Chapter 9
Elizabeth and I dwelled at Hatfield still, both of us awaiting news of Aunt Kat’s fate.
It was Tyrwhitt who brought word to Elizabeth of Seymour’s death. He entered the upstairs chamber where she studied and cleared his throat.
Elizabeth let him linger a few moments before she condescended to raise her head from her reading. “Yes? What is it?”
Tyrwhitt coughed once more. “His lordship, the Admiral, has been executed on Tower Green, Your Grace,” he said in a cracked voice. “This very morning. So said the messengers.”
Elizabeth stilled, her pale lids lowering once over her dark eyes. She sat quietly, her hand on the page of her book. “I see.”
I bit off a thread while I watched the drama, my lap piled with sumptuous brocade shot through with threads of silver.
I felt a twinge of guilt that Seymour’s death did not upset me. I was a bit shocked that the Lord Protector would execute his own brother, but Seymour had been a hard man beneath his charm, skilled at beguiling others into serving his every need.
I was not certain if my mild satisfaction at his death made me an evil person, but that was the only emotion I could conjure.
Elizabeth dipped her head, as though thanking Tyrwhitt for delivering such difficult news. He waited for her reaction, clearly assuming she’d burst into tears and fling herself to the floor, weeping for her dead lover.
She disappointed him. Elizabeth gazed at Tyrwhitt calmly and stated, “This day died a man of much wit and very little judgment.”
One corner of Tyrwhitt’s mouth drooped. “Indeed, Your Grace.”
He met her steady stare a moment longer but had to turn from her in defeat. At the door, he swung back.
“Another bit of news, Your Grace. Your governess, Mistress Ashley, and the cofferer, Thomas Parry, will be released forthwith and allowed to rejoin you here.”
Again, Elizabeth made no reaction but to nod to Tyrwhitt in dismissal.
I dropped my needle and carved silver scissors as relief flowed through me. Aunt Kat was all right. She’d come home.
Only when Tyrwhitt’s footsteps had faded into the distance did Elizabeth rise from her chair and beckon to me.
“Attend me, Eloise,” she commanded.
I threw down my sewing and rushed to her. Elizabeth gave me a quick embrace and a kiss on each cheek.
“We shall be happy that Mistress Ashley is coming back to us,” she said, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Shall we greet her with splendid gifts?”
I fervently agreed, and spent the rest of the day helping her plan the celebration for Aunt Kat’s return.
But that night when I sewed alone in Elizabeth’s outer chamber, I heard the princess in her bed, weeping for a long, long time. Her sobs of despair nearly broke my heart.
As April came with softer weather, I sketched my ideas for Elizabeth’s summer wardrobe, toning down the exuberance of her earlier gowns into something simpler, more quiet.
I stared at what I’d done, realizing that I was seeing my lady as woman, her childish frivolousness behind her. And oak, not a fragile flower.
I felt Elizabeth’s presence in my corner of her chamber, and I looked up to see her gazing at the drawings in curiosity.
“What are those?” she demanded.
“Summer gowns for you, and for your return to court.” I tapped a gown I’d make in ivory with a dark gray overdress.
“A bit drab, aren’t they?” Elizabeth lifted my book in her slim fingers, turning the sketches around to the light.
I relaxed. She was interested. If she’d hated the ideas, she might have ripped the pages from my hands and flung them onto the fire.
“They indicate that you are interested in matters of the intellect,” I said. “You study, you read, you have discourse on history, philosophy, and the reformed religion. You converse with some of the best and shrewdest minds of the age.”
“All of that is true.” Elizabeth’s eyes glinted. “What a fine idea, Eloise.”
While I knew Elizabeth loved beautiful clothes and the luxurious fabrics they were made from, I saw her calculating exactly what message she’d send if she adopted the designs I’d just drawn.
“We can still use the velvets we’ve recently acquired,” I said. “But make them into ensembles of sober elegance.” I smiled, pleased with myself. “I vow every lady in court will try to emulate them.”
“Perhaps.” Elizabeth shoved the drawings back at me. “I will sew them with you. We will work side by side.”
I warmed, happy that I no longer had to pretend to be at odds with her. Elizabeth was an accomplished needlewoman, so her assistance would be no hindrance.
“You honor me, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth’s glance resumed its teasing sparkle. “You are bad at dissembling, Eloise, my shrewd and wise seamstress. You are proud of your ideas, and rightly so. These gowns will show my brother’s court that, far from being a wanton, I am a sober and quiet creature.”
