Of a sudden, I recalled to me Kate’s bitter comment that Lady Seymour “promises her friends many comings and performs none.”
“Now, good Cecil, help at a pinch all that you may help. Will you plead on behalf of the allowance allocated for the queen’s daughter, to be sent to me at once? Additionally Lady Seymour hath promised that certain nursery plate should be provided for Mary. See to it that you attend to this with haste, dear Cecil, as the child’s mistress, along with the maid’s nurse and others, daily call for their wages, whose voices my ears hardly bear, but my coffers much worse.”
She looked at me. “Have you more to say, Mistress St. John?”
I seethed with the implication that I came daily as a lowborn beggar but also felt shamed for all that we were required to beg on Mary’s behalf. “I would only respectfully remind the council, which is much bent, and rightly so, upon religious reform, that Saint James reminds us that pure devotion that is undefiled before God is to care for orphans and widows in their distress.”
I turned and held her gaze and she mine. She knew I lightly rebuked her as well as them but I did not care. “I should like to visit my Lord and Lady Herbert, if I may, the queen’s sister, to plead for their intervention upon this matter. I shall leave the babe in the careful hands of her nurse and other attendants.”
“’Tis a fine idea,” she said a little dismissively.
I sent a messenger requesting a meeting with Lady Herbert, the queen’s sister, and arranged to see her the following week. She met me in the oak-paneled room of Baynard’s Castle, the whole house of which had been given to her as a gift by the queen.
“’Tis good to see you again, Juliana,” she said. Her warmth toward me gave me much hope. “How does my niece?”
I smiled. “She thrives. She can now roll over well on either side, and she has several teeth that harry her nurse. I read to her, often, especially from Kate’s work, and she is in all manner a joy. Do come and call upon us and see for yourself.”
“I will,” she said. There was a silence. I knew she waited for me to broach the subject of our visit.
“You may be aware that the council had voted to allocate five hundred pounds for Mary’s care,” I said. “And yet, none comes.”
She looked genuinely disturbed. “Has the Duchess of Suffolk approached them?”
“Many times.”
“I fear I do not see how I can assist in this.”
“If, by some evil token, the funds are not forwarded to the duchess, and she is unable to care for the child, will the babe have a home with you here?”
She sat quietly for some time. “I wish it were, but I do not think that is viable.”
“But why not?” My voice raised. “Did not Kate take your young son into her household and care for him out of her own privy purse?”
Lady Herbert nodded. “She did. But his care was not so dear as the care for the daughter of a queen. I am sorry. I wish I could help, but Lord Herbert will not agree to it, of this I am certain. But I will pray for a ready and meet solution.”
“Lord Herbert has himself been enriched in all manner by Kate’s marriage to the king. Mayhap he could sell one of the manors settled upon him as a result of that bounty and provide the yield to Lady Mary.”
“He will not do thusly, Juliana. I am certain.”
I stood up and snapped on my riding gloves. “Then there is little more to say, my lady. But I thank you for seeing me.”
She smiled sadly and saw me out. I rode home; the serving men who rode with me lathered their horses keeping up.
The next day the duchess asked me what I had learned from the Herberts and when I told her she did not seem surprised.
“I shall write to the queen’s brother,” I said, hope rising again. “And see if he might speak with the council on this matter.”
“He has a weak back for such a burden,” the duchess said. I curtseyed slightly and left.
Within a week I received a letter from William Parr’s wife, Elisabeth, saying that, regrettably, they would be unable to assist. The lord protector was still enraged over their marriage and they were in no position to plead a case and might not long have a household together in which to raise a child. Elisabeth suggested the Seymour family.
Late that night I sat in my chamber, braiding and unbraiding my hair whilst I thought, letting the candle burn down to a soft disc. Was there no one interested in this delightful child, whose mother had done so much for them? And after all, Mary was cousin to the king.
As I finally dressed myself for bed, I realized something with a start. So am I.
The Duchess of Suffolk sent us to her estate in Lincolnshire, Grims-thorpe. It was less expensive there, she said. She also cut Mary’s staff back to her nurse, Mrs. Marwick; myself—who drew no salary; Lucy and Gerald; and a handful of others. “It is temporary,” she said, “and not sustainable. The child will soon need tutors, instructors, and expensive gowns and shoes. Cecil will apply to have the taint removed from Mary’s name and her titles and funds restored to her. Her household can,” she said pointedly, “repay me at that time.”
I nodded solemnly, fervently hoping that funds would be forthcoming for such a repayment.
The duchess did not accompany us to Grimsthorpe; instead, she remained in London with most of her household spending time and money with Cecil for Stranger churches. These were being built so that those who were persecuted for their reformed faith on the Continent would have somewhere to worship, and mayhap stay, once they reached England’s shores.
As we rode out of London, I remembered the Countess of Sussex’s prophetic vision about the king’s death. He had been on the throne two and one-half years. If her prophecy was correct—and she had always been true—he was halfway through his reign. I hoped that those building the Stranger churches were themselves prepared to flee to Stranger churches when the Lady Mary became queen. The rest of the way to Lincolnshire I thought about what would become of my sister, Lady Mary Seymour, daughter of absolute reformer families and presently with no money, no title, and no protector who would think to snatch her to safety as he fled the country if need be.
In October, when the leaves progressed from green to gold to russet, I received another visit from Dorothy Tyrwhitt. She and two servants had traveled an achingly long day to come to me.
I embraced her and stoked the fire in the chamber I’d had set aside for her in Mary’s rooms.
“It is cheerless here,” she said, noting the small staff, the empty hallways, and the distinct lack of furniture and tapestries in many of the rooms. The duchess kept her best pieces with her in London. “This is no place for you nor for a child. I had not imagined you as a governess. You were always so spirited!”
“’Twill be better once the duchess is in residence, assuredly,” I said, avoiding her comment about my station, which, I admit, did not seem suitable for my disposition or inclinations. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you much of interest,” I said. “But our cook is fine and is particularly good with the venison, which is well aged. Please rest, and then after we sup we shall walk together.”
We strolled the autumn gardens, relishing the cold, like ice on a burn, arm in arm, as we had so many years ago at Lady Latimer’s, and she shared gossip of London and the court. “Lady Herbert, the queen’s sister, is with child again,” she said.
“I wish her a safe delivery.” I swallowed the grudge I had toward her for Kate and Mary’s sake and Dorothy talked on of other tidbits of our friends and acquaintances.