Love's Alchemy Page 9

  “My Andalusian!” Francis whipped his head around and said in theatrical tones, “I am in consternation. I am aggrieved. I take umbrage!”

  “Oh, come in, Francis.”

  “Well,” he said, and bowed elaborately, “I will condescend.” He strode into the room, looked around, and said in his normal voice, “But truly, Anne, these walls must be painted afresh. Or tapestries. Would you like some tapestries? I could find some that would set off the blue of this flagstone to advantage.” He turned to the servant, who had remained outside, uncertain whether to enter, and said, “Come, come, come.” As she entered, still with lowered eyes, Wolley mouthed to Anne, “She is new.” Then aloud he said, “Abigail, this is Mrs. Donne. You are to whisk her children away for the afternoon, and set her free. She will come and fetch them home later.”

  “But Francis,” said Anne. “They haven’t eaten.”

  Francis squeezed off a little piece of dough and gave it to Constance, then took a bigger one for himself. While still chewing it he said to Abigail, “And see that the cook gives them some. . . . What is it little children eat? What do you eat, Constance?”

  “Dough!” Constance said.

  “See that the cook gives them some dough. Here, child, take another dollop with you.” Wolley started to pull off a big piece, but Anne stayed his hand.

  “Not too much, Francis!” she said. “It hasn’t risen.”

  “Well.” Wolley took a yet bigger piece, gave Constance a small part of it, and kept the rest for himself. The child looked at him enviously. “I am big,” Francis said. “You are small. The big get much; the small get little. That is the way of the world.” Constance stuck out her lower lip. He did the same.

  Abigail came over, smiled shyly at Constance, and offered a hand. The child backed away a step and reached for her mother’s skirt. But Anne said, “It’s all right. Go with her.” Constance grudgingly reached to take Abigail’s hand. Anne said, “The baby is asleep. I will bring him when he wakes.” Abigail curtseyed awkwardly and led the child outside.

  “Thank you, Francis,” Anne said. “I could use the time to read. Or to think.” She sat in the chair at the end of the table.

  “Oh. Reading. Thinking. I do as little of either as I can.” As Wolley spoke he rolled the piece of dough he held into a ball. “But if you must punish yourself with reading and thinking, then why do you not let my servants tend your children every day? Must I come and foist servants upon you? Foist: a good word, that. I had rather feast than foist.” He took a bite of the ball of dough as if it were an apple, then said, “I shall have Jack work the conceit into a poem. But Anne,” he went on as he gestured with the lump, “take some servants as your own.”

  The offer sounded wonderful. What a blessing it would be to have servants again. . . . “Thank you,” she said. “But I prefer things as they are.”

  Wolley watched her skeptically for a few seconds before saying softly, “Take just a housemaid and a cook, then.” She turned her eyes away as he continued: “Why knead your own bread? We have loaves enough six rooms away.”

  “You are kind, Francis, most kind.” She looked him directly in the eye. “But do you not see it is difficult for us—for Jack—to live by your generosity?”

  “Oh, Jack and his pride. Pride! The deadliest sin of the seven.” Wolley swung a foot over the bench, sat astride it facing her, and said as if he were scolding a child, “It was Lucifer’s sin, you know.”

  Now she acted the patient mother. “Yes, Francis.”

  Almost immediately he was back up again, storming toward the door. “And as for that devil of a husband, where in hell has he taken my Andalusian?”

  “Oh, Francis. That is much on my mind. He was summoned before Lord Cecil.”

  Just before he reached the door, Wolley stopped. He stood stock-still for a moment, as though the name had frozen him. He turned slowly to look at her. “Cecil! Why did I not hear of this?”

  “The summons came late last night. We did not want to disturb you. But Francis, what could it mean?”

  “Cecil. Anything. It could mean anything. The man’s mind is a labyrinth. I . . . I hardly know what it might mean.”

  “All day I have thought of little else.”

  “I well imagine.” He walked over to her, sat on the bench, and put his hand on hers. “Summoned at night, and made to appear next morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anne.” He looked into her eyes. “Has Jack done anything?”

