The Lady and the Poet (27 page)

Yet when I heard her words I wished myself a hundred miles away. ‘I see it writ upon your face that you are smitten by Master Donne. I have noted how you follow his every word, as if he were your tutor and you the aptest of his pupils. You yearn to defend him when your father goes to the attack like a lioness does her mate. And who can blame you? He is a man of great address, with a fine mind to boot.’ She dropped her voice still further so that I had almost to strain to hear. ‘Yet, Mistress More, think awhile. Your father plainly hates him and will never consent that you should be his wife. What would you then, his mistress?’

I gasped as if she had slapped me hard across the face. How dare this painted insolent Countess imagine I was victim to the libertine charms of Master Donne?

And then, like to the door opening on a dungeon, out swept the forces of truth, swords drawn, and I had to ask myself if she was right. Did I indeed feel for him as she implied?

She laughed fruitily. ‘I am sure he would oblige in making you his mistress, since he has obliged many others.’

And now I turned angrily away, fighting back the itch to run my nails down the white skin of her exposed neck.

‘I see I have offended your innocent nature, but consider for one moment.’ Her voice, though quietly spoken, was now full of persuasive candour. ‘Let us imagine that Master Donne burns for you also, that he is so afire for Mistress Ann More that, for her, he will risk everything, advancement, reputation, all. And since your father continues refusing
to sanction your union you decide to wed clandestinely? And what would be the outcome of that? The ruin of your good name and his future. Open your eyes, Ann, and see the truth. Master Donne is not for you. Marry Master Manners and have a dozen blue-eyed offspring.’

In that moment I hated the Countess of Straven with a bright white flame. The words she spoke were no more than the truth, but why did she choose to speak them? Did she want him to herself? Or merely to brook no competition from so green a one as I?

I had no more time to ponder the answer since I saw my father had come and stood behind me, his face, which was commonly the colour of whey, as red as an angry boil, his eyes shining with righteous anger. And I wondered how much of the private conversation between the Countess and I he had overheard.

‘Father, I…’ My thought was to try and stem the tide of his anger.

‘Ann, I have heard enough from you since you first came to stay in this house. You ignore your family’s wishes for you at the Court. You resist even the Queen’s good offices. The company you keep in London is not what I would wish for you. For your own protection you will leave tomorrow for Loseley. Your aunt is happy to excuse you and I will send a message to your grandparents that you arrive on the morrow.’

‘Please, Father…’ I attempted, assaying to put my hand on his arm.

‘No, Ann.’ He shook it off as if I were a leper begging for alms at Cripplegate. ‘You have had more freedom than a young woman should, and this is the result. You will go tomorrow.’

As I turned sadly towards my chamber, I saw a smile upon the lovely face of Isabella Straven.

‘Good luck, my lady,’ I said so softly she had to lean forward to hear me. ‘The field is yours now, I wish you joy of it. Though I hope your husband reads no verses or he may learn of your indiscretion sooner than you hope.’

The Countess raised a haughty brow. ‘My husband reads not poetry. His interests lie in animal husbandry.’

Our eyes locked. ‘Then mayhap some well-meaning soul should encourage him to.’

My aunt came to my chamber that night as I undid my hair.

‘Ann, my child,’ she reached out a hand and stroked my face, ‘I wish you went not from me thus. Yet your father is right, you must learn to
do what others counsel and remember you are a weak and gentle woman.’

‘Are
you
a weak and gentle woman, Aunt? Is Her Majesty? Or indeed the Countess of Straven?’

‘For shame, Ann, you can hardly compare yourself with our sovereign. And if we are not as weak as others would have us, we learn to hide it, and so also must you.’

‘Why must I?’

‘It is the way of the world. It may seem heavy to you, yet a common wench who spoke out as you do might have found she wore a scold’s bridle.’

I shuddered at the thought of such inhumanity, that a woman who argued could be thus reduced by cruel metal clamping her tongue.

‘Ann, Ann,’ my aunt was ever a busy, brusque lady, and yet the tenderness in her voice made all my anger melt away like the snows in March, ‘while you are at Loseley you must think on your future and learn to accept it humbly.’

‘My father would have had me married betimes had not Master Manners’s father proved so stubborn in negotiation on the matter of my jointure.’

‘Then he will find you another suitor.’

I bowed my head and began to undo my bodies.

When I had finished my aunt lifted them gently over my head.

‘Ann,’ she hung the bodies on the hook by my press, ‘the other suitor your father will find…’ Her eyes briefly held mine. ‘It will never be Master Donne.’

I dropped my gaze and silently untied my skirts from their farthingale. Was I so obvious a book that all thought they could read me?

‘Goodnight, niece. Remember, you are young and beauteous and you have a fine mind.’

‘A drawback, it seems, for aught I can tell. Unless I learn to hide it.’

‘Ahead lies your whole future, husband, babes, a fine house of your own to manage.’

‘I know, Aunt, and I thank you for your care and love of me.’

She opened her arms at that and I ran into them, my tears dampening the brocade of her gown, and felt the nearest thing to a mother’s love I was ever like to feel.

‘Francis will come with you to Loseley in the morning. He is journeying to our house at Pyrford to hunt the hart with your brother Robert.’

I smiled at the thought of seeing Robert, who shared the same Poynings’ looks as I did, unruly auburn hair and eyes the colour of the chestnut. My father had brought Robert up in his own image, yet my brother had a spirit and a zest that even my father had not managed entirely to quash.

I had half packed the few belongings I intended to take when I recalled the fate of Stephen and Hope, whom I had agreed to care for until Sarah recovered. Dared I take them with me to Loseley?

To foist two uninvited orphans upon my grandparents was just the kind of hoydenish and unthought-of behaviour Master Manners had charged me with.

I would do it.

