A Net for Small Fishes

by Lucy Jago

  ‘We are, I thank you.’

  ‘Now that we are close neighbours, I hope we will meet again, soon and often,’ he said, holding out his hand. He meant what he said and, without hesitation, I gave mine to him and he kissed it. Three times.

  22

  While young, we strive for everything we want. Later, we clutch at what we have and hope to lose nothing. By my age, you realise that contentment is found within the heart only.

  After Frankie’s marriage, there followed eight months of exquisite happiness. Robin recovered from his guilt and grief at Overbury’s death and his love for Frankie returned. He seemed relieved to have one less master. Frankie established her household at Chesterford in Suffolk, and we avoided the Court. Although I remembered Lord Northampton’s warnings, it suited me also to be away from the City and Whitehall. My three younger children ran through fields and gardens, growing strong and clever on fine food and tutoring. I no longer had to work and could be with them always. Servants oversaw our basic needs so that I could spend my time teaching the youngest fine manners and helping them with their lessons. Mary recovered from her illness, a blessing for which I thanked God and Frankie. Old Maggie had been brought into Frankie’s household and had the opportunity to rest for the first time in her life.

  Chesterford is near Audley End, where my dear son John was learning the skills of a gentleman, from wielding a sword to carving a goose. Visits from him were a delight, as were those of Mr Palmer, who came to discuss new purchases more than was strictly necessary. Each time he requested that I walk with him in the gardens and sit by his side at mealtimes. He was contemptuous of the empty flattery typical at Court; we spoke of ideas and experiences, neither of us attempting to impress the other.

  Frankie and I lived like a happily married couple: the one energetic, the other quietly content. Like old Maggie, we were also in need of rest. I was restoring myself, growing smooth and glossy, thinking perhaps Mr Palmer might soon ask for my hand, as he did not appear to consider me too old and burdened. At the end of five months, he brought me a small painting of flowers and fruit, by his own hand. My initials were wrought in the foliage; that he had been thinking of me all the while he painted it made me blush with pleasure.

  Frankie’s father became Carr’s close companion as they sought to free themselves from the control of Lord Northampton, who demanded great efforts from them to maintain networks of clients and patronage. The younger Howards were convinced that, following Frankie’s marriage to the favourite, they were unassailable; ‘The Dominican’ became an embarrassment, whose suspicious nature was dismissed as a failing of great age. He was a relic of the old Queen’s time, too sensitive to the tides of power, having swum long against them. He pestered Frankie and Carr with matters they found dull and was increasingly unhappy that his influence on the Privy Council was eclipsed by his nephew’s alliance with Robert Carr.

  On the fifteenth day of June, six months after the wedding, I returned to London to help Frankie fulfil her promises to Weston. I tramped up the stairs to Larkin’s studio trailed by two of Frankie’s maids, half-buried beneath bulky linen sacks containing the clothes she had worn to her brother Thomas’s wedding. Larkin had need of them to complete Frankie’s portrait for only the head and hands were finished. The bright June sun made it hard to find my footing: now blinded, now in darkness.

  The painter greeted me quietly and led me to a life-sized wooden figure in the corner where once had stood the covered portraits so disturbing to Frankie’s mother, now hanging in the long galleries of Howard enemies. Accustomed to the comfort and peace of the countryside, I thoroughly disliked coming back to London and gave my whole attention to the task at hand, the sooner to be finished with it.

  I paid no heed to the small knot of people in the studio and waved the servants forward as Larkin undid the buckles holding the mannequin together. He proffered a wooden arm for me to thread through the armholes of the bodice I had pulled from its protective sack. A waft of Frankie’s perfume, Aqua Mellis, provoked in me the most curious and powerful sensation that the mannequin would transform into my friend once it was fully dressed. I could almost hear her laugh.

  As I dressed the dummy, I remembered how beautiful Frankie had looked at her brother’s wedding, dancing with Robin. She had stolen attention away from the bride, who after all was only a child. My fears about the depth of Carr’s love had faded. They appeared so happy together that even Queen Anna had been moved to smile upon them, though the King’s love of his favourite showed no sign of abating.

