by Lucy Jago
Once dressed, I took Janet into the closet off the bed chamber and helped her lie down in a large linen press. I smoothed the dress around the girl, closed the lid and, out of habit, said a prayer. A virgin at Court is rarer than a diamond in the Fleet ditch and it had taken much effort to discover one. The closet door was well disguised when shut so I hoped it would remain unnoticed. Lady Monson was taking her leave as I joined Frankie, promising to return when we sent her word.
‘If this fails I am finished,’ said Frankie. I resisted reminding her that we would both be finished, but I did stop her pouring herself a drink.
‘You must smell the same as well,’ I said. ‘Let us pray that this is the final hurdle.’
If it was the last, it was also the worst. To have to prove her virginity, even though it was Essex’s insufficiency under examination for the annulment, had brought a cold fury into her soul I had not witnessed before, not even at the worst of her husband’s cruelties. While admitting impotence in his marriage to the Annulment Commission, Essex had implied that Frankie was not chaste. The head of the Commission, Archbishop Abbott, a sincere but narrow-minded Calvinist who virulently hated Catholics, Howards and divorce, ordered her searched even though her virtue was irrelevant to the case.
‘Lord Northampton is pressing Overbury to make cause with us,’ said Frankie, making a small snorting sound.
‘Is that not good?’ I said.
‘The damage has been done. Everywhere I go I feel a new disrespect. No matter how many times he apologises, people will never forget that he called me base.’
I could not argue. At Court, in the Exchanges, even in the back streets, there was frenzied talk about women’s disobedience to men, the breakdown of law and order, the canker of corruption and effeminacy that tainted the King himself. Frankie was the perfect scapegoat, representing everything most hated: a pretty, pampered woman with independent ideas, a Catholic, a courtier. The libels and broadsheets boosted their sales by illustrating their broadsides against her with stock woodblock prints of half-naked harlots. I must have frowned, for Frankie asked, ‘It touches you too?’
‘The few clients I still have invite me in the hope that I will give them gossip about you. No one pays me.’
‘Once Robin and I are married, we will bore people with our respectability.’
‘And if it is brought up in Parliament?’
Frankie laughed and patted my arm. ‘Why would Parliament be interested in whether the Earl of Essex can stiffen his member?’
‘Because they abuse Scotch favourites almost as much as Catholics. If your annulment is granted and you marry Carr, Parliament will not want a powerful Catholic family allied to the most important man at Court after the King.’
Frankie looked hard at me for a long while, before shaking her head. ‘The King does not listen to Parliament; Parliament listens to the King, and he wants the annulment. You worry too much.’
‘That is true,’ I said, looking away from her. I rehearsed each step in my mind while Frankie fiddled with the gold chain around her neck. When the knock came, we both flinched.
Into the parlour processed the six inspectors appointed by the Annulment Commission; two midwives of fair repute and four noblewomen of mature years who were all mothers, Lady Mary Tyrwhitt, Lady Alice Carew, Lady Elizabeth Dallison and Lady Anne Waller. All looked discomfited to be there and Frankie did nothing to lessen their unease. With an admirable display of mortification, she curtsied to the noblewomen and offered them refreshment. All refused, as anxious as Frankie to be released from the ordeal.
‘Lady Carew, it has been some time since we have had the pleasure of each other’s company,’ said Frankie, quietly. ‘May I offer you my hearty good wishes on the birth of your first grandchild. Is that a picture of him?’ she asked, indicating the locket that hung from a long chain around the neck of Lady Carew.
‘It is he,’ said the lady, flushing with pride and opening the jewel to hold out the miniature within for Frankie’s inspection. She praised the child and the fine workmanship of the limner and jeweller. In return, Lady Carew praised Frankie’s own valuable chain. Frankie made to go but Lady Carew stopped her, blushing furiously.
‘My lady, we have been told to inspect your chamber before we begin, I am sorry.’
‘Do not be sorry, Lady Carew, I am happy to oblige. Mistress Turner, would you be kind enough to show Lady Carew into the bed chamber? Does any other lady need to accompany you?’ asked Frankie. In the end, I showed Lady Carew and a midwife into Frankie’s chamber. Lady Carew gave it no more than a cursory glance but the midwife took her time. She moved the arras to check that no one hid behind and spotted the door into the closet. My stomach clenched but the midwife stopped short of opening the presses in there. She finally nodded to me and we returned to the parlour.
