by Anna Castle
“Who is that beautiful man?” Michel murmured.
The thrum of desire in his voice set Francis’s amour propre buzzing. “My clerk,” he answered crisply. He couldn’t compete with Thomas Clarady in terms of appearance; few men could.
“Ce n’est pas possible,” Michel exclaimed with a wink to show he was teasing.
“He isn’t just a clerk though, is he?” Lady Rich’s voice held that purring undertone that often afflicted women in Tom’s presence.
“Is he not?” Michel asked. “Do tell, my lady. I am all attention.”
She proceeded to give him a surprisingly complete account of Tom’s circumstances. She hinted at his role in the confidential commissions Francis had undertaken on behalf of Lord Burghley, but without revealing names or other sensitive information.
Perhaps she didn’t know those things, though it would seem the Earl of Essex had shared more with his sister than Francis would have guessed. He’d consulted the earl in strictest confidence, or so he’d thought. But if he examined his own motives with the ruthless candor taught him by his Calvinist mother, he was forced to admit those consultations had been pretexts for claiming a portion of the earl’s attention.
Now here was His Lordship’s favorite sister, pressed familiarly against his left elbow, gossiping away as if he were one of her oldest friends. She gave him the distinct impression that she wanted to be even better friends. Why, Francis didn’t know, but her attention was gratifying.
Michel was taking advantage of the opportunity to delve into the connections among the English aristocracy. Alliances shifted with every marriage and every death. “It appears this versatile clerk is a good friend of our newly married Earl of Dorchester. Is it not so? Also it would seem he is known to many of the lords here arrayed. Look how he is caught by one after another to say some words that make him smile that oh-so-charming smile he has.”
“His father was a privateer,” Lady Rich said. “People say they look very much alike. I suppose all these seafaring men do know one another. One imagines they meet in houses of ill repute in the Canaries.”
“St. Jean de Luz, my lady,” Michel corrected. “More convenient to the border of Spain.” They laughed together.
Francis smiled absently. His mind had caught on the fact that Tom did seem to know most of the lords of the West Country, at least those who were here. He’d never mentioned it; perhaps he’d forgotten. His father must often have brought him to watch ships setting out or returning from the New World. He would naturally have introduced him to the men of importance they met along the way. They would tousle the boy’s golden curls, make some joke about the resemblance between father and son, and think no more about it.
But now the curly headed boy was a grown man dressed like a barrister, with cultured manners, easy charm, and evident intelligence. The lords seeing him here tonight would think about him again tomorrow, wondering how they could make use of him.
Now he stood between Admiral Howard and Sir Richard Bingham, bending nearly double as he listened to something the admiral was saying. Tom nodded, then shot a grin at Sir Richard as he lowered his head still more to tell them some tale that made both men howl with laughter, slapping their hands on the table. Tom rose to fill their cups; bowing again, he left them smiling in his wake.
He had the gift of striking the right balance between respect and familiarity that had always eluded Francis. As he watched his pupil now, it occurred to him that he might have competition for Tom’s services one day soon.
The last savory course was removed, and a myriad of small dishes of sweetmeats were delivered. Wine cups were replaced, the fresh ones brimming with white canary. Candles were brought out and placed on the tables; more were lit in sconces attached to the walls. Evening must have descended outside the hall. Francis began to wonder how long this wedding supper would last.
As long as the bride could contrive to keep it going, he suspected, knowing she had no love for the man she’d married.
The servants departed, and horns sounded from the minstrel gallery above the screen, followed by a long rolling of drums. A troupe of acrobats bounded into the room, turning cartwheels and leaping into the air with breathtaking agility. Cries of delight and applause rose from the guests, who settled into their benches, making themselves comfortable for the serious drinking to come.
Francis took a deep draught of his wine, hiding a sigh inside the cup. He had chosen the life of a courtier in the forlorn hope of one day attaining a position that would allow him to achieve his destiny. That meant enduring many long evenings at crowded banquets, letting the clamor assault his ears and the antics of a band of strangely androgynous contortionists affront his eyes.
The drums began rolling again, so loudly Francis could not hear his own thoughts inside his head. The acrobats went through an even more astonishing series of leaps and twirls, ending with a flourish that won them a deafening thunder of applause.
Francis shrank back from the noise to find Michel’s comforting bulk at his back. A warm voice murmured in his ear, “Good enough for the Palais des Tuileries, do you not agree? The Lady Dorchester, she has excellent taste.”
“She does know how to please an audience.” Her maidservant had traveled with a troupe of comic actors in Italy for many years before finding her way to England. These acrobats might be her former colleagues, for all one knew. Lady Dorchester had already collected a most unusual set of retainers and allies.
Another fanfare announced the next entertainment: a small troupe of actors dressed like Italian ladies and gentlemen of the previous century. They bowed all around and began performing a comedy about mistaken lovers.
Francis had to look twice at the last one to enter. He’d thought it another actor arriving a bit late, but it was his cousin Robert, stumping along with the air of a man who had torn himself away from vital business to pay the minimum respect to a tedious occasion. He walked toward the upper dais until a steward caught him and ushered him to the bottom of the table on the groom’s side.
