Watch the Lady (8 page)

“You knew my father well.” Her voice was odd and husky, a stranger's voice. “And we met once, years ago.”

“Where did we meet?” He held her with a look. “I would remember.”

“You barely noticed me, were too busy swaggering beside your uncle Leicester. It was at Chartley.” She was remembering herself at her childhood home, aged merely twelve. He had been twenty-one back then, a man already, and she
still
felt unformed—even at eighteen, when she might have been wed with a couple of infants. She was green in the face of this man who had led diplomatic missions to foreign states and fought in skirmishes overseas; he had been a decade at court, he knew what life was. This was not the boy of her dreams with clichés on his lips.

“Lady Penelope?
You
are Penelope Devereux?” His face broke into a smile. “The two girls dressed in red velvet at Chartley—see, I do remember.”

“Indeed you do not, for I was dressed in blue that day; it was my sister in red.”

“We were once betrothed.” He reached his free hand out to stroke her cheek, with a single finger barely making contact; then he snatched it back sharply, dropping her arm too and taking a step away, as if he had contravened some inner code of behavior. Penelope was wondering what he meant by “once,” reminding herself that more often than not the couple were the last to know when a marriage deal had been struck. Perhaps he had not yet been told of it; after all, she only knew the marriage was being discussed by chance from her stepfather's page. “I held the greatest respect for your father.”

“I must go,” she said, feeling marooned a pace away from him, suddenly aware that she was expected in her stepfather's rooms.

“I have to see you again,” he said.

“I can be found with the Queen's maids.”

“I mean alone.”

She didn't answer, just smiled and walked away across the stable yard towards the western entrance, knowing he would find out soon enough that they were to have a lifetime to be alone.

She took the steps two at a time and wove her way through the warren of corridors to her stepfather's rooms. One of Leicester's men stood on the landing outside, slouched against the paneling, straightening as he saw her approach. She paused to adjust her cap and smooth her skirts before nodding for him to open the door.

“Ah, Penelope!” It was Leicester who said this. He stood at the center of the room like the sun in his gold brocade doublet; the others around him were like dim planets in his orbit.

She dipped in a curtsy, surveying the chamber. A scribe sat at the table, poring over some papers, and the page from earlier was playing fox and geese with another lad beside the window. The countess was there by the hearth with her husband, Huntingdon, both in stiff black, looking like the king and queen on a chessboard. Next to them stood a taciturn young man with large brown eyes, set so far apart as to give the appearance of each one working independently of the other. His mouth was full and slack and slightly open, as if his nose was blocked, but in spite of this he was rather beautiful, like a boy in an Italian painting she had once seen. He too was dressed in black, and she supposed, given the sheaf of papers he had tucked beneath his arm, he must have been a legal man.

“What kept you?” asked the countess. “We have been waiting.”

Penelope made her excuses, feeling the curious eyes of the young lawyer appraising her. She had become quite accustomed to the scrutiny of male eyes and gave him a long, hostile stare.

“It is not us you should be excusing yourself to,” said Huntingdon. “It is our guest, Lord Rich.”

She was momentarily confused. The lawyer stepped forward. His hand was clammy as he took hers and planted a damp kiss on its back. It was all she could do not to snatch it away and wipe it on her skirts. She could feel he was trembling and realized that a room containing two of England's most powerful earls could be an intimidating place for one not accustomed to such company. She smiled to put him at his ease and his mouth twitched briefly in return. For an instant his eyes lit up, their dark reaches momentarily gilded. But there was something about Lord Rich, a gelatinous air, which made her think of frogspawn or raw egg. Rich withdrew back to his place and Penelope noticed him meet Leicester's eye with a nod.

“Well, that is settled, then,” stated her stepfather. “We were thinking early November before the Accession Day festivities.”

“And the Queen, my lord?” This was Rich piping up. Penelope was looking from one to the other in bewilderment, wondering when this man Rich would leave and they could discuss her wedding to Sidney.

