The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “You amaze me.” She stiffened.

  “Now I wonder,” he poured more wine, “remembering your adventurous Papa, whether that is an easy or a difficult task.”

  “Well,” she said at last into the peaceful silence, “I’m not easily shocked either. My father was never conventional. And it might seem odd, but I was always very happy with his chosen companions. They all pretended to be my mothers, you see. But none of them is conventional either. I missed every one of them when he finally got tired and sent them away. But he always replaced one with someone else I liked. Sometimes loved, actually. They all became my friends, every one of them. And I never felt an inkling of disapproval because I couldn’t remember my real mother. Them not being married never seemed – improper.”

  “Your father’s establishment,” said Richard without any noticeable condescension, “was not a household much given to ordinary standards. What seemed normal to you would not have seemed in any manner improper.” He pointed through the thick shade to a large oak tree across the hedged paths. “Socrates is listening. Another slide into unworthy eccentricity? Or an activity accepted as normal because the concept of impropriety is so utterly tedious?”

  Jemima drank her own wine for courage. “I understand. But perhaps I’m not a proper person. Do you think of me as a pirate’s daughter?”

  He gazed at her searchingly, eyebrows raised. “Why should you care what I think?” He was leaning back against the flaking plaster and weathered beams of the wall behind him. “Nor are you ever likely to guess my thoughts, madam. At the court of our blessed King Henry, one learns to keep one's thoughts strictly silent. And naturally my opinions tend towards the unconventional.” His gaze transferred to the star dazzle above. “But this time, I notice that you are, most conventionally and properly, fully dressed.”

  He did not add that he had preferred the faint glimpses of her body through the worn bedrobe on the previous night. Jemima, well aware that the previous evening she had not only been intoxicated but had worn nothing except the shoddy pink bedrobe, the only one she owned, which was both threadbare and ill-fitting. She raised her voice, ruffled. “And you are not, sir. Do you always wander your grounds in your bedrobe as soon as your guests are conveniently out of sight?”

  “Invariably.” His smile was more noticeable. “Socrates does not object. And I find dressing utterly tedious.” He poured a third cup of wine, but did not refill Jemima’s cup. The jug was now empty. “It takes an hour and cannot be achieved without a patient and experienced valet. The bedrobe, on the other hand, covers in an instant and needs no elaboration nor any help other than my own two arms.” Richard leaned back again, cup loose between his fingers. “His glorious majesty,” Richard continued, “exudes gemstones. Beribboned and embroidered. This is designed to enhance his regality, prove himself worthy of the highest position in the land, and disguise all weaknesses. The nobility, although careful not to exceed the king’s magnificence, follow the example and shout their importance through their clothes.” He seemed to be smiling at the stars rather than at his companion. “Most, of course, are men of entirely unimposing appearance without such finery. One makes up for the other.”

  Jemima waited for him to make his point, but he had stopped talking. “Do you mean,” she asked, ‘that you refuse to play the same games as the nobility? I mean, you are not actually – ”

  “I simply find dressing tedious,” he complained. “It has motives beyond the simple covering of the ungainly figure, and those motives are as tiresome as the pinning of jewels and the tying of velvet. The loss of my grandfather’s title leaves me amongst the common men, and I am therefore excused from some lace and frills. It is a relief. But clothes of less subdued appearance are compulsory on most occasions. Within my own grounds, they are not.”

  Jemima had dressed carefully. That morning, expecting something that had not happened, she had asked Katherine to help her with a fine lace headdress and a gown of midnight blue silk over an underskirt of turquoise silk. Now, with the autumn evening unclouded, she had only draped a dark woollen scarf around her shoulders. She had thought she looked rather nice. Now she felt over-dressed.

  “I quite like dressing-up,” she mumbled, as if in confession.

