The Other Countess (28 page)

The next morning Nell appeared in the kitchen to find most of the staff nursing hangovers from the previous night, heads in hands as they sat round the table eating a breakfast of bread and cold meat. No one looking, she gave them all a scornful glance. Her spirits had been restored after an interlude with Sir Henry and she was feeling more positive about her plans for marriage but distinctly annoyed by the Dorset household. She still had a couple of months before she started to show. If not Turville, some other man would swim into her net.

Dorcas signed her to sit down and poured her a cup of small beer.

‘You appear well, Nell – not like the rest of these poor sots.’

Nell looked up at her through her lashes. ‘Well, mistress, I’m not used to strong drink. I feared to take too much.’
Just listen to myself
, she thought, amused by her playacting,
don’t I sound the proper one!

Dorcas patted the back of her hand. ‘Good girl.’

Turville came in with none of his usual swagger. As soon as he caught sight of Nell, he blushed scarlet and cleared his throat awkwardly several times before taking a seat at the far end of the table. How much did he remember? Did he think they’d done it – there on the tiles? With a delirious feeling of relief, Nell realized that, if she played this right, she was safe already and without having had to suffer the man in her bed.

With a sideways glance at Dorcas, her unwitting ally in this affair, Nell buried her face in her apron and pretended to muffle a sob.

‘Sweet chick, whatever is the matter?’ Dorcas asked in consternation. The low conversation around the table faded, leaving Nell centre stage.

‘I … I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot pretend to be happy any longer.’

Dorcas placed her meaty arm around Nell’s shoulders. ‘There now, it can’t be that bad. Tell your Auntie Dorcas what’s wrong.’

‘I cannot sit at the table with that m-man.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘I feel … I feel so ashamed.’

Dorcas glared at all the men around the table, searching for the culprit. From spitboy to footman, they looked puzzled, all except the steward who was scrubbing his hand over his face as if trying to cudgel his brains into order.

‘No, it can’t be,’ Dorcas said in horror. ‘Not Master Turville!’

Nell let out a whimper of distress, rubbing at her empty ring finger. ‘Now I’ve done it, I can’t hold my head up again in decent company.’

Dorcas shot to her feet. ‘Master Turville, what have you to say for yourself?’

All eyes now turned to the steward.

‘Mistress Dorcas?’ He looked as happy as a man about to be taken out to be executed.

‘You know what I’m talking about.’

‘I do?’

‘You … you hypocrite, you! You, who sit in judgement over all of us, to go and ruin this poor maid – I would not believe it of you if the proof wasn’t sitting beside me!’

The reaction from the other listeners ranged from scandalized sympathy from the women to amusement on the part of a number of the footmen who had suffered many a lecture on the subject of their wenching from the steward. Nell decided it was time for a noisy burst of weeping. She was immediately swept up in a huddle by the other girls and taken to the prize seat by the hearth.

‘Oh, you poor darling!’

‘Did he force you? Shall I get the master?’

‘The wretch – I will tear his eyes out!’

Nell could tell they were all rather enjoying themselves; she wished she could join in.

‘I cannot speak of it,’ she said breathily, thinking it best to keep the details of the encounter vague as she did plan to marry the man in the end and would have to live with him.

‘Master Turville, what are you going to do about this?’ demanded Dorcas, hands on her hips. The cook stood behind
her with her ladle raised, the laundress unhooked her paddle from her girdle, the housemaid grabbed her broom.

‘I can’t remember what happened, mistress,’ Turville admitted humbly. Nell could tell he wished the whole pack of them to the ends of the earth. His authority had taken a fatal blow, and it had been so easy to do.

‘That is no excuse!’ screeched Dorcas.

‘It makes it worse! He’s a rogue – an out-and-out rogue!’ capped the cook, a comely, stout woman. Word had been that she had set her sights on Turville before Nell had come along.

The women all muttered their agreement.

Turville got to his feet, trying to regain his dignity like a beggar pulling a ragged cloak around him to hide his nakedness. ‘Mistress Rivers, would you step aside with me?’

Nell was rather proud of her shiver – fear or revulsion: let them read it as they liked.

