Lady in Waiting: A Novel

by Susan Meissner

  She took a sip of wine and opened her mouth to continue, but a shadow crossed the doorway. Alice stood framed between the posts.

  “Didn’t I tell you to finish, lass? The coach leaves in ten minutes!”

  Nan stood, fingering a crumb at the corner of her mouth. Alice made no move to leave. Nan looked down at me.

  “Farewell, Lucy. Perhaps I will see you at Chelsea. If you are to stay with the Lady Jane, that is.”

  “Come on, then!” Alice barked.

  “Farewell,” I said.

  Nan left the room and Alice followed. I was now alone, and the fire in the grate had reduced to embers. I sipped the broth. It had grown cold.

  I climbed the stairs to the wardrobe room and the sleeping quarters that adjoined it, eager to pen a letter home to my parents to let them know where I was. As I stepped onto the landing, a man about my father’s age rounded a corner for the main stairs, and I stepped back into a curtsy.

  He was tall, handsome, and dressed in traveling clothes. I knew without being told this man was Thomas Seymour, the Lord Admiral. I waited for him to continue on his way. When he did not, I raised my head.

  “You are the seamstress from Bradgate?” His voice was not unkind, but his tone was much opposed to casual interest.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You brought this letter?” He waved a piece of parchment in front of me. I had not seen the letter before. I did not know what to say.

  “’Twas inside the Lady Jane’s trunk,” he said.

  I fumbled for words. “I … I did not pack the lady’s trunk, my lord.”

  He regarded me silently, and it was obvious, even in the darkness of the candlelit landing, that he was deciding if I was telling him the truth.

  “You did not place this letter in the Lady Jane’s trunk?” He extended the open letter toward me. I could make out the last line and one name.

  Edward.

  “No, my lord.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No, my lord.”

  He fell silent. I wished to continue on my way, but yet he stood there.

  “What is your name?” he finally said.

  “Lucy Day, my lord.”

  “Have there been guests of late at Bradgate? My brother, the Lord Protector?” He sounded angry, as if the words cut his lips as they left his mouth.

  “No, my lord.”

  He waved the letter. “But his son?”

  I nodded. “Aye … and his mother, the duchess.”

  “How long were they there?”

  I sensed my face growing warm and red. When I did not answer right away, he took a step toward me. He reached out his other arm, and I involuntarily stepped back.

  When he spoke again, his voice was tender and smooth. He gently took hold of my chin to raise my head. No man had ever touched me like that. The heat in my face deepened. He tipped his head in a gesture of kindness. “My concern is for my ward, the Lady Jane. She has suffered a great loss. We all have. This letter troubled her. I ask only to ascertain the motivation behind it.”

  The Lord Admiral dropped his hand, but he had taken a step closer to me. I could smell scent on him. Spicy and lingering, like Christmas wine. “How long were the duchess and my nephew there? Why did they come?”

  I wanted to look away, but he sought my gaze. “They came to hunt, my lord.”

  His eyes widened. “To hunt?”

  I detected a layer of hostility in his question, but not toward me.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And were they successful?”

  Surely the admiral knew a wardrobe seamstress would have little reason to hear of the successes of hunting parties in Bradgate’s woods. But I had the distinct feeling we were not talking about stags.

  “I do not know, my lord.”

  He stood there, studying my face, contemplating, I think, if I would be an ally or an obstacle in the days and weeks to come with regard to his plans for Lady Jane’s future. Then he smiled at me. Thoughtful and serene. His countenance was disarming.

  “It was my pleasure to meet you, Lucy. Perhaps I shall see you again on a happier day.”

  “I am dreadfully sorry for my lord’s loss.” I curtsied.

  “Yes. It was a great loss indeed,” he said, and then he swept past me. I watched him take the stairs. At the turn in the stairs, he looked up at me and smiled. Then he disappeared into the wide entry.

