Constant Heart (16 page)

It will teach you everything you must begin to know.”

It was only after we left that I dared to look at it. The book was by Castiglione and the title was
The Book of the Courtier
.

We rode home in silence, surrounded by a dozen of the earl’s men. I wondered how long it would take for the entire court to hear of the Earl of Lytham’s insult to his lady wife. And I wondered to whom their laughter would be directed. Toward the earl or toward me?

16

J
oan must have read my mood that night, for she did not press me with questions. But with the morning’s light, her words knew no end.

“What happened?”

“Supper.”

“And?”

“Entertainments.”

“Did Lady de Winter abuse you?”

My reply was forestalled by the drawing of a shift over my head. “Nay.”

“Did the earl?”

My glance dove away from her own.

She placed herself in its path by relieving a chambermaid of my silk stockings and kneeling to tend to the task herself. “Did he?”

“He has no love for me.”

“He cannot mislike you.”

I winced as she tied the garter too tight below my knee, then bent and tugged at the ribbon with my finger. “He does.”

“For what reason?” She chased away my finger and retied it.

“For my beauty.”

“He mislikes you for your
beauty
?”

“Aye.”

“You must be mistaken. You must have misunderstood.”

“If I did, then so did the rest of the guests at Lady de Winter’s last night.”

“That makes no sense. What did he say?
Exactly
.” She said the words as if she doubted my own.

“There was a question put to every person to answer. What virtue does one most love and which vice is most tolerable.”

“A vice? Tolerable?”

“ ’Twas the game put before us. And each answered in turn. The earl said, ‘As for virtue, I must state my preference for a constant heart. And as for vice, beauty.’ ”

“He said
beauty
was a vice?”

“ ’Tis what he said.”

“Why?”

The breath with which I might have answered was forced from my chest by the fastening of my corset. I took another, shorter and shallower. “He said that a beautiful woman could not possess a constant heart. And that at least when a beautiful woman betrays one, solace can be found in her face.”

“Well . . .” Her face twisted as she thought upon the words, and then suddenly her features relaxed. “He cannot have meant you.”

“Who else could he have meant?”

“I do not know.” She shrugged as if it made no difference. “But it was not you.”

“Everyone else thought it was. Even Lady de Winter was kind to me.”

“She was not!”

“She was. She nearly embraced me.”

“She did not.”

I relented. “She did not. But she seemed to want to.” And I wished she would have.

Joan pressed a cup of wine into my hands after the farthingale hoops had gone over my head and then she left my chambers. She returned in time to apply my paints. And when she did, she bent close to tickle my ear with her words.

“It is said the earl could not sleep last night.”

“Good.”

“It is said that his words weigh heavy on his heart.”

“As heavy as millstones?”

“It is said he wishes he could unsay them.”

“Aye. For then people might not have laughed at him . . . but they would still remain etched upon my heart.”

“Marget? Hear me! You must be kind to him.”

“When he has been so unkind to me?”

Joan swept the paint across my brow with a less than gentle hand. “Do you not wish to keep him from straying?”

“I would give him to any woman who wants him. And gladly!”

Perhaps I said those last words a bit loudly, for several of the chambermaids turned in my direction. And even the slopswoman looked up from her odious chore.

I did not want to remember Joan’s words, but I could not keep them from my head when I met the earl to ride to court. He took my hand himself to help me onto my horse. He rode beside me through the streets and did not leave my side even when we rode through the city’s gate. His attempts at conversation were frequent though feeble. When I looked at him, he held my gaze only a moment before looking away. He made me feel quite as miserable as he looked. I might have offered words of forgiveness, but he never asked them of me. And I could not betray my knowledge of what Joan had told me of his remorse, though his actions corroborated every word.

It was with great relief that I walked into the Presence Chamber and left his side. I had never taken more delight in the women of the court. I was safe, in fact, until evening when we left for Lytham House together.

He said not one word all the long way home, though that in itself was not unusual. It was the feeling in the air between us that was uncommon.

I was mortified by my behavior of the previous evening. Still. The feeling had grown worse throughout the day. As I watched the girl I realized again, with each gesture she made, with each word she spoke, that she had nothing at all to do with Elinor. And no one but Blodwell and I knew of whom I had spoken. I had harmed the girl’s reputation—and my own—for no reason at all.

My misery knew no words. But as we reached
Lytham House, as I aided the girl to dismount and watched her walk away, I knew I had to say something.

“Wait!” A rude beginning, perhaps, but a start nonetheless.

She turned back to me. Stood utterly still just . . . waiting.

But what could I say? She knew only that I had been rude. Why did she have to be told of the horror that became my marriage to Elinor? Why should she have to learn of Elinor at all? And why should I have to make amends in front of God
and
the stable grooms? “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to my chambers?”

Wariness crept into her eyes.

“I only wish to speak with you.” With seeming reluctance, she held out her hand to me.

I took it up with my own and we walked, together, into Lytham House. I slowed my steps up the grand stairs to match her own.

Opening the door to my rooms, I stood aside for her to enter.

She did so with an air of trepidation, stopping just inside the room, her head turning first one way and then another.

