Constant Heart (20 page)

I lifted my chin. “You do not know me.”

“I have already learned to what depths the feminine heart may descend.”

“But you cannot have learned it from me. You punish me for a sin I have not committed.”

“I seek to protect myself from a sin you have not
yet
committed.”

“And so I must do penance for someone else?”

There was a longing, a loneliness at work upon his face. He gazed upon me with the yearning of a small child who is told that he may look but is forbidden to touch.

“What did she do to you?”

“Who?”

“Whoever it was that abused your trust. Was it your first wife? You must teach me how to keep from repeating her infractions.”

He smiled then. A slow, sad, infinitely lonely smile. “You cannot help the person you are. And you cannot change your sex.”

I watched as the girl left, wanting nothing so much as to see her stay. But to look upon her loveliness, to stand in her presence, to hear just one word spoken by those lips was such exquisite torture that I could no longer bear it.

She offered me everything I wanted, but nothing that I needed.

I had expected that confronting the earl would put my rage to rest. And it did. But it had also left me without hope. Would that my marriage could be buried, like a common cowslip, to grow once more and re-flower as a primrose. But the earl had set his heart against me; I had nothing with which to counter his sentiments. All I wanted to do was return to Lytham House, but I could not let the earl see how deeply his words had hurt me. I meant to slip from the Presence Chamber and walk the palace halls in solitude, but Lady de Winter found me first. She reached out and attached herself to me with a grip that bit like iron into my arm.

She drew me into a corner and sequestered us behind the feathers of her fan. “Lytham is speaking to anyone who will listen about starch. Why?”

I could not help my cheeks from coloring. “It was of starch that we spoke in the stables.”

“The stables?” Her lips turned up in merriment. “The stables where you
talked
? Of ruffs?”

“Aye. And starch.” Must that conversation haunt me forever?

“And what was it you said?”

“Only that a man could grow rich if he could sell the stuff.”

“And so Lytham speaks of starch because . . . a man could grow rich . . .” She left off speaking for a moment, then she chortled.

“Clever man! He seeks a monopoly for starch!”

“We did not speak of monopolies.”

She gripped my arm even harder. “But if all who sell it must first pay him . . . here is the opportunity for you to help him!”

“He will not trust me.”

“He cannot trust you.”

“But we are wed.”

The fan ceased its undulations as her eyes fixed upon mine. “His heart belongs to the Queen. As does the heart of every man at court. And any one of them would plunge a dagger into another’s ribs if he thought he could do it without being jailed.”

“But my greatest wish is to see him succeed. I am his wife!” Why could he not understand that?

“But before you are his wife, you are first a woman.”

“And this must always be held against me?”

The fan took up its rhythms once more. “Listen well: Women are used of men. If we cannot court the Queen, then we can court the men who court the Queen.”

“But how can I work for him if he will not use me?”

“You must evade his mistrust.”

“By declaring myself worthy of his confidence? I have already tried!”

She pulled me closer. “Leave him his mistrust. He will not notice it when you present him with desire.”

“Desire. Would that I could.”

“You can. We must think on it. For ’tis no use presenting him your most obvious assets. As you say, he looks on them and is warned.

You must coerce, not with your body, but with your mind.”

“How?”

“You must give him what he most desires.”

“I try! But how can I help him make new friends when he does not even include me among his circle?”

“You must gain entrance.”

“Again I ask you: how?” It was easy for her to pronounce judgment and propose vague solutions, but I had not yet heard her offer any practical advice.

“With knowledge. With a piece of information more valuable than gold. It may not have anything to do with starch, or in advancing his case for a monopoly, but at least it will let him know you are to be trusted.”

“And where do I look for it?”

“You must let it look for you. What have you to induce information in your direction?”

“Explain your meaning.”

“Information will not come of its own volition. It must be lured.

Have you any jewels? Some pretty thing which any courtier’s wife would want? Or better, gold?”

“I have . . . something.” I had my father’s garnet ring.

“Very good. Then we shall obtain your information in due time.”

I gave the ring to Lady de Winter, and before the week had ended, she had been given what was needed.

“Quick now, the French king has asked Her Majesty to send him four thousand more troops. The forces are to be levied and a person is needed to lead them. She favors Essex, but his youth could be made into a disadvantage. Go you now, tell Lytham!”

“But what is he to do with this information?”

“Whatever he will. Make haste!”

And so I soon found myself posting through the streets of London, bearing information said to be of great import, which I knew not how to interpret. I only hoped it would be used to turn the earl’s sentiments toward me.

