I stood a little apart to watch her preen and flirt, and struggled with emotions I had never felt before. For the first time in my life, I understood why my sister reacted so violently when she saw me singled out to receive something she wanted.












10

Stepney, October 1556

Master Eworth cleared his throat. “I have lost the light,” he announced. “I can paint no more today.”

Surprised by how much time had passed since she’d begun her tale, Audrey eased herself to her feet. Hester had already scrambled out of her chair and gone to look at the unfinished portrait on the easel.

“I have no face,” she complained.

Although the artist had lovingly reproduced the embroidery on the child’s dress, her features were as yet little more than a pale blur.

“After the next session you will have eyes and a nose,” Audrey promised, touching a fingertip to the latter appendage and making Hester giggle.

Master Eworth made no promises. He finished packing away his supplies and departed, trailing a whiff of linseed oil in his wake and seeming as glad to be done with them for the day as they were to see him go.

“Was that the truth?” Hester asked when the door had closed behind him. “Did you fall in love with my father the first time you saw him?”

Audrey laughed. “Near enough. He was . . . and is—as my sister said—a most toothsome fellow.”

“And did he return your love?”

Holding her smile while she answered required considerable effort. “You must remember that I was only a little girl when we first met. But he was always considerate of my feelings. And he was an excellent teacher.”

“Father is the most wonderful man in the whole world,” Hester said.

The child idolized him, as she should. Audrey knew exactly how she felt. “Your father has a way with people.”

Jack Harington had charmed everyone in the house on that long-ago day . . . everyone except Edith. Audrey’s new maidservant had been dismissive, calling him “a puffed-up courtier.”

“Will you tell me more on the morrow, when Master Eworth comes to paint me again?”

“Perhaps not then,” Audrey temporized. “Parts of the story I have to tell you are for your ears alone.”

“Then we must find another time, for I want to know everything!”

“The entire tale will take some time in the telling.”

“Then you must continue it as soon as may be.” Hester’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “Tonight? After we sup?”

“I . . . yes. That will do very well.”

Hester’s enthusiasm had the girl capering in a circle before she left the room. Audrey watched her go with mixed emotions. How much, she wondered, should she tell her daughter? She would not lie, but there were incidents that could be omitted from the tale. Indeed, Hester’s tender years argued in favor of an expurgated version of the past.

On the other hand, Hester was an intelligent child. Her lessons had begun when she was still on leading strings. Besides that, from an early age, she observed those around her and learned from what they did. It had been more than a year ago when she’d shocked her mother with an account of watching the milkmaid couple with one of the stable boys in an empty horse stall at Catherine’s Court. She had pronounced the experience “interesting” and had seemed to grasp the power of the attraction between a man and a woman even though she was still far too young to experience it for herself.

Better to tell her all of it, Audrey decided, even the painful parts.

That evening, Audrey joined Hester in the child’s bedchamber and sent the servants away. She tucked her daughter into bed with the pillows plumped behind her head and positioned herself at the foot, her legs folded under her. This was the way tailors often sat, their work in their laps. Audrey kept her fingers busy with a piece of embroidery but her mind was not on her stitches.

“Tell me more about you and Father,” Hester demanded as soon as she was settled. “You promised you would tell me everything!”

Audrey smiled. “Some of it you have heard already. There is no secret about your father’s background.”

“Father came from an impoverished gentry family,” Hester related, happy to show off her knowledge, “but he had a gift for composing songs and writing poetry. The king admired that talent and rewarded him. Is that what giving him the commission to teach you was? A reward?”

“I suppose it was. As a gentleman of the Chapel Royal he had an annuity of thirteen pounds, eight shillings, and nine pence and the king paid him another ten pounds a year to teach me. That does not seem a very great sum to him now that he is a wealthy man, but back then, Jack was grateful for every crumb.”

“Were you good at your lessons?” Hester asked.

“I had a natural aptitude for the lute. I found other instruments more challenging, but none of them defeated me. In time, I mastered the virginals, the recorder, and the viol.”

