The Spymaster's Daughter (6 page)

“I have never found such a place,” Frances said softly, smiling as his sense of the comical met hers.

“Yet it seems your aunt can sleep in a jouncing carriage and you cannot, so the talent is not in the blood.” He grinned, showing white, even teeth that suggested he must use the best tooth cloths from France. “I truly wish I could do more for your comfort, my lady.”

“You could tell me about the special duties you perform for my father.”

His gaze became cautious and his voice dropped to little more than a murmur she strained to hear. “What do you wish to know?”

“Are you an intelligencer? What did you do in France? Do you know Thomas Phelippes, the cipherer?” She pulled the
Steganographia
from the pocket under her kirtle. “I study this at every opportunity, and I long to talk with Dr. Dee about his grille ciphers. Do you know them? Do you know him?” She ran out of breath before she ran out of questions.

“My lady, you have a great curiosity.”

He did not smile, but answered her seriously. She liked him the better for that.

“Yes, I have read Trithemius,” he said. “I know Dr. Dee and Thomas Phelippes. As to my work, I cannot discuss that, as you must know, but I have your father's trust or he would not have made me courier to our Paris embassy…or have placed me in your service.”

She held up the
Steganographia
. “You've read this book?”

“Aye. In the Latin, my lady.”

She was startled.

“I see that surprises you.”

“A little,” she admitted, rather than tell an obvious untruth. But his knowledge of Latin was unusual. A servant who was educated above even some with noble titles was…well, unheard-of. There was no way to question him without prying, and he was already looking at her with some amazement.

“Lady Frances, please you, allow me…if your father had a son with such a questioning mind, I would have little employment.”

He was trying to be kind, but she would not have it. “Master Pauley, as you see, my father has a daughter with such a mind and a longing for knowledge and occupation.” Her voice was too loud, so she softened it, not wishing to awaken Jennet to certain reproof. “That is, if he would but recognize that I can reason and would put my gift to good use.”

“I see that you, like every man, want your talent to be recognized.”

She sensed that he had left something unsaid.
And a lack overlooked.
His leg and his low birth had hindered him, as being a woman had limited her life. She did not speak the thought, or need to. She saw in his steady gaze that Robert Pauley could see and understood.

R
obert tried to keep his gaze on the passing countryside, but he could think of nothing but the young woman who sat across from him. How could her husband seek the reluctant and overused favors of Lady Rich, when he had this astonishingly beautiful and intelligent woman to wife? He wanted to touch her to satisfy his curiosity about her skin. Was it as soft as it looked, or was there steel there, the same steel that flashed from her eyes when she spoke of ciphering?

Her mouth, even when set in anger, had a touch of amusement showing in the way it turned up above a pointed chin. Her high forehead was partly covered with very dark curls blown about into a most becoming tangle above large, pale, clear gray eyes with dreams locked inside. She did not wear the white Mask of Youth or the red wig that were so fashionable, but she was all the more beautiful for being herself. He realized that he was staring fully at her now, and abruptly ruled his face into that of a polite servant, although he had never properly managed that downcast gaze.

“My lady, the court will be very lively in the next months. The Earl of Essex is attending upon the queen.” He hesitated, wondering whether he should tell her that her husband's lover would come to court at Christmastide, and decided the lady Frances should not be taken by surprise. It was in his power to keep her from the humiliation that the court would anticipate seeing in her face. “And I understand the Baroness Rich will be appearing before Her Majesty with the Earl of Leicester's players.”

“Women are not players,” she said.

“If Her Majesty requests, they are players, my lady.”

Her face showed no emotion at his answer, and he wondered at her resolve, at her composure beyond her years. Or was it indifference? Why did he think it, or wish it?

As the curtains bounced about in the rocking coach, sunlight slanted in, lighting the hollows of her cheeks and throat. To his mind she was far lovelier than Lady Rich, whose life of being adored had left her face somewhat used and empty, a hollow beauty. This lady was alive with a curious intelligence and, he thought, quiet courage.

He did not wonder that Sir Walsingham had kept his daughter from court, the lascivious court that Queen Elizabeth swore brought credit to her name because she chose to think so. The truth was always difficult for Her Majesty, if it wasn't her truth. He could see at a glance that Lady Frances was a rather cheerless young woman, despite being married to the man every woman in the realm thought the greatest lover. If that were true, Lady Sidney's face would not be so searching, looking for a thing she did not have, perhaps did not know.

He would keep her in close sight during her time at court, where the titled hounds were certain to sniff out such delicious prey, especially the Earl of Essex, the leader of the pack. And if Robert had it in his power, he would bring a smile to her face when he could. But he would have to be clever. Lady Frances was a Walsingham born and would accept no pity. He didn't know how he knew it, but he did.

The spymaster had not ordered him to guard her past this day, but he would take that future task upon himself. He did not question this desire. He did not dare plumb why he cared. She was little more to him than a beautiful face, enough for most men. Still, she had luminous eyes that looked on him with understanding, and a voice that enveloped him even in this rattling carriage.

