Frances bit down so hard on her lip that she tasted blood. How would her husband bear to serve this devil? His taunts had been infuriating enough before his promotion, but as Thomas’s superior they would become utterly intolerable. Part of her wished that her husband would lash out at him. But she knew that that would be almost as deadly as striking the King himself.
She heard Thomas draw in a long breath. ‘I will repair to the stables as soon as I have escorted my wife back to our chambers, Sir George.’
He made another stiff bow and strode down the corridor, gripping Frances’s hand even more tightly than before. As they rounded the corner, she glanced back and saw Villiers still standing there, his eyes fixed upon them.
CHAPTER 15
20 February
Frances sat back on her haunches and waited for the sickness to pass. She knew that within minutes she would be ravenous again, though the thought of food made her stomach turn. She had been so preoccupied with worry for Thomas that she had hardly noticed the absence of her courses these past few weeks. It was only when the newly churned butter began to taste sour and she was beset by a craving for meat that she realised she was with child again. The knowledge had brought her less joy this time, for it meant she must leave Thomas as her confinement drew near, even though he needed her now more than ever.
Villiers had more than justified the dread she had felt upon first hearing of his appointment as master of the horse. She hardly saw her husband any more – indeed, she had been surprised to find herself with child. He would return to their apartment long after dusk, and some nights she had been unable to stay awake until she heard the click of the latch. It was barely light when he left for his duties each morning, and although she always rose with him, he spoke little and left untouched most of the breakfast she had prepared. It pained her to see him so pale and gaunt. Even the news that she was with child again had lifted his spirits only for a day or so. She supposed he had the same dread of her leaving as she had herself.
As she began to dress, she smoothed her linen shift over the swell in her belly. This child seemed to grow more quickly than the others. She hoped it might be a girl this time.
A knock disturbed her thoughts. She finished the lacing and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. When she opened the door, a page handed her a note, then scampered off on another errand. Frances recognised the hand at once and her heart leaped.
My dear Lady Frances,
You will think me quite a stranger – if, indeed, you have not forgotten me altogether. I beg your forgiveness for being so long out of your company. I have missed it greatly. The King’s affairs are such that I am afforded little leisure, but I would be glad if you might accompany me on a short boat ride this afternoon. It promises to be a fine day and less cold than of late. I will wait for you by the water gate at two of the clock.
Your humble servant,
Fr. Bacon.
Frances brightened at once. She had barely seen her friend since the New Year celebrations. He had been absent from the few court gatherings that had been staged since, and she had begun to fear that her husband had been right. Thomas had not troubled to hide his disdain at how Bacon had fawned over Villiers when he had been summoned to attend the King in his privy chamber a few weeks before. She had been disappointed but not surprised. A seasoned courtier like him knew whom to flatter and whom to avoid. She doubted his admiration was sincere.
Frances finished dressing more carefully and took time over brushing her hair. The chestnut colour had deepened over time, just like her mother’s. Helena’s still had no trace of grey, though she was now a woman of sixty-seven. Frances hoped hers would be the same. She plaited it, then wound it around into a simple coif at the base of her neck. Although she now had far greater liberty for such vanities, she had little patience with them. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she had some purpose at court, beyond supporting her husband. Her years spent in the princess’s service had given her companionship, and she had taken pride in her duties. But there were few positions for ladies at court now that Elizabeth had left for the Palatine and her mother, the Queen, was a virtual exile.
She stood and crossed to the bookcase, taking down The Interpretation of Nature. If she could not be among her beloved flora at Tyringham, this was the next best thing. She had already marked several pages she wished to discuss with Bacon next time they met and was glad they would finally have the opportunity that afternoon. Settling on the window seat, she began to read.
‘You look a little pale, my dear,’ Sir Francis said, as he helped her into the boat. ‘Are you well enough for our excursion?’
Frances smiled. ‘The fresh air will soon bring the colour back to my cheeks. I have had too little of it lately.’
When her companion was seated opposite her, the boatman pushed the vessel away from the landing stage and rowed them upstream, towards Lambeth. Frances soon glimpsed the red-brick gatehouse of the archbishop’s palace in the distance.
‘I must beg your forgiveness again for being such a stranger to you these past few weeks. I wish it had been otherwise.’
‘Please do not concern yourself, Sir Francis. I know that you have been much preoccupied with business lately.’
She saw him flick a glance at the boatman. ‘We lawyers usually delight in being busy,’ he said, with a grin, though his eyes were serious. ‘But a man of my years needs his sleep. I hope matters will soon be resolved so that I might enjoy some.’
They lapsed into companionable silence as the boat headed slowly westwards. Frances turned her face to the sun, feeling its light seep into her skin and warm her bones. Such an unseasonably mild day made the spring seem within tantalising reach, but she knew that the brisk winds of March could soon bring back the chill of winter.
‘Please make for that landing stage there,’ Sir Francis instructed the boatman, then turned back to her. ‘I thought we might take a stroll through the gardens of Chelsea, if that would please you?’
Frances gladly agreed. It had been many years since she had enjoyed the beauty and tranquillity of that village, which lay within easy reach of Westminster but felt like a world away. A few minutes later, they were strolling along the path that bordered the Thames. Frances looked across at the lush green lawns that swept down from the mansions lining the riverbank. Ahead, she could see the white marble gateposts that lay at the edge of Beaufort House. The gardens there were much more formal than those on either side of it and were laid out in a large quadrant with a circular lawn at the centre.
‘Sir Thomas More liked things to be regular,’ Bacon observed, following her gaze. ‘Pity for him that he could not order his affairs with King Henry as easily as his gardens.’
Frances nodded. ‘He must have longed to live out his days here, far from the dangers of court.’
They had drawn level with the gates now and paused to look towards the house. With its handsome gables, decorative carvings and honey-coloured bricks, it reminded Frances of Longford.
‘The old earl keeps it well, though he spends most of his time in Lincolnshire,’ Bacon remarked. ‘Henry Clinton, Earl of Lincoln,’ he explained, noting her confusion.
‘His wife was a great favourite of the old Queen,’ Frances remembered.