Chapter 2 #2
Seymour had me flat against the wall, his hand still upon me. I could not twist away. Screaming would only bring the queen from her chamber to see me beguiling her husband in the passage.
As I could go neither backward nor forward, I dropped straight down to the floor. I bumped my nose on Seymour’s hard thigh, my forehead on the crease of his tall boot. The cloths fell from my hands as I went, flowing across the stones like streams of dark water.
Seymour stepped back with a startled grunt and tripped on a piece of velvet, then he snarled and lunged for me.
I scuttled out of his reach, snatched up what cloths I could, and started to run, trailing fabric. The beautiful blue velvet snaked around my ankles, and I tumbled to the floor again. Heart racing, I rolled to right myself, my hands scraping on the cold, rough stone.
Seymour stood in the middle of the passageway behind me, his lips curled in rage. Then his swift smile returned, as did the gleam in his eyes that terrified me.
I scrambled to my feet. Abandoning my precious cloth, I fled.
Seymour’s laughter followed me down the cold corridor. “Scamper, little kitten. One day, come back and find your Tom-cat.”
He continued laughing, a sound that carried down the passageway and up the stairs as I sprinted for the safety of my rooms.
The next morning Aunt Kat seized me by the ear as I emerged from my tiny chamber and pulled me to the middle of our eating room.
“Whatever came over you, Eloise?” Aunt Kat demanded. “Leaving costly fabric lying on the floor?” She pointed at the pile that now reposed haphazardly on a bench. A servant must have retrieved it and returned it here. “That velvet is as good as ruined. What were you thinking?”
I hesitated. If I told Aunt Kat the truth, I knew she’d never believe it of Seymour, as she thought him the nearest thing to perfection. To add to this, she always took the word of a higher-born person over mine.
I feared she’d blame me for enticing Seymour and perhaps even force me to relate the entire episode to Catherine. Best that nobody knew what happened but me.
“I saw a ghost,” I said in a near whisper. “It frightened me.”
Aunt Kat released her hold and darted a superstitious glance upward. “What ghost?”
“I could not see,” I extemporized madly. “I heard her screams.”
Aunt Kat shook herself. “Nonsense.”
“No, Aunt Kat. It is the truth. It came from the upper gallery. I heard her wailing and shrieking.”
I closed my mouth before I could over-embellish.
I did not actually believe in ghosts, being much too hard-headed for such things, but Aunt Kat was convinced that sorcery was real and there were ghosts a-plenty.
Besides which, the upper gallery of this house, dark and windowless, could be unnerving.
“Mention none of your ghosts to our Lady Elizabeth,” Aunt Kat said in a severe tone. “She sometimes has bad dreams, and I do not wish to worry her.”
“’Tis the ghosts that send her the bad dreams,” I murmured.
“Enough, you silly girl.” Aunt Kat waved me away. “Go on with you.”
I curtsied and fled, relieved I’d diverted her attention from the torn fabric and speculation on why I, of all people, had let it be ruined.
From that day forward, I took care never to be caught in the halls alone. If I had to travel to dark corners of the house, I trotted in the footsteps of a housekeeper or other maids. When I sewed, I did so in the presence of Aunt Kat and Elizabeth, or Catherine and her entourage.
Always being in company was made easier for me, because the Chelsea house was quite full.
Catherine had her ladies, at least a hundred of them, and Elizabeth’s own ladies and gentlemen were there to wait upon her.
We began to be rather cramped, which suited me, because I could hide within a crowd and avoid Thomas Seymour.
Once he caught sight of me in the great hall during an evening’s revelry and shot me a smile. Though my heart pounded in panic, I pretended not to notice. Seymour mimed a cat with claws, his grin widening.
After that distant encounter, he said not a word to me, nor even looked my way when we were in the same chamber. He seemed, to my relief, to forget all about me.
I could not avoid Seymour altogether, try as I might. As the man of the house, he had his own retinue, which crowded us further, and he expected his orders to be obeyed before his wife’s.
The servants, fiercely loyal to whatever master or mistress they served, fought among themselves. I’d often overhear snatches of their conversations.
“That wine is for Her Grace Elizabeth,” one would declare.
“No,” another would growl. “’Tis to go to the queen dowager.”