‘To save us all from great distress, the noble lady may be veiled,’ said Lady Carew, cringing with embarrassment. ‘And no questions shall be put to the Countess during her ordeal, but she shall return to this room afterwards if there be any matters to discuss. These are the orders of the Commission,’ she said, and I was sure that the Earl of Northampton had exerted his influence to ensure them.
Frankie and I withdrew to the closet off the bed chamber where I retrieved Janet from the linen press and helped Frankie into it, removing her necklace, which I gave to the girl to put on. After closing the closet door, I helped Janet to lie on the bed and pulled a veil over her head, making sure that it entirely hid her face and neck and that only the gold chain fell below it.
I opened the door to the inspectors. The midwives gathered at the foot of the bed but the noble mothers hovered by the door. I stood at the head, ready to calm the girl, or even put a hand over her mouth should she cry out.
‘If it please you, m’lady,’ said the midwife who appeared to be in charge. The noble ladies turned their backs as one while Janet Monson slid further down the bed and raised her knees. I was careful to keep the veil in place and patted the girl’s shoulder as the midwife pulled up her skirts to reveal two white legs. She held her candle close, with care not to burn the skin, and the midwife carefully pushed two fingers though the bush of dark hair and into the private place. The legs on the bed twitched in surprise and stiffened, but no noise came from the veiled figure. The midwife moved her fingers around briefly then withdrew them, wiping them carefully on a damp cloth.
‘Ladies, if you would come and inspect?’ invited the midwife to the noble women huddled by the door. Janet gave out a little scream and struggled to sit up. The ladies in the corner turned and my heart thumped in horror. If Janet revealed herself in her panic we would be entirely undone.
‘My lady, your modesty will be preserved,’ I said, leaning over to hide her face from the onlookers, digging my fingers into her shoulders as hard as I dared without making her scream louder. ‘It is nearly over,’ I said kindly, glaring at her in warning through the thick veil. Janet slowly sank back and I breathed again.
Hesitantly, none of them wanting to reveal even a suspicion of eagerness, the noble ladies shuffled to the end of the bed. The candle was held close again and the midwife held the lips open. Janet groaned.
‘If you feel about a finger’s length within, you will notice a closing, which shows that no man has ever entered this passage. Lady Carew, would you care to confirm what I have felt?’
‘Oh no!’ said the good lady, horrified at the thought. She would not be known as the lady with a finger in the Countess of Essex. The midwife looked at the other ladies but all three shook their heads.
‘Very well, I will do my best to show you.’ The midwife pressed her finger down on the entrance, causing the legs to stiffen again. ‘I am sorry, my lady, forgive me.’ The noble ladies made the briefest and most feeble attempt to peer into the passage, the midwife announced herself satisfied, and the group withdrew.
I helped Janet off the bed, raising her veil to find the girl’s face flushed and sodden with tears.
; ‘Hush, child, hush. You did well and the Countess and your family will be proud of you. A little prodding like that is good practice for when you will be married. Indeed, you’ll be lucky if you get it so gently then.’ The girl cringed and I left her to compose herself while I helped Frankie out of the linen press. The necklace was swapped back and Janet sat on a stool in a corner. Frankie did not look at the crying girl.
I hurried into the parlour.
‘I am sorry to have kept you. The Countess is distressed,’ I told them. The ladies looked drained themselves and even the midwives seemed nervous.
‘I shall be able to report back to the Commission that the Countess of Essex is fit for carnal copulation and still a virgin,’ proclaimed Lady Carew. ‘On this we are all agreed.’ Within a few moments the women had retrieved their cloaks and were gone.
19
We became like two sparrows, Frankie and I. Lord Essex refused to return her dowry until the Annulment Commission had made its decision, and her family were prodigiously in debt from building the largest private house in the country, bigger than any royal palace. ‘Spend and God will send’, was the motto of most courtiers, although Frankie’s parents got most of their money from bribes, kick-backs and siphoning off monies meant for the navy and soldiers’ wages in Ireland. It was barely a secret; Frankie had told me this with no embarrassment because it was normal at Court and the King himself survived in like manner. Everyone was tremendously in debt; there, liberality was next to godliness.