  As for my fears that our crimes would be discovered, they too were receding. In the nine months since Overbury’s death, few had mentioned Carr’s erstwhile closest companion, not even Carr himself.

  ‘How soon will the portrait be finished?’ I asked Larkin.

  ‘I had hoped it would be delivered by the end of next month, but I have another to do in a hurry,’ he said, nodding at the group fussing around the huge chair that he used as a prop and that Frankie herself had leant upon. As I looked over, I noticed, with a little shock of surprise and pleasure, that Mr Palmer was amongst them. He saw me at the same moment and at once came over.

  ‘Mistress Turner, delighted,’ he said, bending to kiss my cheeks several times. Larkin was called away to the group and I indicated to the maids that they should finish dressing the mannequin without me. ‘The country continues to suit you,’ Mr Palmer said, with a wide smile. ‘How are the children? Is Mary’s cough quite gone?’ No other man asked after my children. It irked me that the unavoidable consequence of my increase in sentiment towards Mr Palmer was that I felt more nervous each time we met.

  ‘It has, thank you, Mr Palmer, and Barbara is now with the Countess of Salisbury.’ After the death in earliest infancy of four boys, Frankie’s younger sister had finally produced a girl who looked likely to live. Catherine had, however, been assailed by an incapacitating dread that this child too would die, so Barbara had been sent to distract the Countess from her terror and to help care for the child. Once she had recovered, it was my hope that the Countess would be sufficiently grateful to find Barbara a husband.

  Mr Palmer’s face suddenly fell. ‘I have been remiss in not offering my condolences.’

  I looked up at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘Forgive me, you did not know?’ he said.

  ‘What do I not know?’

  ‘The Earl of Northampton was called to God this morning.’

  I was astonished; not so much by the Earl’s death, for he had been battling a gangrenous sore on his leg for a week, but that Mr Palmer had heard of it before I had. No one had told me or asked me to send word to Frankie even though I was staying in her apartment. I felt suddenly exposed. Lord Northampton’s fixation had been the pursuit and preservation of power for himself and his family. The younger generations were lax in their safeguarding of the family fortunes.

  ‘I feel as I did when Queen Elizabeth died. The Earl has been with us for so long that his death seems to usher in a new age,’ observed Mr Palmer.

  ‘Indeed,’ I agreed. With Lord Northampton gone, there would be greater freedom but less safety. I did not like the unease Mr Palmer’s announcement stirred in me and changed the subject. ‘I am surprised to find you here. Larkin’s paintings are not very Italian.’

  Mr Palmer chuckled. ‘His portraits are beautiful in their own manner, and the subjects appear to their best advantage.’

  ‘Are you sitting for him?’

  ‘Bless you, no! Even Larkin would be hard pushed to make a silk purse out of me. I have arranged a sitting for a person who needs no adornment whatsoever, but who is receiving a great deal of it right now.’ I noticed that Mr Palmer did not offer to introduce me and that he seemed ill at ease.

  ‘I have brought Lady Frances’s clothes so that Larkin might finish her likeness,’ I said, seeing her portrait displayed on an easel near the group. ‘Won’t you come and look?’

  He pronounced it ‘very good’, which I thoug
ht untrue. Larkin had captured the intensity of Frankie’s gaze perhaps, but not her playfulness, nor the fierceness with which she pursued her desires.

  A burst of laughter caused me to look at the young man being painted. I tried not to stare but could not help myself.

  ‘He is like Tiziano’s Adonis, is he not?’ Mr Palmer said, quietly.

  ‘Only more alluring,’ I said, such was the perfect, smooth beauty of the long-limbed youth. ‘Who is he?’

  Mr Palmer sighed and looked down at his hands, rubbing them together as if paint clung to them. ‘His name is George Villiers,’ he said quietly.

  ‘George Villiers?’ I repeated. ‘I have not heard of him.’

  ‘I believe you will,’ said Mr Palmer, who was about to say more when Larkin called over: ‘To whom is the portrait to be sent when completed?’