Robert’s evident displeasure at that location was softened by swift service of food and drink, though they neglected to bring a cushion to raise him up, so he looked like a careworn child sitting grumpily by himself.
Francis glanced toward the dais and happened to catch Trumpet’s eye. She raised her cup to him, surprising a short laugh out of him. She smiled in acknowledgment before turning back to her father.
Michel said, “I see the lady appreciates you almost as much as I do, mon ami.”
“She shouldn’t have done it,” Francis said. “It was meant to be disrespectful, and he knows it. He’ll make her pay later somehow.”
“Not much,” Lady Rich said, “especially if she delivers a healthy baby boy in nine months’ time. That would make her untouchable, for a while. But observe the new couple, gentlemen. I see interesting implications for the future.”
Trumpet and her father sat turned toward one another, hands clasped, shoulders touching as they watched the actors. They laughed together, clearly enjoying each other’s company more than any other part of the wedding supper. She kept half an eye on her guests, as she had done all evening.
Stephen, on the other hand, had shifted from his center seat as soon as the acrobats arrived, moving to the lower table, where his boisterous friends regaled themselves loudly with quantities of drink. The lady held her post, while the lord abandoned his. She divided her attention between her family and the guests; he hid among the worst-behaved group in the hall.
Michel quirked an eyebrow at Francis. “I did not realize you were such good friends with the new countess, mon ami.”
Francis was glad to be able to offer him a portion of the truth, enough to serve for the rest. “She lived in Blackfriars for a year with my aunt, Lady Russell, who is also the guardian of my clerk, Mr. Clarady.”
“Ah, the webs of connection! So subtle can they be, yet so important, n’est pas?”
Lady Rich said, “So true, Monsieur
Joubert. I also observe that the lady has hitherto unsuspected talents. I predict she will cease to play the ninny in a matter of months.”
“Two weeks,” Michel said.
Francis shook his head. “She won’t last that long. It must be exhausting for a woman of her intelligence, and now it isn’t necessary. She’s won her place.”
“Now she must work to advance her husband,” Lady Rich said, “using all the skill and patience she used to acquire him.” She leaned past Francis to wink at Joubert. “The lady will need a wise counselor to guide her through the intricate and shifting alliances at court, won’t she, Monsieur?”
He gave her an answering wink. “We should all have such good counselors, my lady.”
“My lord brother has told me he esteems the advice of Francis Bacon above that of any other man,” Lady Rich said.
“As do I, my lady,” Michel replied.
The two had moved closer toward one another, snugging Francis between the barrister’s smooth gabardine and the lady’s costly taffeta. The scents of civet and rose and the sound of their mellow voices enveloped him in a sensuous cocoon of friendship. He felt cushioned and supported between these most congenial companions — boon companions, he might almost say.
His head bobbled a little as he turned to meet Joubert’s twinkling eyes, and he realized he was almost as drunk as he’d been on Midsummer Eve. He also realized he was being seduced by both of them at once. He liked it; he liked it a lot. It was so much better than being snubbed and held at arm’s length by his own kinfolk.
He noticed that Robert’s eyes were turned in his direction, undoubtedly observing the closeness of the trio and drawing his own conclusions. Let him. It was high time for Francis to give up on the Cecils and find a patron who appreciated his service.
FIFTEEN
“IT’S NINE O’CLOCK, my lady.” The steward bent to murmur the words in Trumpet’s ear. It must be fully dark outside. Time for the bride to leave the feast.
She looked toward Stephen, carousing in the center of his noisy group of friends. “Ask my lord to join me in half an hour — not sooner.”
“Yes, my lady.” The steward bowed and went to deliver his message.
Trumpet wouldn’t wait for an answer. She patted her father’s hand with a wistful smile. “It’s time for me to say good night, my lord.”
“Not yet, Daughter. Let me escort you.” He rose with her and tucked her hand inside his elbow to lead her off the dais. To her surprise, many people cheered and pounded their cups on the table. “Ignore them,” her father said, chuckling. “The bride must maintain her dignity.”
She nodded, not caring about the crowd. She was glad to have a few more minutes with her father. They’d spent this whole marvelous day reveling in each other’s company, practically ignoring everyone else. Stephen hadn’t seemed to mind. Perhaps he understood; he’d just lost his own father, after all. Or maybe she’d played the unwilling bride so persuasively he’d given up any thought of having a claim on her affections.
Her father had spent few days at home over the course of her childhood, especially after her mother died. And then he’d been occupied with the steward and the local justices, men of authority who required his approval or his seal or some other thing. Trumpet remembered dinners passed in silence, each seated at one end of a long table. Sometimes he would ask her questions deriving from his misguided ideas about a young lady’s life. Trumpet held that sort of life in utter contempt, which she allowed to color her answers. She volunteered nothing and he stopped asking.
But time had passed, and she had grown up. The great unexpected joy of this day, which she had been dreading, was discovering how much she liked her father. People had always told her she resembled him, in character as well as looks, but she’d never believed it. They’d been right.
They walked across the courtyard under a waxing moon. One more hour — a little less — and she’d be in Tom’s bed losing her unwanted virginity under the light of this selfsame moon.
