humor behind the banal pleasantry and wondered if he’d ever shown that trait before. “You are welcome,” she murmured the expected reply.
Silence stretched, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. Uncomfortable with the pleasant mask in place once more, Frances held her head high and did not wring her hands. Nor did she honestly smile or, well, anything. Proper, always proper.
The awkward holding pattern reminded her of that initial interview in his rooms at Westminster, both of them too proud and stubborn to allow the other to perceive weakness.
“My lord husband,” Frances stiffened her spine and gathered her courage. Just like last night’s wine, it was better out than in. “How did I come to be in my room last night?”
“Were you truly that far in your cups? I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Answer my question, please.” She held her ground, fists planted on the pleats springing from her hips. “And, yes,” she admitted, “I have never been drunk before, and it does not sit well with my constitution. I remember very little.”
A spark of an idea flared to life. Could she pretend she didn’t remember the kiss? Frances looked up to see him watching her.
“So, Frances,” why did her name sound so personal when he said it, “what do you think of court thus far?”
She watched his lips. “You shaved your beard.” Hadn’t she said that already?
“You changed your hair.”
She raised a hand to her head and tucked a stray tendril behind her ear. She had known this man for ten years, laid with him, born his children—this should not be so painfully awkward. She turned away and walked to the bench at the far side of the garden, shooing a chicken out of her way so she could sit.
“Did you know it was me last night?” Henry’s words broke the silence once more.
“At the masque? No, I did not recognize you.” She resisted the urge to look back at him, to analyze the newly shaven curve of his chin for similarities to the husband she pictured.
“You flirted with me,” he continued, sitting beside her on the bench, crushing her skirts.
“I flirted with everyone. I’ve learned that is the way of the court. It would be strange if I didn’t.” She tugged on the fabric to no avail. “It means nothing.”
“You kissed me.”
She raised her chin and met his warm gaze. “No, you kissed me. I cooperated.”
His lips curved in a smile that hinted at a familiarity of years but seemed so new. “You liked it.”
She looked down at her lap and cleared her throat. “As you pointed out, I was in my cups. I did not know myself. It could have been anyone kissing me.” And that was the hard truth. She never saw, not really, the man she’d kissed. Given that, would anyone’s kiss have roused her the way it had?
“That does you little credit, wife.”
She snapped her eyes to his, his harsh tone snuffing out the building warmth in her belly. “Would it matter if I were to kiss another man? It was, after all, only a kiss. Those are traded about the court like sweetmeats.”
“It could have become more than a kiss very easily.”
“Really? You have me at a disadvantage in that, my lord husband. The first time I shared a kiss with you was on our wedding day. That kiss led only to breakfast. The other times were equally perfunctory, like we had a set of rules to follow. Kiss, couple, and good night. We never moved past the awkwardness of the wedding night. We were children then and never grew up. Not together.” And all of it, every experience wrapped up together, was nothing, nothing, like what she remembered from last night. The past kisses, past coupling, had been obligatory and unpleasant. Last night’s kiss was actually intimate.
Anger warred with wistful longing over what they could have had, at everything that their marriage was not. She wondered how the memories played out from his perspective. Had he been as nervous, as frightened, on their wedding night as she?
The only answer was the clucking of a hen as it worked its way around the garden at their feet.
“It matters.”
“What?” her voice came out embarrassingly breathless.
“Whom you kiss.”
Again, that blighted warmth blossomed in her center at the idea that he cared. She swallowed against it. “Why? Does it matter whom you kiss?”
“Me?” He laughed, actually laughed. “I do not go about court kissing ladies.”
It was her turn to laugh, a bitter sound. “I agree on that point. Baroness Sheffield is no lady.”
He raised a brow, that hint of mirth sparkling in his eye. “While I do not disagree, I wonder what makes you think I shared a kiss with Baroness Sheffield.”
“Now that I think on it, it was not a kiss that she said you shared. My mistake.”
“Upon my honor, I have had no relations, kissing or anything more, with Baroness Sheffield.” His affront faded into a smile. “Frances, are you jealous?”
“Jealous? Me? That would be unseemly.” She fanned herself. “I think that it is you who are jealous of whom I might kiss.”
“But you kissed me.”
“I had little say in the matter.”
“You will not accuse me of forcing your hand. You kissed me back.”
She nodded, unable to pretend she had not been a willing participant. Whatever happened next, she would hold dear that memory of strong arms, soft lips, and heat. In that moment, she’d known she was wanted, and no matter how drunk she’d been or what an arse her husband may be, God’s teeth, even the thought made her chest tight and her mouth dry.
She looked up to find him staring at her. His lashes, too long to belong on a man, framed a gaze so dark she couldn’t help but stare. “What?” She ran a hand over her coiled hair and straightened the pleated collar of her partlet. “Is aught amiss, my lord husband?”
“Henry.”