As her parents had no longer any need to buy her obedience, Frankie had little money and I none. I became her frippirer, taking objects to pawn merchants, the money from which she spent on theatre tickets and a few spangles to avert suspicion that she was short, while I spent my portion on food, medicine and coal. She was generous, as always, and lived in expectation of great riches if the Commission granted her release from Essex. Although her own family, especially her parents, were famously profligate, Carr was their equal. Marriage to him would cure our financial ills; tables so heavily laden drop more than crumbs for those who wait patiently.
In her apartment, emptied of her husband’s possessions and his sulking, there was a feeling of abeyance. The news that an annulment was to be considered provoked so great a storm of rebuke, from pulpit to market stall, that Frankie went out rarely and always heavily cloaked. This imprisonment, aggravated by her impatience to be married and to start a family, made her short-tempered and anxious. Girls eight or even ten years her junior were paraded daily before Carr as prospective wives.
It was a strange time. I was not under the governance and protection of a father, husband or lover. Arthur’s desertion of me caused gentlewomen to cease requesting my help. Frankie’s parents offered me small payments in return for acting as their daughter’s chaperone; I could not refuse the money, and so I slept many nights that winter on a narrow truckle in her chamber. I hated to be away from my children, but old Maggie looked after them in order that I could earn at least something.
One of those nights started like many others. Frankie and Carr were talking past one in the morning, and I could not sleep.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked. ‘The King ordered it. It’s wee but it’s not a bad likeness.’ The bed-hangings were closed but I could see their bodies in silhouette. I guessed Carr had given Frankie a miniature of himself but, unbidden, the image of Judith severing Holofernes’ head came to my mind, the blood hot and strong-smelling, the maid wincing as the still twitching head dropped into her sack. I sat up, revolted by my own thoughts.
Frankie opened the bed curtain but I continued to watch; it was too dark for her to know whether I slept or not. She walked naked to the mantel, picked up a candlestick and returned to bed without closing the curtains. The sanctum brightened as if angels slept there. She held the pendant close to the flames and I wondered how it was for Frankie to hold in her palm a tiny painted image of the man, gorgeous in jewelled silk, who now lay damply naked beside her.
‘It is perfect,’ she said.
Robin knelt up and put the chain, on which the miniature was threaded, over her head. I should have looked away from their nakedness, but I did not. ‘Now my head is always between your breasts. Did you know that miniatures are stuck to playing cards? Guess which suit I chose.’
‘Hearts,’ said Frankie, putting the candlestick on a table.
‘I didn’t think of that,’ said Robin, sounding surprised. ‘It’s diamonds!’ he laughed, keeling on to his side and pulling her down with him. ‘I have a lot to learn about love. But do you see how thin I am? My life is all work.’
Frankie stroked his chest and I was moved by the simple gesture. Many times she had listed to me the features in Carr that she most loved: his eyes with their dancing lights, so unlike the dark, ever-narrowed gaze of her suspicious husband; his golden beauty and love of adornment equal to hers; his neat, white teeth. She was astonished by the way he loved to kiss and stroke her; his smell, with no hint of horse; his hands, keen to discover every inch of her; his loud and eager laugh; a mind that struggled with politics and law but revelled in her.
There was only one thing about Carr that disquieted her: his need to be loved by everyone, the English and the Scots, the Queen and the King, Essex, Overbury and her family, a craving for acceptance that could never be fulfilled in a riven Court.
‘I had to visit the worms with the King today,’ Robin said. ‘You know he’s appointed a groom of the chamber to take some with us whenever we travel?’
‘Would I were a worm, I might see you more. Are they thriving?’
‘Not really but it gives the King such pleasure to get silk from ugly worms for the cost of a handful of leaves that the keepers pretend there’s more silk made than there is. He wishes he could spin it himself, what with the Treasury as it is.’ Robin laughed, then corrected himself, as if the King could hear him. ‘That’s not unreasonable of course, but the place stinks.’
