The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(73)
“Dee has committed little to writing, which could be for safety’s sake so as not to alert the opposition that we are aware of their plot, or because Lucette herself has not confided much.”
“If it’s a choice between the two,” Elizabeth noted drily, “I tend to favour the latter explanation.”
“You know her better than I do, Your Majesty. It will be interesting to see what occurs when they land in England. I think I shall take my cues from Lady Lucette for the present. Is her father riding to Portsmouth to meet her?”
“No. He is sending his second son to fetch her. Would you like to ride along?”
Walsingham sat pensive, then said carefully, “I think I will let her have her head for now. If she is bringing us the Nightingale mastermind, then she has earned the right to set the immediate direction of events.”
Elizabeth pondered that unusual trust of Walsingham’s. He was addicted to control—whatever he himself did not personally handle, he did not trust. So his wariness with Lucette, she decided, was more likely to do with a wish not to spook a high-tempered noble girl into opposing him rather than because he trusted her intelligence instincts.
She spent the afternoon being entertained by Anne and her coterie of youngsters. It was flattering to have men twenty years younger than herself paying court, even if she was far too intelligent not to be cynical about such attention. But cynical or not, what woman wouldn’t enjoy having her beauty praised and her wit honoured? Though the clumsier of the young men were not so smooth, and thus made it plain they were aiming merely to please their queen.
Of them all, only Brandon Dudley and Kit Courtenay managed to be truly engaging. Brandon, as the gossips had long noted, was very like his late uncle Robert. Of course he did not have the easy familiarity with her that Robert had enjoyed, but he had the same Gypsy-dark good looks, and a dry wit that stung those it targeted without drawing blood—quite.
Kit, on the other hand, was as innately charming as his mother, with a ready smile and sense of mischief that encroached on without quite violating propriety. Of all the young men in her court, Kit was the most familiar with her, a privilege he was quick to exploit.
“You will let Anabel come to Wynfield, won’t you?” he said. “It wouldn’t be summer without her visit.”
“Her Royal Highness has been so eager to come to court,” Elizabeth replied. “Why should I let her retreat from responsibility merely for her own pleasure?”
“But it not just her pleasure,” Kit said. “It is mine…and all my family’s. Besides, if Lucie has finally chosen a husband, you’ll want Anabel’s firsthand account of the excitement.”
“If your sister thinks she has chosen a husband, she may find herself brought up sharply against your parents’ wishes. And mine. Surely she does not think she is entirely at her own liberty in the matter?”
“No,” Kit said ruefully. “But that only adds to the excitement. Lucie can be very stubborn when she’s made up her mind.”
Like Will, Elizabeth thought wistfully. Not that William’s stubbornness in getting his own way had worked to his benefit. All the more reason for her to ensure her own daughter knew perfectly well how to subdue her desires to the greater good of England’s people.
But Elizabeth could never bear to shoot Kit down entirely. Besides, he had a point. She herself meant to travel on progress from the last week of July through August, to escape London’s heat and odors and illness, and she had not anticipated taking Anne with her.
“I will discuss matters with my council,” she told Kit repressively, extending her hand, glittering with jewels, to allow him to kiss it. “And if their approval is acquired, I shall consider allowing the princess to visit Wynfield.”
He kissed her hand with the kind of graceful flourish that had always eluded his father, and said, “You are truly our most gracious and wise queen.”
Even if she knew it for flattery, she was willing to accept the triumph such praises brought.
—
Mary was quite pleased with the progress she’d made with Stephen Courtenay. Knowing something of his family, she did not expect open admiration from him, but he had taken to spending significant parts of each day in her company. He always rode with her, and she made a point of seeking his company and attention while she worked with her ladies at more feminine pursuits.
“Do you not weary of a being in a household of females, Lord Somerset?” she asked archly as she drew her needle through her current tapestry-in-progress, a depiction of Penelope at her own loom, spinning and unspinning day and night until her husband’s return. “I imagine your upbringing was much more masculine.”
“I do have two sisters, Your Majesty, and a mother. I think our household was well balanced between physical and intellectual pursuits. And if I am not myself handy with a needle, I admire those who are.”
“I am, of course, no stranger to physical pursuits,” Mary mused. “I was an excellent huntress, and loved both the pursuit with hounds and falconry. I miss the wider options of my former life greatly.”
“Then you must at least appreciate being allowed to ride. You have not always enjoyed such freedom.”
She shot a suspicious glance at him, but even when bordering on an indelicate subject, Stephen Courtenay managed to look innocent. She decided not to take offense. “It is true that my cousin has occasionally exercised her will against me most unjustly.”