The Tutor (35 page)

“Even without people living in this house, what you’ve created is alive,” said Katharine as he helped her into the cart. “Everywhere the eye looks, there’s vitality.”

“Gramercy, madam. You and Miss Isabel have made me very happy this afternoon. When Sir Christopher visits, I hear of all the things I’ve done wrong, so ’tis truly a pleasure to hear of all the things my men and I have done right.”

“That was glorious,” said Isabel on the way back to Lufanwal. “We had such an adventure, didn’t we?”

“I do feel as if I’ve been away for months, not just an afternoon,” Katharine admitted. “Oh, dear, I forgot to thank him for the verse he lent me.”

“He lent you verse?”

“A woman poet. Most interesting.”

“Mother said this Smythson was one of the men Grandfather hired all those years ago when he added the chambers and the priest hides.”

“’Twas before I came to live at Lufanwal,” said Katharine. “Mr. Smythson must have been not even twenty then.”

“Mother said he agreed to work on the hall again, even though he’s become such a sought-after builder, because he was familiar with it, having worked on it so many years ago,” Isabel said. “But I think maybe he had other reasons.”

Katharine said nothing. She was thinking of the priest holes Mr. Smythson had built at the risk of his own young life, and how those hiding places had, over the course of decades, served their purpose well and saved lives.

“I think,” Isabel pressed, “Mr. Smythson fancies you.”

“No,” said Katharine.

“Yes,” said Isabel. “He was perfectly gracious to me, but he was passing attentive to you. He was trying to show us the rooms, but he could hardly keep his eyes from you.”

“My sweet Isabel, you have got that wrong. He was paying attention to me because I was asking him so many questions about the building process. I was a student, and he was acting the teacher, that is all. He was being polite.”

Isabel smiled at Katharine, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Dearest coz, thou art a curious being.”

“I am curious. The world is full of wonder. As in the case of how stone is cut and fitted and a wall goes up and doesn’t fall down—I’m always desiring to know more.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant curious as in odd, because you seem so clear-sighted in certain ways and so blind in others.”

Katharine sighed. She wanted to talk of Will, not of Mr. Smythson,
but her last conversation with Isabel about Will had ended badly, so Katharine kept quiet for the rest of the ride home.

—

The Christmastide entertainments
at the Derby houses—Lathom, Knowlesly or New House—were a custom several centuries old. The revels continued daily during the twelve days from Christmas Eve to Epiphany: feasting, jousting, masquing, dancing, disguisings, cards and plays performed by traveling troupes—now most often by Lord Strange’s own players. Lord Strange’s father, Earl Henry, still maintained a household of one hundred and fifty people, and when the family opened their doors at Christmas, the number often swelled to over four hundred. “His house in plenty is ever maintained,” they said of the generous earl, and this night, Katharine was sure there would be a surfeit of food and wassail, music and dance. The earl’s guests were almost all local people, and every year the De L’Isle family was invited.

There had been much debate at Lufanwal as to who would go this year or whether anyone should go at all, since the house was still in mourning and the turmoil not yet ceased. But Matilda and Ned had decided for Isabel’s sake a small group would venture forth to Lathom House for one night; Isabel was of marrying age and if the past year had not been interrupted by Edward’s departure and the ensuing events, the planning for Isabel’s future would have taken precedence. Sir Edward had spoken of a match with the De Hoghtons, one of the premier families in Lancashire—the family Will had served when his father’s fortunes had first taken a turn—but the young man chosen for Isabel had fallen sick and died. It was time to consider Joan’s future as well, but her mother’s awful death and father’s imprisonment were too fresh for her to consider partaking in any kind of revelry.

Lathom House, a castle-fortress on the scale of a royal palace, was
just outside the village of Ormskirk. And it was to Lathom House that Katharine, Isabel, Ned, the two squire-priests and sundry servants went—the men on horseback and the women in carts—to celebrate the Twelfth Night of Christmas. The ascent to the ennobled and enduring seat of the Earl of Derby never failed to astonish Katharine; visible from a great distance, its towers rose up majestically toward the heavens. But today Katharine did not feel exhilarated by the sight, for it seemed to loom in the gray winter light, not to soar. Indeed, as the cart rattled over the icy road toward the outer gates, a mournful little melody played in Katharine’s head: “Farewell bright gold, thou glory of the world . . .”

