by Lucy Jago
‘I hear from Dr Turner that there are tonics for greensickness and to improve the balance of my wife’s humours. I would have you give them to her.’ I was, as rarely happens, lost for words. I thought it contemptible that he should whisper to me while Frankie was in the room. That he and George had talked about her also annoyed me, although I know that was unfair as I had spent many hours discussing Essex with Frankie. ‘And dress her with greater modesty,’ he continued, which remark restored my tongue to life.
‘I humbly suggest, my lord, that outward bravery will encourage inner sanguinity. This, in turn, may produce a general amelioration in health, which will allow her menses to flow more completely, unblocking those passages that …’ He quickly held up a hand to stop me; I find that young men with no genuine interest in women dislike any mention of the practicalities of their fertility. Embarrassed by the turn the discussion had taken, he instructed me to keep hold of the dog’s collar and walked back to his wife, paying out the leash as he went. I was slightly ashamed, he was only just eighteen, but the feeling soon left me.
‘Call the dog,’ he ordered. Frankie obeyed. The puppy bounded forward as before but this time, when it grew distracted, the Earl jerked the leash. With a yelp, the dog stumbled and looked around, baffled. Frankie took a breath to call the puppy, but Essex again held up his hand for silence. When still the dog did not come, he jerked the leash harder. Whining, ears down, the puppy was dragged to Essex’s feet. Frankie bent to stroke the soft head but Essex stopped her.
‘No praise until it does exactly as you command.’
The frippirers arrived at that moment, the wife and daughter of the pawn merchant whose services I had used since moving to Fetter Lane. They were both stout, well-dressed women, and I wondered who had surrendered the clothes they wore as we pointed them towards Frankie’s chamber. The Earl eyed them with obvious disdain.
‘People listen more to their tailors these days than their soul-makers,’ he said, loudly enough for the frippirers to glance back at him. ‘To gild and ornament yourself is an insult to Him who first fashioned you.’ He glared at us in turn. ‘The Devil sews vanity and reaps discontent. Bare breasts and painted faces might please the Court, but you insult Our Lord.’ The ardour of his speech was more alluring than his usual whining, yet his passion for obedience and prudery would not excite Frankie. He drew breath to sermonise further but was interrupted by a most unexpected visitor. Frankie looked at me with raised eyebrows when her steward announced his name.
Sir Thomas Overbury entered while still being announced and bowed to Lord Essex, more briefly than was proper. Frankie and me he entirely ignored. Overbury wore deepest black and Essex the plainest brown; there could be no less joy in their attire had they donned sacks and ashes.
‘You are not expected,’ stated Essex with his usual bluntness, although it seemed to me that Overbury’s arrival unnerved him. While greatly inferior in rank, Overbury was his senior by ten years and his reputation for browbeating arrogance preceded him. Frankie swayed in her skirts to force Overbury’s acknowledgement of her, but it was as if she were not present. Her husband, far from enforcing respect for his wife, indicated that Overbury could speak.
Frankie beckoned me over and I dragged a reluctant Purkoy with me. She turned her back on the visitor as if to speak to me, but her attention was fixed on their conversation. Overbury was offering some manner of aid, though I could not fathom how a recently made knight could assist an earl of ancient lineage. The conversation was punctuated at frequent intervals by Overbury wiping his nose on a plain handkerchief. Many nobles were spoken of and Robert Carr’s name passed Overbury’s lips like a prayer to God; each mention clearly annoyed the Earl, but Overbury was oblivious or unconcerned. Members of Frankie’s family were also discussed. It was wondrous to me that neither the Earl, nor Overbury, felt it necessary to move away; they treated Frankie and me like children whose wits were too few to understand what they heard.
At the close of the conversation Overbury gave the shallowest of bows and left before he was given permission. Perhaps irritated by Overbury’s presumption, or maybe his own failure to correct it, Essex was short-tempered on resuming Purkoy’s training. He snapped instructions at the three of us until we were exhausted. When finally he left, we trooped gladly back into the bed chamber. The frippirers were nearly finished sorting clothes into separate piles. Frankie lay on the bed with Purkoy in her arms, feeding him small biscuits.