  Richard turned to her. “Women do,” he remarked. “But so, in general, do the men. Cromwell and More, for instance, both originally of common stock, and so obliged to dress with greater circumspection. But More in particular, who gained a knighthood in reward for choosing to love his king, experimented with whatever method he found to augment the costume without seeming to aim above his station. He was an educated and intelligent creature, in spite of his predilection to burn alive those who disagreed with him. Yet lost his life for upholding the same beliefs that caused the pain-filled death of others.”

  “Do you disagree with him too, then?” This was not the type of subject she had expected to discuss, but, intrigued, her question was immediate.

  He turned abruptly, looked sharply at her, did not answer at first, and then said, “Unwise, madam. And even more unwise to answer. We wise men of this tolerant land do not have opinions on such matters, simply wishing to uphold his majesty in whatever whim occurs to the royal mind.”

  She thought the sparkle of golden lights against the dark brown of his eyes was an echo of the starry sky above. Then she looked hurriedly down. “Of course.” She stared at her little blue leather toes, peeping beneath the blue silken skirts. “You seem to dislike so many people, Master Wolfdon. Cromwell, Sir Thomas More, most of the nobility. Your father, and mine. Myself.”

  He was still looking at her. “I dislike virtually everybody,” he said. “But the dislike is spread equally for all, and is usually, quite justifiably, returned.”

  Jemima was not in the slightest tipsy this time when she finally cuddled up in bed. The bed smelled slightly of sweat, and the large warmth of Ysabel’s breasts were impossible to escape. It was a very long time before Jemima finally fell asleep.

  The following morning as Katherine brushed Jemima’s hair, pulling the knots from the long brown curls, she frowned, asking what was wrong. “If you think I can’t tell your moods after all these years, my love, then you’re much mistaken. We are here doing what’s important, remember, and in the greatest comfort. An astonishing luxury for which we pay nothing. So what reason to be any less than content?”

  Ysabel was already downstairs searching out the breakfast table, so Jemima said quietly, “Him.”

  Katherine pulled her hair tightly up beneath the lace headdress, and held it with pearl tipped pins. “You misjudge the poor man, my dearest. And even if you are right and I am wrong – well, what of it? He is useful and generous. We’ve no need of more.”

  “I spoke to him last night,” Jemima explained. “He was interesting. It wasn’t just a silly condescending conversation like we have with the haberdashers and the woman in the Grosser’s shop. He spoke about things I’d never heard anyone speak openly about before, except for Papa. Religion. The court. Even the king. He’s not an easy conversationalist but I found him intelligent and interesting.”

  “And this is a problem?”

  The last pin nicked her ear, but Jemima didn’t flinch. “Not exactly a problem,” she said. “But he’s unusual. And he could be – just possibly – a suspect.”

  “My dear child,” Katherine said, standing back and putting down the comb, “what you are telling me, whether you realise it or not, is that you find him attractive.”

  Jemima stood up in a hurry. The blush was hastily covered as she turned away. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not saying I don’t like him at all. I just thought he was interesting. I haven’t known many grown men except Papa. Richard is nothing at all like Papa. But I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”

  Katherine paused, untangled one last knot, and murmured softly, “The trouble is simply, my dear, that you have never known an interesting man before, nor been attracted to any. Inexperience brings self-de
ception.”

  Once again the gentleman did not appear for breakfast, and shortly after the platters were cleared, the litter-load of silken wrapped women arrived as usual. But this time there was a difference. They brought baggage with them, packages and parcels, changes of clothes and precious personal items, all in preparation to stay not only the following night but possibly the whole month, and perhaps even until they were thrown from the premises.

  Alba wore the same white silk, its white satin underskirt embroidered in red rosebuds and sprigs of field poppies and purple pansies. As usual the most elegant, and as the eldest, considered herself the senior in status. “I was expecting the usual morning invitation, Jemima dear, she said, spreading her skirts around her as she sat. “But imagine my surprise when Master Wolfdon’s groom handed me a letter. It was an extension of the usual welcome and asked if I would be free to occupy one of the guest bedchambers – indeed, to stay as long as I wished.”

  “Gracious,” blinked Jemima. “You could stay forever then.”