‘You’re not taking her anywhere on your own,’ Dorcas replied firmly. ‘Say what you have to say in front of witnesses.’

Turville cast his eyes to the heavens then back to Nell. She thought she saw him grind his teeth before giving her the words she knew were her due.

‘Dear lady, I know not what I can do to repair the damage I have done to your good name. I can plea excess of emotions as my only excuse.’

‘Excess ale if you ask me,’ muttered a footman in an undertone.

Turville ignored him. ‘Please forgive me.’

Dorcas tutted. ‘Forgiveness? How like a man to think that’s enough! She doesn’t want to forgive you, Master Steward; she wants you to make a decent woman of her. You know what
the vicar would say: if you want to taste the fruit, you should be prepared to buy the orchard.’

The light of comprehension dawned in Turville’s befuddled brain. He took another look at Nell sobbing in Dorcas’ arms, the benefits of the arrangement making themselves all too plain as her breast heaved with emotion. ‘Mistress Rivers, dare I hope that after all that has passed between us, you would do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

Nell raised her eyes to him and gave him what she hoped appeared a tremulous smile. ‘Oh, sir, Master Turville … Affabel, I accept.’

The listeners cheered. A reluctant grin broke out on Turville’s face. He ran his hands through his thinning hair, smoothing it back. ‘I didn’t wake expecting to be married by the end of the day, but I’d say I got myself a good bargain.’ He approached her and planted a kiss on her lips, pleased with his cleverness in netting a youthful, comely wife.

Nell quelled the impulse to wipe her mouth. He’d got a bargain all right – more than he’d anticipated. Two for the price of one.

20

Three weeks had passed since the Day of the Two Proposals, as Ellie had named it. She was now lodged in a small but finely furnished apartment in the White Tower, the high-walled square keep where royalty lodged when visiting the Tower of London. Her room had a view of the green and the grim walls behind, which lodged the less fortunate inmates of this place. There was little for her to do. Her father spent long hours in his laboratory and down at the wharf with his trial fire ships, rarely remembering to return even to eat. Ellie spent her days wandering the grounds, only venturing on to the riverbank when the guards were in sight as it was not a safe part of London for a girl to walk alone. She didn’t fit in any of the worlds that were contained within these battlements: neither prisoner nor soldier, she had no place. Perhaps when Walsingham paid her father, she could persuade him to rent lodgings within the city.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. He had a lover he did not wish to part from and her name was Science.

She wrote to Lady Jane as she had promised, finding her one consolation in the long letters she had plenty of time to pen. She received only short answers back, but they were full of news and
sharp observations, enough to keep her going until the next instalment. Jane complained of her new maid (the old one had surprised them all by wedding Will’s steward), piled invectives on her ambitious father, mocked her brother – so all was as usual. Only Will escaped her ire – in fact he barely existed in the letters, walking across the stage like a minor player entitled Earl of Dorset who had been given one line only by the playwright.

Dear Jane,

Great excitement today: my father plans to launch his first fire ship on the Thames. Pray do not be alarmed: it is with the full permission of the warder and Sir Francis Walsingham and is only a small boat, so the shipping on our great river should not be unduly disturbed.

Ellie raised her pen from the page. Her father was in his study, glimpsed through the door that stood open between them. He was striding to and fro, muttering to himself, as he ran through the final preparations.

He expects great things of this test and is already planning to give a lecture on the subject of explosive materials when we finally arrive at Oxford in triumph.

She had begun to think they would never get to the university, not as long as Walsingham kept her father happy with his toys. That dream was disappearing along with so many others Sir Arthur had clung to over the years.

I continue to stun the ravens with my erudition. They listen quite patiently as I declaim my favourite verses to them on my daily perambulation around my new home. Man with the white handkerchief waved to me again, so I spoke a little louder in order that he could hear. I hope I alleviated the boredom of his detention somewhat, but I am no closer to discovering his name – the guards are very close-lipped on the subject; they merely say he was once a military man in service to the Earl of Leicester.