She shivered as excitement coursed through her body like a spirituous liquor.
“Are you cold, dearest?” her father asked.
“Not really.”
He slowed his steps, patting her hand. “Are you, ah, worried? Fearful?”
She nearly laughed. What would he say to her if she said she was? “Not really.”
“Thank God.” He shot her a grin. “I suppose that clever maidservant of yours has explained things well enough.”
Trumpet nodded. Catalina had given her the essential facts, and Tom would teach her the rest. Unlike most women of her station, she got to spend her wedding night with the one she loved.
They passed through the shadows under the arched gate into the Great Court, crossing the cobbled yard. They paused outside the door leading to Stephen’s suite of rooms, not yet ready to part. Her father had warned her that he would be gone when she woke up, riding south to Portsmouth to rejoin his crew. “I’m a seafaring man, Daughter. I never feel like myself in England.”
“I know. I’m glad you came.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the whole Spanish treasure fleet.” He took both her hands in his. “He’s not good enough for you, Alice, that bottle-headed cackler, whatever his rank.”
Trumpet chuckled. “He’ll do, Father. I didn’t have much choice.”
“That’s partly my fault, I know. I suppose he could be worse. He’s not bad-looking, and he seems biddable. But I can’t see you settling down to a quiet life in Dorset after spending so much time in London and traveling with the court.”
Now she laughed out loud. “Nor can I! I’ll make a progress through my estates annually to meet with the stewards and hear grievances and so forth, as Lady Russell recommends. But my principal home will be in London. I want a house on the Strand facing the river, with gardens and an orchard. I’ve made an offer to the owners of Surdeval House. We shall see if they meet my price.”
Pride blended with amusement shone in her father’s eyes. “They won’t be able to resist you.”
“Not for long.” She grinned. “I spent a week in that house. I know its flaws.”
“You’re a pirate at heart, Daughter. Like me.” His expression grew serious as he gripped her hands more firmly. “Your mother would be so proud of you. I’m proud of you, for what that’s worth.”
Trumpet was silent for a long moment, thinking about how to respond. Until today she would have valued her father’s opinion at something less than a cracked egg. Now it made her heart ache with affection, or something like it. She decided to forgive him. “In retrospect, my lord Father, I’m grateful for the independence you allowed me as a child. It’s made me who I am.”
He drew in a long breath, as if inhaling the rare words of thanks to store them up inside his chest. Then he let it out with a shake of his head. “We never used words like ‘allow’ and ‘let’ in reference to you, Alice. From your earliest days, you have always known your own mind.”
She nodded. She’d always known that too.
“You blamed me for your mother’s death.” He shook his head. “You were probably right to do so. I was greedier back then, and I’ve always been a selfish man.”
Trumpet shrugged. She didn’t want to spoil this perfect day with sad memories and futile recriminations. “I had allies, good ones. My uncle, my aunt. I still have them.”
“Friends too, I hope.”
“Friends too.” She thought of Tom and Catalina, as well as Lady Russell. And in his own odd way, Francis Bacon. Maybe Bess Throckmorton, if she turned out not to be a murderer.
“It’s kind of you to cast my neglect in such a generous light. I’ll confess that children baffle me, and you were a most unusual child. I was — I am — a terrible father.” His face took on an indescribable expression, as if self-doubt were trying to form on features that weren’t made for it. “But I can be a good friend, if you’ll allow me. I do love you, Alice.”
She held his gaze, biting her lower li
p. Then she nodded. “I believe you.”
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Be happy, my child.” He gave her hands one last squeeze and turned toward the outer gate.
She caught his sleeve before he took a full step away. “Father, I —” She licked her lips. “There will always be a room in my house for you.”
“Thank you, Daughter. I’ll make sure to stay in it sometime.”
And then he left.
Trumpet skipped all the way to Stephen’s rooms, her heart soaring. Her father loved her! Who would have guessed it? And in a matter of minutes, she’d be with Tom. This time nothing would hold them back.
She danced into the anteroom, finding it empty, as planned. Stephen’s men had been sent off with coins in their purses to do as they pleased on this night of nights. They were not to show their faces until nine the next morning.
She opened the door to Stephen’s chamber just to make sure. No one there, but Catalina had filled the pitcher by the wash basin with water so he could wash his hands and face. She’d also set out a jug of wine and a silver goblet on a small table pulled out from the wall where he’d almost trip over it when he came in.
Trumpet frowned. They didn’t want him too drunk. She’d learned from Tom, back when he thought she was a boy, that men’s ability to perform the sexual act could be impaired by too much drink. She debated the question in her mind, then pushed the table back toward the wall.
Satisfied, she crossed the anteroom to enter the lady’s bedchamber. Her chamber now, although she’d left most of her clothes in the room she shared with Bess. This room was also handsomely appointed. The rose shades of the woolen bed curtains, silk pillow covers, and tufted satin coverlet went together so well; Stephen must have chosen them himself.
Two women turned toward the door as she entered; one eerily like Trumpet in general contours.
“My lady!” Catalina reached for her arm, drawing her inside as she closed the door. “You are late.”
“Only a little. I was talking with my father.”
