Lady in Waiting: A Novel (18 page)

I was no longer Bridget’s apprentice; she had finally retired to her daughter’s humble home in Leeds when she could no longer conceal her failing sight. But the duchess certainly would not trust the household’s wardrobe to an eighteen-year-old seamstress such as me, and in truth I did not wish to be responsible for the duchess’s garments. She brought in two seasoned dressmakers to take Bridget’s place as well as half a dozen new and accomplished attendants as befitting her new title. And while I feared I might be relegated to mending tears in riding breeches and farthingales in some back turret, the duchess let me be. Mrs. Ellen told me Jane asked her mother if she might keep me. Everyone at court always commented on the dresses I made for her—so Jane told her mother—and that comment alone was enough to keep me at Jane’s side.

With no court appearances to make that summer, Jane’s parents had the time and inclination to employ themselves with the matter of Jane’s betrothal.

Jane was never privy to any of these conversations, nor was I. But
there was always an attendant or server or maid pouring wine or opening a window or lighting a lamp to hear snippets of these dialogues. When the day cooled and the household staff took their evening meal, these overheard conversations would be discussed and dissected, I suppose because we, too, had time on our hands those long summer evenings far away from London’s frantic pace.

I did not take part in the conversations, though I was often subtly invited to do so. Surely I, who spent so much time in the dressing rooms of the duchess and her daughters, could shed light on matters that would affect the household staff. But no one asked me outright to confirm or deny anything. Even among the staff, there was a sense of class and privilege. It would have been unseemly to ask me, because of my proximity to the family. Yet often the room turned to me for a comment, and I usually would not give it. Sometimes I could tune out the conversation, which was not an unwise thing to do; often the talk turned to topics no one had enough information to adequately discuss.

But the evening when the after-meal talk turned to Jane’s marital prospects, I lingered at the board, poking at a dish of baked apples and listening to every word.

According to one of the duke’s valets, there was much talk between the duke and duchess that afternoon on the immediacy to secure a suitable match for Jane.

“If she didn’t always have her fair nose in a book all the time, she might be easier to pair up,” said one of the pages. “She’s not altogether unpleasant to look upon. But a man likes a lass who can laugh at a yarn, sing a fair tune, strike a coquettish pose, eh?”

“It dinna matter what the man who marries the Lady Jane thinks of her,” a maid said. “That man will marry whomever his parents say he will marry. That’s the way it always is.”

“Nay. She will probably be stuck with some old lord who’s outlived three wives already and hasn’t an heir,” another maid said. “He’ll need a cane to walk down the wedding aisle.”

“And a potion to climb into the wedding bed!” the page quipped.

The room erupted in laughter. I was a second away from leaving the board when the valet cleared his throat. “The duke and duchess have not chosen an old man for Lady Jane,” he said.

All eyes turned to him, including my own.

“Pray, tell us!” said the first maid.

“They have dispatched a messenger to the Duke of Somerset.”

My spoon trembled a bit in my hand. Somerset was the very same elder Edward Seymour, the former Lord Protector.

Father to young Edward Seymour.

“Somerset?” the page said. “But ’e is married!”

“’E’s got a son, you dolt!” the second maid exclaimed.

“Aye, the young Edward Seymour,” the valet continued.

I could not help myself. I spoke.

“What kind of dispatch did they send?” I asked.

Heads swiveled to look at me.

“Do you not know, Lucy?” the valet answered, genuinely surprised that I did not.

“What kind of dispatch?” I repeated my question, with no hint of anything but mild curiosity.

“The duke has asked Somerset to come to Bradgate forthwith to discuss the marriage arrangement of Lady Jane to his son.” The valet stared at me.

“But Somerset is no longer the King’s Protector,” said one of the older housekeepers. “Pushed out by … What’s his name?”

“John Dudley,” said another.