I sent for Wat to get them word. They should be ready next morn by ten of the clock. How I would transport them I would consider before the morning.

London was swathed in thick darkness, like a cloak had been thrown over the city, save for the little pricks of light betokening link boys out with torches or lanterns, when I heard a gentle rap on my chamber door.

It was Wat. His face was wan with tiredness and I regretted that I had added to his burden of long hours, yet there was a spark of adventure in his eyes at his siblings’ unexpected treat.

‘When I tell them, mistress, they will be in high excitement. Will you be gone long from the city?’

‘As long as my father’s anger lasts. A week? A month? With my father’s tempests it is hard to foretell. Get to your pallet soon, Wat, and good night to you.’

I tried to sleep by reminding myself of the pleasure at seeing all at Loseley again, yet a sense of loss at what was to be left behind kept opening my eyes. Was it my aunt’s love I would regret leaving or Master Donne’s sharp wit? And yet, I reminded myself, though he might glimpse the mind and soul in me, he was not above wanting to mould them to his own desires. I thought then of the swords crossed when we
met in the streets of London, or the words exchanged among the passageways of York House, and knew that I would miss exceeding much the cut and thrust of our new friendship.

Outside the bellman rang his bell and called, ‘Two of the clock and a fine clear night!’ His every cry reminded me how much I had come to love the city and how quiet it would be on the morrow with no sound but the sighing of the pines, and the lonely bark of the fox in the woods beyond our park.

I know not what time it was before I fell asleep, but it seemed not a moment before Mercy shook me awake with the news that the Lord Keeper, sorry for my untimely departure, had called for his coach to carry me to Surrey and that it stood waiting for me outside, with four fine grey horses.

I dressed with all haste, not waiting to break my fast, and threw a cloak over my travelling dress.

My heart beat as I wondered who would come to bid me farewell but, apart from my aunt and Mercy, only my lady Straven was assembled in the Great Hall.

‘Thank my uncle for his great kindness to me, Aunt.’ I kissed my aunt on her proffered cheek. ‘I shall travel to Loseley in fine style. Goodbye Lady Straven.’

Isabella Straven smiled her catlike smile. ‘Mistress More, I trust the country air will calm your restless spirits.’

I curtsied and said nothing lest my words would give too much away.

Wat, with his keen wit, had stowed the children discreetly in the coach and bid them sit still and be quiet.

‘Farewell, Mistress More, I hope your noble grandfather will permit me to visit you.’ Master Manners had slipped quietly from the hall and was making a low bow, so that his black hat brushed the very cobbles of the street.

‘I am sure he will, though we lead an extremely quiet life at Loseley.’

I could not help but glance round me yet there was no sign of Master Donne. So much for his vaunted interest in me. I supposed he had business of State with my uncle in the Chancery or at Whitehall. I
wondered what it would be like to be a man, to have a part in politics, to consider important judgements even on war or peace. Greater considerations than saying farewell to one troublesome girl.

Master Manners watched me, his keen blue eyes missing nothing. ‘Is there aught you are expecting? Another person of whom you wish to take your leave?’

‘No, no,’ I lied. ‘I had hoped for the arrival of a bolt of cloth for my grandmother, that is all.’

He bowed again. ‘I would be honoured to bring it to you.’

Waving one last time to my aunt, I climbed into the coach and my uncle’s coachman cracked his whip to begin the jolting journey.

At that, little Hope could contain herself no more and climbed onto the seat to look out of the window.

‘God’s blood!’ I heard my lady Straven exclaim. ‘Is that a child in the coach with Mistress More?’

And my aunt replying in fainter accents, ‘My lady, I find where my niece is concerned it is wiser not to ask too many questions.’

AS THE FAMILIAR
grey stone of my family home appeared I knew that I had never returned to it with greater confusion. It had always been my haven and yet now I left London with a wrench. I had not visited it since the death of my sister and once again I felt her loss keenly. And this time I had other great concerns of my own. Was I giving my heart to one who would not treasure it but break it? Did becoming a woman always bring such pain?

‘Is this the place, mistress?’ whispered Hope, who had slept for most of the journey as if the coach were not the jolting, cold and uncomfortable conveyance it seemed to me, but the height of comfort and convenience, which to her perhaps it was.

I asked myself if the welcome I received, bringing two urchin children, would be as warm as I hoped. My grandfather, though not as narrow and settled in his ways as my father, was a busy man who yet valued his peace and quiet. And my grandmother might be as brave as Boadicea in her appearance yet she always did as my grandfather bid her in the end.

Thus it was that I told the children to be silent and sit quietly hidden in the coach while I laid the ground for their arrival.

‘Ann! Beloved grandchild!’ My grandfather William was the first to spy the coach and come out into the wide, sweeping pathway to greet it. I quickly opened the door, before the coachman had the chance to do it for me, thus revealing its occupants. ‘Without your presence, this place hath been quiet as the tomb.’ He clasped me fondly. ‘Your
grandmother does nothing but carp—the food is too salty, the servants slothful, her leg pains her. And your sister Frances! That child is so often on her knees it astounds me the pew has not worn quite through. And her good works! She is up at dawn and on with her pattens even before the household rises, and out to the henhouse to fetch eggs for the poor which your grandmother has ever collected for herself. Lately she has begun to take the servants to task for not showing enough diligence in joining her. Your grandmother is at her wits’ end.’

‘Poor Frances, she will make some gentleman the ideal wife!’

‘Aye. And her servants’ life a misery! Let me look at you, child.’ He stared intently into my face. ‘Grieve you still for your sister?’

I hung my head. ‘It is like the soldier’s tale of losing a limb—how it hurts the more though it is there no longer. I cannot believe the world goes on, the seasons change, the sun comes up, when she is not here to see them.’