  “Would I wish to?” wondered Alba. “Perhaps. I do not enjoy living alone, you know, especially as I grow just a trifle older and can no longer afford a companion. You must realise that a mature and intelligent woman such as myself enjoys her own company. As unmarried women, my dear, we are none of us wealthy. Dear Edward sent gifts and a large purse too, even after we had parted. But temporary generosity that doesn’t keep a good woman forever more.”

  “Some of us received less,” Ruth pointed out. “My living quarters are certainly not grand.”

  “Ah well, my dears.” Alba spread her hands with a sigh of pity. “As the first chosen and the longest loved, it seems only fitting – but I refuse to dwell on past success. Now we must decide on the situation we have at present.”

  Philippa leaned forwards, smiling. “This morning when the litter came, Alba was already inside and able to explain this new extended invitation. Since I could not read the message, I was much obliged and felt it to be an omen and a sign of fortune. I shall stay with pleasure. And hopefully for a very long time.”

  “Edward gave me no purse nor parting gifts,” sighed Elisabeth. “Since we had never been separated – until his death. I live in penury. I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  Jemima looked at them with a disappointed frown. “Oh dear. If only I had been able to keep the house, and if only I’d known how you were all in financial difficulty, well, you’d all have come to live with me. You’re all my step-mothers really, aren’t you. That’s how I used to think of each one of you when I was younger. I wish I had that wretched house now.”

  “But we are here now,” said Katherine quietly. “And this is a palace of grandeur and comfort. We pay nothing, we eat, we drink, we simply answer questions. I think we are extremely lucky.”

  “I am as lucky as I have ever been since I parted from Edward,” sighed Philippa.

  Only Penelope brought no baggage with her. Yet she seemed as pleased with the welcome as anyone. “No parcels or bags?” she smiled. “I’ve nothing to bring, my love. Not even a spare chemise that I’d dare show to others. But I can stay here and give up work for a week or two, and that’s the biggest boon of all.”

  Alba looked over. “You’ve a job you dislike? I’m sorry to hear it, my dear. I wonder if I might guess what that is, considering your experience and circumstances? But I shall say no more. I have no job at all and when I’ve looked for work, I’m told that I’m too old, too thin, and not the type at all. Not in the brewery. Not in the laundry. Not even at the Ordinary on the corner. I have no experience. At anything except complaining, of course.”

  Ysabel smiled at Jemima and said, “Then I can stay exactly where I am and share your bed, little dove.”

  And Jemima did not have the courage to object. She helped the women bustle, sharing, deciding, unpacking and delighted to find themselves so unexpectedly living in luxury. In the smaller bedchamber, Alba and Elisabeth chose to share the bed, while in the larger room the other three women were happy to gossip together, Ruth and Philippa hanging their clothes on the hooks in the tiny garderobe where hopefully the smells from the commode would keep the moths from the silks. Penelope had nothing to hang on any hooks, but she stretched out on the huge bed, crossed her hands behind her head, and said that at last the good Lord in His Heaven had remembered her with mercy. Further along the same corridor, the grandest and most beautiful of the guest bedchambers was where Jemima and her nurse, with the new occupation of Ysabel, already resided in considerable comfort.

  “If his bedchambers are as gorgeous as this when they are simply for guests and are usually empty,” said Ysabel, “then can you imagine what Master Wilfdon’s own master chamber must be like?”

  “That,” said Ruth, we shall presumably never know.”

  “It is,” Alba said, “the softest bed I’ve ever known. There must be three feather mattresses at least on this one bed alone, and the palliasse hardly moves when I climb on top.”

  “And the pillows are so soft, I think they might float away.” murmured Elisabeth. “This is a more beautiful house even than dear Edward’s.”

  “Truly our little home was never this grand,” said Jemima. “This was once the palace of an earl. But it is somehow very dark, and the woods around us are somehow threatening. So many trees. So many shadows.” Her bedchamber, having been allotted by Richard himself, was even more luxurious than the other two, with a larger garderobe, and an even deeper mattress. “I would prefer, ” she sighed, “to go back to The Strand house where I was born.” She stared at the bustle of women around her. “But that won’t happen.”