  When I turned to make my way to the wardrobe and my cot, I saw that Lady Jane was standing on the stair that led to her rooms. I had no idea how long she had been standing there. Perhaps she had been there the entire time the Lord Admiral spoke to me. She looked so sad, and I could nearly hear her mourning dress whispering, “She weeps, she weeps.”

  “Does my lady have need of anything?” I said as I curtsied to her.

  She closed the distance between us. When she was near to me, she nodded toward the staircase the Lord Admiral had flown down.

  “Did you see who that letter was from?”

  “My lady?” It hadn’t occurred to me that she had not read the letter before the admiral took it from her.

  “The letter in the Lord Admiral’s hands. Did you see who it was from?”

  I had not intended to read anything not addressed to me, but I had, indeed, seen the name Edward and the line he had written just before he signed it. I hesitated.

  “I will not be angry,” she said in earnest. “The Lord Admiral was there in my sitting room when my trunk was opened. He saw the letter before I did. Was it from my mother?”

  Was it dread or hope in her voice? I could not tell.

  “Please, tell me,” she whispered.

  “It was not from my lady’s mother.”

  Her shoulders seemed to relax. Or fall. “Who was it from, Lucy?”

  “From … from young Edward Seymour, my lady. He and his mother, the duchess, were visiting Bradgate when I left.”

  “Edward.…,” she breathed.

  “Yes.”

  She looked past me toward the darkness of the windows that stretched the height of the corridor. Toward home, no doubt. “Edward,” she said. Her reverie seemed a private matter. I could not guess what she knew about the Protector’s son being at Bradgate. Talk below stairs was just talk. And I could not guess how she might feel about a betrothal to the Lord Admiral’s nephew. Or to anyone.

  “If you will excuse me, my lady.” I curtsied and took a step away, but she reached out a thin arm and touched my elbow.

  “Wait. Did you read it?”

  “No, certainly not, my lady!”

  “I do not mean while you traveled here. I mean when he stood there with it. Could you read any part of it?”

  I swallowed hard. Unease lay in her young voice. “Please?”

  “Edward Seymour offered you his heartfelt condolences, my lady.”

  She nodded. “That is what you saw? That is all that you saw?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Jane let go of my arm and exhaled. “Thank you, Lucy.” She turned away from me and made her way back to her room.

  And I, to mine.

  It only occurred to me as I climbed into my bed, after writing a note to my parents, that the admiral had lied to me. He told me the letter from Edward had troubled Lady Jane, but she had not even seen it.

  Nine

  The funeral for Katherine Parr, the Queen Dowager, took place on Friday, the eighth of September, at the chapel at Sudeley Castle. The Lady Jane, dressed in the gown I had fitted for her, walked behind the Queen’s casket, which was borne by six men in black hooded gowns. I carried my lady’s train.

  It was the first funeral I had been to under the Church of England, which King Henry created in 1534 so that he could set aside his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, and marry Anne Boleyn. Dr. Miles Coverdale, of the Reformist religious teaching, was the almoner. There was no mention of Rome, nor was a word spoken in Latin. There was singing and psalms, but in truth, I could only look on my lady, whose sad
ness seemed bigger than her tiny frame in that great tent of a dress. When the Queen’s body was lowered into the ground, the choir sang Te Deum in English. I had never heard the words in English before. The song was beautiful, but my lady shuddered so when the casket disappeared from our sight. I do not know if she even heard the words.

  It seemed the funeral had no more begun than it was over. The mourners got into their carriages and sped away before the sun was high in the late summer sky. I accompanied my lady back to her rooms and helped her take off the whispering mourner’s gown. She asked me to please put it in a place where she would not have to look at it.

  Nan Hargrave had left with the Lord Admiral the night before, and the Queen’s attendants had begun to pack their things as soon as the midday meal was over. So that left only myself and the scowling Miss Alice in the wardrobe room as the sun veered west. She sat on a stool and mended a farthingale for Lady Margery Seymour, the Lord Admiral’s mother, who was to stay as a chaperone for Lady Jane in a house that was suddenly bereft of female company.

