Lady in Waiting: A Novel

by Susan Meissner

  They had, of course, heartily praised Brad for wanting to spend more time with his family, even though the move meant we wouldn’t be living fifteen minutes away from them anymore.

  My parents had been charmed with Brad since the moment I brought him home to meet them, practically congratulating me for falling for a medical student who would one day be able to provide for me in ways my parents could not. My dad envied the doctors he shared the hallways with at Long Island General. He and they both worked long hours and wore beepers on their belts and had the same pale yellow name tags. They both were called away from warm beds at 2 a.m., from Christmas dinners, and into driving snowstorms to respond to emergencies. But the doctors scurried to save lives, and my dad to respond to a stalled ventilation system or leaking water tank. Dad didn’t draw the same respect or paycheck as his co-workers in scrubs and white coats.

  As an up-and-coming doctor of radiology, Brad was like a white-horsed knight to my parents. He was all that my father wished he had been and all that my mother wished for him.

  I had dated only a few guys before Brad, including my high school sweetheart, Kyle, an easygoing soul whose aspirations to build houses in third world countries utterly failed to impress my parents. They nearly threw a party when Kyle and I reluctantly agreed to see other people after high school graduation, since I was moving to Massachusetts and he to Virginia.

  I really wasn’t looking to begin a relationship when I met Brad a year later. I was still getting occasional letters from Kyle, who had finished a vo-tech course on carpentry and was working with a relief organization in Kenya.

  Brad was so unlike Kyle in so many ways, it’s odd that I’d been attracted to both. Kyle thrived on adventure; Brad appreciated steadiness and dependability. Kyle liked surprises; Brad liked knowing details up front. Kyle was unpredictable; Brad was constant, reliable. One man made me feel like I was on the edge of the unknown; the other made me feel secure. In the end, I chose security.

  I wondered, up until the day I married Brad, if that’s what true romantic love was like—not the pulse-quickening, dopey-eyed fascination I’d had for Kyle, but this deeper, steadier attraction for Brad that had more to do with what I knew than what I felt.

  The night of my bridal shower, I confided in Leslie that I was struggling to let go of the last traces of attraction to Kyle, even though I hadn’t seen him in two years, and that I had moments when I wondered if I was making a mistake. She asked me, without even looking up from the punch she was mixing, if I could imagine myself happy in a hut in the African wilderness, peeing behind bushes, running from poisonous snakes, and sleeping under a mosquito net. I started to laugh.

  “I’m serious.” She was laughing too, but then she looked up from the punch bowl. “I’m serious, Jane. That’s what your life would be like.”

  Leslie had reminded me of that conversation at our parents’ fiftieth a year ago, when again she was making punch and teasing me for once wishing I had married Kyle instead of Brad and how I’d be chasing centipedes on my earthen floor with a switch if I had married Kyle.

  I’d looked over at my parents, standing close as a photographer snapped their picture. I told Leslie that Mom would’ve swept centipedes for Dad. She laughed and said, “No, she would not.” But she looked up at them too, and her laughter ebbed.

  Mom would’ve found a way to lay down tile in her third world hut.

  Molly called a taxi for me after we and her girls polished off several little white boxes of Chinese takeout and watched a couple of reruns of Friends. As we waited at the curb outside her building for my ride home, she asked me how much sleep I was getting.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jane, honey, you look exhausted.”

  I shrugged a wordless reply.

  Molly’s voice took on a near-maternal tone. “It’s been over two months. Don’t you think maybe it’s time to go see somebody? You can’t continue to operate on three or four hours of sleep a night.”

  I stiffened a bit. “I don’t want to take sleeping pills.”

  “I didn’t say start taking pills, I said go see somebody. Somebody who can help you sort this out so you can sleep at night.”

  Sort this out. Sort me out.

  “You mean a psychiatrist.”

