She remembered the ritual; the burning of incense which filled the room with aromatic odors and vapors. She remembered how the wax male figure had been undressed until it was as naked as that of the woman. The two figures were then put together on a minute couch and made to go through the motions of making love while fresh heated pins were thrust into the wax figure of Essex.
At first Frances had been repelled but gradually she had become elated by these spectacles she was forced to witness.
She believed in the black magic, for had she not noticed a change in her lover since she had begun to partake in it? There was fresh power in his pen, for only a lover could write the letters he was now writing to her; nor did he wait until there was need to write; the letters came frequently, accompanied by poems in praise of her beauty and the joy their lovemaking brought to him.
From an upper window of the house at Lambeth a woman watched Lady Essex ride away accompanied by her maid.
“Quality this time,” said the woman to herself with a smirk. “I will say this for Simon, he knows how to get hold of the right people.”
She left the window and going to the head of the stairs peered down. All was silence. Where was he now? In that room where he received his clients? Handling the lewd images. Trust him.
What a man!
Jane Forman laughed and wondered how she herself had come to marry him. She had been glad to; there was something about Simon which made him different from every other man she had known. He was a witch.
Once she said to him: “What if I were to betray you to the finders, Simon?”
And he had looked at her in a way which had made her blood run cold. She knew that if she were foolish enough to do that he would make sure she suffered for it. As if she would! What? When he could make such a comfortable living for them!
She reckoned she had been a good wife to him; she had never grumbled when he had seduced the maids. He had told her he needed a variety of women; it was the command of his master that he should have no virgins under his roof because they would have come between him and his work, bringing a purity into the house, and that was not good when one worked with the devil.
She might have argued that Simon had soon sent virginity flying from his house, so that he need not have worked so hard in his master’s cause. But one did not argue with Simon. One was thankful for the good living he made and accepted him, his mistresses and his illegitimate children, of whom that haughty Anne Turner was doubtless one.
The two of them were closeted together for hours at a time. Making plans, he told her, for the treatment of this new client who was the richest that had ever fallen into their hands.
She slowly descended the stairs and made her way to the door of the receiving chamber.
“Simon,” she said, “did you call?”
There was no answer, so cautiously she opened the door and looked in. The smell of incense lingered, but the curtains had been drawn back now to let in a little daylight and the candles were out.
She shut the door quietly behind her and went to the table. There she stood looking round the room. She saw the large box on the bench and opening it, disclosed the wax figures.
She sniggered.
“What a fine gentleman!” she whispered. And there was the lady, with what looked like real hair. And what a figure!
She could imagine the tricks he got up to with them.
Still there was money in it—and they lived by it.
“Mustn’t be caught in here,” she whispered; then she opened the door, looked out, made sure she was unobserved and went quickly and quietly back upstairs.
Robert hurried into the apartment where Overbury sat at work.
“Tom,” he cried, “write me a letter quickly … a letter of regret.”
“To the lovely Countess?” said Overbury with a smile.
“Yes. I had promised to be with her this evening and the King had commanded me to attend him.”
“How inconvenient it sometimes is to be so popular!” murmured Overbury.
“And when it is finished will you take it to Hammersmith for me.”
“To Hammersmith?”
“Yes, I was to meet her there … at the house of a Mistress Turner. I cannot stay now, but you know the kind of things. Your letters delight her. Tell her that I am desolate … you know so well how to put it.”
Robert went off and Overbury returned to his table a little disgruntled. It was one thing to write the flowery epistles, but to be asked to deliver them like some page boy was a little humiliating. And Hammersmith! Mistress Anne Turner! He had heard of the name. He believed she was a connection of Dr. Forman the notorious swindler, who might even be a witch. The man had been in trouble once or twice and called upon to answer for his misdeeds. Surely the Countess of Essex was not involved with people like this!
However, there was nothing to do but write the letter and take it to the woman.
An hour later he was riding out to Hammersmith, but his mood had not improved as he journeyed there. Was it absurd for a man of his talents to be employed thus? It was said in some quarters that Rochester ruled the King and Overbury ruled Rochester; and in that case did not Overbury rule England?
He liked to hear such talk. But at the same time it made it doubly uncomfortable to be riding out as a messenger for illicit lovers.
A maid let him into the house and when he asked to see the Countess of Essex without delay, he was shown into a handsome room. He had not been there many seconds before the door was flung open and a voice cried: “Robert, my dearest …” and then stopped.
The Countess was wearing a low-cut gown which after the new fashion exposed her breasts; her long hair was loose; and there was a silver ruff about her neck.
Her expression grew cold as she looked at him.
“My lady, I bring you a letter from Viscount Rochester.”
She snatched it ungraciously.
“So he is not coming,” she said.
“The King commanded his presence.”
Her mouth was sullen and she looked like a child who, disappointed of a longed-for treat, turns her anger on the one who tells her she cannot have it for a while.
“Return to my lord,” she said, “and thank him for sending you. But you will be in need of refreshment. It shall be given to you in the kitchens.”
“I am in no need of refreshment, my lady, and I do not eat in kitchens. Perhaps I should have introduced myself. Sir Thomas Overbury at your service.”
“Yes, I know you to be a servant of my lord Rochester.”
She turned away, her manner insolent.
Hatred surged up in Overbury. The wanton slut! How dared she. So she had heard of him! Had she heard that he was the man who worked behind the scenes and that it was due to his services that Robert Carr had been able to hold his place with the King’s ministers? How dared she offer him such insolence!
She had gone and he was left standing there.
He did not remain; he went out to his horse and rode hard back to Court.
I shall not forget your insults to me, Lady Essex, he thought.
The September day had been warm and the windows were open to the garden as Jane Forman and her husband sat together while the maids served them with supper.
The doctor was in a mellow mood. The Countess had called that day and that event always pleased him.
Jane wondered how much money he was making from that deal and how long he would be able to keep it going. By surreptitious visits to his receiving room and peeps into the diary he kept—for she could read a little—she knew that the Countess was in love with Viscount Rochester whom all knew was one of the most famous men at Court, and that she wanted to be rid of her husband, the Earl of Essex. Jane knew only one way of getting rid of husbands; also that Simon did not care to sell poisons. He had been in trouble too many times to want more; and supplying poisons could bring him real trouble.