Following her gaze, I realized little was visible in the gloom of night.

She drifted toward the window, beside which I had placed my desk. Her small hand reached out to touch a jeweled coffer whose gems gleamed in the fire’s flickering light.

I followed behind her, but as my boots scuffed the floor and gave warning of my course, she withdrew her hand.

“Please.” I picked it up and placed it in her hands. “ ’Twas given me by Raleigh.”

“
Sir
Raleigh? Sir Walter Raleigh? You know him!”

She looked at me with such eagerness, such admiration. “Certainly.”

“You have . . . spoken to him?”

“Spoken to him? I have beaten the man soundly at cards. Many a time.”

“And he gave you this?” Her hand caressed it. “We used to play battles, at being Sir Walter Raleigh . . . down by the Wash. When I was a child.”

“ ’Tis a bauble. A mere trifle from his spoils.”

She looked at it as if it were Her Majesty’s crown. “Spoils?Of war?”

“Aye.” Were there any other kind?

“And he gave it to you?”

“Aye.”

“Sir Walter Raleigh . . .”

I took the coffer from her with gentle fingers; it was heavy for one so small. I replaced it on the desk. Then I caught her hand and drew her toward the fire. “As you are interested in spoils, you might like to see this. I took it myself from a Spaniard at the point of my sword.” I removed a gilt cup from the mantel. The cup had been engraved as a globe, and the pediment was supported by a sea nymph.

“During a battle?”

“Aye.”

“When you were fighting with Sir Raleigh?” She had clutched the cup immediately to her breast but had failed to give it even one moment’s notice. And truly, it was as fine a goldsmith’s work as I had ever seen.

“Raleigh was there, though otherwise occupied.”

“So you did not fight together, then?” Her eyes contained such hope.

How could I not fulfill that expectation? “Aye. Together at Smerwick. In Ireland.”

“Smerwick.” She said the word as some say the name of our Lord.

With all veneration and reverence. “And what did Raleigh do?”

Enough of Raleigh! To hear her speak of him, he was some god come to earth as a man. “We laid siege to the garrison. And then we massacred the Spaniards and the Italians, the interlopers.”

“And then he put them to the sword. All of them.” She said it as if she were reciting some book.

“The better part of them, though he did have
some
aid in doing so.” The aid of the Lord Deputy of Ireland and the commander of four thousand troops, Grey de Wilton. We had beheaded the men and some of the local Irish women as well . . . six hundred of them. It had taken two full days. If I closed my eyes I could still see soldiers at their work, tossing the headless bodies into the sea. Could still see the gruesome piles of heads, stacked in the fields, birds plucking at their eyes, their flesh.

“And you beside him!”

“Or perhaps he beside me.”

To her credit, her cheeks blushed. “You fought as well.”

“Aye. I did.”

Her face went grave as her eyes met my own. “Forgive me.”

“ ’Tis I who have been truly ungallant. I wish to beg your forgiveness for yesterday’s words.”

“You have it.”

“Truly, you astonish me with your kindness.”

Her eyes refused to meet my gaze. “I should . . . go.”

I did not want her to. But what was I to do? Say, “Wait”? Tell her, “Nay”?

She tried to hand the cup back to me.

I did not take it. Instead, I took one step closer. Perhaps what had gone wrong between us could be redeemed. Perhaps the pleasure that had been lacking at our first union could be established. I put a hand to her chin.

She closed her eyes but allowed me to raise her head toward mine. Such trust. Such innocence.

She opened her eyes and looked at mine.

Such resignation? Such . . .
fear
? Did she really think me such a brute? I could do nothing with such a vision of myself reflected in her eyes. Could do nothing when she assumed me to be so base.

Her reactions had rendered me impotent from both shame and fury.

Perhaps she was not so different from Elinor after all.

I took the cup from her and replaced it on the mantel, and then I bid her go.

As soon as the door was shut behind me, I fled toward the refuge of my rooms.

Joan stepped toward me through the shadows, causing me to jump at the sound of her voice. “Returned so soon? I was told the earl had summoned you.” She spoke as if she wanted me to tell her it was an untruth. But it was not.

“He did.”

“And?”

“He did not want me.”

“How could he not want you?”

I rounded on her, fury giving heat to my words. “He did not want me! I am not wanted! How many times must I say it before you believe it?” Before I believed it? The truth was, my charms, my beauty, my person had been weighed by the earl and had been found wanting. And I could not know why. I had been willing. Afraid, perhaps, but willing. Could he not see my fear? Could he not have helped me? Said even one word?

17

I
f I had needed a sign to comprehend just how much the earl loathed me, I did not have to wait long to receive it. He came to my chambers one forenoon accompanied by a stranger and all of the household musicians.

“I have engaged a dance master to teach you the volt.”

“The . . . volt?” But the volt was a scandalous dance in which men and women . . . clasped each other.

“It is often danced at court, and you must know how to do it.”

“But—”

“It is one of Her Majesty’s favorite dances.” He signaled for the musicians to set themselves into place.

Once they were ready, the dance master came to my side and commanded the musicians to begin.

The earl entertained himself by settling into a chair and watching us.