Chapter 6
My head gave an extra-hard throb as I hurried after Uncle John, who descended the stairs and made for the wide hall on the ground floor.
“Uncle do not look at me so,” I pleaded when I caught up to him. “I cannot stop the Thames from flooding, and I cannot stop Aunt Kat when she wants to talk about something.”
Uncle John swung to face me, his cheeks flushed, though modulated his voice when he spoke to me. “I do not blame you, Eloise, but you must understand. That man is dangerous, and all his smiles and beguiles do not make him less so.”
“I know he is dangerous, Uncle. You do not need to convince me.”
Uncle John eyed me sharply. “And why are you so certain?”
I did not want to talk about the awful evening Seymour had forced his attentions upon me. I could still feel the imprint of his large hand, smell the sticky sweet scent that had clung to his clothes.
“I see through him,” I said glibly. “Not all women are fools.”
Uncle John let out an exasperated breath. “Your aunt is—at least in this instance—and I have told her so. I am bound for London today. You will report to me any meddling Kat thinks to do as soon as I return. Do you understand?”
I clutched Uncle John’s sleeve, the wool of it homey and comforting. “Why do you not stay and watch her yourself? Or take her with you?”
“I have business,” he answered in clipped tones. “And no time for a wife who embroils in dangerous gossip.”
Uncle John removed himself from my grip and strode through the hall, barking at a servant to help him prepare for his journey.
I remained forlornly at the foot of the staircase, thrust squarely into the middle of a husband-and-wife quarrel.
Aunt Kat sulked all that day, angry at Uncle John and at me, calling me no better than a jailer.
The next morning she began to repent, admitting to me, shame-faced, that perhaps she had far too much interest in affairs not her own. She blamed Master Parry for dragging the story of Seymour’s pursuit of Elizabeth out of her, though she conceded she should not have allowed him to goad her.
Several long, soggy days dragged by, while Aunt Kat became ever more unhappy and remorseful. She missed Uncle John and lamented that she’d so angered him. She wrote him a letter and waited eagerly for a reply, but had none.
When another week and more passed without word from Uncle John, Aunt Kat became resolute to go to London and make things up with him. Her excuse for leaving the princess’s side was that her arm ached strangely, and she wished for a physician to examine it.
It was obvious that Elizabeth saw through the excuse for the journey, but she gave Aunt Kat a cool nod and permission for her to leave for a short while.
Wanting, I suppose, to reconcile with me as well, Aunt Kat bade me accompany her.
I went with her readily, because not only did I want Aunt Kat and Uncle John to patch up their quarrel, but the countryside had become gloomy in the dark of December. London, though it could be as muddy and cold as the country, would at least be interesting.
Vendors would sell hot nuts and cider, and there would be street entertainment aplenty.
Though Aunt Kat admonished me that tumbling men and performing bears were low forms of amusement, I enjoyed them, and I noted that they could hold her attention as well.
Elizabeth was also fond of bears, tumblers, and acting troupes of the sort my father had belonged to, whenever they passed through Hatfield in the warmer months.
I had also hoped, when we reached London, to shop a bit. I wanted a peek at whatever fabrics and trims were coming in on the great ships, as well as baubles and beads I could sew into patterns on the cloth.
When Aunt Kat descended the coach with haste at the dwelling of her friends, people called the Slaynings, she shut herself inside the house and refused to budge, admonishing me to remain with her.
The Slaynings’ home was large but dark, and the fires did not draw well, making the rooms smoky and my throat sore.
I tried to busy myself drawing designs for gowns and planning what I’d search for in the shops, but Aunt Kat made no sign that she wished to leave the house.
She did not even emerge from the chamber her kind friends had prepared for her.
“Will you not seek the physician?” I asked her with impatience after a few days had passed. “I thought your arm pained you so.”
“I cannot go out, Eloise,” was Aunt Kat’s listless response. “I have nothing to wear.”
True, Aunt Kat had not packed very much above her travel garments, but I knew this was only an excuse. She bore the demeanor of a woman who meant to stay the whole day indoors with her feet propped on a stool by the fire.
She’d come to London to find Uncle John, and no other reason. Her fabrication about seeking a leech had already been forgotten.