  Mr Palmer grew as mute and stiff as one of Larkin’s figures. In the end, it was George Villiers who spoke, in a voice so high that I could not help smiling. He was just a boy. A very beautiful boy. But his reply wiped the smile from my face.

  ‘My Lord of Essex.’

  All pleasure drained from me at those words. Essex had found his instrument of revenge. I pictured Robert Carr beside the exquisite George Villiers and saw that this young man stood a very strong chance of ousting Carr from his place at the King’s side.

  ‘Mr Palmer, forgive me, I am late for a meeting with an old friend.’ His strange behaviour suddenly made sense to me. I saw by his expression that he regretted as much as I the circumstances of this meeting. He took my hand to stop me hurrying away.

  ‘I arranged for the portrait before I knew of whom, and for whom, it was. I hope you believe me.’

  ‘I do, sir,’ I said. He did not release my hand but looked into my face with concern.

  ‘May I call on you again?’

  ‘I hope you will, Mr Palmer,’ I said with a curtsy, and meant it.

  I chivvied the maids to finish their lacing and sent them in the coach back to Whitehall while I made my way to Charing Cross, my mind churning with thoughts of George Villiers and the consequences I could foresee if the King were lured to the bait. They were not all catastrophic; played well, Carr might enjoy greater freedom from the King to spend more time at home. Babies would arrive more quickly, they could become a proper family and Carr might at last have his own bed.

  I heard the tolling bell, aware now that it was for Henry Howard, Lord Northampton, ringing out every year of his life. The peals reverberated across the Parish, throughout Whitehall, along the lines of patronage, duty and debt to his estates, the Cinque Ports over which he ruled, and down through the younger generations of Howards to whom he had been patriarch. I wished he still lived, to steer us safely away from the siren power of this beautiful boy.

  I came to a halt across the street from Northampton House and watched the dead Earl’s servants, in full mourning, cover the gateway and windows with black cloth. It was clear that his death had been anticipated, if not by us. Frankie was being kept away from the centre of the spider’s web by her father and her husband.

  Weston arrived at the final bell and with uncharacteristic reverence pulled off his cap.

  ‘Seventy-four,’ he said. ‘My sister lives in one of his almshouses and receives a gown a year and a hat in every seven. He was a generous man.’

  I did not agree that to relieve a few paupers when you have created a thousand was so great a deed. The misery of Mistress Bowdlery and countless others like her was increased by high taxes on raw materials that made Northampton wealthier than they could ever imagine, but I said nothing.

  ‘You’ll need to tread warily now,’ said Weston. I was both embarrassed and touched by his instinct to protect me that had not abated despite all I had asked of him. ‘The Earl took care of the business the Countess and …’ he could not say ‘her husband’; as a Catholic of the last century he did not believe that Robin was Frankie’s husband, it was beyond his faith and his experience ‘… don’t bother with. He kept people in their places by scaring or rewarding them. If your friends are so much in love with themselves they forget their clients and their enemies, they’ll suffer for it – and you with them.’

  I heard more than Weston’s resentment at not being rewarded as he had been promised by Frankie; the smell of turpentine and pigment filled my nose. He turned and began walking on his bandy legs across the busy street towards St Martin’s Lane. I kept pace with him.

  ‘I suppose the Earl of Northampton’s honours will be divided between the Countess’s father and Robert Carr … How does she do?’ he asked, without enthusiasm.

  ‘The King has visited them in their new home at Chesterford and the country air does her good. She had the merest sniffle in March and you would have thought she was sick unto death, the way the King and Carr doted on her.’ I pictured not Frankie as I spoke, but the way my own body had slowly unclenched the further I was from Court; a single glimpse of George Villiers in Larkin’s studio had coiled me up again.

  ‘This city’s too crowded with traffic and foreigners,’ Weston grumbled, looking more ancient than his sixty-five years. ‘It’s all gone mad.’

  We reached The Swan and Weston found us a table and bought two cups of ale.

  ‘Move back home,’ I said, taking a sip and grimacing. I was habituated to the good French wine and well-spiced ale of Frankie’s household.

