Royal Inheritance (7 page)

Bridget’s face fell. “Have we not already suffered enough? She is always humming some tune she heard in church or on the street.”

Stung by her derisive tone, I defended myself. “Sometimes I sing the words.”

“For the most part, you do not
know
the lyrics, if there even
are
any. You invent your own.”

“An admirable skill,” Master Harington interrupted, turning Bridget’s taunt into a compliment. His eyes twinkled with delight. “With my teaching, Mistress Audrey will become even more proficient at singing and songwriting.”

Father presented Mother Anne to Master Harington. As is the custom when greeting those who are truly welcome, she gave him a friendly kiss, making me think that he, unlike Master Petre the dancing master,
must have desirable connections at the royal court.

Elizabeth was next to be introduced, then Bridget. Giggling, they followed Mother Anne’s example. When it was my turn, I went up on my tiptoes to brush my lips against the smooth, soft, sweet-smelling skin of his cheek. The touch was brief but sufficient to send heat flooding into my face.

Master Harington cocked his head and studied me. His interest lingered longest on my hair, which I wore long and loose, as maidens
are wont to do. He glanced back at me again as Father presented Muriel to him.

“A fine family,” Master Harington said, accepting Muriel’s shy kiss of greeting. He was already returning to me. “I have been sent to teach you to play the lute, Mistress Audrey, and any other instrument you care to learn. What will it be? The virginals? The harp? I am proficient with everything from the cittern to the sackbut.”

There were too many choices. And he was standing too close to me. I was unable to form an answer.

“The instruction shall be as pleases you, Master Harington,” Father cut in, “but it would please me greatly if you would extend your teaching to all my children.”

Master Harington hesitated. Then his gaze roved to Bridget. She smiled and dimpled . . . and subtly shifted position to better display the rounded fullness of her breasts.

“It shall be as you wish, Master Malte.” Turning to my sisters, he began to question them about what skills they already possessed. He seemed pleased at the prospect of tutoring them, especially Bridget.

I stood a little apart to watch her preen and flirt, and struggled with emotions I had never felt before. For the first time in my life, I understood why my sister reacted so violently when she saw me singled out to receive something
she
wanted.

M
aster Eworth cleared his throat. “I have lost the light,” he announced. “I can paint no more today.”

Surprised by how much time had passed since she’d begun her tale, Audrey eased herself to her feet. Hester had already scrambled out of her chair and gone to look at the unfinished portrait on the easel.

“I have no face,” she complained.

Although the artist had lovingly reproduced the embroidery on the child’s dress, her features were as yet little more than a pale blur.

“After the next session you will have eyes and a nose,” Audrey promised, touching a fingertip to the latter appendage and making Hester giggle.

Master Eworth made no promises. He finished packing away his supplies and departed, trailing a whiff of linseed oil in his wake and seeming as glad to be done with them for the day as they were to see him go.

“Was that the truth?” Hester asked when the door had closed
behind him. “Did you fall in love with my father the first time you saw him?”

Audrey laughed. “Near enough. He was . . . and is—as my sister said—a most toothsome fellow.”

“And did he return your love?”

Holding her smile while she answered required considerable effort. “You must remember that I was only a little girl when we first met. But he was always considerate of my feelings. And he was an excellent teacher.”

“Father is the most wonderful man in the whole world,” Hester said.

The child idolized him, as she should. Audrey knew exactly how she felt. “Your father has a way with people.”

Jack Harington had charmed everyone in the house on that long-ago day . . . everyone except Edith. Audrey’s new maidservant had been dismissive, calling him “a puffed-up courtier.”

“Will you tell me more on the morrow, when Master Eworth comes to paint me again?”

“Perhaps not then,” Audrey temporized. “Parts of the story I have to tell you are for your ears alone.”

“Then we must find another time, for I want to know
everything
!”

“The entire tale will take some time in the telling.”

“Then you must continue it as soon as may be.” Hester’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “Tonight? After we sup?”

