And what had they said? How could she blame them? She did not. In fact she longed for the day when her dearest Kat would be restored to her. How could she have expected such as her dear tittle-tattling Kat or Parry to keep quiet? They were born gossips, both of them.
Soon the whole country was tattling. Out came the story—every little secret, every little scene, magnified, colored, so that a little innocent flirting became an orgy of lust.
She flushed at the memory, but even so she began to laugh. Oh, why was not Kat here that they might chat together! She herself loved a gossip. She wished now to talk of Northumberland, and Jane Grey, and weak Guildford Dudley on whose head, Elizabeth doubted not, Northumberland would do his best to cram a crown. What fun it would have been during this “illness” to take the cards and to find a tall dark man—Lord Robert Dudley this time, as once they had found an Admiral—and for Kat to purse her lips, put her head on one side and mutter in that serious voice which could send Elizabeth into fits of laughter: “I think I see a handsome young man. He is about Your Grace’s age … and he comes out of the past …”
But how foolish to think of Kat, who had been taken from her, and of Robert Dudley, that foolish boy who had married a country girl!
Yet … how pleasant! And it was necessary to think pleasant and frivolous thoughts when at any moment life might become deadly serious and dangerous.
But now her thoughts had gone to the saddest moment of her life when they had come to her to tell her that Thomas was dead—her beautiful Thomas. She had been surrounded by spies; she had known they were watching her, trying to trip her, and she knew that every word, every look, would be noted and reported. Lady Tyrwhit (how she hated that woman whom they had given her in place of Kat!) had had her sly eyes on her, always watching, hoping that there would be some betrayal of feeling to report to her master the Protector, that false brother of dear Thomas.
She had faced them, calmly and courageously. Yes, she could look now with approval on that young Elizabeth who had not shown by a flicker of her eyes or a twitch of her lips that her heart was almost breaking.
“Your Grace,” had said that spy Tyrwhit, “this day the Admiral laid his head upon the block.” And she waited for the effect of her words.
Elizabeth looked back at the woman with no expression whatsoever on her face. Yet she knew she must speak. Lady Tyrwhit must not be allowed to report that her grief had made her speechless.
“This day,” she had said, “died a man with much wit and very little judgment.”
It was said of her that either she was without feeling or she was a magnificent actress. She was a great actress. That was the answer; for without doubt she had loved Thomas.
And was she not acting all the time? Was it not necessary for her to act, to feign simplicity? How she had acted after the death of Thomas! She had lived quietly at Hatfield, giving up her days to study, reading Cicero and Livy, studying the Greek Testament, reading aloud the tragedies of Sophocles, studying Italian and French. She dressed simply, wore her hair unfrizzed—she who loved fine clothes and who loved to have her red hair frounced and curled, and to wear rich velvets and sparkling jewels. But she was clever enough to know that it was necessary to live down the reputation which the Seymour scandal had given her, and that to live in obscurity was the only way of preserving her life during those difficult days.
Her friends kept her closely informed of affairs at Court, and from the seclusion of Hatfield or Woodstock, she was aware of the heady progress of the Duke of Northumberland, thinking often of the gay Lord Robert who, had he not been so senseless as to marry a rustic girl, might have been a greater power in the land than a poor Princess who must keep as still as a lizard on a stone for fear any movement by her should attract the attention of her enemies.
She watched the tussel between Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, whom she would never forgive for what he had done to Thomas, and John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, who was the father of that young man who interested her as no one had since the death of Thomas.
And now Somerset was dead. That which he had done to Thomas had been done to him. It was fearsome, thinking of the heads which fell so readily.
She needed to laugh in order to calm herself, to make light of her misfortunes so that when the test came she might face them with equanimity.
But what could she do now but lie abed … and wait?
The waiting was over sooner than she expected.
Faithful friends brought the news. The would-be King-maker had been defeated. Mary was proclaimed Queen of England. Now was the time for Elizabeth to recover from her malady.
She did so without any fuss; and her first move was to write a letter to the Queen conveying her congratulations and her delight in her sister’s accession. There was an answer to that note: a command to meet Mary at Wanstead, that they might ride into the Capital together.
Elizabeth made ready for the journey. She was excited as always at the prospect of pageantry and a return to Court. Again and again she warned herself of her difficult position. Master Parry, who had come back to her service, also warned her. He flattered her in his sly way; she knew his words for flattery, but flattery was a luxury she would not go without.
“Your Grace must be careful to hide your beauty. The Queen will not be pleased at being outshone.”
“Nonsense, Master Parry!” she retorted. “How can I in my simple garments outshine the Queen’s royal velvet and glittering jewels?”
“Your Grace’s eyes sparkle more brightly than jewels. Your skin is more soft than any satins.”
She tossed her red hair, calling his attention to it; and he smiled that sly smile which he did not attempt to hide from her. “Your Grace has a crown of gold more beautiful than any that ever sat on the brow of King or Queen.”
“Enough, chatterer!” she cried. “I am right glad we bought new liveries for my servants this year, Master Parry. I do not grudge the forty shillings I paid for those new velvet coats.”
“Your Grace is right, and we will make a brave show. But pray accept my warning: do not outshine the Queen.”
She was demure thinking of it. She would wear white; she would cast down her eyes if the cheers for her were too loud. She would wear few jewels on her hands, for too many rings would hide their slender beauty; she would hold them so that the crowd might see them and marvel at their milky whiteness; and she would smile at the multitude—not haughtily but in that friendly way which had never yet failed to set them cheering.
No, she would not outshine the Queen in rich raiment or jewels, only in personal charm with youth and beauty and that subtle indication to the people that she was at one with them, that she loved them and one day hoped to be their Queen.
So, accompanied by a thousand followers—some of them lords and ladies of high rank—she came riding into London. Was it a good omen that she must pass through the City on her way to Wanstead, thus entering it before her sister?
The people of London came out to greet her as they always greeted the Princess Elizabeth. They caught their breath at the sight of her. She was so demure in her white gown; she looked so young; the people sensed in her the regality of her father and the vitality of her mother. She smiled and bowed and was clearly so grateful to the dear people for the homage they paid; she was so moved that there were tears in her eyes. About her rode her servants, all in green, some in velvet, some in satin, some in plain cloth, according to their standing in her household.