“Yes. Dudley. I am much surprised the duke would consider a betrothal between Somerset’s son and his eldest daughter. Think on it! Somerset was imprisoned in the Tower not so long ago.”

“Ah, but he is there no longer,” the valet said. “Fortunes turn on a moment at court.”

“Yes, but he
was
in the Tower. If you were the duke, would you marry your daughter, who is what, fourth in line to the throne of England, to the son of a man who’d been overthrown and imprisoned? I do not see the wisdom in it.”

“Fortunes turn on a
moment,”
the valet said again. “You spend too much time fluffing pillows at the duke’s country estate. I’ve seen how fortunes can change at court. One moment you are disgraced, and the next you are exalted.”

“Aye, and the exact opposite can ’appen, quick as you can blink!” the housekeeper said. “Exalted one moment, and kneeling before the executioner the next.”

“Think what you will. The dispatch was sent.” The valet then turned to me. “And it is expected Somerset will make his way with all haste to Bradgate, accompanied by young Edward.”

He continued to stare at me, inviting me to comment on his conversation with the housekeeper. All eyes were on me, as the room waited to hear what I would say about a match between a young girl whose frame I knew as well as my own and the son of a fallen leader. I spent more time with Jane than any of them.

“We would be wise to prepare to welcome Somerset and his family with the grace and dignity the duke expects of us.” I rose and took my leave.

There was snickering as I walked away. I heard someone mimic my words, tossing them at my back with derision. And then there was laughter. I did not turn as I made my way out of the staff dining room.

My heart longed to share the news with Jane that Edward was coming to Bradgate and that her father was seeing to her betrothal to him. But I could not trust in hearsay. I could not know beyond doubt that the valet’s words were true—that a letter had been dispatched and that he knew its contents. I also could not bring below-stairs chatter into the chamber of my employer’s daughter. Mrs. Ellen would have my head. And so would my own mother, if she were to learn of it. I was the daughter of a gentleman tailor, not a milkman.

Plus, I was troubled by what the old housekeeper had said. Jane’s previous betrothal hopes had been pinned on the ruler of England. And now her father was considering the son of a duke whose political downfall had recently sent him to the Tower?

How much did Jane know of these things? How much did she need to know?

I did not wish to return to my chamber, just yet, with these thoughts tumbling in my head. The evening twilight, always long and unhurried in an English summer, bid me to come out to the garden. And I obeyed.

The heat of the day had dissipated, and evening birdsong filled the purple-blue haze of approaching nightfall. I breathed deeply the lavender- and rose-scented air, and the beauty of the coming night calmed me. I made my way down a set of stone steps to the edge of one of the reflecting pools. An infant moon was starting to shimmer on its surface, and I began to sing softly a Welsh lullaby my mother used to sing to me.

I missed my parents and my village home of Haversfield, especially on lovely summer nights like this one. I had been to visit my parents after the last Christmas, and then only for a few days, as those in noble circles made the cold winter months bearable by giving parties. And parties required the making of dresses. My parents, especially my father, had always been careful in their praise for me, measuring it out so that I should not grow proud or ungrateful and instilled in me a desire to be found worthy
of whatever gifts and abilities the Lord God had bestowed on me. They also reminded me, whenever I saw them, that Providence had secured for me a most important post as dressmaker to the Lady Jane, and that I should, at all times, be thankful, loyal, and gracious, not only to the Lady Jane but to her parents. And to seek God’s favor in every dealing I had with this family.

The lullaby on my lips and the longing in my heart to see my mother and father brought tears to my eyes, and I found I could no longer keep singing. The tune fell away from my lips, and there was silence for just a moment, and then a man’s voice.

“I would that you should continue.”

I stumbled sideways as I snapped my head around. A young man sat on a bench behind me, overlooking the reflecting pool. He had a book in his lap, but it was closed. In the fading light, I saw that he wore a dark suit coat and a ruffled white shirt. He wasn’t nobility, but neither was he a groundskeeper. He sprang from the bench to steady my footing.