“Perhaps I should visit the physician on your behalf,” I suggested. On the way, I could seek out the markets and immerse myself in my beloved fabric.
“Yes, do go, Eloise. You are restless as a sparrow.” Aunt Kat returned her brooding attention to the fire, clearly uncaring of what I did.
I conscripted a maid and a lad of the house to accompany me, it being unfit for a young lady to wander the muddy streets alone. They resented being dragged out into the cold and muttered to themselves as we walked along.
The house in which we stayed was near the Strand.
I turned onto this street and reveled in the carts selling everything from sweetmeats to trinkets from far-off places.
I found ivory-colored beads that would look well against a white velvet bodice I was designing, and purchased a few with what pennies I had.
Durham Place—which should have been Elizabeth’s, had not the Lord Protector confiscated it—was a fixture of elegance on the Strand, not far from the Lord Protector’s own home of Somerset House.
The gates of Durham Place stood open this morning.
As we strolled past in search of more shops, I craned my head to peer in beyond the gatehouse.
A huge courtyard led to the manor itself, which was set far back from the street, its rear windows overlooking the Thames.
I could well understand why Elizabeth was annoyed that the Lord Protector had pulled the lovely mansion into his clutches.
Farther along the Strand, near Temple Bar, we came upon a troupe of acrobats—three men and two women—in the middle of a lively performance. I and my servants joined the watchers in delight.
Wind scraped down the narrow lanes from the river, and a chill crept up my skirts and seeped into my gloves. The acrobats, climbing upon shoulders and tumbling to the ground, were smiling and rosy, but the audience stamped feet and blew on fingers.
The troupe finished their last move, landing solidly and raising their arms to our wild applause.
They unfroze from their pose, the men bowing, women curtsying, then moved through the crowd, hats out for coins.
I dropped tuppence in one, to the sweating tumbler’s delight, and the maid and lad I’d purloined happily gave them a farthing each.
The heavy tramping of feet interrupted the proceedings. I spied liveried and armed gentlemen pushing down the Strand toward us, their presence indicating that an important personage was traveling this way.
The acrobats abruptly swung from the crowd, and all five nimbly disappeared down the nearest passageways. The audience dispersed, hurrying aside for whatever noble gentleman or lady came their way, and I did the same.
I hadn’t gone more than three steps before a chillingly familiar voice called out to me.
“It is too cold to be abroad, kitten. Is your mistress so cruel that she does not allow you to laze by the fire?”
I stilled for a long a moment before I turned slowly. Thomas Seymour, Lord High Admiral of England, had halted with his guards and eyed me from among his entourage.
Why he, an exalted nobleman, should be tramping about on foot, I could scarcely say. It was easier to move through London using boats and barges on the river than through the filthy streets, but then, the athletic Seymour had always done as he pleased.
I curtsied as well as my stiff legs would allow and murmured, “Your lordship.”
Seymour flashed his arrogant smile. “I asked you a question, seamstress. Does your mistress not keep you busy sewing?”
He took in my two servants, who’d faded behind me, and noted the absence of any other person or retinue. Clearly, he wanted to know whether Elizabeth was nearby or in London at all. I had no intention of telling him the answer to either question.
“You are too cold,” Seymour announced. “You must come with me and warm yourself.”
I did not answer, my heart pounding as I pretended that etiquette prevented me from conversing with my betters.
My thoughts, in contrast, were roiling, my previous fear of Seymour mixing with rage.
This man had intruded on my person—I had no doubt he’d thought himself doing me a favor—and I trusted him not one whit.
He was busy manipulating Master Parry and Aunt Kat, and by extension, Elizabeth, to obtain all that he wanted.
He was a lofty man not caring who he stepped on to make himself still more lofty.
Seymour’s teeth worked his lower lip, making his beard move. He seemed in no hurry, and his men assumed the stoic expressions of soldiers awaiting orders.
“You must have passed the gates of Durham Place to reach here,” Seymour said. “A magnificent house, is it not? Even if the stink of the river mars it.”
He obviously wanted some response, so I murmured, “Yes, my lord.”
“Our lady would rejoice to see it once more for her use, I believe.” Seymour didn’t bother to modulate his voice, no matter how many stood in the street around us. “As I have discussed with her clever Master Parry. It shall be, and so much more, very soon.”