The Tower is a strange spot on God’s busy earth. Just beyond our walls, the world is always rushing somewhere: beasts to market, people to work, ships to other countries. Within, we revolve around our same fixed mark, making no progress: all of us, quite, quite lost.

She was getting maudlin – she had to stop.

‘Ellie, my love, have you seen my old notebook?’ her father called.

Grateful for even this tedious errand, she leapt up. ‘I’ll fetch it for you.’ She plucked it from the saddlebag where it had remained since they arrived. ‘Here it is.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’ He smiled faintly at her. ‘Do you wish to observe my experiment? It should be most interesting.’

Better than staring at the walls all evening. ‘I would, sir. How are you going to launch the boat?’

‘I’ll row her out at high tide, light the fuse then cut her adrift. We’ve a ring of boats organized to keep others away from the site of the explosion.’

These preparations alarmed her. It was not like her father to be so careful. ‘Will it be dangerous?’

‘Think nothing of it, my dear.’ He tapped her nose. ‘Your old father knows what he’s doing.’

Why did that not comfort her?

*

Evening came, bringing the high tide. The river washed through Traitor’s Gate, carrying the stench of the water right into the keep. Ellie walked two steps behind her father as he led Walsingham, the Tower warder, and other observers to the wharf. He was lapping up their obvious curiosity about the effectiveness of the explosive he had devised.

‘The secret is in the proportion of gunpowder in my special preparation. A volatile mix, but with impressive results. I conducted a small trial in my laboratory and was very pleased with the damage it inflicted.’

Yes, it had been spectacular: Ellie had spent the afternoon sweeping up the pieces.

A small vessel, guarded by two nervous soldiers, was moored at the steps. A larger rowing boat, powered by an experienced oarsman, waited to tow it out into the river channel. Sir Arthur lit a lantern to provide a flame for the fuse, then jumped aboard.

‘Good fortune, sir!’ called Walsingham.

So eager to prove himself, Sir Arthur only waved. He didn’t even spare a glance for Ellie as he gave his final orders. ‘Take us out, Gridley,’ he told the boatman.

Ellie shivered despite the warm breeze. She moved apart from the watchers, and began to pray for her father’s safety. The lead boat became difficult to see, a dark shape low on the water, oars rising and falling like the flailing arms of a drowning man. The lanterns of the ring of boats keeping shipping clear of this stretch of river shone out like a fiery necklace. She wasn’t sure exactly what was going to happen next.

Walsingham tapped his walking cane on the ground
impatiently. His secretary made notes as his master muttered comments on the wind direction and the weather conditions.

Suddenly, a bright light flared in the darkness.

‘That’s it – that’s the fuse lit!’ announced Walsingham.

Night-vision spoiled by the glare, Ellie could no longer see her father’s boat or the fire ship, just the white snake burning rapidly away. Then –

Boom!

She turned her face as the fire ship exploded; blazing wooden splinters rained down on them even at their supposedly safe distance on the shore. She crouched, covering her head with her arms, waiting for the bombardment to stop. When she raised her eyes, she saw Walsingham getting to his feet.

‘Oh, bravo!’ he exclaimed, leading the other gentlemen in a round of applause.

Ellie’s vision slowly recovered from the flash, but still she could see nothing on the water. The fire ship had been completely obliterated; the tow boat was nowhere in view.

‘Sir Francis, where’s my father?’ Ellie asked in a panic, rushing to the water’s edge.

‘Patience, my lady. He’ll be back in a moment to share his success with you,’ Walsingham said calmly.

‘But I can’t see him!’

‘None of us can, my dear.’ The warder patted her arm. ‘Very impressive explosion, eh?’

‘You don’t understand – I can see the river, but I can’t see the boat!’ She turned to the water and cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Father! Father!’

Catching her urgency, the warder gave Sir Francis an
anxious look. ‘The girl’s right, Walsingham. I can’t see hide nor hair of it.’

‘Send word to the other boats,’ Walsingham ordered his secretary. ‘Tell them to look for survivors in the water.’

Survivors!

Ellie let out a strangled sob. No, no. Her father had to be all right. He couldn’t die in such a stupid way, so suddenly, without time to prepare.