  “You are staying, then? With the Lady Jane?” Alice asked me as I hung the black dress as far back on the rung as I could.

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Even if she stays on with my lord?”

  It was apparently no secret that the admiral fully intended to keep Jane in his household. But no one at Bradgate had given me instructions regarding this. The last word I had from the Lady Jane’s mother, the marchioness, was that I was to accompany Lady Jane back to Bradgate after the Queen’s funeral. Yet no one had announced the arrival of a carriage to take us there.

  “I do not know, madam,” I answered.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” she mumbled, but certainly loud enough for me to hear. I was at Sudeley for the express purpose of tending to Jane’s wardrobe needs. An eleven-year-old child only had so many.

  “Well, if you ask me—,” she began, but then she abruptly fell silent. I looked up from the dresses in front of me. Lady Jane stood in the doorway. I fell to a curtsy and Alice, frowning and struggling to her feet, bowed with the unwieldy farthingale hoop in her arms.

  Jane had changed into a gown of tawny taffeta, the bodice of which was embroidered with gold-thread butterflies. A gold girdle circled her waist, studded with Indian pearls at the intersections. Along the underside of her french hood was a cloudlike ruching of white lawn. She looked lovely and strangely serene in light of the activities earlier in the day.

  “Can I do anything for you, my lady?” I asked.

  She hesitated a moment, as if she suddenly had misgivings about coming to me. “Would you like to see the baby?” An undercurrent of uncertainty laced her voice.

  Alice, who had huffed back down onto her footstool, jerked her head up. Surprised, no doubt, at Jane’s invitation. Jealous, perhaps.

  “Of course, my lady,” I replied.

  Jane’s smile was measured but immediate. She turned out of the doorway, and I followed her, leaving Alice to her ponderings.

  “Your gown is beautiful, my lady,” I said as I followed her down a long hallway that I had not to that point set foot on.

  “The Queen gave this one to me. It was her favorite.”

  We took a few steps in silence.

  “You were very brave today, my lady,” I said. “I can see how much you loved the Queen.”

  “She was like a mother to me.” Jane looked off down the carpeted corridor as we walked, but her gaze seemed unfocused. “More a mother to me than my own.”

  Jane stopped suddenly and swiveled to face me. Her dress rustled in protest. “I misspoke! I meant the Queen was very kind to me!”

  Jane’s eyes were bright with fear. My dealings with the marchioness had been few to that point, but it had been obvious, even to me, that she had lofty expectations for and of Jane that were unmet. Bridget told me that the marchioness had no patience with her eldest daughter, especially when Jane spoke her mind, and she did not hesitate to strike Jane if her anger was roused. Bridget also reminded me that this was of no concern to me. She must surely have thought that when Jane and I returned to Bradgate, there could likely be harsh words from the marchioness—or worse. And I was to mind my own business.

  Jane blinked back tears of dread. I could see she was already picturing me relaying to her mother what I had just heard her say. The thought appalled me.

  “You have nothing to fear from me, my lady. Nothing,” I assured her.

  She seemed to need a few moments to test her confidence that I would keep my word.

  “I misspoke,” she said again, flatly.

  “The Queen was indeed kind to you,” I said. “Surely you are only grieving her loss.” I held her gaze, intent on her knowing I was no spy for her mother.

  This satisfied her. We resumed our progress to the nursery.

  “My mother was one of the Queen’s attendants when the King was still alive,” Jane said, her voice contemplative. “She brought me to court with her. That’s when I met the Queen Katherine.”

  It still seemed absurd to me that a child should be at court, but I kept this to myself. “And how did my lady like being at court?” I said instead.

  She seemed to have heard a different question. “I was so happy when Mama chose to have me accompany her. My little sister Kate was so jealous. If I had known how difficult it was going to be to please Mama, I might have suggested she take Kate instead. You’ve no doubt dressed my little sister. You know what she is like. She would have loved it.”