  “No, I mean a counselor. You’re not crazy, Jane. You’re hurting. You’re afraid. You’re lonely. You’re frustrated. You’re unsure.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  She ignored my relaxed sarcasm. “That’s a lot for one person to deal with. It’s no wonder you’re not sleeping well. You need to talk this over with somebody. A professional.”

  My unspoken wish floated in between her words and my silence. I just wanted to wait it out, not sort it out. Some people hate waiting. I wasn’t one of those people.

  Molly filled the sound void. “There’s a guy here in my building who’s a psychologist. A counselor.”

  I turned from her words. They smarted.

  “Not a psychiatrist, Jane. A counselor. I ride the elevator with him all the time. He seems really wise and balanced. He’s got a good sense of humor. And he does this for a living, Janie.”

  She pulled a business card out of her front pants pocket and handed it to me. Jonah Kirtland, PhD. Licensed Counselor. She was prepared.

  “You always walk around with his business card in your pocket?”

  “You’re my best friend. I asked for it in the elevator this morning. I told him I was going to give it to you.”

  I touched the letters of his name. “Jonah. Like the whale.”

  “No. Jonah, like the guy who got swallowed by a whale. And then got out of it.”

  The wide stripe of easy cornflower blue above Jonah Kirtland’s name was soothing. The font below it was soothing too. Capitals that didn’t shout; not an easy artistic element to pull off.

  “You told him my name?”

  Molly exhaled quietly. “Yes.”

  “Did you tell him anything else?”

  “I told him you’re going through a really tough time. That you’re not sleeping at night.”

  I rubbed my finger across the slick corner of the card. “And I suppose you told him why.”

  Another exhale. This one a little louder. “Yes, I did. I told him your husband moved out and you hadn’t seen it coming. I am sorry if you rather I hadn’t done that. But I did. He told me he’d be happy to work you into his schedule.”

  I slipped the card into my pocket, my cheeks warm from the reminder of my naiveté; that I hadn’t seen it coming.

  “You mad at me?” Molly asked.

  “No.”

  “Will you call him?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Promise?”

  I nodded a second time.

  Molly smiled and the relief on her face was obvious. “Good.” A tiny crease formed above her eyes. “Just one thing. He’s …,” but she didn’t finish.

  “He’s what?”

  A yellow cab pulled up to the curb.

  She shook her head and the crease disappeared. “Never mind. I think you’re doing the right thing. The smart thing.”

  “I suppose. Thanks for dinner.” I hugged her good-bye and got into the cab.

  “Call me and let me know what happens, all right?” she called out as I closed the car door. I waved good-bye.

  I’d forgotten to leave a light on, so the apartment was dark and cheerless when I unlocked the door. I made a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table. I slid into Brad’s chair without even thinking about it and placed Jonah Kirtland’s card against a vase of straw flowers at the center of the table. I had never been to a psychologist before. Contemplating making an appointment with one prickled me with tiny doubts. Was this really the only way to get a good night’s sleep while I adjusted to marriage limbo? Was I going to have to spill every secret of my soul to this person to get it? Maybe pills would be easier …

  In front of me, the ancient prayer book and rosary rested next to the vase whe
re I left them. I reached for the beads and rubbed the smooth stones. They felt like they held a million secrets and wishes. My fingers slid down to the tiny silver form of Christ, stretched and bowed.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I whispered half to myself and half to the quiet Savior.

  Brad had said we needed time to figure out where our marriage was headed. In the eight weeks Brad had been gone, my only observation was it wasn’t headed anywhere. There was no momentum to evaluate. I was in Manhattan. He was in New Hampshire.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I whispered again, and I felt hot tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I blinked them back. With my other hand, I reached for the prayer book and let it fall open. The faint but legible words in the middle of the book called to me: Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy, defend us from all Perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen. I pulled the text closer. The knobby bump underneath the lining and beneath my fingers was suddenly an annoying interruption. Without stopping to consider the consequences, I grabbed a letter opener from the breakfast bar next to me and slid its point under the top edge of the fragile leather lining. I was amazed at how easily it came away—as if it had been waiting for that moment for centuries.