As they came through the ornate gate, the park stretched before them. Sir Edward had joined Earl Henry on many a deer hunt within the park’s gates. And in the years Katharine was invited to ladies’ hunts, she’d seen the richness of the land: moss fields, water mills and stone-paved fords along the River Tawd, natural springs deep with water. A wide moat encircled the outer wall, which encircled the castle and its courtyards. When the cold travelers were ushered through the imposing oak-and-iron door by a flock of handsome youths crisply outfitted in the ancestral Stanley livery of orange tawny and green, it was as if those from Lufanwal had been delivered from a dark cave into the sun, for the castle was so grand, so ablaze with riches and elegance, they almost had to shade their eyes from its noble shine.

This was the final night of twelve days of feasting. For hundreds of years, the Stanleys had displayed their power, wealth and glory by dispensing copious food to crowds coming to the house, with equal profusion left over for the poor at the gate. This Yuletide was no different. The Stanley steward had prepared chambers for the men and the women, so they could change and rest during the afternoon and evening, with servants at the ready to attend to their needs. Katharine always felt royal when she visited the Stanley houses, for they treated their guests as such.

In previous years the De L’Isle family would have stayed for several
days, but this year they would ride back in morning. There was dinner, then Lord Strange’s players would perform, after which supper would be laid and later dancing, disguises and more feasting. The common theme of this eve of Epiphany was that the normal order of things was topsy-turvy, the world turned upside down, which indeed seemed apt for their life this past year at Lufanwal.

Katharine had no inclination for reverse-dressing this year—though in the past she had enjoyed the fun. One year she had been a page, another year a milkmaid like Mercy in a gray smock and wooden shoes. Katharine’s only disguise this year was in a leather carton on her lap: the glittering peacock gloves Will had given to her and the beautiful green hat Isabel and Joan had presented to her on New Year’s Day. Molly had fixed a black silk veil to the hat, to hide Katharine’s face and hair. She would change from her green gown into the new gold and silver threaded bodice and skirt Ned had brought from Rome.

At such a holiday as this, the number of guests was so vast, with knights, gentry, clergy, their attendants, officials, tenants and servants, folk from town and from the country, the family used the ancient great hall for the feasting, music, dancing and entertainments. The high table at one end of the hall was where the special guests sat with the Stanley family; the long tables below were crowded with everyone else. Katharine was grateful to the good Stanley family for placing the De L’Isle family at the high table again this year, for with the splendor and hospitality all around her, Katharine was able to push aside her woes.

Earl Henry was getting on in years and frailer in girth, but his eyes and wit were as sharp as ever. He was still very much in the fore of all festivities at the Stanley houses. Earl Henry was no ordinary nobleman; he was in many ways more like a king, who ruled over Lancashire, Cheshire and the Isle of Man. His court was considered second in size and splendor only to the queen’s. He was a descendant of King Edward I; his ancestor Thomas Stanley, the first Earl of Derby, was
stepfather to King Henry VII; and his wife, Margaret Clifford, was the great-granddaughter of Henry VII.

Katharine was seated between Lord Strange and his father the earl. She did not know what she had done to deserve such an honor, but it soothed her like a salve, and she chatted and quipped and ate and drank and felt better than she had in a long time. The earl and his son were both brilliant men, and they talked to her as their equal, which always surprised and pleased her. Earl Henry said that if he were not so very, very old he would like to take Katharine for his wife. His son Ferdinando reminded him that his mother, the earl’s wife, Lady Margaret, was still very much alive—though this was said in jest, for it was widely known that Earl Henry and his wife had been estranged for many years, and that he in fact had four children with his mistress Jane Halsall, who sat flanked by their two daughters at the other end of the table. Earl Henry chuckled and said in his dotage it seemed his memory was now failing.

The earl’s second son by his wife, Margaret, was also at the table, and though William would have been a wonderful catch for Isabel, his father had other plans for him. Two possible matches for Isabel, a Hesketh and a Barlow, from prominent Lancastrian families, were by the gracious design of the Stanleys sitting on either side of Isabel.

