Lady in Waiting: A Novel (30 page)

“I fear this Jane is about to disappear,” she whispered.

“No, she shall not,” I whispered back.

“How can I honor God and yet marry this man?”

“You will find a way.”

A tear slipped out of her left eye and ran unchecked down her cheek, followed by one from the other eye.

“And what of Edward?”

I had no answer for her.

“He asks too much of me,” she murmured.

I had missed something. “Your father?”

She picked at a bit of wax, and the seal broke away in her fingers. “God,” she whispered.

An hour later, we heard carriages outside in the courtyard. Mrs. Ellen appeared to tell Jane it was time to receive her guests. Jane left the room in a dress she had chosen; a brocaded gown of verdant green.

Edward Seymour’s favorite color.

I watched from a distance that afternoon as the duke and duchess entertained their guests, slightly jealous of the serving staff being privy to every conversation at the tables in the garden. I could only watch Guildford speak to Jane from my window. I could not hear his voice; I could see that he was indeed very comely, but he seemed attentive to Jane only
at intervals, as if the conversations between his father and Jane’s father were his true interest. His attentions were always drawn to the hushed conversations between the two dukes. Jane barely looked up from her lap. Once I saw her raise her gaze to the windows, my window. I raised my hand and pressed it to the glass. She looked away.

In the days leading up to Jane’s marriage to Guildford Dudley, I learned my employment with the household of the Duke of Somerset had come to a successful completion, and that I would be given sterling recommendations upon my leave. I was expected to stay through the month of May to see the Lady Jane’s wardrobe safely to her husband’s home at Syon Park on the Thames. After that I was free to pursue my next post.

My parents were happy to have me home to make preparations for my own wedding and to dote on me for a few more days as their remaining unmarried daughter. The year before, Cecily had married the fowler’s son at the manor house where she was installed as seamstress.

Nicholas had secured a post as instructor at a boys’ school at Whitechapel, just outside London, though without my income, we’d be living in the dormitories with the lads. I began to write letters of inquiry, hoping a merchant tailor in Whitechapel needed a seamstress until God would favor us with a nobleman’s household who needed a dressmaker and a tutor.

Since I was not involved with the construction of Jane’s or Katherine’s wedding clothes, I busied myself with a dress for their little sister, Mary, who would not be attending the wedding, as the duke and duchess were increasingly embarrassed by their younger daughter’s physical ailments. And at night, I stitched my own wedding dress.

When I was with Jane, I endeavored to take her mind off what lay
ahead. But it was always before her, looming ahead like an appointment with a gaoler.

I had the rare opportunity to meet Lord Guildford once during the days of preparation. Again, I noted that he was strikingly handsome, but I could tell in a moment, he lacked Nicholas’s humility and Edward Seymour’s gentility. He seemed very much like his father. Ambitious. Self-assured. Cunning. And to my shame and disgust, he followed the curves of my body with his eyes as I moved away from him on the stairs.

I had to gather my composure after turning onto the landing. And rein in my revulsion. I said nothing of this to Jane.

The day of the wedding, Whitsunday, dawned cloudless and vibrant. I came to Jane’s rooms early with a small token, a lacy undergarment, stitched with silver rosettes, asters, and larkspur since she would not be having the veil of gauze and flowers. Everything else she would be wearing that day had been sewn by His Majesty’s tailors and dressmakers. Her gown was resplendent in gold and majestic white, with diamonds and pearls glistening at every seam. The farthingale hoop, which Jane did not truly expect to escape, was bell shaped and enormous.

Tears came to her eyes when I gave her the chemise to wear under the great folds of wedding fabric.

“It is beautiful, Lucy.” She fought to keep the tears at bay and was successful. I marveled at her courage.

“I am … I am glad he will not see it. Not today.” Jane fingered a silvery rosette.

Her words confused me. “My lady?”

“The marriage is not to be consummated today. Nor shall Kate’s.”

Color rose to my cheeks. “’Tis a mercy, my lady. Yes?” I said, after a moment’s pause.

“Yes, for today. It will happen soon enough. My parents will see to it. So will his.”

The heat on my cheeks intensified. I had no words for her.