Again, tingles ran across her skin at the sound of his voice. She couldn’t tell if it was fear or, what? Anticipation? He leaned closer, and she bit her lip.
“Please, Frances, I would have you call me Henry.”
“Henry,” she whispered, her gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips. Was he going to kiss her? He was! Oh goodness, should she let him? Her jaw tightened as she leaned away, back stiff and eyes wide. Wait, no—why not? It went well last time, not counting the vomit. With a worried grimace, she squeezed her eyes shut, puckered her lips, and waited.
And waited.
Frances opened one eye to find him with his head cocked, regarding her with raised brows.
“What?” she asked, running a self-conscious hand over her bodice, her cheeks.
He smiled and asked, “Did you wish for me to kiss you?”
She straightened. Of course Henry wouldn’t kiss her. That would be the behavior of a lover, not a husband. Damn his pride—hers stung more than ever. “I pr
ay pardon, my lord husband. I forgot myself.”
“Frances . . . ”
“No, my lord. We have never been familiar with each other, and I see no reason to change the nature of our relationship.” She stood and shook out her skirts. To think she’d wondered what he thought of her new gowns, her new role as a lady of the court. She would not care because he could not.
“Frances, I wish to discuss your request for a separation.” He followed her up the garden path and braced his hands above her on the low lintel of the door. “I hoped you would reconsider after last night.”
“Last night,” her voice rang with a bitterness she hadn’t felt since arriving at court. “The people last night were not us, husband. A masked man stole a kiss from a masked woman during a night of revelry. You and I are incapable of such . . . ”
“Passion?” he asked, pulling the book from a hidden pocket in his breeches. “I disagree. Before last night, I would have thought so, but now . . . ” He thumbed through the book, opening it to the page Frances had marked with a satin ribbon, one showing a man kneeling between his lover’s thighs. The action itself had not called to her as much as the look of absolute joy on the woman’s face, the sort of joy Jane described as coming from la petite mort.
“Something has changed between us. I want a chance to explore the possibilities with you before I agree to your request.”
Part of her wanted the same thing, but a larger part clenched her legs together in a death grip at the thought. One very real fear reared and refused to be ignored. “I will not let you use me. I cannot survive losing another child.” Her words rushed out garbled from tears she hadn’t noticed streaming down her cheeks. When had she started crying? She hadn’t thought there were any left, that she was too numb to waste the energy.
Gone was the polite stoicism, the mask that had become far too real over the past ten years. In its place pulsed a raw wound. She longed to hold her children, to be loved herself. Frances tried to soften her jaw and smooth her forehead but could not calm the sobs that wracked her body.
Hard arms wrapped around her, supporting her shaking shoulders. A warm hand drew lazy circles on the back of her neck, fingers speared through her hair, holding her head firmly against the heat of a worked velvet doublet.
This man was nothing like the husband she’d known, the man who would have politely bowed and left the room at the first hint she needed privacy. This man, Henry, held her despite the mess as everything poured out onto his fine London suit. Fear that she’d failed her children, the living and the dead. Fear for Jane’s welfare, the niggling worry that there was more about the attack she didn’t understand. Fear that she no longer knew herself. Who was this new Frances, so vulnerable and needy? She hadn’t needed her husband these past ten years, so why was she crumbled and lost in his arms?
She looked up, tears blurring her vision but the concern still clear on his face. She closed her eyes in confused relief as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. Her shoulders sagged as she let herself, for the first time she could remember, be held.
Chapter Eleven
Rule Thirty: Thought of the beloved never leaves the true lover.
The masque for St. Luke’s day in mid-October heralded the true end of summer. The deer park to the north of the palace changed from green to a stunning array of russet and gold as the days shortened, and the sunlight took on a softer quality as if it knew it was in short supply and didn’t want to spend itself too soon. While October coursed its way toward November, Frances, Mary, and now-somber Jane learned routines at the palace only partly involving avoiding Henry LeSieur.
One warm November morning Frances waited upon Queen Elizabeth as she rose and dressed for the day. This routine was only different today because Frances and almost all of the women of the court were on their monthly courses and emotions ran higher than usual. Frances laced the center back of the Queen’s heavy silk corset in silence while Lady Oxford presented various pairs of sleeves. Queen Elizabeth remained silent and selected the padded crimson silk. Even though two weeks had passed since Jane’s attack, the air at court was thick with tension. All the ladies present, with exception of Lady Howard, knew better than to speak.
It was evident that Lady Oxford was stifling her irritation at Lady Howard’s innocent but completely inappropriate comment about the comeliness of Lord Oxford’s youthful retainers. Frances, lost in her own memories of soft lips trailing down her throat, of the way Henry had held her while she cried, tried to ignore the catty bickering that grew around her as she secured the tapes of Queen Elizabeth’s farthingale and tied the bumroll, then moved out of the way while Lady Essex dropped the petticoat over the Queen’s head.
