Kate took me aside. “Should you mind if I place you into a room with Elisabeth Brooke? She is lively and kind and I believe the two of you would find the arrangement congenial. Because of her … affection for my brother, I should prefer someone I know to be discreet to share her chamber. And”—Kate’s eyes twinkled—“because her father is Baron Cobham, her chamber will be distant from kitchen and stable smells.”
“Thank you, madam, that would be delightful,” I said. I was pleased that, in spite of my earlier intemperate remark, she viewed me as discreet enough to be trusted with a difficult situation within her family and household, one she had no control over but that could harm all involved if it was not handled with care. I determined I would uphold that confidence at all cost.
Lady Fitzgerald Browne came welcome to Kate’s household too. Irish, beautiful, and remaining staunchly Roman Catholic, she was three years younger than I but already married to Sir Anthony Browne and stepmother to his eight children. The Duchess of Suffolk was more inclined to share my lady’s persuasions and she was young and witty, but oversharp of the tongue.
One morning shortly after Kate’s marriage, we were in the midst of ordering several dozen new pairs of shoes for Kate when one of the king’s men appeared on the ground floor of the queen’s apartments at Hampton Court.
“Pardon, Your Grace, but the king would like to know if you have need of some babies.”
A titter went across the room and the king’s man went red. A saucy response was on my tongue but I endeavored to hold it back, promising myself that I would share it with Dorothy later. She had avoided any such pleasant discourse with me since Kate had changed our rooming situation.
“Thank His Majesty for me,” the queen answered. “My seamstress has provided everything required.” After the door was closed behind him we burst out laughing as Kate explained that some of the king’s men called his dressing manikins “babies.” I marveled, for a moment, of a man who cared so about clothing that he had dolls. Then I remembered ’twas His Majesty we spoke of and marveled not at all.
Later we returned to the queen’s presence chamber, up a long spiral staircase, which lay next to the Queen’s Closet and her bedchamber. The rooms faced the park and welcomed the glorious sunlight. Over the next week she ordered gowns and kirtles, sleeves, and then fine linens. Next Kate required pouches of sweet herbs for her bath—and for her bed. I found myself contemplating if His Majesty’s wound required an excessive amount of herbs to camouflage the odor and then promised myself that I should better marry soft Matthias than an old man with evil smells about him.
But ’twas not Matthias I dreamt of marrying; others might have directed my actions but they couldn’t command my dreams. At night I lay abed, in my empty chamber, and when I closed my eyes I could see Jamie’s smile, his blue eyes, his laugh. I could feel his lips upon mine and when I did I held the thought still in time, till mayhap they could revisit me again. I had thought poetry of love, which I had been required to study, perhaps a fancy of the imagination. Now I knew that it was a reflection of truth.
Seeing Kate busy writing her books and devotions had prompted me to write more often, too—to my mother. I had written to ask permission to remain in the queen’s service and shared with her news of the court, of my friends, and of my book. I had hoped for a somewhat merry response with news of all that was happening in Marlborough. She replied that I might, of course, wait upon the queen as long as the queen would have me, till I was betrothed. She did not specify when that might be, nor did she add anything of a personal nature, though we’d been parted for a year.
Hugh wrote back to me and conveyed her letter with his. “My studies go well, but I miss you, and would you please find a place for me at court?” I think he misunderstood how little influence I had, but I promised myself that I would endeavor to mention it to the queen till she found a place for him. I kept his letter tucked in my trunk and read it often just to hear his voice.
One day the queen’s sister came to her with news that one of Kate’s ladies, Lady Wriothesley, staunchly for the old religion, had lost her young son shortly after his birth. “You’ll recall Secretary Wriothesley wrote a kind note about you to the Duke of Suffolk after your wedding,” Lady Herbert said. “He also wrote kindly of you to William, our brother. Should you send a note of regret to his wife?”
Kate nodded, and whilst I folded her silks she dictated a letter to her secretary indicating that she grieved for Lady Wriothesley’s loss. Perfectly proper. Then she added, “It hath pleased God of late to disinherit your son of this world.”
Kate stopped and spoke to Lady Herbert. “I have heard that she sorrows overmuch, which is not becoming.”
“But, Kate, ’tis the loss of a child.” All knew Lady Herbert treaded lightly because the queen had been deprived of bearing a child of her own.
“I well know it’s the loss of a child,” Kate responded sharply. “Because I have not borne a child of my own does not mean that I cannot sympathize nor understand the grief of those who have.”
The room grew quiet. ’Twas rare that Kate lost her temper or dressed anyone down. But when she did none dared meddle, not even her sister, who knew better, having served in the household of each of Henry’s six wives. The queen gathered herself and turned back toward her secretary, indicating that he should continue.
“For what is excessive sorrow but plain evidence against you that your inward mind doth repine against God’s sayings, and a declaration that you are not contented that God hath put your son by nature, by his adoption, in possession of the heavenly kingdom?”
She nodded for him to finish off, she signed it Kateryn, the Queene, KP, and sealed it. No one spoke out again about the unseemly attitude she’d taken toward a young mother in grief. But I knew enough about the court, and women, and grudges long nursed, to fear that this would come back and harm her someday.
The eve afore we left on progress there was a dinner at court and then a reciting of sonnets, which the king both composed and enjoyed. Lady Fitzgerald Browne and I amused ourselves by composing witty sonnets to one another in a corner whilst waiting for the more exalted ones to be read. After some of the poems had been recited, the guests walked about talking with one another, especially as those who would not accompany the king would likely return to their own properties and not return to court till Christmas. I was nibbling on a sugared plum when John Temple approached me.
“Mistress Juliana.” He tipped his head, which, strictly speaking, he did not need to do. But ’twas polite, and I bowed mine in return. “How go the affairs of little Marlborough?” His smile was sarcastic, though he kept his tone even.
“I am shocked that you would care to know anything about our town.”
“I am most interested in what is new … and fresh … at court, mistress.” His voice had the snap of a just-bitten apple. He continued. “I’ve found that things are different in the country. More backward in some ways. More forward in others. I find you lovely.” He placed his hand on my back; he then slid his hand around the front of my gown toward my waist, but I quickly stepped away afore his fingers could further splay upward.