The Secret Keeper: A Novel of Kateryn Parr

SEVENTEEN

Autumn: Year of Our Lord 1548

Wulf Hall

Brighton Manor

Syon House

Seymour House

The next morning, before we left for Wulf Hall, I packed some of Kate’s personal belongings. I recalled how Lady Ogilvy had set aside some of Anne Boleyn’s jewelry for the Lady Elizabeth, and to that end, I went through Kate’s few remaining pieces and took the best for Mary. I also took a miniature that Kate had done of herself, to show the babe later what her mother looked like, and some of her books, which were her dearest possessions. There was a book of psalms, a book of stories and poems covered in green velvet, and a prayer book covered in her favorite crimson and gold. In the back was a love poem written by Thomas to Kate. I would save this for her too.

Sweet Mrs. Marwick and two servants shared a litter with myself and Mary. Mrs. Marwick feel asleep after nursing her, so I took the child from her and held her, awkwardly at first, as I had no experience with newborns, whilst we made our way, instinctively shielding her from the worst of the jostling with my body. Some few others of Thomas’s household rode with him and some others in litters; many of Kate’s household would return to London, either to Seymour Place or to other households.

When we arrived we were greeted by one of Lord Seymour’s servants, who showed us to the set of rooms that would house Mary and her household whilst we remained. Mrs. Marwick shared a room with the child, and I had a small but richly appointed room of my own. The entire household was welcomed to dinner in a large dining room staffed with a dozen or more servants. As we ate I tried not to glance, repeatedly, at the table where sat my father, my grandfather, and my grandmother.

After the meal I made my way to Lord Thomas, who was in the stone-walled receiving room next to the dining area. His eyes were red rimmed and he had a defeated air about him. “Lord Thomas?” I said softly.

He looked me full in the face, searching, I knew, to see if Kate had made a deathbed confession to me. I steeled my expression and revealed nothing, allowing him to keep the secret he’d so long held. But I treated him with, mayhap, a little more consideration, not only for his grief but for that manner in which he had tried to care for me these years.

“The queen had said that I might hire some servants for Mary’s household, those I know I can trust. I know of some in Marlborough at my … mother’s home. May I take my leave for a few days and see if they be willing?”

He smiled weakly at me and nodded. “Yes, Mistress St. John, you may do so. And thank you for agreeing to remain with my daughter’s household for a little while, till we make our way clear through this thicket.”

I nodded politely, not showing how ironic I found his reference to his daughter’s household. “’Tis my honor, sir, to serve the queen dowager. And the child. And you.” I did not meet his eye. I turned, and as I did, I caught Lady Margery Seymour looking straight at me.

She had a hooked nose and pitiless eyes. I did not flinch from her glance, nor turn my gaze down modestly. In response, she offered me no warmth nor a smile nor any kind gesture at all. But I saw, in her eyes, that she knew who I was and she rejected me as she had my mother.

That night I unwrapped the glass that Kate had given to me and stared at my features—my eyes, brown like Lord Thomas’s. My hair, brown like Thomas’s, in direct opposition to the rest of my family, all wheaten blonds. My cheekbones, high like those of all the Seymours. My nose was like my mother’s, as were my bowed lips. Whose spirit did I have? I had thought it was my father’s, Hugh St. John’s. Now I knew not.

The next day I took to the stables, with a servant, to ride down to Marlborough.

I had the servant stable the horses and then instructed one of my mother’s men to house him whilst we remained.

“Mistress Juliana!” My mother’s chamberlain was surprised to see me. “Is your mother expecting you?”

I shook my head.

“But ’tis good of you to come now, whilst you have the chance,” he said. “She is abed, ill. But of course you know that.”

I did not know my mother was so ill; I had written to her and she had not responded. From time to time Hugh corresponded with me, but letter writing was never one of his better accomplishments and I heard from him less often than I would have liked to.

I made my way to her chamber, and it was as dark as Kate’s had been, which was unusual, for my mother was not fond of being shut in. I knocked on her door and Lucy’s mother, who also looked drawn, answered it.