‘If you spoil him, he will feel his training all the harder,’ I said.
She looked at me. ‘You don’t mean that.’
It was true. I sat beside Frankie and stroked the puppy’s fine coat, enjoying the smile on his face. When Brutus emerged from under the bed, I lifted him up to join us.
The women offered a price, about what I expected, and I was minded to accept on Frankie’s behalf when she sat up and refused the sum. She proved a fierce and unashamed negotiator, bolder than I, and I am not shy. The women, resentful of being bettered, arranged to collect the clothes on the morrow and left.
The moment the door closed behind them Frankie turned to me. ‘What thought you of Overbury’s diplomacy?’
I was amazed anew by her ability to hide her feelings in front of others.
‘Very rude.’
‘Rude? Did you follow his meaning?’
‘I heard ill,’ I lied, unwilling to admit my ignorance of Court affairs.
‘He called my family “ungodly”. He was offering the services of Robert Carr to voice to the King the discontent of our enemies: those who hate Spain and all Catholics, those who blame us for Raleigh’s fall, old, armoured families for whom we are overly fashioned milksop upstarts. All this in front of me!’
‘He thinks women and servants have no ears. Did you see how often he wiped his nose?’
‘And never a sneeze.’
‘George calls his sort hypochondriak. It is a form of melancholy.’
‘My brothers will make him sorrier still for his speeches against us.’
Overbury’s lack of courtesy towards Frankie was unusual, but his assumption of her impotence was not. When first we met, her sleeves were so tight she could not bend her arms and the long fingers of her gloves rendered her hands useless. Attire speaks for us; what says incarceration? It is an unpleasant truth that a wife of high rank must sacrifice speech and independence of thought to her husband, and permit servants to perform every task, bar the procreation of heirs.
‘Tomorrow we will shop at the New Exchange,’ said Frankie with a huge sigh, flopping back on the bed beside her puppy. ‘There must be some compensations.’
Two months later, in early summer, Frankie took me on an extraordinary mission. Rain dripped from the velvet window curtains on to the floor of her carriage as we turned sharply under a gatehouse into a bustling courtyard. I had passed the Queen’s palace on the Strand countless times, but never before been allowed entry.
Approaching the inner court, we were forced to a standstill by a vehicle coming in the opposite direction. The drivers argued as to who had precedence. Minutes passed and a queue built up behind us. Frankie ordered her footman to talk to the passenger in the other coach. After the briefest of exchanges, he ran back, trying to keep his wig dry in the downpour.
‘The coach belongs to Sir Robert Carr,’ he said.
‘Is the King in there?’ Frankie asked, perplexed. As a countess, she had unarguable precedence over a knight, even a favourite knight.
‘No. Nor Sir Robert. It is Sir Thomas Overbury inside.’
‘Does he know whose way he blocks?’ asked Frankie, amazed.
‘He did not ask.’
‘Tell him to make way,’ she ordered, sitting back in her chair. ‘That man’s insolence is beyond crediting!’
It took some time for Carr’s coach to back up and there was a riot of shouting and cursing by the time it was accomplished. Frankie opened the curtains fully as we passed through the gate. She waved graciously to Sir Thomas but
he was reading papers and took no notice of us. We looked at each other, astounded by his incivility, then burst into laughter that I hope he heard. Why we found it so funny is hard to explain; nerves were surely part of it (I had hopes of the occasion and had hired expensive apparel to wear for it), and watching a cock strut around his little kingdom is comical to those who can put him in the pot whenever they choose. Frankie had told her father and brothers about Overbury’s meeting with Essex and they had assured her that he would be taught to show her respect. It seemed the lessons had not yet started.
We drove across the inner courtyard to a gracious sweep of stone steps up which we ran to get out of the rain, the footman hurrying behind with the large linen bag I had brought with me. At the top, just inside the doors, our way was again blocked, this time by Sir Robert Carr, rubbing his arms against the cold. He bowed.
‘Silk is a brave choice for so foul a day,’ teased Frankie, ignoring the need for an introduction. I loved how carelessly she broke the rules of engagement.