“You have Her Majesty's consent, Rich. She is disappointed to lose a favorite maid so soon but . . .” He let his words peter out.

Rich's mouth stretched into a moist grin.

Penelope swallowed, not caring about the look of disgust she wore, as the reality of the situation settled on her shoulders like a lead cloak. “Him . . . you want me to marry
him
?” She pointed at Rich. “But I am betrothed to Sidney.”

“Mind your manners, girl,” warned Huntingdon, his right arm twitching as if tempted to beat her.

“Sidney—what
are
you thinking of?” said the countess. “That arrangement is long lapsed. Besides, he no longer has the assets, does he, Brother?” She turned to Leicester. “Not since you spawned a rightful heir and shunted him out of the running.”

Penelope felt a clog of anger in her throat as she thought of the infant son her mother had birthed only weeks before, understanding that it was this baby, her little half brother fondly dubbed the Noble Imp, who had got between Sidney and his great expectations—who had got between Sidney and her. The message was entirely clear; Sidney was not sufficiently endowed to wed the impoverished daughter of an earl, whose bloodlines traced directly back to the third Edward.

“Rich, how apt a name he has.” She flung a hand in Rich's direction without considering her rudeness.

The countess gasped. “Apologize, Penelope!”

“You must understand, my dear,” said Leicester, “that we, your family, have your best interests at heart.”

Penelope was on the brink of spitting out a riposte, pointing out that
family
was a tenuous term, for she was not related to Leicester by blood, but thought better of it.

Rich had shrunk back behind Huntingdon and was clenching and unclenching his jaw.

“I have seen many a maid rail at the choice of husband made for her and they all assent eventually,” continued Leicester. But Penelope wasn't listening, all she could think of was Sidney and the fact that she was no better off than that blasted ferret.

“I refuse,” she said. “I have the right.”

“My dear.” It was Leicester's smooth voice once more, but she could see in the way his hands were tightly balled into fists that he was concealing a mighty rage for the sake of politeness. “I think you will find yourself persuaded. Rich”—he beckoned the young man over—“why don't you describe something of your estates to Lady Penelope?” Rich inched out from behind Huntingdon, and Penelope found, in spite of herself, a little sympathy for the fellow. After all, he was as much a pawn in all this as she. “Show her that picture you have of Leighs. It is such a charming house and Wanstead lies on its route. It is in Essex, Penelope dear.” His tone smacked of insincerity. “You shall be able to visit your mother and me when traveling to and from London. You have the priory at Smithfield in town, do you not, Rich?”

“I do, my lord.” Rich was shuffling through his papers and eventually produced a drawing of a house, which he thrust beneath her nose. It was much like any other large country house as far as she could tell.

“It is a fine place,” said Leicester.

“And with space to entertain Her Majesty, should she choose to grace us with a visit,” said Rich, looking at Leicester as if he had posed a question.

“And I'm sure she shall.” Leicester slapped him on the back, a friendly gesture, but even Penelope, through her anger, could see Leicester's distaste for the young man.

It was clear to her what the bargain was. Rich was in need of good blood, influence, and the Queen's favor, which she had in abundance; and she was to be the siphon through which his funds would pour into her impoverished family. Sidney's voice echoed in her ears—“I have to see you . . . alone”—and a band tightened about her temples. She turned to the countess, whose mouth was pursed tight, and then to Huntingdon. Neither of them would look at her.

“I must take my leave,” declared Rich, who was clearly itching to go. “I shall tell Mother of the good news.” He reached out for Penelope's hand but she didn't offer it, remembering with a shiver of revulsion the previous damp kiss, and simply gave him a cursory nod.

The instant Rich was out of the door the countess turned on Penelope. “How could you have shown such insolence? I am ashamed that you are a product of my household . . . marriage is a sacrament of the Lord . . . it is not for you to pick and choose . . . I thought I'd bred obedience into you . . . you are your mother's daughter, that is clear as day—”

“Enough!” barked her husband, raising that twitching arm.

The countess looked chastened.

