Watch the Lady (21 page)

Cecil's excitement recedes, leaving him feeling flat. He finds that whatever he does he cannot quite gain his father's full approval. His impatience niggles at him.

“I made Leicester my nemesis,” continues Burghley. “It was one of my greatest mistakes. Oh, how I tried to bring him down. At one time he was a whisker's breadth away from marrying the Queen. Imagine; he would have been as good as King. I nearly lost myself in my desire for his downfall. There was a moment when I came to understand that the Queen would never have wed the man. Once I saw that clearly, my animosity for Leicester petered out. Then he fell foul of his desire, anyway, and married that woman.”

“Essex's mother.”

“She will never be forgiven for marrying the favorite. Besides,” he reaches his hands forward to warm them by the flames, “Leicester is no more and the pup has taken his place as the chosen one. It is best not to make enemies, for you never know how things will end up. Cecils are diplomats—that is our strength—peaceful negotiation rather than war.” He pauses. “And of course keeping abreast of things. That attitude has set us in good stead.”

“She treats him—and the sister—as if they are her own children.” Cecil can't help sounding sullen. Why is it that his father reduces him to a sulking boy? He laughs inwardly at the irony, for he, Robert Cecil, is greatly feared; indeed, he has worked hard at being greatly feared, and yet in his father's eyes he is—he seeks the word to describe the feeling he always has with regards to his father—
inadequate
. Yes, it is inadequate that he feels.

“But they are
not
her children.” Burghley smiles, the firelight catching in his rheumy eyes. “To we Cecils,” he says once more, lifting his cup and draining the dregs of his sweet wine.

Penelope can feel the little palpitations of her baby deep inside. A bird trills in the tree above, a chaffinch, she thinks; she sees a flitting movement in the leaves, but can't catch sight of the bird itself. She makes a silent prayer that this baby will be another boy and thinks of her first son, little Hoby, in the nursery at Leighs with his sisters, feeling the familiar maternal heart tug—her mother thinks her overindulgent with her offspring, but she cannot help this overflowing of love. And it is true, particularly with Lucy. Perhaps she indulges her eldest as compensation for that initial rejection. Doctor Lopez had been right when he'd said she would grow to love her daughter, but the residue of guilt still resides in her even after eight years. If this one is a boy, she will have done her duty to Rich and she will be freed from the marriage bed. She thinks of the deal she struck with her husband, the moment of her transformation from girl to . . . to what? Someone had called her a virago recently. It was meant as a criticism but Penelope had rather liked the term, with its heroic implications. She had never imagined back then that God would make her wait so long for a son.

She can hear her brother and mother bickering as they approach, arm-in-arm, with Spero trotting behind. Lettice must have arrived from Drayton Bassett last night after Penelope had retired. This infant she is incubating is draining her force and she has found herself lately unable to stay up long after supper, when usually she is the last to bed and the first to instigate the evening's entertainments.

Spero grapples at her skirts as she stands to embrace her mother, enjoying the familiar musky scent that catapults her back to childhood. She remembers her mother then, more beautiful than anything she had ever seen, in her finery as she left for court, sparkling with brilliants and decked with pearls. As she leaned in to kiss her daughter those jewels would tumble forward with a soft clatter, like rain on a window, and Penelope would be engulfed in that scent. That was when Lettice had the Queen's favor. How things have changed. That lustrous beauty is faded almost right away now, robbed by the death of her beloved Leicester. She notices a look of concern on her mother's face, her brow ruffled.

“What is it?” Penelope asks.

“Your brother has promised himself to Frances Walsingham.”

“Not her,” Penelope says before she has time to consider how it might sound. “I mean . . .” Her mind is cast back to that day three years since, when she stood with Frances watching Sidney's funeral cortège. The thought twists her heart out of shape. On his deathbed Sidney had asked her brother to look after his wife—she doubts
this
was quite what he meant.

“You mean you do not want me wed to Sidney's widow?” says Essex pointedly.