  ‘My William and his child are here. Does she not want children?’ Weston said, steering the conversation back to Frankie. He seemed to think a divorced woman would not have natural urges.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, not mentioning how much effort was spent in trying to make them.

  ‘She has all but what she most desires, eh? ’Tis a common complaint at Court it seems. It’s a strange thing to leave your husband for another one. When she meets them both in heaven, by whose side will she stand?’

  ‘Carr’s, I would think, for his company was ever the more agreeable.’ Weston’s smile dropped quickly.

  ‘How much did they get?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I lied. The wedding celebrations had cost ten thousand pounds and the gifts had been valued at more than twice that. Yet the Earl’s expenses that year had amounted to ninety thousand pounds; a maid lives on twelve pounds and could no more imagine the Earl’s way of life at Court than she could if he lived on the moon. I unbuckled the purse at my waist and gave it to Weston. ‘One hundred guineas. You will need to have patience for the rest and a position.’

  ‘Overbury died,’ he whispered. ‘Why do I not receive all that was promised for my part in it?’

  ‘It took so long, it could have been from natural causes.’

  I noticed that Weston did not defend himself against this suggestion.

  ‘Did Northampton pay you for services beyond delivering letters?’ The directness of my question surprised me. This was a misgiving I barely knew I had. Had our attempts failed and Weston then been paid by Northampton to finish off Overbury? The Earl could be confident of hiding his crime under ours.

  ‘I was working for you,’ Weston said, but I could tell from his expression that he had become Northampton’s man more than mine. I wondered whether it was before or after Overbury’s death. A new knot of fear tightened in my stomach, to find that even someone who loved me was not entirely on my side.

  ‘How exactly did Overbury die?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, I was out buying him beer when he passed. He was very sick from all those emetics and purges he took. He came into prison with griping in the guts and a sore on his back that grew great and stinking while he was there. I bathed him daily under a blanket, so ashamed was he of the canker. Even the softer bed I found him made no difference.’ Weston had a caring streak running close to his rough surface. He pulled up his sleeve suddenly and stroked the paler flesh on the inside of his forearm. ‘He had a golden pellet lodged here, by Dr Mayerne, to make it easier to open a vein to let blood. The skin was red and hot around it. To my thin
king, the King’s physician killed him faster than anything you and the Countess planned.’

  ‘“Planned?” You did not use our poisons?’

  ‘A man at death’s door cannot eat much of tarts or jellies, be they wholesome or not.’

  Had Weston thrown away our poisons, convinced Overbury would die of natural causes and Dr Mayerne’s treatments? To admit it would be to risk losing the money and the position we had promised him. He had been ready to poison Overbury for us, whatever had actually occurred, and for that he felt he deserved full payment. I contemplated challenging him again for the full truth, but knew his stubbornness was greater than my own, and that I would get nowhere. There were many good reasons not to make an enemy of him.

  ‘They have huge debts,’ I said, turning my thoughts away from Overbury to the cases of statuary and paintings on their way across the Mediterranean Sea to join those already in Carr’s collection. ‘They are favourites at Court and have honour and position to maintain but insufficient estates to pay the expenses.’

  ‘The pursuivant’s position was worth two hundred a year and she still owes me a hundred,’ he said. That sum, equivalent to what Carr spent every month on gloves alone, would keep Weston comfortable for the rest of his life. I wanted him comfortable.

  ‘As soon as Larkin is finished, Frankie will pawn the clothes he is painting and pay you from the proceeds,’ I said, although she had made many such promises that she did not fulfil. Sir Thomas Lake, a privy councillor, had paid her two thousand pounds to be made the Secretary of State, but her husband advanced his own client, Sir Ralph Winwood, he who had given them a coach for a wedding present. Frankie had kept Winwood’s best horses and had not returned Lake’s money. Now even someone as lowly as Weston was disappointed in her.

  Carr also promised more than he delivered. He had asked a pleasing man called John Donne to turn down holy orders for a good position in his administration yet kept him waiting for months before finally turning him away, without compensation. This was not the way to keep followers happy. Weston was right: Lord Northampton had taken much greater care to foster loyalty.