“Mistress!” she said. “Your mother will be glad that you have come.” She stepped out of the way and let me pass toward my mother’s bedside.

“Juliana,” my mother said. “’Tis a surprise to see you here.”

I spoke forthrightly; my mother would know if I did otherwise, as it was not my habit to dither. “I did not know you were so ill, madam, but I would have come immediately if I had known.”

She nodded and did not apologize for not sending for me, but she did not speak unkindly to me either. “I hear that Queen Kateryn has died. It seems she has bested me even in death.”

I must have looked shocked, as she smiled faintly and said, “Even here in Marlborough we quickly get gossip through the servants.”

“She has died,” I said, “of childbed fever. She delivered of a daughter … Mary.”

My mother held my gaze, looking, I knew, to see if I would disclose in some way that I knew that Mary and I were sisters. I did not flinch. “So what brings you, then?”

“The queen asked me to remain as mistress of Mary’s household until such time as Lord Thomas remarries and the baby is thus settled with her new mother,” I said, “who will then take charge and choose a governess.”

“I shall expect it will not take long for Lord Thomas to remarry,” my mother said confidently. “And then … what shall you do? Matthias has taken a bride, and they already have a small son. Does your young Irish knight await your release?”

At that, I flinched. “No, madam, he does not.”

She sat up a little and looked me straight on. “He did not seem to me to be one who is easily turned away nor one who would take comfortably to defeat.”

“Alas,” I said, “he has returned to Ireland to find a bride. There is a man, a widower, Sir Richard Hibbart, who is presently fighting the Scots but who has asked to call upon me when he returns.”

“And this is your desire?” she asked.

I shrugged and said, “Might I beg a favor, lady?”

She nodded.

“The queen left Lord Thomas a wealthy man, and she instructed him to provide her child with the household befitting her standing. She has many servants already, but I should like to ask Lucy and her husband to join the household until I return to Marlborough, or marry. If you agree.”

My mother sank back and closed her eyes. “Yes, yes, of course. Until Hugh returns with his bride, we have very little need here.” She waved her hand. “If Lucy and Gerald so choose. And then you shall return here?”

“Yes. Unless Sir Richard contacts you or Hugh, I shall return to Marlborough.”

I looked upon her as she lay there, so quiet and still. She had lost much of her vitality after the death of my father. “Shall I read to you?” I asked quietly. “For comfort?”

She shook her head and I stood to leave. She reached out and held my arm. “But you may remain beside me whilst I rest.”

I sat down and gradually her grip softened and then her arm fell back upon the bed. When it did, I reached my own hand out and rested it upon hers. Her face was younger, smoother, softer as she slept. Even now, she was still captivatingly beautiful. It was not hard to see what Lord Thomas had seen in her, nor my father. To her credit, she had been as gentle to my father as she’d been harsh to me. I understood why now, and whilst it softened it some, that knowledge could never fully heal the bruise of her rejection.

After an hour, I kissed her cheek and then slipped away to find Lucy, who was beside herself with joy at the idea of coming to London for a time. When I inquired as to the nature of my mother’s illness, she told me then that the lump in my mother’s breast had grown and she might not live to see our return. When I spoke to my mother about remaining with her, she pressed me to leave anyway.

Within a week she had Lucy’s mother send news that she was upon her deathbed, but that we were not to return as she would be simply buried at St. Peter’s, with the man who remained my father in my heart and mind, Sir Hugh St. John.

One night in early October we were all in the music room of Wulf Hall talking quietly, bathing in the warm firelight, and listening to the delicate pluckings of the virginals. All could overhear Lady Seymour and Lord Thomas talking.

“You cannot stay here forever,” she said. “It has been a month now. You have other duties to attend to and so do I. The expense of having your household remain here any longer is more than I care to bear.”

He looked taken aback, and mayhap rejected, like a little boy. Then I understood that Lord Thomas and I had something even deeper in common. “Edward has invited us to Syon,” he said. “And I mean to take him up on his offer.”