  “What do you mean? No! He. . . . No. He owes a little money, but hardly—”

  “Owes money? Anne, tell me these things. I will give Jack money. How much?”

  “I don’t know. A few pounds, I think. But he does not want. . . . Francis, do you not understand?”

  Wolley slowly shook his head. “Pride.”

  Anne could see by her cousin’s strained smile that he was trying to put a good face on the matter. With his free hand he tossed the ball of dough a few inches into the air, caught it at its peak, then took another bite. “Tell him to keep to gluttony,” he said with his mouth full. “Much better for the soul.”

  Anne would not be distracted. “He may return soon, or tonight, or tomorrow, or . . . I know not.”

  Wolley furrowed his brow. “Cecil did not summon him over a few pounds. It is something else. You say he has done nothing.”

  “No. Nothing but look for patronage. Yesterday he visited the Earl of Bedford.”

  “Bedford?” Wolley looked as if the very name insulted him. “He can no more comprehend one of Jack’s poems than I can write one in the Arabian tongue.” Wolley looked puzzled. “The Earl of Bedford. Hunting with the King, I thought he was. In Hertfordshire.”

  “Oh,” Anne said faintly. Well, it was best to let it out; Francis might be able to help her piece things together. “And . . . Jack saw Lady Bedford, I think.”

  “Ah! That were a different matter. Your Lady Bedford has a wit to match. . . .”

  Anne tried to keep the accusatory tone out of her voice. “To match whose?” Jack’s, did he mean? Was Francis going to say Lady Bedford was a better match for Jack than Anne herself could ever be?

  Wolley fingered his beard, apparently oblivious to her fear. “To match Cecil’s, I was going to say. I wonder. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “She and Cecil? I know of no relations there, but she and the new queen. . . . Perhaps all is well. Perhaps Lady Bedford has arranged some appointment for Jack at court. Or . . . I know not.”

  “Or what, Francis?” What was he hiding from her? If Francis suspected some ugly truth, did he not think she could bear it?

  “Nothing.”

  She pressed him. “What is it?”

  “It is nothing, I say.”

  Maybe it was best to be plain: “Do you suspect some . . . some ill-doing between her and Jack?”

  Wolley looked momentarily confused, then said, “Oh! No. No, you need have no fear on that score. Jack thinks the very moon and stars hold in their spheres but by your sweet influence.”

  It was clear Francis did not share her fear—or even comprehend it. She said, “Moon and stars. Perhaps you had better leave the poetry to Jack.”

  “Gladly. Loathsome stuff, poetry.”

  Anne smiled.

  Francis continued, “I was only thinking. . . .You were best to know: it was only that. . . . How to say it? I do not like the Lady Bedford. She frightens me.”

  Anne let a little laugh escape, then put her hand to her lips.

  “Well, she does,” Wolley said. “She makes me think of a harpy. But if I need to confront her or any other beautiful, dragonish creature to help you in this business, you have only to say the word.”

  “Thank you. I know you would do that.”

  “If only Elizabeth were still on the throne! Then it were an easy matter. The old queen adored me. At least before she soured toward all of us at the end. But in the old days I would simply ask, and problems would be solved. This new Scots
king, though: his taste in men is most peculiar.”

  “He likes my father.”

  “Oh. Yes. . . .Your father. A stout man, your father, and true.”

  Folding her arms, she pulled back. “Go ahead, Francis. Say what you mean.”

  “A stubborn man, then. That is Jack’s problem, don’t you see? Your father blocks his advancement. The King blocks Jack’s advancement, because of your stout father.”

  “So I fear.”

  Wolley looked at her as he would look at a woman he loved, if he fancied women at all. “Ah, Anne,” he said, “how did such a father beget such a child as you?”

  Again she smiled. “Still, I love him.”

  “Aha! That is the deadly sin of . . . something or other. I’m sure it’s in the list somewhere.” He looked around as if he hoped to find a list of sins posted on a wall. “Well,” he said. “To your reading, or thinking, or whatever such perverse activity you please. Or. . . .” He spoke tenderly: “Would you have me stay?”