He sensed that she was a woman who needed his caring. Later, he might question the wisdom of this decision, but he could not
when she was turned to the window, the curve of her cheek showing a lonely melancholy that he understood as if it were his own.

F
rances knew Robert Pauley was watching her. That was his current mission. How wonderful to have a servant, a companion in truth, who played music and sang to her. It would lighten her heart. She must remember to thank her father.

They rode on toward London and Whitehall, smelling the too-human scent of a crowded London and the river Thames long before they reached the city's gate, plunging deep into the throngs of merchants, women with their maids and shopping baskets watched closely by thieves and doxies. Many houses along the way sported the greenery of a tavern serving the double ale allowed by the queen, although the more popular double-double had been banned, a prohibition that Frances doubted was strictly observed.

Both Lady Frances and her servant were sunk profoundly deep into their own thoughts, avoiding any exchange that might reveal more than they already had. Once again they assumed the roles of mistress and servant only.

W
HITEHALL
P
ALACE
, L
ONDON

F
rances awoke with lines from one of Philip's sonnets in her head. What had put them there?

Last evening she had been busy settling into her new rooms, which were small but adequate, until she had gone to her new bedchamber and immediately slept, still with the sense of jouncing about in the carriage. Today she would face the queen for the first time as a woman. Taking a deep breath and with a final smoothing of her pale green satin gown and a tug of her brocade bodice, Frances walked into the anteroom of the royal apartments. She carried her head high, though she was somewhat angry that Robert Pauley had been nowhere in evidence when she had needed him that morning. He had left flowers for her rooms, but no explanation for his absence, no by-your-leave. She did not know what to make of such behavior in a servant who obviously did not think or act like
one. Perhaps she had been too friendly in the carriage, as Aunt Jennet had warned. She determined not to make that mistake again.

Frances took a deep breath and composed her face, knowing it would not do to scowl at Queen Elizabeth.

The royal antechamber with its gilt ceiling was hung high with rich arras tapestries portraying unicorn hunting scenes. On one end wall hung a huge portrait of the queen's father, Henry VIII, displaying his monstrous codpiece and powerful thighs. On another wall hung a scene of the queen's ancestors, fading into dim history all the way back to Adam and Eve. That would mean that she, Frances Walsingham Sidney, was a quite distant cousin of the queen, since her father's historians had paid for a similar pedigree, as had many English gentlemen.

The overwarm antechamber was full of the queen's gentleman pensioners and hopeful petitioners, sweating perfume. No wonder it was said the queen held a pomander to her nose and rarely set it aside.

In some near chamber the boys of the Chapel Royal choir sang in their high, clear voices, casting the net of God's approval over the queen's morning activities.

Frances paused to listen at the huge double doors leading to the inner royal chamber, and gathered her breath to think through her next steps.

The doors swung open and the guard announced, “Lady Sidney, Your Majesty.”

Elizabeth, crowned and wearing a magnificent white satin gown laden with pearls of every size and luminous hue, sat at a large writing table facing Frances. The Earl of Leicester and Mr. Secretary Walsingham stood by the queen with armfuls of dispatches and warrants for her to sign with the goose quill she had in hand.

Though Frances kept her eyes half cast down, she could see that the great Gloriana was no longer young. Her skin was lightened with egg white, vinegar, and white lead, the application she called her Mask of Youth. She had outlived many who had started
her reign with her, yet her eyes were as bright as the diamonds she wore, her legs strong and her wit stronger.

Frances knew she was in a
presence
, and the others who sought the queen's favor knew the same; even Frances's father looked subdued.

By his worried glance, it was obvious to Frances that he feared his daughter might trip on her new wooden heels and sprawl before the queen in a quite undignified heap, to his shame.

That made Frances even more determined to show herself graceful.

The queen looked up with interest and waved Frances forward.

“Ah, yes…‘My true love hath my heart, and I have his,'” said the queen, quoting from Philip's verses. Her Majesty's gaze was turned to Leicester, still her favorite, though gray showed in his dark beard and his doublet stretched tight across a thickening waist. Still, in the earl Frances could see the remnants of the splendid youth whom the queen must have known and must yet see.

Frances took a deep breath and quoted the next line of Philip's poem, which he'd probably last whispered into Lady Rich's pink ear. “‘By just exchange one for the other given…' Your gracious Majesty,” she said in a voice to carry across the inner chamber. If there was gossip about Phillip and Lady Rich in the court, Frances would step out in front of it, though that might be difficult. Lady Rich was the Earl of Essex's sister and he was Elizabeth's new favorite.

Waved forward by the squinting queen, who everyone knew was shortsighted, Frances flawlessly performed three deep curtsies as ordained by court protocol, to her father's obvious relief. She saw the lines of care briefly fall from his face, as he watched her with what she thought might have been pride were it not so carefully controlled.