“I . . . yes. That will do very well.”

Hester’s enthusiasm had the girl capering in a circle before she left the room. Audrey watched her go with mixed emotions. How much, she wondered,
should
she tell her daughter? She would not lie, but there were incidents that could be omitted from the tale. Indeed, Hester’s tender years argued in favor of an expurgated version of the past.

On the other hand, Hester was an intelligent child. Her lessons had begun when she was still on leading strings. Besides that, from an early age, she observed those around her and learned from what they did. It had been more than a year ago when she’d shocked her mother with an account of watching the milkmaid couple with one of the stable boys in an empty horse stall at Catherine’s Court. She had pronounced the experience “interesting” and had seemed to grasp the power of the attraction between a man and a woman even though she was still far too young to experience it for herself.

Better to tell her all of it, Audrey decided, even the painful parts.

That evening, Audrey joined Hester in the child’s bedchamber and sent the servants away. She tucked her daughter into bed with the pillows plumped behind her head and positioned herself at the foot, her legs folded under her. This was the way tailors often sat, their work in their laps. Audrey kept her fingers busy with a piece of embroidery but her mind was not on her stitches.

“Tell me more about you and Father,” Hester demanded as soon as she was settled. “You promised you would tell me everything!”

Audrey smiled. “Some of it you have heard already. There is no secret about your father’s background.”

“Father came from an impoverished gentry family,” Hester related, happy to show off her knowledge, “but he had a gift for composing songs and writing poetry. The king admired that talent and rewarded him. Is that what giving him the commission to teach you was? A reward?”

“I suppose it was. As a gentleman of the Chapel Royal he had an annuity of thirteen pounds, eight shillings, and nine pence and the king paid him another ten pounds a year to teach me. That does not seem a very great sum to him now that he is a wealthy man, but back then, Jack was grateful for every crumb.”

“Were you good at your lessons?” Hester asked.

“I had a natural aptitude for the lute. I found other instruments more challenging, but none of them defeated me. In time, I mastered the virginals, the recorder, and the viol.”

A wicked gleam came into Hester’s eyes. “How did Aunt Bridget fare?”

Audrey’s sister had never shown much interest in her niece, but they had met on several occasions. These days, Bridget and her husband and their son lived in Somersetshire, although she was not fond of life in the country. Her envy of Audrey was never more apparent than when she visited Catherine’s Court.

“Bridget never learned to carry a tune or play well on any instrument. But, to be fair, she far surpassed me in her ability to perform the intricate steps of the pavane and the galliard. Her accomplishments on the dance floor eased her resentment of me and made her a trifle less likely to give me privy nips.” Those sly pinches had hurt, and sometimes they had left ugly bruises.

“What other tricks did your sister play on you?” Hester asked. “Did she put frogs in your bed?”

“What a notion! No, for she slept there, too.”

Hester’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Did she pretend to trip and spill the contents of a chamber pot all over you?”

“Hester!”

“Well? Did she?”

“No, she did not. Although, if I must be honest, she might have if she could have reasoned out an excuse to be carrying such a thing. We had servants to empty the night soil.” That task had most often fallen to poor, half-witted Lucy.

“Only pinches, then?” Hester tried to hide her yawn, but sleepiness overtook her. She watched her mother through half-closed eyes.

“Pinches and cutting remarks about my appearance, especially
the sallow cast of my skin. Bridget’s complexion was as pink and white as that of any great lady at court.”

“Did you go back there?” Hester asked. “To court?”

“I did. And that sparked Bridget’s envy all over again. In time, I learned to ignore both jabs and jibes because I enjoyed every moment of those visits. Your father had a great deal to do with my pleasure.” She smiled, remembering. “I fondly believed that my presence had gone unnoticed by members of the Chapel Royal, but that was not the case. I had simply been ignored, tolerated because I made no attempt to talk to any of them. After Jack was ordered to give me instruction in music, I was formally introduced and invited to listen to their rehearsals. After one such session, the gentleman choristers declared I should be their mascot. I suppose they thought of me the way I thought of Pocket. That is not such a flattering comparison, now that I look back on it, but at the time I was thrilled to be permitted to linger on the fringes while they made their glorious music.”