  She knew Wolley’s offer was genuine, but she also knew he could hardly sit still for long. “No, Francis. This waiting is difficult, but so it will be regardless. I thank you, though.”

  He stood, rubbed his hands together, and said, “I must take another of my horses for exercise since your miscreant husband has stolen my Andalusian. When he returns I shall have to give the man a thrashing.” He took another lump of dough.

  “Oho!” said Anne. “I should like to see this thrashing.”

  “No, no, it were too bloody for your tender eyes. Perhaps for your sake I shall spare him.”

  Anne inclined her head toward him. “Nobly done.”

  With his chin in the air, Wolley strode out the door. He spun around, bowed deeply, and said, “For thee, my lady, no price too dear.”

  When Anne moved to close the door, she hesitated a moment in the hope of seeing Jack approach, as if he were likelier to do so just as Wolley left than at some other time. But as her cousin rounded the corner to the stables, only a wren’s fitful flight from one branch of an elm to another disturbed the stillness of the air. She eased the door closed and returned to the dough—or what was left of it. Absently she continued her kneading. This waiting. . . . Maybe she should have asked Francis to stay. Well, soon Little Jack would awaken. She would nurse him, then take him to Abigail, then read until Jack arrived with news, bad or good. She worked the dough into a lump and covered it with a damp cloth to let it rise. After washing her hands in the basin, she turned toward the next room, with its shelves of books, but hesitated before going to retrieve one.

  Instead she sat in the carved oak chair by the window and allowed the silence of the day to settle around her. Not a leaf stirred in the great poplar outside. She took a deep breath, blew it out, and closed her eyes. Such respite should be welcome after the early waking to see Jack off, then the clamor of the children, then Francis. But her heart and her mind were restless; she could not give herself over to the quiet.

  Waiting. . . . Why was it always the woman’s lot to wait? The men could stride about the world, imposing their wills upon it, while the women stayed behind and waited. Why the women? Only the high-born among them—the late queen or a countess like Lady Bedford—could enter the affairs of men, even direct them. If a lesser-born woman raised her voice in protest of any male scheme, she was put down—and by other women as much as by the men—as a harridan and a shrew. No, a woman’s lot was to linger by the fireside, look to the children, busy herself with all the little tasks of a goodly household. Not that Anne begrudged such things when her heart was untroubled; the doing of them was as good a way to serve God as any. But today she chafed against this waiting as if her true calling lay otherwhere.

  Maybe this was how Jack felt: well-fitted for public office by both training and inclination, he had been shut out from the affairs of men, denied entry into the life that all his learning and all his native talents had proclaimed was his by right. Well, had Anne Donne not similar gifts to Jack’s, and was her learning not like his? Was she not better born? Was she not more fit than all but a few of the men to direct the affairs of others? The thought made her even more restless.

  The Countess of Bedford would never sit and wait if her husband were forced into trouble. She would do something: go to Cecil and confront him, or otherwise use her influence at court to get what she lacked. Anne’s eyes narrowed. Never had she liked Lucy Harrington, but now she felt a smoldering spite. This woman who would do what Anne could not had given Jack a bracelet, like as not a love token. If the Countess merely admired Jack’s poems, why had she not come forth with ready money, as a patroness ought? Perhaps she had none about her at the time. But that was doubtful. No, the Countess of Bedford had designs on Jack, and Anne More would not stand for it.

  But what could she do? The bitter spite welled within her. She pushed herself up from the chair, stood at the window, and pressed her fingers to her forehead. Such thoughts were unworthy of her. She knew her Christian duty: to think well of others, and forgive them if they wronged her. But she knew also that such knowledge would little avail her now. There was something delicious about this unfamiliar spitefulness, something she was unwilling to put aside. Yet she did not like the agitation.

  Augustine said our hearts were always restless till they rested in God. But where was she to find God and heart’s rest: at home while her husband cast about the world until he fell victim to some scheme of Lucy Bedford’s or Robert Cecil’s, or both of them in league, or . . . ? She hardly knew.