Frances carried the heavy mahogany brown cut velvet overskirt for the ladies to drape over the Queen’s petticoat of crimson silk. Lady Northampton, newly arrived to court after the death of her husband, commented uncharitably that Lady Howard should cease her prattling as it was giving her a headache. Lady Essex broke her silence and made the suggestion to Queen Elizabeth that perhaps Lady Northampton was unhappy at the English court and wished to return to Sweden. Lady Howard, prattling still in full force, fitted the Spanish Doublet style bodice over Queen Elizabeth’s corset and fastened the covered buttons at the front closure. Lady Oxford, out of nowhere, mumbled some comment about the Howard family being best served by the axe as she pinned the front opening of Queen Elizabeth’s overskirt in place to show the forepart to perfection.
Queen Elizabeth snapped. “God’s wounds, ladies! Get you hence. Go sip some willow bark tea or whatever aids you, but cease your bickering and leave Us in peace!” Aside from Blanche Parry who remained where she was sitting, not one single woman questioned this directive as they each dropped what they were doing, reveranced the Queen, and then quietly exited the room.
“Frances, We would have you stay a moment more.” Frances halted in the doorway and turned back into the chamber. The Queen held her arms out to either side while Frances and Blanche hurried to fit the sleeves over the fine lawn of the Queen’s chemise and tied the points into the armscye of the bodice.
Both ladies worked in silence while Queen Elizabeth turned her head to address Frances. “Mistress, We do not like this melancholy. The world is a sad enough place without Our most beloved courtiers moping about. You had a most excellent conceit in the theme of Our last masque.” Queen Elizabeth moved to sit down upon a small bench followed by Mistress Parry who automatically began styling Her hair. “Robin tells Us that you planned each aspect, from the designs of the banquet down to the costume of the servers. We are most impressed with your ingenuity and attention to detail. We charge you to invent for Us another wondrous evening of revelry to be held the Monday following St. Martin’s day.” Frances’s jaw dropped at both the honor and the work involved, and she quickly checked her expression as the Queen continued, “You will be in Robin . . . Lord Leicester’s charge, but do not let him cow you. We wish to be surprised by your thoughtfulness.” Queen Elizabeth admired herself in the glass and smoothed her hands down the rich cut velvet of her doublet. Turning to Frances, she smiled and made a shooing gesture with one hand. “Go to and create for Our court a happy diversion.”
A second masque. So soon after the last. A second request, and from the Queen Herself, was high praise—if she’d ever doubted her place at court, this confirmed it. Frances was absolutely up to the task and had so many ideas . . .
St Martin’s day was but one week away. Frances untied the collar of her partlet as she exited the Queen’s rooms, through the presence chamber, and out into the gardens. Inspiration and worry in equal measure warred with pride as she calmed herself with enormous gulps of fresh air. The only thing Frances knew for certain was that she did not wish to create another sweltering inferno. If the weather held, a true St. Martin’s summer, perhaps the event could be held outside. She crossed the courtyard and out through the arched gate, smiling lightly at the guardsman who fell into step behind her as soon as she step
ped from the protection of the palace perimeter. Sunlight glinted off the Thames, casting the river in a cloak of diamonds. The sight took her breath away, and she knew that whatever the theme, the masque would be upon the water.
Relief coursed through her as she smiled at the guardsman on duty and entered the palace once more. By the time she reached her room, she had composed lists in her head and merely needed to transfer them onto parchment for preparations to begin. She kicked off her slippers, and untied her farthingale and bumroll, letting them drop to the floor in a soft whoosh. Sitting on the bed she grabbed her lap desk and got to work, not worrying about crumpling her pale sea foam green silk taffeta skirts. By the time she was finished with the preliminary details, the oblong squares of sunlight had worked their way across her wall. Planning a new masque was an excellent distraction from worrying about Henry and his promise, or threat, to woo her.
All thought ground to a halt when she noticed a canvas-wrapped parcel sitting on her dressing table. Was this from Henry? A gift? Frances crossed the room and loosened the twine. She released her breath, not wanting to admit disappointment when it was only her underskirt returned from the fuller. Had they been able to get the stains out? She didn’t have high hopes. The vomit stains on the delicate silk had seemed pretty permanent. As she unwrapped the canvas and held the forepart up for inspection, something heavy thudded to the floor, but Frances paid it no mind; her attention was fixed on her destroyed garment. Her hands trembled as she tried to understand the slashed, unrecognizable silk. She dropped the skirt as if burned and stepped away, only to step on something squishy. Hopping back, she saw the item that had fallen out of the bundle—a rat. A dead rat wrapped in a rosary. Frances felt the bile rise in her throat as she struggled to her feet in search of her husband.
• • •
Frances felt the heat in Henry’s gaze as she paced the small confines of his room at Westminster. He’d seemed glad to see her at first, but the joy in his eyes promptly turned into menace when she explained her fears. She pitied the man he called enemy.
Courtly Pleasures Page 10