  A page announced that dinner was served and there was an unladylike scramble for the stairs. Perfumes of roast meat, cream jellies and spiced pies rose like candlelight and floated up to the rafters.

  Richard Wolfdon did not appear for dinner but shortly after the meal was over, a written message was brought to Jemima. It was in her own bedchamber that the eight women had crowded. Alba and Ysabel were cuddled on the wide cushioned window seat, gazing down across the grounds to the glimpse of the great southern road beyond. Ysabel and Elisabeth were lying flat on the bed, giggling about enough comfort to stay forever.

  “The duck breast for dinner,” Ysabel said, was fit for the king, I’d swear.”

  “Was it duck? I thought it was chicken.”

  “Or pheasant.”

  “How shocking it is,” said Ysabel, “to discover one’s friends are as ignorant as partridges themselves. It was duck, with skin that crackled, and soft pink flesh within. And served with ripe grapes that tasted like pure sweet sugar. Do you think this amazing man has his own vines somewhere in the gardens?”

  “I think it possible. He has everything else.”

  “But he is not coming back until late tonight,” Jemima waved the scribbled note from their host. “He has been summoned to court.”

  “Gracious.” The women were awed. “The owner of the house where we all live now, is a friend of the king?”

  “I don’t think friend is the right word,” Jemima muttered, re-reading the note. “Yesterday he hinted that he didn’t like him.”

  Penelope, who was standing before the hearth, turned around in a swish of red linen and a stamp of the foot. “Don’t say such things, Jemima. We could all be executed.”

  “Don’t be silly. Who would tell?”

  “Anyone. Servants. Anyone can overhear. And the king doesn’t permit criticism.”

  “I doubt if Master Wolfdon has gone to criticise. I think they must be friends after all. It seems our host is a very important man.”

  Chapter Eight

  Her majesty the queen, her elbows propped on her knees and her chin resting in her cupped hands, sat with the sunshine bathing her dark hair in a halo of God-given sovereignty. Yet she appeared dejected. Grouped some way off across the vast chamber, her ladies were speaking quietly together, well aware when diplomacy required that they keep their distance.

  Richard
Wolfdon stood at the window, apparently staring out at the glimmer of the Thames. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his back was to the queen.

  “You are rude, sir. You know you are,” the queen said. “You turn your back and you tell me how mistaken I am. I sometimes wonder why I ever require your presence here. When you leave, I am never happier.”

  “You continue to invite me precisely because I tell you the truth, your majesty.” Richard looked back over his shoulder. “But by all means accuse me of treason for flouting court etiquette. I’ve expected execution any time this past five years.”

  “Henry needs you. He believes you a friend.”

  “He frequently executes his friends.”

  Anne sighed and looked back into her lap. The small circle of embroidery lay untouched, the needle carefully tucked where it could not prick. The jewels on her fingers caught the sudden light through the window. She spoke softly. “I have sixty maids of honour. I dislike them all. I trust none. I trust you, Richard. So tell me why he looks through me with those cold colourless eyes of his. Tell me why I feel old and ugly and unwanted.”

  “You’ve only recently returned from the Royal Progress in his majesty’s company. That was accepted as an announcement of accord between you. If that failed then little else will succeed until the birth of the child.” Richard turned, and shook his head. “I’m no wizard, my lady. And even here, with you, I won’t discuss the aberrations of your husband’s character. Enough, or you’ll follow me to the block.”

  “A futile threat, sir. They don’t execute women.” Queen Anne looked up, smiling, half laughing. “Oh yes, thieves and harlots and witches who encourage rebellion and whisper against the king. They are pressed or hung. But I’ll not dangle from a rope. The English do not kill their ladies. And I am still the queen.”

  “I,” smiled Richard, “would dangle from the rope. You, my lady, would lay your head on the block and hear one last fall of the axe.”