“Can you help me … Father?” she asked.
He laughed lightly. “It does not seem to me to be an impossible task, Daughter. First, there is the young man whose affections are cooling. We can give you a potion to strengthen his ardor. His affections, you say, cooled when your husband returned. Shall we say he is a man who has a horror of being involved in scandal?”
“You could say that.”
“Well then, our first task should be to work on your husband. We must find a means of cooling his ardor. Then if he is less anxious for your company, your lover will be less afraid. That will make it easier for us to work on his feelings.”
Frances clasped her hands. “Oh, I am sure you are right.”
“Then we will first work on the husband. Can you arrange that a powder be slipped into his food without his knowing?”
Frances hesitated. “He is surrounded by his servants. But I might manage it.”
Simon nodded. “H’m. We will brood on this matter. It may be that we can use some influence to make you life less difficult. But our first step is to give you the powders. These are costly to prepare.”
“I know … I know. I am ready to pay.”
“Mrs. Turner has explained?”
“Yes.”
“And she is no longer a rich woman. She has given up much time and thought …”
“I am ready to pay you both whatever you ask.”
“You must forgive my insistence, Daughter. We must live while we retain our earthly guise. You know Mrs. Turner, my dear daughter; she will be your confidante. And when necessary she will bring you to me. It would not be wise for you to pay too many visits to me; but why should you not enjoy a friendship with Mrs. Turner? She is a lady, like yourself, although not of such high rank. You will have much in common.”
“Thank you,” said Frances gratefully.
Two little phials were given to her. “Put the contents of these into his food, and we will see what is the result. I would have you remember that we are dealing with a difficult problem. There may be no results at first; particularly as you may have some difficulty in administering the powders. But we will not despair. I promise you, my daughter, that in time you will have your desire. I repeat … in time.”
Frances went away satisfied. She had been greatly impressed by both Mrs. Turner and Dr. Forman.
When she had left, Simon wrote in his diary: “The Countess of Essex came today. She is desirous of ridding herself of her husband that she may marry a certain gentleman in a very high place at Court.”
Robert Devereux faced his father- and mother-in-law. He was pale and there was a determined line about his jaw.
“I believe I have been patient,” he said, “but I cannot remain so. Your daughter simply refuses to live with me as my wife. I must ask you to speak to her and to tell her that, although I have waited so long, I am not prepared to wait any longer.”
The Earl and the Countess exchanged glances.
This, implied the Earl, is what comes of allowing the girl to live at Court. She should have remained in the country until her husband came to claim her. Then she would have been willing enough to go away with him. Court life has turned her head.
The Countess shrugged her shoulders. She understood her daughter well, because they were so much alike. Frances was not born to live a quiet life in the country any more than she herself was; and she would have rebelled sooner or later. The pity was that it was sooner.
She herself was far too interested in her own exciting life to worry much about her daughter. Frances must, of course, live with the man she had married—until she could make some other arrangement. It was the duty of her parents to make her understand this.
The Earl said: “I will speak to Frances. She is young and, I am afraid, wayward.”
“Tell her,” said Devereux, “that I intend to leave for Chartley within the next few weeks and to take her with me.”
“I shall insist that she accompanies you,” answered his father-in-law. “Leave this to me.”
As soon as Devereux had left, the Earl sent for his daughter.
Frances stood before him, sullen and defiant.
“You must be mad,” burst out her mother, “to behave thus.”
“I know you are thinking of my tragic marriage….”
“Tragic marriage! With Essex! My dear child, he is an easy young man. If you liked you could have what you wanted from him.”
“There is only one thing I want from him … my freedom.”
The Earl spoke gently: “Look here, my child, you have not given your marriage a chance. You have been spoiled at Court. I would to God we had never allowed you to come.”
“I will not leave the Court with Essex.”
The Earl was aware of his wife’s eye on him, a little scornful; he then went to Frances and gripped her firmly by the arm.
“We have been over-gentle with you,” he said. “That was a mistake. There shall be no more mistakes. You are going to behave like a good wife to your husband. Make no mistake about it.”
“No one can make me,” cried Frances wildly.
“You are mistaken. I am your father and I can make you. I shall have you whipped if need be. I shall have you kept a prisoner in your apartment. I shall have you trussed, if necessary, and delivered to your husband.”
His mouth was grim. Frances knew that like most easy-going men he could be goaded into action; and on those rare occasions he could be stubbornly determined.
She was in despair.
When he left the Earl and Countess of Suffolk, Robert Devereux, feeling sick at heart and deeply depressed, wanted to escape from the restrictions of the palace. He came out into the fresh air and walked aimlessly, not seeing the river and the crowds, but Frances, the expression of loathing on her face; he contrasted the reality of his homecoming with what he had hoped for, and his melancholy increased.
He had made up his mind. He was not a man to act impulsively, but once he had decided on a course of action he was determined to take it.
When he had said that he intended to leave Court within a few weeks, he meant it; and when he said that Frances was coming with him, he meant that too.
He found himself close to St. Paul’s and, still not caring which way he went, he wandered into the main walk where all kinds of business was in progress. The noise was deafening but he did not heed it; several sharp eyes were on him, for he was obviously a gentleman of the Court; his clothes betrayed him. Two pick-pockets had their eyes on him and were closely observed by a third.
A marriage broker called to him as he passed: “Are you seeking me, sir?”
A pandar with two brazen girls, one on each arm, shouted: “Would you like a pretty wench to take home with you?”
At one pillar of the aisle a letter-writer was working for a client; a horse-dealer was at another; everywhere the prostitutes lurked.
Foolish of him to have come to Paul’s Walk at such a time. He realized it suddenly. He might as well have gone to the Royal Exchange gallery to be pestered by the stall holders and of course the prostitutes.
He was aware of the crowds pressing about him; the smell of their clothes and bodies was distasteful. A beggar came near to him and laid a hand on his; this beggar’s hand was hot and there were patches of scarlet color in his face.
“Pity the blind beggar, fine gentleman.”
He felt in his pocket for a coin and gave it to the man, and immediately he was besieged on all sides.
He despised himself. He could not manage to take a walk in the streets without trouble, so how could he hope to tame a wayward wife?