  I slipped the blade gently inside and probed the knobby bump, turning the book upside down.

  Threads that had at one time been woven together fell out like confetti. And then a circle with a flash of blue landed on the table with a tender tinkling.

  A ring.

  I set the book and the opener down and reached for it. The band, though dulled with age, was gold. The single blue stone in the middle was flanked on both sides by two red stones and clusters of tiny white ones. I didn’t know a lot about gemstones, but I was fairly certain the stones were a sapphire, rubies, and diamonds. In the light of the single bulb glowing above the table, I could see the stones’ brilliance, even with the fog of deep sleep that still seemed to cling to them.

  I turned the ring over in my hands, breathless with surprise and curiosity. Emma surely had no idea this ring had been encased inside the box with melted hinges and no key. The previous owner probably hadn’t known either.

  As I turned the ring, I noticed tiny etchings on the band’s underside. The markings were too small and faint to make out. I hunted for a magnifying glass in my desk just off the kitchen. It seemed to take far too long to find it.

  When I did, I flipped on my desk lamp and leaned in to peer through the lens. My eyes struggled to focus on the tiny script, and when I finally made out the words, I whispered them. “Vulnerasti cor meum, soror mea, sponsa.” They meant nothing to me.

  But then I could see that something else had been inscribed just after the Latin words. I centered the glass on the other set of etched letters.

  My breath caught in my throat. This word I knew.

  Jane.

  Six

  Jane waited for me at the window, her wee head bowed as if something lay beyond the glass that she could not bear to look upon. Her small hands rested on the sill, folded one over the other in the relaxed pose of someone who has no appointment to keep. Beneath her line of vision, I could see the sweeping lawn at Sudeley Castle and the tracks in the dirt my carriage made. A faint swirl of dust caught up against a bit of black as the carriage disappeared from our view, on its way back to Bradgate.

  I should have made my presence known, but I stood at the threshold as one struck dumb. The little lady was lost in sadness, this I could see even from the doorway where I stood, and this was foreign to me. In the two years that I had been in the employ of the wealthy, I had not seen such raw sorrow. In my arms I held a garment soft as down and black as pitch. The lady’s mourning gown, which the marchioness insisted I carry on my lap the entire two-day journey from Leicestershire so that her daughter’s dress wouldn’t be crushed in the trunk. The marchioness did not tell me this directly; Bridget relayed the marchioness’s demands, and it was plain in her eyes and in her tone that it would be foolishness to let the dress out of my sight for even a moment. The little lady was to be chief mourner at the funeral of the Queen Dowager, Katherine. The gown couldn’t be anything less than perfectly appointed.

  Already I could see that the dress would have to be altered to fit the wee maiden. And I instantly wondered if I had the skill to do it. Bridget must’ve thought I did. She would not have sent me if she did not.

  I was amazed the marchioness believed the gown would fit her daughter. Lady Jane must not have grown much in the months she had been living with Lord Admiral Seymour and the widow Queen here in Gloucestershire, at least not as much as her mother expected.

  Or perhaps in her haste, the marchioness selected the wrong dress to be brought. Bridget had wondered if perhaps the marchioness borrowed the dress because there hadn’t been time to make a new one. No one expected the poor Queen Dowager would succumb to childbed fever. No one expected the household of Sudeley Castle would be wearing black that day. Not black. Somewhere in the castle, the Queen’s healthy newborn daughter lay in the arms of a wet nurse. Bridget told me not to ask about her.

  I took a step into the room, cautiously, and the dress in my arms swished my name. Lucy. The Lady Jane at the window did not turn her head toward the sound. I poked my head farther into the room, letting my eyes adjust to the vastness of the room’s size and the absence of the warming rays of the sun.

