She had a hooked nose and pitiless eyes. I did not flinch from her glance, nor turn my gaze down modestly. In response, she offered me no warmth nor a smile nor any kind gesture at all. But I saw, in her eyes, that she knew who I was and she rejected me as she had my mother.
That night I unwrapped the glass that Kate had given to me and stared at my features—my eyes, brown like Lord Thomas’s. My hair, brown like Thomas’s, in direct opposition to the rest of my family, all wheaten blonds. My cheekbones, high like those of all the Seymours. My nose was like my mother’s, as were my bowed lips. Whose spirit did I have? I had thought it was my father’s, Hugh St. John’s. Now I knew not.
The next day I took to the stables, with a servant, to ride down to Marlborough.
I had the servant stable the horses and then instructed one of my mother’s men to house him whilst we remained.
“Mistress Juliana!” My mother’s chamberlain was surprised to see me. “Is your mother expecting you?”
I shook my head.
“But ’tis good of you to come now, whilst you have the chance,” he said. “She is abed, ill. But of course you know that.”
I did not know my mother was so ill; I had written to her and she had not responded. From time to time Hugh corresponded with me, but letter writing was never one of his better accomplishments and I heard from him less often than I would have liked to.
I made my way to her chamber, and it was as dark as Kate’s had been, which was unusual, for my mother was not fond of being shut in. I knocked on her door and Lucy’s mother, who also looked drawn, answered it.
“Mistress!” she said. “Your mother will be glad that you have come.” She stepped out of the way and let me pass toward my mother’s bedside.
“Juliana,” my mother said. “’Tis a surprise to see you here.”
I spoke forthrightly; my mother would know if I did otherwise, as it was not my habit to dither. “I did not know you were so ill, madam, but I would have come immediately if I had known.”
She nodded and did not apologize for not sending for me, but she did not speak unkindly to me either. “I hear that Queen Kateryn has died. It seems she has bested me even in death.”
I must have looked shocked, as she smiled faintly and said, “Even here in Marlborough we quickly get gossip through the servants.”
“She has died,” I said, “of childbed fever. She delivered of a daughter … Mary.”
My mother held my gaze, looking, I knew, to see if I would disclose in some way that I knew that Mary and I were sisters. I did not flinch. “So what brings you, then?”
“The queen asked me to remain as mistress of Mary’s household until such time as Lord Thomas remarries and the baby is thus settled with her new mother,” I said, “who will then take charge and choose a governess.”
“I shall expect it will not take long for Lord Thomas to remarry,” my mother said confidently. “And then … what shall you do? Matthias has taken a bride, and they already have a small son. Does your young Irish knight await your release?”
At that, I flinched. “No, madam, he does not.”
She sat up a little and looked me straight on. “He did not seem to me to be one who is easily turned away nor one who would take comfortably to defeat.”
“Alas,” I said, “he has returned to Ireland to find a bride. There is a man, a widower, Sir Richard Hibbart, who is presently fighting the Scots but who has asked to call upon me when he returns.”
“And this is your desire?” she asked.
I shrugged and said, “Might I beg a favor, lady?”
She nodded.
“The queen left Lord Thomas a wealthy man, and she instructed him to provide her child with the household befitting her standing. She has many servants already, but I should like to ask Lucy and her husband to join the household until I return to Marlborough, or marry. If you agree.”
My mother sank back and closed her eyes. “Yes, yes, of course. Until Hugh returns with his bride, we have very little need here.” She waved her hand. “If Lucy and Gerald so choose. And then you shall return here?”
“Yes. Unless Sir Richard contacts you or Hugh, I shall return to Marlborough.”
I looked upon her as she lay there, so quiet and still. She had lost much of her vitality after the death of my father. “Shall I read to you?” I asked quietly. “For comfort?”
She shook her head and I stood to leave. She reached out and held my arm. “But you may remain beside me whilst I rest.”
I sat down and gradually her grip softened and then her arm fell back upon the bed. When it did, I reached my own hand out and rested it upon hers. Her face was younger, smoother, softer as she slept. Even now, she was still captivatingly beautiful. It was not hard to see what Lord Thomas had seen in her, nor my father. To her credit, she had been as gentle to my father as she’d been harsh to me. I understood why now, and whilst it softened it some, that knowledge could never fully heal the bruise of her rejection.
After an hour, I kissed her cheek and then slipped away to find Lucy, who was beside herself with joy at the idea of coming to London for a time. When I inquired as to the nature of my mother’s illness, she told me then that the lump in my mother’s breast had grown and she might not live to see our return. When I spoke to my mother about remaining with her, she pressed me to leave anyway.
Within a week she had Lucy’s mother send news that she was upon her deathbed, but that we were not to return as she would be simply buried at St. Peter’s, with the man who remained my father in my heart and mind, Sir Hugh St. John.
One night in early October we were all in the music room of Wulf Hall talking quietly, bathing in the warm firelight, and listening to the delicate pluckings of the virginals. All could overhear Lady Seymour and Lord Thomas talking.
“You cannot stay here forever,” she said. “It has been a month now. You have other duties to attend to and so do I. The expense of having your household remain here any longer is more than I care to bear.”
He looked taken aback, and mayhap rejected, like a little boy. Then I understood that Lord Thomas and I had something even deeper in common. “Edward has invited us to Syon,” he said. “And I mean to take him up on his offer.”
Lord Thomas was taking his household to stay with his brother?
“Edward is a good, righteous man,” his mother stated bluntly.
“I do not recall you speaking thusly of me, lady mother.”
“You lead with your mouth, Thomas, whilst Edward leads with his head.” She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist and Lord Thomas stalked from the room as the virginal player strove to play louder still to cover over the exchange.
I looked at Lady Margery Seymour and decided to approach her. It would not have been unexpected for her to have a word for me as I was there with her granddaughter’s household. So far she had steadfastly refused, and whenever the situation looked as though we might have to discourse she immediately turned her back and took her leave, as she did now. She would not spare one word of kindness or recognition toward me, and had held the babe but once whilst we were there.
I stopped by Mary’s room before going to my own, and looked down upon her still, sleeping body. I could not resist the urge to pick her up, and so I did. She did not wake but, after rustling, fell back into a deep sleep nestled thus in my arms. The moonlight poured in through her cross-paned window, lighting her small face, and I whispered, “What shall become of you?” to her before kissing her and putting her back in her cradle.
We left Wulf Hall two days later, for London.
Syon House was grand, fit for a king, which was only right since Anne Stanhope considered herself nearly royal. I noted with rising bile that she often wore Kate’s jewelry. Upon my arrival I sent a letter, via messenger, to Kat Ashley to ask her for some guidance with Mary’s household, as Kate had advised.