Frances was watching his perplexed looks and she whispered: “Does aught ail you, sweetheart?”
He smiled quickly. “Nay, I was thinking of poor Tom Overbury and it made me sad to remember how we parted and that I shall never see him again.”
A shiver ran through her.
This is our wedding day, she wanted to cry. We have won. We are together. Are we never to forget?
So they were together at last. Robert was happy.
“No longer now,” he said, “need we fear that we are being spied upon. We are legally married. This is how I always longed for it to be.”
“And I, my love,” she told him.
If he but knew how she had worked for this; how she had schemed and planned, first against Essex, then against Overbury!
She longed to tell him that he might understand something of the measure of her love for him. She wanted to cry: “This I have done for you.”
But she dared not tell him. He would be shocked beyond expression. Perhaps his feelings would change toward her if he knew.
No, she must enjoy this perfect night—for perfect it must be.
Yet when he made love to her she could not shut out of her mind those waxen figures—the naked woman with the hair that looked like real hair, lying on the minute couch with the naked model. She could almost smell the overpowering incense which had burned in Dr. Forman’s room.
And it was as though a mocking ghost was in that room. The ghost of Sir Thomas Overbury who, not so long before, had been murdered in the Tower of London.
But the next day she was the gay young bride. The Christmas festivities and those of the wedding took place at the same time, for the couple had been married on the 26th December. There followed a week of merrymaking, for the New Year was at hand and James would have the New Year celebrated with as great a show of masking and feasting as Christmas.
Frances was so proud sitting in the tiltyard on New Year’s Day—a member of the King’s party, which she would be now, for Robert was always near the King and in future she would always be near Robert.
“Never, never to part,” as she had told him.
All the noblest of the lords were tilting on that day; and they thought it an honor to wear the yellow and green colors of the Earl of Somerset or the white and mulberry of the House of Howard.
This is how it will be in future, thought Frances. Everywhere we go we shall be honored.
The Lord Mayor of London, at the King’s command, entertained the royal couple, and the people watched the processions as they rode through the street.
There was some murmuring in the crowds, and men and women joked together: If you’re tired of your husband, ladies, just complain that he’s impotent. You’ll be in noble company.
“Who is this Scotsman?” asked others. “Why should we be taxed to buy his jewels? It’s time the King grew out of lapdogs.”
But they enjoyed processions, and the young Countess of Somerset was a beautiful bride; she smiled and waved to the people in a friendly fashion and they forgot to be angry when they looked at her.
One of Frances’s presents was a handsome coach but neither she nor Robert had horses fine enough to draw it and could not procure them in time for the procession. As Sir Ralph Winwood was a connoisseur of horses and had some of the best in England in his stables, Robert asked him if he would lend them two pairs for this occasion.
Sir Ralph’s reply was to send the horses without delay. “So great a lady as the Countess of Somerset should not use borrowed horses,” he wrote, and he begged her to accept them as a gift.
Frances, delighted, showed the note to Robert, but he frowned.
“My love,” he said, “we must be careful from whom we accept gifts.”
“But he has so many horses and he wants to give them.”
“He wants a post at Court. The secretaryship, I believe. I cannot have him think that by giving you four fine horses he can buy my support.”
He immediately wrote a note of thanks to Winwood telling him that his wife could not accept such a costly gift; but Frances was so disappointed and Winwood so eager to make the present, that at last Robert relented; and Frances rode through the city in her fine coach drawn by four of the most magnificent horses ever seen.
And Sir Ralph Winwood, watching her, congratulated himself that he had done a very wise thing.
She should have been happy, for Robert was a tender husband; she loved his simplicity; and it seemed a marvelous thing to her that one who had been so long at Court should have retained an innocence.
He was so different from her. Was that why she loved him so passionately? Perhaps. For her love did not diminish with marriage; rather did it grow.
Yet she would sometimes wake at night, sweating with terror. How strange this was, when before she had not had a qualm of conscience! When she had been working toward her goal she had thought of one thing only—success. And now she had achieved it she was unable to forget the road she had come to reach it.
What had started this? Was it a look in the eyes of Jennet when she had spoken sharply to her? Was Jennet reminding her that she knew too much?
Jennet had always been a saucy girl; she had shown respect it was true, but there had often been a suggestion of mockery beneath it.
“Jennet,” she had said, “would you like this gown? I have scarce worn it and I think it would become you.”
Jennet had taken it with less gratitude than a maid should show to her mistress.
“I’ll swear you’ve never had such a gown,” said Frances.
“No, my lady.”
“Yet you do not seem surprised to possess it.”
“I know my lady is grateful to me. We have been through so much together … to reach this … happiness.”
Then Frances remembered the darkened room, the incense, the low almost caressing voice of Dr. Forman; and Jennet watching in the shadows.
She would like to rid herself of Jennet; but Jennet knew too much. She dared not.
She, Frances Howard, dared not rid herself of a servant!
It was small wonder that she sometimes awoke in fright.
“My lady, there is a female to see you.”
“A female? Ask what she wants. No … no … One moment. What sort of a female?”
The fear had touched her again. She must go carefully. There was so much to hide.
“A respectable looking female, my lady.”
“I will see her. Bring her to me.”
They brought her; and the door was shut on them leaving them alone together.
“My name is Mrs. Forman, my lady. You were a friend of my husband’s, the late Dr. Forman.”
“I think you are mistaken.”
“Oh no, my lady. You wrote to him often you remember. He called you his daughter and to you he was ‘Sweet Father.’”
“Who told you this?”
“He used to show me his letters. I have them still. You see I was his wife and I worked with him. That is why, now he is gone, I have fallen on evil times and I thought that as such a good friend of the doctor—”
The woman must not know that she was afraid. She smiled and said: “Why, if times are hard with you, you must allow me to help you.”
Give them money. It was easy. There was so much money.
“My lady,” said Dr. Franklin, “the potions I procured for you were very costly. My experiments demanded a lavish use of these. I neglected other clients to serve you and, my lady, I find I have lost two hundred pounds this year because of this.”
“Two hundred pounds this year?”
“Two hundred pounds a year, my lady, would satisfy me well, with a little extra for food and my boat hire.”