  Lady Jane and I were alone in her sitting room at Sudeley Castle, a great home whose exterior stones were the color of toasted bread and which were festooned with emerald vines that would soon turn copper, crumple, and skitter away. The maid who escorted me to this room had left to see after the trunk the marchioness had me bring for her daughter, as well as my own small case. I was not accustomed to stepping into a room where the only other occupant was of nobility. I hesitated.

  I had asked Bridget, as I prepared to leave, how long the Lady Jane had been away from her parents, since she was already gone from Bradgate when Bridget made me her apprentice. In truth I wanted to know why the Lady Jane was living away from Bradgate. Lady Jane had eleven years, naught but a year older than my sister, Cecily, who at that moment was at our Haversfield home in Devonshire, surely combing wool one moment and chasing butterflies the next. I did not think the Lady Jane had chased a butterfly in many years. Perhaps never. I had only been in the employ of one other nobleman, and his children remained at home until they married. They had not chased butterflies either. But they were not whisked away to other households. Bridget told me that it was no concern of mine why the Lady Jane left Bradgate to become the ward of Lord Admiral Seymour.

  Then Bridget told me a nobleman like our esteemed Marquess of Dorset—the lady’s father and my employer—has much to consider when God gives him daughters, and that I was not to be listening to gossip below stairs while at Sudeley or she would hear of it and have me dismissed. She very nearly winked at me.

  So it was because the Lady Jane was a girl that she was sent to live with Lord Seymour. It was because she was a daughter whose betrothal was a matter of politics and posturing that she lived in a castle more than a day’s carriage ride from her home.

  On the long journey here, I’d wondered how the Lord Admiral figured into the marquess’s betrothal plans for his eldest daughter. The Lord Admiral was himself already married when Jane came here, having wooed and won the widowed Queen Katherine four scandalous months after King Henry’s passing. And the Lord Admiral had no sons. I didn’t know the Lord Admiral personally. I only knew that he was brother to the Lord Protector, the man who managed the affairs of the young King Edward, Henry’s only living male heir.

  Bridget had supposed it was for marital prospects that the marquess placed his daughter in the household of the lord whose brother directed our sovereign’s associations. Young King Edward was nearly eleven, like Jane, and not yet betrothed. Also like Jane.

  It would not be the first time a monarch marr
ied a cousin. And Bridget told me the Lady Jane was fourth in line to the throne, in her own right. The marchioness, her mother, was King Henry’s niece.

  But as the carriage had rolled along, I endeavored to imagine myself eleven years old—not so hard, as I was not much older at fifteen—shuffled about in clandestine marriage campaigns, handed over to a man I perhaps did not esteem and made to share his bed and bear his children, all for the prosperity of the young male heir that I simply must produce.

  I’d fingered the delicate beading in the mounds of black organza and silk in my lap and wondered what it must be like to wear a dress so heavy, bejeweled, and bedecked, and which, if sold, could feed a family in a croft for nigh a whole winter. Could have paid for my father’s medicine. Could have paid the doctor who cared for him, while my mother and I did what we could—she at my father’s tailoring shop and I at the marquess’s household—to keep him well. I had once thought I would sew happily alongside my father until the end of his days, perhaps marrying late, if I married at all. But there I was, many miles from my childhood home in Haversfield, my parents, and what I had thought would define my quiet life. Everything that mattered to me waited for me in another place.

  And now that I stood gazing at the young maiden who would wear the dress I’d carried—a wisp of a girl whose melancholy filled the cavernous room—the gown weighed like lead in my arms, holding me fast.

  I took another step, and at last she turned her head.

  She had her father’s eyes and her mother’s Tudor bearing. Her hair under her hood was brown like mine, unremarkable like mine. The dress she wore was the deepest green, very nearly black. Whispers of white lace peeked out from the sleeves and neckline. A gold sash at her waist glittered in the only spill of sunlight penetrating the dark stillness of the room. At her throat lay a necklace of pearls and tiny emeralds. Her cheeks were wet.

  I fell to a curtsy.