“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed. “I truly had no wish to startle you, miss.”

“I d-did not see you there!” I stammered as his arm on mine steadied me.

“Please forgive me. Are you quite all right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” My eyes were drawn to his hand on my elbow. He dropped it.

“Again, I do beg your pardon. I was simply taken with your little tune. I have not heard it since I was a child. My grandmother used to sing that lullaby to me.”

His voice was kind, and he seemed genuinely remorseful for having startled me. He looked about twenty years, with dark brown hair, dark eyes, and educated speech.

“Yes. I …” I found myself unable to take my eyes away from his. I felt
my cheeks color. I was glad he could not see them. “Good evening.” I took one step away from him, ready to curtsy and escape.

“Wait! Please!” he said quickly, again touching my elbow. “Are you a guest here as well?”

“Pardon?” I whispered, looking at his hand, which again he dropped.

“Are you a guest here at Bradgate?”

I stiffened with embarrassment and shame. Only another guest would ask that. “No,” I said quickly, curtsying and turning to leave.

“My name is Nicholas Staverton,” he said quickly, stepping in front of me. “I am here as a guest of John Aylmer, the tutor.”

“Welcome to Bradgate, sir,” I said and again attempted to make my leave.

But he stood there in front of me as the moon continued to rise, and his face changed to one of concern. “Are you troubled?”

I could not form a suitable answer to such a question. I just stood there staring at him, amazed and astonished at such a strange and personal inquiry.

He pointed to my cheek with his finger, just inches from my jaw line. “You … you have been crying.”

Instinctively I drew my hand to my cheek. I had stopped singing moments earlier because emotion had overcome me as I thought about my parents. Those unchecked tears had slid down my cheeks. And there they rested, sparkling, no doubt, in the pearled moonlight.

“I am quite well. Thank you very much for your concern,” I whispered, anxious to be away from him, but also strangely frozen to where I stood.

“You are not a guest?” he asked again.

“I am dressmaker to the Lady Jane, daughter of the Duke of Suffolk.”

His eyes brightened. “You are Lucy! Lady Jane has told me all about you!”

Again, I started to totter on my feet, but this time I managed to keep my footing without Nicholas Staverton’s assistance. “I beg your pardon?”

“I sat in the classes today with Lady Jane and Lady Katherine and their tutor, Mr. Aylmer. I am a student at Oxford. I am here as Mr. Aylmer’s guest. Lady Jane spoke of you!”

“She … she spoke of me?” My voice sounded mousy and thin to my ears.

He laughed. “Oh! Not to worry. The Lady Jane spoke most highly of you. She said you are one of the few in the household who will listen to her thoughts on the writings of the Reformers, save for Mr. Aylmer, of course. She thinks you are very wise.”

“I … That is very kind of her, of course.”

We stood there, looking at each other. I was flummoxed to my core. He, on the other hand, looked serene and in no hurry to end our exchange. My heart began to pound in my chest.

“That song you were singing, do you know all the words?” he said.

“I … Yes, I know the words.”

“I haven’t heard it in such a long time. Perhaps you could dictate them to me, before I return to Oxford. I should like to have a record of the words. My grandmother died when I was little. I have missed her. So perhaps I might … see you again?”

The pounding intensified.

“Perhaps,” I said.

Mr. Staverton smiled. “Perhaps you would recite them to me?”

“Yes,” I answered, unable to keep from smiling myself. Darkness was falling all around us. I curtsied hastily. “Good night, Mr. Staverton.”

I sped away on the steps that had brought me to the pool.

“So I will see you tomorrow, then, Miss … Lucy?”

“Day!” I called out and continued my brisk pace.

“Day?”

I turned around. “My name is Miss Day. Lucy Day.”

I continued up the steps, the pounding in my chest now a different rhythm.

I turned back once to look at him. He still stood at the pool, watching me go.

It was many hours before sleep came to me that night.