Lord Thomas was taking his household to stay with his brother?

“Edward is a good, righteous man,” his mother stated bluntly.

“I do not recall you speaking thusly of me, lady mother.”

“You lead with your mouth, Thomas, whilst Edward leads with his head.” She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist and Lord Thomas stalked from the room as the virginal player strove to play louder still to cover over the exchange.

I looked at Lady Margery Seymour and decided to approach her. It would not have been unexpected for her to have a word for me as I was there with her granddaughter’s household. So far she had steadfastly refused, and whenever the situation looked as though we might have to discourse she immediately turned her back and took her leave, as she did now. She would not spare one word of kindness or recognition toward me, and had held the babe but once whilst we were there.

I stopped by Mary’s room before going to my own, and looked down upon her still, sleeping body. I could not resist the urge to pick her up, and so I did. She did not wake but, after rustling, fell back into a deep sleep nestled thus in my arms. The moonlight poured in through her cross-paned window, lighting her small face, and I whispered, “What shall become of you?” to her before kissing her and putting her back in her cradle.

We left Wulf Hall two days later, for London.

Syon House was grand, fit for a king, which was only right since Anne Stanhope considered herself nearly royal. I noted with rising bile that she often wore Kate’s jewelry. Upon my arrival I sent a letter, via messenger, to Kat Ashley to ask her for some guidance with Mary’s household, as Kate had advised.

Within two days came a reply from Kat. “We were sorry to hear of the queen’s death,” she said, “none more so than the Lady Elizabeth. She loved her dearly and grieves her still, though she were advised not to write to offer condolences to Lord Thomas lest the letter be misinterpreted.”

I set the letter down on my desk. Misinterpreted by whom? I then recalled that Lord Thomas had been writing to the Lady Elizabeth the day Mary was born, and mayhap since.

This was brought into sharper focus within a week, when Edward Seymour held a banquet for several hundred and all of the households attended. My brother, Hugh, was there, of course, with Cecil’s men, and I sat with him first. His shoulders were broader and his beard fully come in now. “I shan’t remain here long,” he said. “I expect Cecily to return to London with her father after the New Year. We will then be wed, and return to Marlborough, the simplicity of which I now long for.”

“I long for peace and simple joys too,” I agreed, wishing I could return with him, knowing I would never feel peace till Mary were settled. “I have Lucy and Gerald with me here. Shall you need them to return?”

He shook his head. “Nay. Cecily will have her own lady maids and I am sure she will prefer them. ’Tis not necessary. And you?”

I explained to him that I was to stay with Mary till Thomas was remarried.

“’Twill not be long then,” Hugh said. “Rumor is that Lord Thomas means to make the Lady Elizabeth his bride, one way or another.”

“Will the council give permission?” I asked.

“Nay, never,” he said. He finished his glass of mead. “His brother told Lord Thomas that he had better not be thinking upon marrying one of the king’s sisters, and Lord Russell told him that it would be his undoing if he did.”

“What did Thomas reply?” I asked, nibbling on a cheese wafer.

“He denied having any ideas of it and rebuked them soundly. Then another man came forth and told Lord Thomas that if he did not watch his language the lord protector would have the right to arrest him. Lord Thomas said he wouldn’t dare.”

Oh, but he would, I thought, he would more than dare.

“And what of you, sister?” he asked. “Where will you go when Thomas remarries?”

“Mayhap home, if I am still welcome,” I said. He assured me that, as family, I was his responsibility to care for, and a welcome one at that. “Hugh … there was a widower who spoke with me some months ago. His name is Sir Richard Hibbart. Could you find out if he has returned from Scotland?”

Hugh raised his eyebrows and grinned. “I shall make discreet inquiries.”

After Hugh moved along to speak with a friend, Lady Tyrwhitt, who had remained with Lord Thomas’s household for the moment, drew alongside me. She, of course, knew not of my connection to Thomas but well knew my love and loyalty for Kate.