“Kindly still your tongue, Sister,” said Leicester in a menacing growl. “That is my wife you impugn.”

The countess mumbled a cowed apology. Penelope found some satisfaction in seeing her guardian at the sharp end of Leicester's wrath, but inwardly admonished herself; for it was surely a sin to delight in another's comeuppance, even one who had treated her so strictly.

Placing a hand on Penelope's shoulder, digging his fingers in, Leicester said, “The Queen has sanctioned this match and I would counsel you not to risk her disapproval by causing a fuss about it. You must know by now what happens to those who lose her favor.” His look was hostile and an image of Anne Vavasour in the Tower, grey with fear, crept into her mind.

She cleared her throat. “I am required to dress the Queen for supper,” she said, and dropped into an exaggerated curtsy. “May I be excused?”

“You may,” said Leicester, and she left.

They seemed to have taken her failure to argue further as acquiescence, but as she walked towards the Queen's rooms her resistance burgeoned. It was not natural for a couple to be forced together where there was not even a sliver of attraction. She would not wed Rich and that was that.

The various pieces of Penelope's wedding dress were spread about the chamber. Dorothy and Jeanne were trying to lift her spirits with an irritating chirpiness as they laced her tightly into the embroidered bodice and helped her into the cumbersome layers: hoops, bum roll, underskirt, overskirt, sleeves.

“I am so very happy to be coming with you,” said Jeanne. Penelope squeezed out a smile. She too was glad that Jeanne, a childhood companion, would be in her household; it was the sole joy to come out of her marriage, as far as she could see.

“Who will be riding beside your litter?” Dorothy asked.

“I don't know. All our Knollys uncles, I suppose . . . and Leicester. He is very pleased with himself for replenishing the Devereux coffers with my wedding.” She didn't quite manage to hide the resentment in her voice.

“Here,” Dorothy indicated for Penelope to hold her laces with a finger while she tightened a knot. “And Sidney. Will he be there? I hope so.”

“As do I. I have never seen him,” said Jeanne, holding her small hands out, palms up, as if it were an inexplicable loss.

“I don't know.” Penelope's reply was curt. She wished they would stop talking about him, but how were they to know of her feelings for Sidney? It was a secret kept between the two of them, expressed in snatched moments: that first encounter in the stables at Whitehall; hurried exchanges beneath the weeping willow on the river at Richmond; hands held in a dance on a feast day; fingers brushing together as they passed each other in the long gallery at Hampton Court. She was catapulted back to the dairy at Greenwich, the door closing, his hands on her waist, the cool damp wall against her back. Their first kiss, witnessed by the silent wheels of cheese and the hanging bags of curd, which occasionally released a wet plink, the only sound other than their urgent breath. The memory made her insides somersault.

Once out hunting at Nonsuch when her horse was lame, Leicester had sent Sidney to her aid. She'd hoped it would mean a half hour alone but Peg Carey was sent to join them, as chaperone probably, and couldn't disguise her sour face on seeing Penelope riding pillion with Sidney, pressed tightly up against him.

“I cannot bear to see those poor animals die,” Penelope had said of the hunt.

“You are too soft,” Peg retorted. “Do you not think she is too soft, Sidney?”

“When I was in Paris, I saw things that gave me an understanding of savagery,” he said. “People slaughtered in their hundreds. If you had seen the look of fervor in the killers' eyes, you would abhor brutality too.” His eyes met Penelope's for the briefest moment and she had the overwhelming sense of being understood.

“The massacre on St. Bartholomew's?” she asked. He nodded. “A Huguenot grew up in our household.” She was talking of Jeanne. “She lost both her parents on that night. Saw the butchery herself. She was just a child. The sight of blood makes her faint clean away—even now. She told me things . . .”

“There are many such stories.” Sidney's voice was grave, as if his experience had left an ineradicable mark of gloom on him.

“But animals are different. We kill them to survive—they are God's gift to us,” said Peg. “You like venison, don't you, Penelope?”

“That's as may be, but I still feel a sadness for the creatures when they die.”