A wicked gleam came into Hester’s eyes. “How did Aunt Bridget fare?”

Audrey’s sister had never shown much interest in her niece, but they had met on several occasions. These days, Bridget and her husband and their son lived in Somersetshire, although she was not fond of life in the country. Her envy of Audrey was never more apparent than when she visited Catherine’s Court.

“Bridget never learned to carry a tune or play well on any instrument. But, to be fair, she far surpassed me in her ability to perform the intricate steps of the pavane and the galliard. Her accomplishments on the dance floor eased her resentment of me and made her a trifle less likely to give me privy nips.” Those sly pinches had hurt, and sometimes they had left ugly bruises.

“What other tricks did your sister play on you?” Hester asked. “Did she put frogs in your bed?”

“What a notion! No, for she slept there, too.”

Hester’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Did she pretend to trip and spill the contents of a chamber pot all over you?”

“Hester!”

“Well? Did she?”

“No, she did not. Although, if I must be honest, she might have if she could have reasoned out an excuse to be carrying such a thing. We had servants to empty the night soil.” That task had most often fallen to poor, half-witted Lucy.

“Only pinches, then?” Hester tried to hide her yawn, but sleepiness overtook her. She watched her mother through half-closed eyes.

“Pinches and cutting remarks about my appearance, especially the sallow cast of my skin. Bridget’s complexion was as pink and white as that of any great lady at court.”

“Did you go back there?” Hester asked. “To court?”

“I did. And that sparked Bridget’s envy all over again. In time, I learned to ignore both jabs and jibes because I enjoyed every moment of those visits. Your father had a great deal to do with my pleasure.” She smiled, remembering. “I fondly believed that my presence had gone unnoticed by members of the Chapel Royal, but that was not the case. I had simply been ignored, tolerated because I made no attempt to talk to any of them. After Jack was ordered to give me instruction in music, I was formally introduced and invited to listen to their rehearsals. After one such session, the gentleman choristers declared I should be their mascot. I suppose they thought of me the way I thought of Pocket. That is not such a flattering comparison, now that I look back on it, but at the time I was thrilled to be permitted to linger on the fringes while they made their glorious music.”

“Did you see the king again?” Hester murmured in a sleepy voice.

“Not for some time. My lessons began in December. In January, His Grace married Anne of Cleves and he was often . . . distracted. But learning from your father was a delight. He was endlessly patient with me, praising my musical ability while gently correcting and improving my efforts. After the first week, I grew easy in his presence, although an occasional blush did creep up on me when I least expected it.”

A soft exhalation drew Audrey’s gaze to her daughter.

There was no need to tell Hester any more of the story tonight. The little girl had fallen deeply asleep. Careful not to wake her, Audrey slid off the bed, stumbling a little as she landed on the rush-covered floor. The scent of strewing herbs wafted up to her, juniper and costmary, as she turned to draw the curtains closed against cold night drafts.

She stood there a moment longer, gripping the heavy cloth, waiting for her head to stop spinning. She hated this lingering weakness. She was accustomed to good health and a hardy constitution.

Tomorrow, there would be more questions. Audrey repressed a sigh. It was only natural for a child to want to know all about her parents.

Steady again, she crept out of her daughter’s richly appointed bedchamber and into her own. The enormous bed yawned before her, far too big for one person, a potent reminder that Jack had not shared it with her for a long time.

Did Hester need to know that, too? Audrey pondered the question as she used her toothpick and tooth cloth and combed out her hair. She preferred to tend to these chores herself and not have the bother of servants.

The girl idolized her father and he was fond of her. Audrey thought she could reveal the rest of the story without tarnishing Jack’s image. She would do her best, she resolved, to let Hester keep her illusions.

In the morning, after mother and daughter broke their fast, they went out into the garden. It had been planted to suit Audrey’s fancy. Each flower had been chosen not only for color and scent but also for the values it was said to represent. Honeysuckle grew near the door, a symbol of undying devotion. The blossoms were long gone but the fruit, which had the appearance of little bunches of grapes, was red and ripe.