“See there?” Lady Tyrwhitt nodded toward where Thomas had pulled John Dudley, a competitor of Edward Seymour’s on the council, to the side. “It has not taken Thomas more than a week to sniff out that his brother has alienated some on the council and, even now, he be seeking support to work his will and marry the Lady Elizabeth.”

“Already?” I asked, horrified.

“How long did he wait after His Majesty died to pursue Kate?” Lady Tyrwhitt inquired. She had a point. “He’s already promised the Marquess of Dorset that Dorset’s daughter, Jane Grey, shall marry King Edward.”

I put my hand to my mouth. “He can promise no such thing!”

“He believes he can, so he does. Which is why she remains yet in his household. Wait and watch. The privy councilors have already warned him, strongly, against a marriage consideration with either the Lady Mary or the Lady Elizabeth. But Lord Thomas hears not what he does not want to hear. He draws the net ever closer about his feet till one day it shall spring upward with him in it.” She left me then to make small talk with Elisabeth, after which I sought to talk with my dear friend Lady Fitzgerald Browne.

Late that night, after Lucy had helped me ready myself for bed, I lay there and wondered, for the first time, what would happen to the babe if her father did spring the trap. Traitors were attainted, stripped of their lands afore being beheaded, their heirs left without title, shamed and penniless.

’Twas a cliff, and next to the cliff, a tiny patch of green upon which grew some flowers. They were bright and bold, flos solis, sunflowers, with beautiful faces that turned toward the sun as it arced across the lustrous blue sky.

Toward the end of its arc, a seed dropped from one flower’s bosom and implanted itself deep within the soil. Within a moment, a tiny shoot sprang forward, unsteady and green. As it began to grow, the larger flower nodded under the heavy weight. Suddenly Lord Thomas’s dagger sliced through the stem right below the head and, thus lopped off, it fell on top of the tiny shoot, which was crushed to the ground beneath it.

I wakened out of breath and disturbed. I had earlier taken that dream to mean that Kate, after having her child, would die, and she had. But the fact that the dream persisted meant that it warned of something yet to come. I left my room and made my way to Mary’s room, opened the door, and went in. Mrs. Marwick stirred, but saw ’twas me and lay back down. I eased the child from her cradle and Mary cooed and woke up and gazed at me without flinching. I felt a rush of love for her and drew her tight to me, feeling her little heart beat against my own. I took her to the rocking chair and held her till she felt a part of me, which she was. I rocked back and forth and kissed the feathery crown of her head, and was overcome with the fierce desire to protect and defend her. I prayed for guidance, wisdom, and help, for little Mary’s sake, and, mayhap, for the Lady Elizabeth’s.

A week later Lord Thomas came to tell me to ready myself to move the child, and her household, to Seymour Place. I was surprised, as we had not long been there, but agreed to get the household prepared. His steward readied his own household and sent word ahead that we would shortly thereafter arrive. We soon made our way to Seymour Place and settled into a routine. I ordered goods and materials for the Lady Mary’s household, managing it for Lord Thomas, and spent time with my friends from Kate’s household, many of whom had remained, when I was not otherwise occupied.

One day Thomas Parry, in charge of the Lady Elizabeth’s monies as her cofferer, came to visit and sup with us. It was an unusual visit, and during the meal, Lord Thomas asked many questions about the Lady Elizabeth’s household, her finances, her estates. He offered the use of his properties whenever she wished it. Thomas Parry indicated that the Lady Elizabeth would be receptive to that, and that application should be made through Kat Ashley.

“I have recently corresponded with Mistress Ashley,” I said, “as Her Grace the queen had indicated that Kat was a governess who always looked out for her mistress’s best interests and that the household of her own child, Mary, should seek to model itself upon it.” I hoped by introducing the queen into the conversation I could shame Lord Thomas from his folly and unseemly pursuit.

But he was not to be turned. Instead, he came later that evening to Mary’s quarters. He spent time visiting with her for a moment—which was, I admit, more than many noble fathers did—and then rejoined me in her reception chamber, where we were alone.