“Did you see the king again?” Hester murmured in a sleepy voice.

“Not for some time. My lessons began in December. In January, His Grace married Anne of Cleves and he was often . . . distracted. But learning from your father was a delight. He was endlessly patient with me, praising my musical ability while gently correcting and improving my efforts. After the first week, I grew easy in his presence, although an occasional blush did creep up on me when I least expected it.”

A soft exhalation drew Audrey’s gaze to her daughter.

There was no need to tell Hester any more of the story tonight. The little girl had fallen deeply asleep. Careful not to wake her, Audrey slid off the bed, stumbling a little as she landed on the rush-covered floor. The scent of strewing herbs wafted up to her, juniper
and costmary, as she turned to draw the curtains closed against cold night drafts.

She stood there a moment longer, gripping the heavy cloth, waiting for her head to stop spinning. She hated this lingering weakness. She was accustomed to good health and a hardy constitution.

Tomorrow, there would be more questions. Audrey repressed a sigh. It was only natural for a child to want to know all about her parents.

Steady again, she crept out of her daughter’s richly appointed bedchamber and into her own. The enormous bed yawned before her, far too big for one person, a potent reminder that Jack had not shared it with her for a long time.

Did Hester need to know that, too? Audrey pondered the question as she used her toothpick and tooth cloth and combed out her hair. She preferred to tend to these chores herself and not have the bother of servants.

The girl idolized her father and he was fond of her. Audrey thought she could reveal the rest of the story without tarnishing Jack’s image. She would do her best, she resolved, to let Hester keep her illusions.

In the morning, after mother and daughter broke their fast, they went out into the garden. It had been planted to suit Audrey’s fancy. Each flower had been chosen not only for color and scent but also for the values it was said to represent. Honeysuckle grew near the door, a symbol of undying devotion. The blossoms were long gone but the fruit, which had the appearance of little bunches of grapes, was red and ripe.

She’d sown gillyflowers to mark the start of the path—pink, crimson, and white and smelling like violets. They were said to represent faithful and undying love, especially when worn in a man’s
cap. “I must remember to plant more of these on St. Remy’s Day,” she murmured, speaking to herself as much as to Hester.

“When is that?” her daughter asked. Since King Henry’s break with Rome, many of the old holy days had been forgotten.

“The twenty-eighth day of this month. The gillyflower is a most useful plant. Many grow it as a potherb throughout the winter, using it to flavor wine, for the taste is much the same as that of cloves. You know already that cloves are imported and are too expensive for everyday use. Gillyflowers can also be used in after-dinner syrups, sweet tarts, and preserves.”

Hester showed not the least interest in her mother’s impromptu lesson in herbal lore. She ran on ahead, along the length of a path notable in high summer for the bright colors on both sides. Audrey’s favorite blooms were the vivid orange marigolds, symbolizing both death and hope. They began to flower in May, and in some years, like this one, continued to do so until the cold days of winter were upon them.

A stone bench held pride of place on a little knoll beneath a rose arbor. Pale red eglantine climbed over and around it. In summer those flowers filled the enclosure with their sweet scent.

“Do you remember what eglantine represents?” Audrey sank gratefully down onto the hard surface. Even such a short ramble tired her. The basket of mending on her arm felt as if it were filled with lead.

Obediently, Hester recited one of her lessons from the stillroom. There she, like every other young gentlewoman, spent many hours learning how to concoct home remedies to keep the household healthy and to turn the distilled essence of flowers into perfume. “It is a symbol of love, devotion, romance, and virtue. Does that mean this is a suitable place to continue your story?”

“It will do well enough.” Audrey patted the bench beside her. “Shall I recount more tales from the court of King Henry, or is it your father of whom you wish to hear me speak?”