That had a familiar ring to it, but Mother Anne had prevailed upon Master Petre to change his tune. I was certain I could reason with Edith.

“What if I order you to serve them?”

She shook her head, which was so thoroughly covered by a white coif that I could not tell what color her hair was, or even if she had any hair. She sent me a pitying look that said, plain as day, that she thought me slow-witted, too.

“If you are here to serve me,” I said, trying again, “that means you must obey me.”

“I must attend to your needs. And look out for you when you go to court. That is not the same thing.”

My lessons had not extended to exercises in logic, but even at that young age I knew there was something peculiar about Edith’s attitude. She behaved as if she were the equal of anyone in the household . . . and superior to most!

“Who did you serve before you came to me?” I asked.

For just a moment, her self-assured manner faltered. I gave her a hard look. She avoided meeting my eyes.

“Am I your first mistress?” I was astonished by the thought, but her reaction made me believe I was right. “It is true! You have no previous experience as a tiring maid.”

Edith’s chin went up. “I have been well instructed in all the skills necessary to care for a young woman’s clothes and person.”

“And I am fully capable of dressing myself, and of choosing what to wear. I have no need of my own tiring maid.”

“But you do require someone to watch over you at court, and I am ideally suited for that task.”

“Why?” She seemed a little less formidable now that I knew she was on the defensive. I patted the space next to me on the chest. “Come and sit down and tell me all.”

For a moment I thought she would refuse. Then, with a sigh, she obliged me. Pocket nuzzled her hand. That seemed to soften her further.

“When she was younger, my mother served in the Earl of Oxford’s household.”

“Is he a very great lord?”

“Of middling importance. Dukes have more consequence. But Mother is devoted to the family, the de Veres. Her first post was as a nursemaid to the earl’s daughter, Lady Frances de Vere. When Lady Frances went to court, Mother went with her, and she was allowed to bring me along.”

“Is your mother still at court?”

Edith shook her head. “Not now. Not until King Henry marries again and we have a new queen. But Lady Frances went on to marry Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey, becoming a countess. When she started having babies, she asked Mother to come to her to look after them. There are three children in her nursery now.”

Having assuaged my curiosity, Edith began to question me. She did not seem to find my answers very satisfactory. From her gloomy expression, I concluded that she feared she’d come down in the world.

“I will go to court again soon,” I assured her, “but in the meantime it might be wise to cater to Bridget’s whims. She’ll make your life a misery otherwise.” I considered for a moment and then added, “You’d do well to befriend the other maidservants. They are wise to her tricks.”

That evening, when all the women of the household gathered around the largest of our embroidery frames, Edith did her part, impressing everyone with the smallness of her stitches. She followed my advice, although I suspected that it pained her to do so.

When Bridget excused herself to visit the privy, I could not help but notice how long she was gone. The door to the external latrine opened out of the west gable wall in the room at the back of the house, so that we could not see it from where we sat in the hall. I feared my sister had taken some petty revenge on Edith for her earlier snub, but all seemed well when my new tiring maid retired for the night. It was only much later, when a faint but persistent sound awoke me, that I discovered Pocket had been locked in the wardrobe chest with my clothing. By then it was too late to salvage my best kirtle. The poor little dog had relieved himself all over the pale blue brocade.












9



Our first week of lessons with the dancing master had scarce concluded when the second of the tutors the king had promised me arrived at the house in Watling Street. I saw him first from an upper window. It extended out from the front of the house above the entrance to Father’s shop and gave those within a clear view of passersby.

Watling Street is a very ancient highway, part of the old Roman road that runs from a spot near Dover all the way to Chester. Within London’s walls, it is inconveniently narrow, with barely room for one cart to pass another without scraping, but it is lined with the houses of wealthy merchants. Our neighbors were all drapers and tailors. Fashionable ladies and gentlemen visited their shops daily, searching for the latest imported fabric or bespeaking a new suit of clothes.