  I had met young Katherine Grey. Even at nine, Kate loved being the apex of everyone’s attention. I nodded.

  We neared the nursery door, and Jane stopped as she placed her hand on the door to open it. “Mama didn’t bring me to court to have me near her. She brought me so that I would be noticed.”

  “By the admiral?”

  “By His Majesty. The King.” She turned from me and opened the door.

  Inside the spacious room, the woman I had seen in the staff dining room paced a Persian rug with a shining bundle in her arms. All around her was lace and silk and gold and velvet. The nursery had been prepared at great expense. The woman appeared puzzled that I was there. But she smiled at Jane, and her eyes shimmered with compassion.

  “My lady.”

  “Hello, Beatrice. Have you met Lucy Day? My mother sent her here for me from Bradgate.” Jane moved toward the woman and the babe in her arms.

  Beatrice nodded to me, but I detected she assumed I might be a copy of Nan Hargrave whom she clearly had no affection for. I could only guess it had something to do with Nan’s loose tongue, especially regarding the admiral.

  “How do you do?”

  “Very nice to meet you,” Beatrice said evenly. She turned to Jane. “Have you come to visit Miss Mary?”

  Jane nodded and extended her arms, and Beatrice transferred the bundle to her. I saw in Jane’s arms a tiny human face surrounded by lace and white lawn—the babe’s sapphire eyes were open and alert. Her rosebud lips were bunched into a wee red bloom, and a sheen of golden silk crowned the babe’s head. Jane bent down and kissed the infant, whispering a greeting.

  “You can leave us,” Jane said to Beatrice, not looking up from the child’s cherubic face.

  “My lady?” Beatrice’s eyes were wide.

  “My parents are coming. I fear I shall be leaving here soon and I won’t see Mary again.” Jane raised her head, and I could that her eyes had turned glossy. “I would like to be alone with her.”

  Beatrice looked to me, her eyes questioning.

  “Lucy will stay with me and fetch you if I need assistance.” Jane’s attention turned again to the babe.

  Beatrice hesitated and then curtsied. “As you wish, my lady.”

  I felt Beatrice’s eyes on me as she left, but I did not look at her. When she was gone, Jane cooed to the child and laughed as the child cooed back. Jane walked over to the fireplace where a pleasant flame kept the vast room warm. I followed her.

  “Here.
Take the child while I settle.” Jane handed me the babe and then knelt down on the thick carpet in front of the hearth, arranging her skirts around her. Then she reached for the child, and I handed the little Lady Mary to her.

  “Sit with me?” she said as she took the child.

  I knelt down across from Jane. “She is beautiful.” The child raised a tiny hand from within the folds of the lacy coverings and nearly waved at us.

  Jane nodded and smiled.

  I had not heard the marquess and marchioness were coming, so I chanced a question.

  “Did a message arrive today from your parents?” I asked.

  “Yes. They wrote that they are coming to fetch me home. They … they think my interests are better served at home now that the Queen is gone. They are not convinced the admiral’s plans to ensure a royal betrothal for me will proceed without … without the Queen’s influence.”

  She looked up at me, and I sensed she was inviting me to conversation, the kind of conversation two friends might have when they are our age and imagining what it might be like to be held and kissed and loved by a man. In that moment, I felt the distance between us begin to fade.

  “Would you be happy with a betrothal to His Majesty?” I whispered, a bit cowardly, I admit.

  But she visibly relaxed as soon as the words left my mouth, as though she’d been longing to talk openly about this for many days.

  “Ellen has told me if I am ever asked such a question, the answer is always yes.” Jane bent and kissed the child’s fist. “I am His Majesty’s humble servant, and I am ready to fulfill my duty to God, the King, and England.” She turned her head to look at me, welcoming me to question her.

  “Is that what Mrs. Ellen thinks?”

  Jane smiled. “Ellen does not want me to say anything that would anger my parents. This is the answer they would have me give. And Ellen counsels me to answer thus so that they will have no reason to be unhappy with me.”