“His Majesty cannot come to the wedding,” Jane said, swallowing her raw emotions and moving away from the subject of her marriage bed. “He is too ill.”

“We must pray for him, my lady.”

“Yes.”

A stretch of silence yawned before us.

“Mama says you are to be released at the end of the month,” Jane said at last, speaking aloud what we both knew, and I hadn’t the valor to address—we were to be parted.

“Yes.”

“But she says that you will be in London after your wedding to Mr. Staverton.” She blinked back tears.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then perhaps I shall see you again, dear Lucy.”

“You can be sure of it.”

She sighed. “Perhaps you would consider future employment, you and Mr. Staverton, when … when this arrangement I am beholden to comforts me with children?”

I could only nod. The young lady needed a dream on that day. I could give her that one.

She stood and held the chemise to me. “Help me dress, Lucy.”

Without a word, I obeyed.

I
married Nicholas on the eighth of June in my village church, surrounded by my family. A brilliant sun chased away fog that had arrived in maiden white in the wee morning hours, and the air was filled with birdsong and the scent of lavender. My father’s health had rallied in the late spring, and color had returned to his cheeks, even if only for a few weeks.

There were many moments during my wedding when my thoughts turned to Jane, though the only event I could adequately picture was her dressing to become Guildford Dudley’s bride. That was the only event of Jane’s wedding day that I was privy to. I did not see Jane again that day.

As I put on the gown I had sewn while the Grey household slept, I was keenly aware of the differences, not similarities of the two days.

I was breathless with happiness as I walked into the church and could scarce contain tears of joy as I vowed to cherish Nicholas to the end of my days. Jane left her chambers resolute and expressionless, the few stray tears on her cheek silent evidences of her mourning the loss of a life with Edward Seymour that was not to be hers.

I thought of her when Nicholas and I knelt and prayed before God as the vicar blessed our vows. I thought of her when we left the church as husband and wife, and again when Nicholas took me in his arms that night and together we discovered the unspeakable beauty and splendor of the marriage bed.

I knew that nothing about my wedding day was akin to hers. Love brought me to the marriage altar. Duty brought her.

We were both married, but for wholly different reasons.

I had never been more grateful to Almighty God that I was born a commoner than the day I married the man I loved and who loved me.

It did not matter to me that Nicholas and I returned to London to make our home in the upper rooms of a dormitory, that I spent my days mending little boys’ torn breeches and doublets, tending to scraped knees, assisting Cook in the kitchen, and soothing the fears of young lads who missed their mothers.

In the evenings, after Nicholas had put away his students’ work, and I put away his students’ torn garments, we walked the walled garden under splashes of moonlight, read poetry, laughed, dreamed, and then returned to our tiny room and our shared bed.

In my prayers, I interceded for dear Jane; I could only guess what her first few weeks of marriage were like. I didn’t know if her marriage had been consummated yet, but I knew that it was only a matter of time. I could not imagine partaking of the marriage bed with someone I did not love, and there were moments when I cried for her. Nicholas did not know why Jane’s marriage was not consummated the night of her wedding. He guessed that just as there were political reasons for her marriage, there were political reasons for that as well. It was not because of her age; she was fifteen and certainly old enough to be wedded.

I had asked Nicholas what might be the reason for Jane’s parents’ hasty decision to marry their daughter to John Dudley’s son, a mere three weeks after announcing the betrothal, when they had delayed the announcement of her betrothal to Edward Seymour for more than a year.

He thought perhaps they were reacting to their disappointment that they’d waited too long to see if Edward Seymour would retain his father’s lands and possessions.

But why Guildford Dudley? I asked. Jane was a Tudor. Fourth in line to the throne. Guildford was not a royal; he was the son of a duke.

Not just any duke, Nicholas had said. John Dudley was not just any duke.

Nicholas and I had been at Whitechapel for three weeks, and it was nigh unto July when I received my first letter from Jane.

I brought the letter at once to Nicholas. “I would very much like to go see her,” I said.

We were alone in his classroom, and he kissed the top of my head. “Seeing her will make you sad, I think.”

“I am sad already for her.”

His arms went around me. I ached for Jane that she likely did not know what it was like to be in the embrace of a man who did not like to see you sad.