The clamor rising from the long tables below made it impossible to hear the musicians in the balcony and nigh impossible to hear what Earl Henry was saying, so Katharine leaned in close to him as he spoke, and when she threw her head back to laugh, she thought she saw Will staring up at her, across the great hall, from the steward’s board. Her pulse quickened. Her heart pounded in her ribs. Perhaps the light from the torches and candles was playing tricks on her. She squinted. Now she couldn’t see him. I am conjuring him, she said to herself. He is in Stratford, ensconced on the second floor, writing his poem: he is not here. Katharine continued the pleasant persiflage with the earl and Ferdinando, yet her eyes searched the tables below for Will among the rows of merrymakers.
Not finding him, she soon broke off her hunt and gave her full attention to her hosts.

Ned was but three people to Katharine’s left, and at one point in the lavish feast she caught his glance and they both smiled. To have Ned back was a blessing. Sir Edward had been the kindly park where she could roam with books and ideas, but Ned was hearth. Perhaps it was their blood ties, or perhaps it was a miracle of nature, but he stood as a fortress for her, and his return from Italy and the immediate and mutual manner in which they opened their gates made Katharine realize how unusual their bond was—truly a treasure, a generous gift from God.

When the feasting came to an end, the high table was dismantled and the elevated end of the hall was transformed into a stage for the players. The Stanleys were legendary patrons. Lord Strange had started his own company, Lord Strange’s Men, when he was just past twenty, and his players as well as the Queen’s Players stayed at either Lathom House or Knowlesly several times a year. It was impressive—that the Stanleys paid for such frequent entertainments, but also on the part of the touring company, for the road to Lancashire was known for its difficult terrain.

Katharine and Isabel shared a chamber with several other ladies from Lancashire’s grand houses, with gentlewomen in attendance to wait on them. There was but half an hour to touch up hair and dab vermillion on lips. Molly had woven threads of gold and silver into Katharine’s hair, and when Katharine moved to a long looking glass to tuck the errant ends back into her upswept locks, she overheard one of the De Hoghton ladies talking to Isabel.

“He’s a wanton lad. My uncle did employ him for a time. He was but barely with a beard then. Mayhap he’s changed. Mayhap he’s not. He borrowed my cousin’s books and in secret read to her, and sat with her, and we all thought she had lost her heart to a glover’s son—and she had . . . for a month. He didn’t stay long, and after he went back to Warwickshire we discovered that he had been busy plowing through the
serving wenches while making honey to my sweet coz. I was only six, but I remember how my sisters and cousins made up rhymes mocking his name after he left. A player is the right path for such a lewd lad. He has it in his blood—for he convinced every one of those poor maids he was in love. I heard he was at your house now. Someone told me, it escapes me who, that he’d gone and married a wench in Stratford old enough to be his mother when she was with child, and then after they had a few babes she pitched him out.”

Isabel looked into the mirror at Katharine, who had stopped fixing her hair.

“I am all right,” Katharine said, turning to Isabel, answering a question not asked.

Katharine wanted to tell this young lady from Hoghton Tower that perhaps Will used to behave like that but did not now. She wanted to say:
He may have been false, in his youth, with a maid or two, but he is a man with a wife now and children, and he is a wonderful poet with important friends in London, in the theaters and bookstalls, and he has a life in front of him, a real life, not the brittle pomp of ladies primping in front of glass
.
Will would go far,
she wanted to lecture,
and there was no reason for him—at this point on his path to success—no need, verily, for him to dissemble or to deceive
.

Isabel started to say something once the young lady moved away, but Katharine put her finger to Isabel’s lips to silence her.

“Ancient news,” said Katharine, shaking her head. “Let us not speak of it further.”

As Ned, Katharine and Isabel took their places in the great hall behind the Stanley family, Katharine noticed Robert Smythson was also taking a seat to watch the play. She had not seen him at dinner, but quite possibly he had been lost to her sight by the dazzle of the banquet. Katharine nodded her head to him, but he seemed oblivious to her and to the multitudes of people laughing and drinking and now gathering to watch
the play. Mr. Smythson’s mind was so definitely not of this place. He was gazing up at the arches in the ceiling, indeed all of his concentration seemed focused there. Katharine realized she had never written him a note of thanks for the poetry by that interesting young Bassano woman.