‘Overbury took my cloak,’ he said, ‘and my coach too. I’m sorry he tried to barge through, he’s always in a hurry.’ At least I think that is what he said. He seemed to be making great efforts at clarity, yet his accent remained somewhat unfathomable to me. England’s Court had to learn a new language to understand their King and his Scottish nobles. ‘Sir Robert Carr, your servant,’ he said. Perhaps in Scotland you are allowed to introduce yourself to others? I prefer the English way. It is occasionally frustrating but deters strangers who would pester you for favours.
Frankie swept past him and Robert Carr followed us up the stairs, his presence somehow welcome; perhaps it was his unguarded enthusiasm that made him appealing. He was also exceedingly handsome. He tugged the bag from my hand as we climbed, hoisting it over his shoulder like produce. It was said that the King had started to involve Carr in affairs of state, but I found it hard to see that he would contribute much; the man had no cunning. Perhaps that was why he kept company with Sir Thomas Overbury, who had wiles enough for them both.
At the top of the stairs was a very large chamber with long windows looking down on to a formal garden that stretched all the way to the Thames. The walls were hung with tapestries and the floor covered with woven rush, I could smell the meadowsweet in them, but still the place was noisy. There were at least a hundred people gathered, all of them hoping to gain something for themselves. It was thanks to Frankie that I was amongst them.
Several weeks previously, I had mentioned to her my financial woes. It took courage; I feared she would think I befriended her solely for advantage. As a daughter of the King’s Chancellor, I thought she would have little notion of the consequences of debt. Her kind are immune from arrest for it; George and I risked imprisonment if we could not improve our situation. Our embarrassments had arisen, in the main, through our friendship with Frankie. The slight amelioration in her marriage and the transformation of her appearance resulted in other courtiers hoping I could work the same effects on them. As spring opened into summer, I found myself advising ladies how to make their own façades as impressive as their titles and the edifices of their grand houses. On occasion, I was also asked to accompany George. He would let blood and examine the stool; I would offer cordials and suggest a change of wardrobe. In this manner we saw to inner health and outer beauty, and demand for our services outstripped the time we had available. Rather than this vexing our clients, we became ever more sought-after. How strange is life at Court.
However, our growing acclaim raised us to more elevated circles, requiring greater outlay to maintain appearances. Our eventual expectation was a knighthood for George and a Court position with a generous stipend, but our coffers were draining in the meantime, what with buying or renting suitable clothes and hiring a carriage in which to travel, to keep our finery clean as we moved between London and the Court at Westminster. The coachman and groom were not in livery, of course, but still they had to be paid. Our other major outlay was gambling. I hated it and so did George, but anyone seeking preferment must indulge. With no wars to occupy our noblemen, they defend their honour with duels and high-stakes gambling. We did not play at their tables but when invited to join a smaller game it was an insult to refuse. A courtier needs a thousand a year at the very least, an earl five thousand, and that is if he has no official position; much more if he has. Hospitality and entertainment, a well-appointed town house, clothes, travelling coach and town carriage with grooms, drivers, footmen, horses, livery and stabling, and gambling; these are the barest requirements for a nobleman and do not include the hangings, furniture, glassware, plate, cabinets, spices and other luxuries that come from around the world to London’s docks and bring additional honour to the homes of those who can afford them.
The income from my patented starch recipes covered the wages of our servants, which were generous at twelve pounds a year, and the clocks and crystal I received in return for my skills I sold to pay our most vociferous creditors; but our combined earnings were about a quarter of what we needed. Having witnessed my parents’ rapid decline, I did not consider it a sin to want better for my family, so I had finally asked Frankie for advice. She had appeared to take little interest, but later I realised that this was from tact, for some weeks later she extended to me the most extraordinary invitation of my life.
‘Will the Queen notice us in this crowd?’ I asked.
Frankie tried to hide her smile but failed. ‘This is where supplicants wait,’ she explained, leading me towards a pair of guarded doors. I felt ignorant not to know this as Frankie did. Was I not a supplicant?
‘Sir Thomas Overbury didn’t wait to see the Queen,’ interjected Carr. ‘There’s no love lost between them.’