“No, I mean, yes, in a way. You must wed who you will, Robin, but . . .” She couldn't hate Frances, though she tried. The girl was too sweet, too meek, to merit such a force of feeling. “You could do so much better. She is not from a noble family.”

“
And
he does not have the Queen's permission,” says Lettice, her lips pursed tightly. “God knows, don't you think this family has suffered enough from the Queen's disfavor. First my disgrace, then Dorothy's, now this. Me . . . I”—she punches her breast with a fisted hand—“now Leicester is gone she even threatens to take this house from me. I have had letters to that effect for some months. I am hanging on here by a thread.”

“Why did you not say something, Mother?” asks Penelope.

“Oh, I don't know. I am so tired of it all.”

Penelope admonishes herself inwardly for thinking first of herself: the loss of Leicester House will mean having to use her husband's gloomy Smithfield property when she is in London and not at court.

“I shall see what can be done about it, Mother,” says Essex. “And vex not about my marriage; the Queen loves me like a son.” Only on seeing his mother wince does he seem to realize how hurtful his words are.

“The Queen is in your thrall, now,” she says sharply. “Think of the power that brings to us, to your family. Would you throw that away for a wench?”

“Frances brings wealth and her father's network. That is the way to gain power—to know what is going on, to keep a step ahead of Cecil.”

Penelope smiles inwardly—it is true; to prise Walsingham's web of agents from the clutches of the Cecils would be a triumph indeed.

“The network, the network,” says Lettice, unable to hide her impatience. “We already have people well placed.”

Penelope is thinking of her most recent correspondence with the Scottish court and the discreet lines of information she has set up lately. “But this
is
an opportunity. We could do with good European connections if we are to keep abreast of things.”

“Did I not wed my new husband for the very reason that he was at the heart of Walsingham's network of spies? I might have enjoyed a few years of widowhood instead. A few years of freedom, rather than a third husband . . .” Lettice's voice trails off.

Penelope knows, as they all do, that Lettice could no more be without a man at her side than a fish can be out of water, but it is true she might have looked elsewhere than Sir Christopher, a man twelve years her junior who brought neither wealth nor status.

“Our new stepfather is a good man,” says Penelope. Her mother gives her a look, as if to accuse her of taking the wrong part. “Even with that vast bird's nest of a beard,” she adds, in an attempt to add some levity to the atmosphere.

But Essex has the bit between his teeth: “Walsingham's fingers reach farther . . . all over Europe, and if I am wed to his daughter—”

“Fool!” blurts Lettice. “The Queen will oust you. You mark my words. There is no network that can make up for losing
her
favor.”

“You have no idea what it is like, Mother, having to dance around that woman all the time”—Essex is almost shouting—“with everyone speculating if I have bedded her or not. You think you have suffered humiliation at her hands, how humiliating do you think it is that all those fawning courtiers imagine I have swived that . . . that aged
hag
?” He is purple with rage. “I have my dignity.” Essex will not listen and has a wild, feverish glaze to his eyes, which Penelope recognizes only too well, wondering which is worse, this crazed ebullience or the leaden misery she had to coax him out of a few months ago. With him there is no middle ground.

“Stop that!” Lettice slaps the back of his hand. “Should the servants hear and spread it round that you speak of the Queen thus, you will lose more than your dignity.”

“She forgave Leicester when he wed you.
He
was back in the fold within months.”

“But not me! I am
still
not back in the fold. I am still pointed at in the street as the she-wolf who defied the Queen.”

“But Frances Walsingham has no royal blood. No child of ours could be any kind of threat.”

“Nor any child of mine,” snaps Lettice. “
You
are the ones with royal blood. It is from your father, not me.”

“That is disingenuous, Mother. We all know where our Tudor blood comes from.”

“Out of wedlock,” says Lettice with a scowl. “It counts for nothing.”