“It seems right that you make inquiries upon Mistress Ashley,” he said. “She being governess to the Lady Elizabeth, daughter of a king, and my daughter, Mary, being the daughter of a queen. I should like you to make a visit to them at Hatfield, presently.”

I nodded. “Certainly.”

“And when you go, I should like you to deliver a letter to Kat Ashley and a gift to the Lady Elizabeth, on my behalf.”

I nodded faintly but offered no answer. He seemed not to care, or even notice. The next morning he had a litter ready for myself, Lucy, and the packages. I left instructions for Mrs. Marwick, who needed them not, and took my leave.

We arrived at Hatfield, almost a day’s journey from London, late in the afternoon. The red bricks of the house looked aflame against the blunt gray winter landscape and dull, clotted clouds. Once shown to our quarters, I met with Kat Ashley, who warmed herself by the fire. She offered me some refreshments that I gladly took.

“I bring a letter from Lord Thomas,” I said, and she received the news with pleasure. I handed the document over to her. We talked about her time with Elizabeth—she had joined her household two months after the child’s mother was beheaded by her father, when the child was but three. “I do not intend to remain with Mary’s household forever, as a permanent member,” I said. “But I have promised the queen that I shall remain till Lord Thomas is remarried and the child has a new mother to love and manage her.”

“I am sure that there are many who would like to repay the queen’s love by mothering such a child,” she said. “I know of some, anywise.”

I did not inquire further, but ’twas clear to me that she knew Lord Thomas pursued the Lady Elizabeth, and now that Thomas was unmarried, she apparently found no fault in the proposition. I myself found it repulsive. But I knew Lord Thomas better than she did, so I did not find fault with her.

I indicated that I cared to visit with the Lady Elizabeth, and I did so after church the next morning. I was pleased to see that stirring services were still held regularly in the Lady Elizabeth’s household, and I felt renewed and refreshed afterward. Lord Thomas had not established such a pattern, though of course there were chaplains about from time to time.

We met in the receiving room, hung with tapestries from her father’s collection. In the seven months since I had last seen her she had, indeed, become a woman. I curtseyed slightly and she nodded and indicated that I should sit down.

“You look lovely, my lady,” I said.

“Thank you, Mistress St. John. Tell me. Was the queen’s death prolonged? I hope she did not suffer.”

“She died with difficulty,” I admitted. “Childbed fever stalks all women and is no respecter of persons. A queen dies in as much hardship as the lowest born.”

Elizabeth shuddered. “I have a horror of that particular death, I shall admit.”

“And yet … the queen preserved her dignity till the end.”

Elizabeth looked at her hands. “I am grieved that I was not with her when this evil overcame her,” she said softly.

“She loved you much and well.”

Elizabeth did not look up. “As I did her, but I could have loved her better.”

“She held you no ill will nor rancor. For anything,” I said. “She knew you loved her.”

She looked up at me, her eyes slightly moist, but her neck firmly held high. “Thank you, Mistress St. John. Is that all?”

I thought of the package Lord Thomas had given me, the letters, a miniature of him, a piece of jewelry. Should I tell her I had a gift? Or no? I looked at her steadily.

Do not let him harm her.

“That is all,” I said. Giving the package to her was likely to harm both the child and Elizabeth.

She stood, and then turned toward me. “You would be welcome in my household anytime, Mistress St. John. You have a way with words, and gowns.” She smiled. “And with the heart.”

“Thank you, lady,” I said, and nodded my head. She nodded back and took her leave.

I hoped that I should not have to find a place in her home and wondered, for a moment, if she meant I might remain as Mary’s governess should she marry Lord Thomas, or if she meant as a member of her own household. I had no desire to remain a governess one day longer than required; it limited my freedom to move and act as I might have liked, and kept me at court, which had become tarnished to me.

I returned to Seymour Place and hid Sir Thomas’s gifts and letters in my chamber, hoping that he would not find out that I had not delivered them.