‘He is bold to let that be known,’ said Frankie. ‘She is kind to her supporters but terrible to her enemies.’
‘I’m only telling you.’
‘You and the Queen, however, are great friends?’ she said, eyebrows raised, and Robert Carr let out a great bark of laughter.
‘I’ve been sent to make it so.’
‘I wish you luck,’ said Frankie.
‘Aye, Sir Thomas said it was a fool’s errand.’
There was not a hand’s breadth between their heads. He was flirting shamelessly but at the same time appeared lost; he had no friends at the Queen’s Court and was hiding behind our skirts.
We were only halfway across the room when the doors opened and the Queen was announced. Conversation ceased; the air filled with the sigh of silk as we sank low. I was not alone in peering through my lashes at the tall woman who walked into the chamber. She had a nose like a sail. Her face was too long to be pretty, the chin too bulbous, but it was the noblest countenance ever I beheld. Her fashioning was a mistake to my mind, all girlish bows and ruffles, when her countenance was that of a prince, but I approved the white ruff, wired up to cradle her head like a shell, magnificent jewels pinned to it. These jewels appeared in all the woodblock prints I had seen of her; the C in emeralds was for her brother, King Christian of Denmark, and the S in sapphires for her mother, Queen Sophie. She liked it to be known that she was the daughter, sister and mother of kings, and, as such, held a better pedigree than her husband.
She nodded greetings or exchanged brief words with petitioners. I felt hotter and hotter as she neared, my guts bubbling with elation as she reached our little group. I stared at her shoes, each adorned with a pink silk rose larger than my hand.
‘Lady Frances, rise. How is your mother?’ said Queen Anna, in an accent from the Continent, laced with Scots. Frankie’s mother was Keeper of the Queen’s Jewels but not amongst the first tier of ladies-in-waiting who were all from the Essex camp. The Court of Queen Anna welcomed those who found no favour with the King.
‘In good health, ma’am, thank you,’ said Frankie, at ease in a situation that was making me sweat.
‘And this is Mistress Turner?’
I was so shocked to be mentioned by name that I might have top
pled sideways had Robert Carr not put a steadying hand to my elbow.
‘It is, ma’am.’
‘Rise, Mistress Turner.’
I did, shamed as I heard my knees crack beneath my skirts. The Queen ignored it; we are of an age. ‘Your yellow starch has become quite the fashion.’
I bobbed a curtsy like a dumb kitchen wench. I could find no words. Frankie rescued me.
‘Mistress Turner is as modest as she is talented, ma’am.’
‘Come,’ the Queen said to us, as if Carr were not there. He remained doubled over in a deep bow as I took the bag from his grasp. I passed the obeisant throng, pretending it was me to whom they paid homage. I enjoyed every moment, who would not? When again would I have a great crowd of people at my feet?
We followed the Queen into her privy apartments. That she had noticed my designs was even more wonderful to me than the King’s attentions, for she is admired and copied, whereas the King is prone to eccentric dressing and would never take advice from a woman.
The room into which we were led also faced the river and was filled with light and reflection, even on this wet day. Ladies-in-waiting of different ranks were gathered. Some I knew, for I had fashioned them or George had purged them, but most I did not. Their eyes, guarded and expressionless, watched us as we entered.
‘Let me try on something yellow,’ Queen Anna said, as if it were forbidden, like tobacco, although I knew she was not timorous. Frankie had spent hours telling me of the wondrous masques the Queen commissioned every year, with moving scenery and outlandish, often military, costumes. The King railed against women adopting men’s dress but the Queen, on stage at least, clearly enjoyed being armed and victorious.
I took from my bag the finest ruff I had ever fashioned. Her ladies came to unpin her own and replaced it with mine. They tucked the matching cuffs into her sleeves and a long mirror was brought. Only one kept her distance. I knew her to be Lucy Russell, Countess of Bedford, the Queen’s favourite and influential in all matters; her parents, staunch Protestants, were the guardians of Prince Henry and brought him up in their household. Frankie was afraid of her, for she was clever in everything from poetry to politics, and an open adversary of the Howards and their allies. Although possessing taste, she was restrained in fashion and stood aloof from our experiment with yellow.