They continue to squabble like hotheaded children. Penelope is glad she inherited her measured temperament from her father. Though some called him a ruthless soldier, she never saw that side of him. Perhaps she too has a hidden ruthless streak. A flock of starlings is pecking about the yew bush in their speckled iridescent jackets, whistling and stuttering. She watches their darting movements. Her baby shifts again and she makes a renewed prayer that it is a boy she carries.

“Penelope!” Her brother pokes her upper arm. “Are you daydreaming? I was asking you a question.”

“I'm sorry, I drifted off.” She circles a palm over her belly.

“Have you heard from Scotland?”

“There has been no direct response yet, though I have sent a number of letters. A scribe close to him has implied the King is not averse to our allegiance but is not prepared to risk putting it in writing.”

“Yes, it would certainly give the wrong impression if the Queen were to find out her Scottish cousin was presuming to line himself up to succeed her,” says Lettice. “Look what became of his mother.” She makes a chopping action at the side of her neck with a grimace. “What is important is that our intentions have been declared.”

“And that
I
have not been arrested for treason.” Penelope's response sounds flippant, but she has had months of worry that her letters may have fallen into the wrong hands. They are silent for a while and Penelope continues to watch the starlings. In truth she is discovering that risk holds a dark allure; there is something about the danger that makes her feel alive. Perhaps, she reasons, that is why men return to the battlefield time after time, despite the horror.

“I
will
marry Frances Walsingham,” says Essex, all of a sudden reprising the quarrel with his mother. “
I
am the head of this family and I shall do as I please.”

“You would do well to curb that arrogance of yours, my boy, before it gets the better of you. Obtain the Queen's permission and I will bless the match.”

“She is carrying my child. The Essex heir.”

“For goodness' sake.” Lettice wipes her forearm across her brow. “As if things were not already complicated enough,” she huffs before turning to make her way back to the house.

“You are too much, Robin,” says Penelope. “Try and be nice to her.”

He smiles. It is an irresistible smile, like the sun appearing between clouds, reminding Penelope why so many women have fallen under her brother's spell—including the Queen. She wonders how timid Frances Walsingham will fare wed to him, given Penelope is almost certain he is conducting a secret dalliance with one of the Queen's maids.

“She is worried about the debts Leicester left her,” Penelope reminds him.

“I know, I know. I have tried to approach the Queen on that front but . . .” He doesn't finish. They are both sharply aware that they cannot expect the Queen to show even the smallest glimmer of favor regarding Lettice, despite most of Leicester's debts having been accrued in the Queen's service. “I intend to buy Wanstead from her.”

“Really? How will you pay for it? I don't want you taking advantage of Mother's straitened circumstances.” She looks at him sternly.

“What do you take me for?” He appears slighted. “Family first, always.”

“I suppose it
is
a way to keep Wanstead in the family.” Wanstead is her favorite house, a place of happy respite with her mother, full of fond memories, a refuge from her husband. If she were ever able to, she would choose to end her days at that house.

“It will be taken from her otherwise,” he points out.

“Has the Queen talked of that?” Penelope can imagine the conversation, the Queen winding Essex round her little finger.

“She thinks it would be a suitable place for me to entertain foreign visitors.”

“Oh, does she?” Penelope is imagining herself wandering through the light-filled rooms of Wanstead. “But you still cannot afford it.”

“She taketh away and she giveth,” is all Essex replies, with another of his disarming smiles. She is glad to see him so content, yet still finds herself scrutinizing him for signs of that lurking melancholia.

They get up and walk a little, stopping at the river. It is a still day, barely a breath of breeze; she can hear the cheer of the crowd in the bear pits and men on a building site calling out to each other on the south bank. She gazes into the water, allowing her thoughts to drift, and an image of Charles Blount pops into her mind. This has happened with increasing regularity of late. Beyond his obvious qualities there is something about the man's forthright steadiness, a reassuring thoughtfulness to him, as if he thinks carefully before speaking, which reminds her, undeniably, of Sidney. “I am glad you took my advice and befriended Blount.”