  This moment: focus on this moment. What was God telling her now, with this agitation, this taste of spite? To forgive Lady Bedford? She was not even sure the Countess had wronged her, so what was there to forgive? And Jack: had Jack no part in enticing the alluring young countess to give him her golden love token? No: Anne knew the thought itself was poisonous; she must not think it. Did Francis, though, suspect as much? It did not appear so, but perhaps she misjudged him. Perhaps Francis knew it to be true but would not betray Jack’s trust.

  Well, what of Jack and his own heart’s ease? Suppose some honest cause lay behind the summons. Suppose Jack were to be appointed to the post he deserved. Would his mind then rest at last? Would he then cease to chafe and fret? She doubted it. Jack would be happy for a while, but not for long. Even in his time at York House, when Lord Egerton had trusted him and given him some scope to use his mind in affairs of state, Anne had sensed something of the troubled waters that churned within him. She had been drawn to those dark waters as one is drawn to watch a gathering storm.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught some movement outside the window. She looked toward the stables, where Jack would first appear. But it was only a brindled cat padding across the yard. The sight gave her a shiver, as if it were an omen of ill. She knew better than to believe in portents: the vicar said such things were vain, Catholic superstitions, spawned by the Father of Lies and sustained by the Devil’s spokesman on the papal seat in Rome. Yet compared to what she felt, the vicar’s imprecations seemed thin and insubstantial, mere whispers against the wind.

  She glanced toward the stairs, wondering whether to go and waken Little Jack. The baby would perhaps take her mind off her cares. No, the child needed his sleep. She went into the next room, the small one where Jack kept his books. More than once of late he had mentioned selling them: an act she thought would break his heart, and very nearly hers. What did she want to read? Something from another land. Something that had nothing to do with the troubles of this time. She laid a finger atop a volume of Virgil’s Eclogues, and the act of reaching for the book stirred in her a sense of mystery, a feeling that she had lived this moment before, that now, as before, someone was standing behind her watching. She turned, her finger still on the volume. No one. But the feeling lingered.

  Then it came to her: a scene from a few years before. Having just returned to York House after staying at Loseley for three weeks, she had gone to her uncle’s library, pulled out his copy of
this very book, sensed someone behind her, and turned to find the Lord Keeper’s thin-boned Irish servant Marjorie standing in the doorway. “Begging your pardon, Mistress More,” Marjorie said, “but you were after being told, be it any hour whatever, when your uncle and Master Donne should arrive from Windsor.”

  “Yes,” Anne had said, trying not to sound too eager. “I have something to ask my uncle.” Marjorie gave her a little half-smile, as if she knew it was Jack that Anne wanted to see and not the Lord Keeper. Anne’s attempt not to return the smile ended in her blushing. She avoided Marjorie’s eyes as she moved to the door. It would not do to let her growing attraction to Jack become the talk of the servants. But the three weeks away from York House had seemed interminable. During those weeks she had turned sixteen: old enough, surely, to be thought a woman and not a mere girl.

  Upon entering the parlor she saw to her dismay that the Lord Keeper had brought several men home for supper. It would be a long while before she and Jack could get a few minutes to themselves. Or perhaps she was not in his thoughts at all. The guests were distinguished, but she cared nothing for that. She suffered through the introductions: in addition to her uncle and Jack there was the dull-eyed, palsied Lord Buckhurst, appointed Lord Treasurer upon old Burghley’s death; the dour politician with a gray spade-shaped beard, Lord Monteagle, a man for whatever party was like to be in power; Monteagle’s brother-in-law Francis Tresham, a thin-whiskered, frightened-looking man who kept watching others to see how he should behave; Jean Richardot of Artois, a shrewd-looking diplomat just arrived in London; Henry Percy, the arch-browed Wizard Earl of Northumberland; and the Earl’s cousin Sir Thomas Percy, a furtive-looking man with sweat on his face.

  Anne had met the Wizard Earl two or three years before, and he seemed to remember her. A man whose disordered thoughts always seemed to race ahead of his speech, he nodded to Anne and said, “Your father. Well, I trust. At Loseley. Splendid, the house. Magnificent gardens, green place to grow. As a child. Magnificent, the gardens. But now a lady, lovely.” He nodded again.