The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(64)
With a laugh, Anabel passed Stewart over to her mother’s councilors, who were less likely to be impressed by his manners. They would want to know what was being offered for their princess in terms of cold, hard advantage.
Anabel spent the next few hours attending to her own business matters. Matthew Harrington had proved the wisest choice possible as her treasurer—like Burghley, he had the knack of tying together seemingly unrelated matters and making the most complex transactions clearly understandable in a wider context. They worked well together, and even her mother had commented on how profitably Anabel’s investments and estates were faring.
Matthew also had the knack of sticking to essentials. He did not engage in small talk or gossip. So Anabel was taken by surprise when he said at the end of their workday, “I hear that Esmé Stewart is an appealing man.”
“Would you like an introduction?”
His mouth twitched up and Anabel realized how it suddenly lightened her heart to see any sign of happiness. Matthew had always been reserved, but since his father’s death there had been an unmistakable oppression to his spirits. “Lady Philippa said that you would like him. That if it were Stewart himself being offered, you might be tempted.”
“She said that? Before or after she went to Spain?”
“Before.”
“Well, unless Pippa offered to find a way to divest Esmé Stewart of his wife and four—or is it five?—children, then there is only James on offer from Scotland. A sixteen-year-old Protestant king, or a twenty-four-year-old French Catholic prince? Which one would be best for my account books, do you think?”
“That I cannot tell you, Your Highness.”
“I suppose I shall have to wait for Pippa’s return for guidance. It cannot come soon enough.”
His answer was so quick and fervent, she almost didn’t recognize his voice. “I agree.”
Oh dear. How many romantic secrets were being kept around court just now? At least the best that could be said of her situation was that no one in France or Scotland was likely to be brokenhearted whatever choice England made.
The morning after Esmé Stewart’s arrival, the queen summoned her daughter for a private tête-à-tête. Anabel had been enjoying the last few weeks so much that she was slow to recognize the purpose behind this particular conversation. They settled into cushioned seats embroidered in a riot of flowers and vines, a table with gingerbread and pear cider in easy reach.
“And how do you like the Duke of Lennox?” her mother asked.
“Does it matter? I am not on offer to Esmé Stewart, but to the king who is young enough to be his son.”
Her mother merely blinked and waited. Anabel sighed. “I would say he is a very good man. Having met him, I believe that his conversion to the Protestant faith is sincere, and not politically motivated. He serves his king well.”
“So he does. And just now, there is no one in Scotland better situated than the Duke of Lennox to offer us the truth of James’s intentions. And the truth is, James refuses to discuss any possible bride except you.”
Anabel didn’t think she quite matched her mother’s air of disinterest. “Of course not. He is determined to have England.”
“Marrying you does not give him England,” her mother pointed out sharply. “There is no question of any husband of yours receiving the crown matrimonial. It will be a marriage of rulers, not kingdoms. Only if you have a son together might the question arise of a united kingdom.”
“Pity for my own father I wasn’t a son, then.”
Did that make her mother flinch? Elizabeth had never shown any sign of wishing Anabel had been a boy, but then the queen was excellent at hiding her true feelings.
“It would not have mattered. England and Spain could never be reasonably combined, whatever your sex. But England and Scotland? I suspect that is inevitable.”
“It sounds as though you are decided. I will be betrothed to James, and the Duc d’Anjou will go home. Disappointed in his ambitions.” As for her, Anabel hardly knew what she felt.
“Not so disappointed,” her mother disagreed.
The queen reached for a cup of cider, then drew her hand back. In any other woman, Anabel would have thought it a sign of nerves.
But her mother’s expression was one of disinterest as she continued. “I do you the courtesy of informing you first of what I will discuss in council later today. When we announce your betrothal to King James of Scotland, we shall simultaneously announce my own betrothal to Francis, Duc d’Anjou.”
Surprise made Anabel indelicate. “You are twice his age!”
“And has that ever been an issue for a king taking a wife?”
“You are not a king.”
In the furious snap of her eyes, the Queen of England subsumed the mother. “Of course I am! And so must you be. If you are determined to play the child, then you will never be fit to rule.”
All at once Anabel knew precisely what she was feeling. Cold, hard fury. She had controlled her own impulses. She had put Kit out of her mind as best she could. She had submitted to being paraded like a broodmare, to setting her mind to accept men she had no personal attraction to, had allowed herself to believe that sentiment had no place in affairs of royal matrimony. But what was her mother doing if not behaving sentimentally?