I found him at last in his chambers, and there I told him all I knew. After, when I anticipated certain triumph, he merely offered his thanks and went back to his work.

Unsure whether my words were of value, I hesitated in leaving.

The earl lifted his head from his page and told me he had no intention of keeping me from my duties. I had hoped that my words would spark some action, if not gratitude. In that, it seemed I was sorely mistaken.

The girl had come to me with information about Essex. Information that I had already obtained, but not so long ago that it would be known by all the court. Somehow she had worked to receive something of value, something which, had I not known it, would have been useful indeed.

It seemed that Lady de Winter had succeeded: the girl had become a courtier. And if she understood how to obtain information, what it cost and how it could be commanded, then maybe she understood about . . . everything else.

Now, though I could not still trust her, at least I knew how to predict her course of action. And she had tried to help me. She had tried to give me what she thought I needed. Perhaps then I might give in to what I so badly wanted. Perhaps I might be able to forgive myself my weakness.

21

S
everal hours later, Lady de Winter called to visit. She was shown into the hall. I offered her drink and cakes, but she refused them.

“So what did he say?”

“He thanked me.”

“And?”

“And went back to his work.”

“He went back to his work?” She took to the floor, pacing. “He went back to his work. We must ask ourselves, Why? Why would he not act immediately? Why would he not do . . . something? Take some action?”

While Lady de Winter continued to question herself, I picked up my needlework once more. I threaded indigo yarn through the needle and then pushed it through the canvas, wishing that it was the earl’s eye instead.

“He wishes to confirm your information before he acts upon it!

You were right to think he mistrusts you.”

Of course I had been right. I had known it from the first week of our marriage.

“I must know if he sent a messenger out after you gave him the information.”

I did not even raise my eyes from the canvas to reply, because the affair no longer interested me. “Ask what you will. Do what you want.” It no longer mattered to me. I had played my best hand only to find that my opponent no longer remained at the table.

The next day there was to be a State dinner at which some ambassador was to be honored. My presence was required. I donned a gown of carnation-colored silk embroidered with a cobweb of golden thread and took my place beside the earl.

We were seated, as always, between two other earls and their wives. The one who sat next to me was too hard of hearing to carry on a conversation. The countess of the second, sitting at Lytham’s elbow, was an unashamed flirt.

We collected what we could from the mess of dishes set before us. Further up the table, they had been served stag and veal. And further down, capons and mutton.

I stirred through my salad with my spoon. It was a collection of borage, bugloss, cabbage lettuce, bitter lettuce, olives, rosemary flowers, radishes, and winter savory. Some person’s idea of a love salad. I lifted a leaf of bitter lettuce to my mouth. Chewed as I thought upon its meaning.

I do not love you.

I grasped the slippery ovoid of an olive and mulled its meaning as I isolated the flesh from the pit.

Your love annoys me.

I pulled the pit from my mouth and set it on the plate. Which sentiment was the more damning? To not have your love returned?

Or to have it be considered a mere annoyance? I hardly knew. The earl was indifferent. Perhaps that was the worst sentiment of all.

I glanced in his direction and our eyes caught. His gaze slid toward his plate as he plucked a radish from it, and then fastened again on mine as he set it in his mouth.

A radish.
I am sorry
.

Would that he were.

I wanted only to please. I wanted only to be a wife of utility. I wanted the earl to be glad that he had married me. And I wanted him to be true to our vows.

Perhaps it was as Lady de Winter had said. Perhaps I hoped for too much.

I looked again at Lytham. Again, he lifted a radish to his mouth.

I began to look away when a quick movement on his part drew my gaze once more. His hand reached toward the countess’s plate and deposited one of his own olives upon it, then took from her plate a radish.

Your love annoys me
. . . I looked from her plate into his eyes.

Saw his brow lift.

I hid a smile in casting my eyes toward my own plate. But of their own decision, they soon lifted to him again. And as soon as they did, he placed the radish in his mouth and chewed upon it furiously.

I am sorry.

Perhaps, after all, he was. But what of it? To be penitent was one thing, but to be repentant was another. I looked at him boldly and lifted my brow.

He frowned. Then he turned his attention to his plate, examining the herbs. He pulled a leaf of borage from the salad and looked at me, triumphant.

I am made glad by you.

Well. That was something. At least he was no longer indifferent. I drew a leaf of bugloss from my own salad and ate it without looking at him.

You please me.
For he did. He was not unseemly to look at. He was not unkind. At least not as a habit.

He countered with a leaf of cabbage lettuce.

Your love feeds me.