At first I thought the young man in the king’s livery was bent on some similar errand, or that he’d come to collect a fresh supply of garments like the ones he wore. In addition to making the fancy robes and doublets worn by the king and his noblemen, royal tailors also provide livery for the king’s servants. But this individual stopped beneath my window, considered the house for a long moment, and then, as if he sensed me watching him, tilted his head back until our gazes locked.

Bright noonday sun revealed eyes of a deep, dark brown flecked with amber. The rest of his face was equally appealing—strongly defined features and a ready smile.

I recognized him then. When the king had first said the name John Harington, I’d known which of the gentleman choristers he meant, but I’d only seen Master Harington from a distance. His impact had been muted.

When I continued to stare at him, he doffed his feathered cap, revealing a full head of thick brown curls. Then he bowed in my direction.

Behind me, I heard the rustle of fabric. One of my sisters came up to stand beside me, but I did not look away from the young man below to see which one it was. He, however, took note of her, bowed again, and then passed out of sight beneath the overhang.

“What a toothsome young gentleman!” Bridget leaned far out the window, hoping for a glimpse of the back of him as he entered Father’s shop. “And he wears the king’s livery. Who is he?” She was already heading for the stairs.

Mother Anne’s sharp command prevented her from descending. “Your father does not need your help with a customer, Bridget. Return to your mending, if you please.”

Bridget looked mutinous and would surely have argued, had she not heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming our way. Father entered first but Master Harington was right behind him.

My throat went dry. Close at hand, he was even more pleasing to look at. Indeed, he was the most appealing man I had ever seen. Yes, I know I was not yet twelve years old, but he had barely reached his eighteenth year. To the mind of a girl on the verge of womanhood, even the king himself, with all his glittering jewels, could not surpass this young and handsome fellow for masculine beauty.

Bridget was no more immune to Master Harington’s charms than I was. Her avid gaze devoured him. Had Mother Anne not caught hold of her arm, she’d have been across the room to his side in a flash.

Father cleared his throat. “Allow me to make known to you Master John Harington, gentleman of the Chapel Royal. He has been sent by the king to give Audrey music lessons.”

Bridget’s face fell. “Have we not already suffered enough? She is always humming some tune she heard in church or on the street.”

Stung by her derisive tone, I defended myself. “Sometimes I sing the words.”

“For the most part, you do not know the lyrics, if there even are any. You invent your own.”

“An admirable skill,” Master Harington interrupted, turning Bridget’s taunt into a compliment. His eyes twinkled with delight. “With my teaching, Mistress Audrey will become even more proficient at singing and songwriting.”

Father presented Mother Anne to Master Harington. As is the custom when greeting those who are truly welcome, she gave him a friendly kiss, making me think that he, unlike Master Petre the dancing master, must have desirable connections at the royal court.

Elizabeth was next to be introduced, then Bridget. Giggling, they followed Mother Anne’s example. When it was my turn, I went up on my tiptoes to brush my lips against the smooth, soft, sweet-smelling skin of his cheek. The touch was brief but sufficient to send heat flooding into my face.

Master Harington cocked his head and studied me. His interest lingered longest on my hair, which I wore long and loose, as maidens are wont to do. He glanced back at me again as Father presented Muriel to him.

“A fine family,” Master Harington said, accepting Muriel’s shy kiss of greeting. He was already returning to me. “I have been sent to teach you to play the lute, Mistress Audrey, and any other instrument you care to learn. What will it be? The virginals? The harp? I am proficient with everything from the cittern to the sackbut.”

There were too many choices. And he was standing too close to me. I was unable to form an answer.

“The instruction shall be as pleases you, Master Harington,” Father cut in, “but it would please me greatly if you would extend your teaching to all my children.”

Master Harington hesitated. Then his gaze roved to Bridget. She smiled and dimpled . . . and subtly shifted position to better display the rounded fullness of her breasts.

“It shall be as you wish, Master Malte.” Turning to my sisters, he began to question them about what skills they already possessed. He seemed pleased at the prospect of tutoring them, especially Bridget.