“Her Grace Elizabeth always has this wine.”
“It is the queen dowager’s private stock.”
“Nay, sir, it was purchased by Her Grace Elizabeth’s household.”
“His lordship commands the wine be brought to him,” would come a male servant’s inevitable reply. “It will be given to his lady the queen or Her Grace Elizabeth at his pleasure.”
Thus endeth the argument.
In fine weather, Elizabeth took extensive walks in the gardens that Catherine adored and had her gardeners tend with care.
I often accompanied Elizabeth, being one of the few women her age in the household.
She’d also long ago professed me a favorite, her liking for me heightened by her affection for Aunt Kat.
I never made the mistake in believing that Elizabeth thought me anything more than a useful companion.
I was not as highborn as the baronets’ wives and daughters who comprised her gentlewomen, but she liked to confide in me things she would not the others.
Harmless Eloise the seamstress did not tell tales.
One particular morning, when the sky was as blue as the kirtle I was sewing for her, my lady Elizabeth and I wandered the gardens in an aimless fashion. We walked arm-in-arm, she in silks, I in serviceable linen and wool.
Our meandering surprised me, because Elizabeth usually laid out her plans for walks like a general heading into battle.
“Where are we going, Your Grace?” I asked after a time.
“I do not know. Where shall we stroll, Eloise?” Elizabeth slanted me a half-smile, an odd light in her eyes.
“The gardeners have arranged geraniums in the front walk,” I offered. “They are quite beautiful, scarlet against the green.”
“No.” Elizabeth gripped my arm and half dragged me toward the far end of the garden, beyond which the river flowed. The water’s scent was fresh, as it flowed from the heart of the countryside. “I would like to walk among the hedges.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
I acquiesced, first because I would never disobey one of her orders, and secondly because it was clear that Elizabeth would tow me with her to wherever she wanted to go. She propelled the pair of us to the long hedges at a rapid march, no more ambling.
“What think you of this gown, Eloise?” she asked as we went. “Does it suit me?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” My answer was breathless as I struggled to keep up with her. “I made certain of it.”
The gown in question was black and gold silk with a fine woolen overskirt, good for brisk walks in the garden.
The bodice bared a small bit of Elizabeth’s pale bosom, flattering her slender frame.
The gown was quite modest, because Aunt Kat would allow Elizabeth to wear nothing but decorous attire, but her exposed throat, shoulders, and chest made it alluring.
An enticing young lady, the ensemble announced. Within whom first longings had begun to stir. Untouched, untried, waiting.
Elizabeth’s lips twitched at my answer. “Your talent is formidable, Eloise, as is your pride. Guard against pride, my dear, or it will be your downfall.”
“Aye,” I answered glumly. “Aunt Kat says the same.”
“Cunning is always better. Remember that.”
I did not understand her, but I murmured, “Yes, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth halted so suddenly that my momentum propelled me forward a few steps before her fierce grip on me hauled me back.
“Is someone there?” Elizabeth demanded, peering into the opening between tall, carefully pruned bay trees. She spoke to me, but I sensed she’d called her question into the dark walk that awaited us.
I fancied I spied movement beyond the hedges, and my skin began to prickle. “A gardener?” was my faint suggestion.
Elizabeth’s eyes glittered, but not with fear. “Let us catch him, whoever he is.”
“Take care, Your Grace,” I said in alarm. “It might be a robber.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Not in my stepmother’s gardens. They would not dare.”
They would indeed dare, I knew for a fact.
I’d heard of gentlemen and ladies set upon at the edges of their own estates.
Some bandits did not care how highborn their victims, only wanting the riches they’d carry away.
That Elizabeth hurried to confront such a thief with no more weapon between us than the scissors in my pocket horrified me.
“Your Grace,” I tried.
Elizabeth’s breath quickened with our pace. She pulled me relentlessly between the hedges into the shadowed walk.
Let it be a gardener, I prayed. Or a rabbit. Even a rat.
Our quarry sprang from the shadows, roaring and growling and waving his arms like a madman. Elizabeth screamed, but it was the squeal of an excited girl. My own cry tore from my throat in genuine terror.
“Run, Your Grace!” I shouted, and we wheeled about to flee.