The palace clock struck two, the chimes rolling across the black, cold night and into their luminous bed.
‘I must go, the King will not be pleased I wasn’t with him this night. I’m like his wee greyhound, always called to heel. But, Frank, I have to tell you, Essex and his crew plot against me. Here’s the one place I’m safe from being moaned at or stabbed.’
‘Here you are safe,’ she confirmed, impressing me as ever with her seeming confidence when I knew she was terribly afraid that the annulment would not be granted or that Robin would waver.
‘Blasted Overbury has put everyone against me with his meddling and his high carriage of himself,’ said Carr, deep anger in his voice. ‘It’s hard to find someone to take his place; the work’s too much for one man.’
‘Does he write to you?’ asked Frankie, all innocence.
‘He can’t, but I send letters in. I tell him I’m working to get him a pardon, just to keep him quiet ’til he apologises to you, but he’s as stubborn as a bull to the butcher.’ Fear tightened Carr’s voice as he spoke of the overwhelming nature of his duties; he may not have missed Overbury’s friendship, but he yearned for his help and his ability to shield the favourite from the constant pestering of those seeking favour.
With much kissing and promises of another visit soon, Robin left. Frankie called softly, to see if I was awake. She invited me into the comfort and warmth of her bed, and we fell asleep instantly.
A little while later I was woken. Someone was in the room. It was still dark and freezing air crept under the covers as Frankie moved, already awake.
‘Weston was waiting in the Privy Corridor for me with a letter from Overbury.’ It was Carr back again.
‘Take light from the fire, my love, I cannot see you.’ Carr lit a candle and I climbed down from the bed to wrap Frankie in her shawl.
‘Weston says Overbury’s brother-in-law visited him yesterday. Lidcote’s his name.’
‘How was he allowed?’ said Frankie.
‘I don’t know, he must have paid the right man. W
eston swears he searched this Lidcote, on going in and coming out of the cell, and found naught on him. But Overbury claims he’s written a full account of our relations and that Lidcote will circulate it widely.’
Frankie stared at him in horror. ‘Oh, God in heaven.’
I stared too, but also I was confused. Was Overbury threatening to reveal Frankie’s infidelity, in which case he must have evidence we knew not of; or his own secretest love of Carr, which was shared by the King? The first would destroy Frankie, the second would destroy the Court; it would be suicide, but then Overbury was the sort of person who would enjoy dragging as many people as possible into hell with him.
‘This same Lidcote told Overbury that I am not working to secure his release. Overbury writes that I am “the most odious man alive”.’ Carr waved the letter at Frankie. He kicked the metal fire grate with the toe of his boot. The fire was banked and the few sparks that escaped burnt out at the peak of their glowing arcs. His face was closed in a way that Frankie could not have missed. It was clear that he was terrified to have an enemy who knew so much about him. Perhaps he also felt regret at deceiving his best friend, or at least for having been found out in it?
‘I’ll call on your great-uncle Northampton.’
‘How can he help?’ said Frankie. She had told me that Robin had recently gone against Northampton’s wishes in choosing a new Under-Secretary of State and that her great-uncle would pretend to forgive him but would exact revenge at some future point.
‘He has more spies than anyone. You and I must stay apart. Overbury’ll need to apologise to me now, as well as to you.’
Frankie made a gesture to stop him, kiss him, but he only patted her shoulder and left. In the enveloping night, we heard the logs shift in the fireplace, slowly consumed by a gentle burn. Outside, despite the late hour, footsteps echoed in the courtyard below, torchlight reflecting like thousands of distant fires in the diamonds of the window. We returned to bed but neither of us slept.
Two days later, Weston visited me with dread news. The moment he took his leave, I left the house and stumbled about the streets, looking for the painter Larkin’s building. It was but fifteen minutes from my door, but the way was clogged with goods’ carts from the wharves and people in such numbers that we were pressed to a standstill every few paces. I ducked through courts and branching passages but there was no escaping the crush; I felt I was being smothered in oil cloth, my ears deafened not by the swearing and vexation that surrounded me but by Weston’s urgent whispers.