She sent me a triumphant smile, and I could not help returning it.
We began work at once. I sorted through my patterns and perused new books that arrived from London that spring, making more sketches and designs.
I decided to emulate the French and Spanish styles of a surcoat—a sleeved over-garment that closed at the throat and flowed open over the bodice and skirt in an upside-down V.
The skirt and bodice would be of plain white taffeta, the stomacher ending in a soft point over the gathered skirt.
A high collar would enclose Elizabeth’s neck, with a banded hood to hold back her sleek hair.
I designed her entire wardrobe for that summer and into fall, enjoying the challenge of the new styles and making the light colors sing. I created another gown whose surcoat was decorated with lines of fur on high-capped sleeves, a little more ornate for the occasion that called for it.
Elizabeth joined me in sewing most evenings as she chatted with her women and Aunt Kat, who was now happily restored to our circle. Elizabeth and I exchanged instructions on stitching techniques, exclaiming at or laughing over the results, as though we were dear friends.
Elizabeth wore the ensembles we’d made to London when Edward at last sent for her to attend his court. In the chambers of Whitehall and St. James’s, her clothes drew amazed attention but gained approval.
Princess Mary and her attendants continued to dress in low-cut gowns, with sleeves sliding seductively from shoulders. The ladies glittered in jewels that covered throats, fingers, and wrists, and ornamented the bands of their hoods.
Courtiers compared the two young women and favored Elizabeth.
Elizabeth carried herself with decorum, they decided, as a princess should, while Mary, with her leanings to the old religion, indulged in glitter and extravagance.
Elizabeth displayed a composure well-liked in a young lady, these courtiers stated, especially appropriate in a sister to the king.
Elizabeth and Edward resumed terms of affection, although it was a rather stately affection. Elizabeth gave him a recently painted portrait of herself, and, in return, Edward invited her to spend Christmas with him.
Life in Elizabeth’s household settled down nicely. Uncle John and Aunt Kat purred together again, and I rejoiced.
Lord Protector Somerset, the boor, had lost much popularity by beheading his own brother. No matter how much perfidy Thomas Seymour had been plotting, he’d made himself many friends, and these friends now muttered that seeing Somerset be overthrown by Seymour would have been no bad thing.
I recalled the rumors that had flown about London earlier that year, and Uncle John’s quiet prediction that Somerset’s days were numbered. This became more evident as the golden summer wound to autumn.
Elizabeth, ironically, was now more admired than Somerset ever had been. When she rode into London with her retinue, people cheered for her. Elizabeth of England was all a princess should be.
Somerset was finally ousted from his office that October. Robert Dudley’s father, the Earl of Warwick, convinced King Edward that he, Dudley, would make a much better Lord Protector than Somerset. Twelve-year-old Edward, tired of Somerset’s high-handed stinginess, agreed.
The Earl of Warwick was a popular general, much praised for his part in defeating a Scottish army a few years before and suppressing a recent uprising in Norfolk. Trusted by Edward, his rise was rapid.
And so, not long after Lord Protector Somerset had sent Seymour to the block, Somerset was banished from court, and Warwick filled his place. Elizabeth, when she heard the news, barely glanced up from her books.
The other change that year was that, though Thomas Parry resumed his post as Elizabeth’s treasurer, she never again trusted him as she had in the past. She went over his account books herself, signing her name in the margins that she’d approved them, a practice she maintained for the rest of her life.
She also requested that William Cecil, who became Edward’s secretary of state once Warwick took over, manage her vast properties, most of which the king’s council finally relinquished to her after Somerset’s fall.
I sewed her new gowns, Elizabeth grew in prosperity, and Aunt Kat, Uncle John, and Master Parry and his wife resumed their comfortable conversations—though they were careful not to mention marriage or Elizabeth’s future ever again.
As the months passed, I grew a bit taller, my hair became less unruly, my figure lost its youthful roundness, and I took on the curves of womanhood.
I let my gaze linger on handsome young gentlemen, though I kept my thoughts firmly to myself.
I had no wish to repeat my foolish mistake about Seymour.
Aunt Kat was responsible for my virtue, I told myself, and I should not make things difficult for her. So, I eyed a fine body from afar and pretended I felt as Elizabeth did—that for now the unmarried life was preferable.