Pacing restlessly up and down the room went Tom Seymour, his eyes constantly returning to the bright-haired girl in the chair.
And Elizabeth was aware from head to foot of that scrutiny… She sat demure with downcast eyes, her hair a red-gold nimbus against the dark carving of the chair, and the downcast eyes following his movements.
Seymour stalked to the table, poured a cup of wine from the decanter and tossed it off almost at a swallow. He glanced at her, went to the window and jerked the curtains aside. Black night and gloomy rain. Thomas dropped the curtains in a gesture eloquent with disgust and turned away.
“Still raining?” Elizabeth inquired in a limpid, conversational tone.
“Aye. It will never stop.”
“It is spring rain.”
“Fog, damp, drizzle, cold! The smells that rise out of the rushes make the floor move — aye, crawl—”
“They will be freshened come summer. And summer is near at hand. Have you forgot, a week since there was bright sunshine and the May trees were in bloom?”
“Bess!” Seymour thundered, “cease prating like a nurse to a peevish child. Oh, put that damned piece of work down; it makes me crawl like the floor boards… Come play cards with me.”
“I should be with Kate.” Elizabeth bent lower over her embroidery, her long lips curled in a smile veiled by her falling hair.
“Can she not even lie abed without the whole of the house flapping and squawking like a hen roost?” Seymour demanded.
“She — and you—have five more months to go,” Elizabeth returned drily. “You’d best accustom yourself to it.”
“I see no reason for the whole house to domesticate itself, so that even you turn house cat and sit by the fire and sew!”
“What’s this?” Elizabeth rapped out sharply. “One would think you had turned cat, not I!”
“Bess, leave off.” His voice was angry. “You speak of matters you know nothing of.”
He picked up the decanter and poured himself another drink. His hand shook with anger, and the wine slopped onto the table.
“I know what ails you,” she said in the same dry, curt fashion, “and getting drunk will not help it.”
“You were better to have a draught yourself and bring a sweeter speech to your tongue.”
Elizabeth sorted a skein of silver thread, clipped it, drew it through her needle.
“If you do not like it here, there are other places in the house you can go to,” she pointed out with dulcet reasonableness. “In the great hall below there’s still a maid or two about— or if not there, the kitchen’s full of ’em, and not abed—yet.” “God’s soul! ” Seymour burst out, swinging round and taking a step toward her. “There be times when I could fetch you one across the mouth! What mean you, to speak to me like this? You grow more uncivil every day you live, I swear you do.”
Bess looked up.
“There! Peace! I meant no harm, Tom. I did but wish to divert you—to lift your black humor.”
“Bess—” Seymour muttered. And stopped.
“What?” She cocked her head in a bird’s swift, darting movement, shaking back her hair.
“Nothing. I did not speak.”
“You did begin and I would have you finish.”
The words were childishly importunate; but her eyes held his and what gleamed in them was not childish…
“Go back to your sewing,” he bade her brusquely. “I am not always in the mood for jesting.”
Elizabeth spoke softly and very clearly: “I would not leave in a gentleman’s eyes what could be brought to his lips.” Seymour stared at her, his blue eyes smoldering. He did not answer directly. He muttered thickly to himself, “You are! By God—you are!”
“I’m what?”
Elizabeth’s dark eyebrows were raised.
“Too near like your mother.”
Her face lit with eagerness.
“How—like her?”
“Do not ask me.” Seymour turned away from her, paced to the curtained window again.
“How like her, Thomas?” Elizabeth was smiling with excitement now. “Was she beautiful?”
“No!” Seymour returned sharply as a blow.
“But he found her so—my father,” Elizabeth countered, softly.
“God! who didn’t?” the man broke out, goaded beyond endurance. “Fire in a man’s blood she was — and no more face to credit her than you have! ”
“And I am like her?” the soft, clear whisper persisted. Seymour jerked his shoulders, breathed deeply and thrust a hand through his hair.
“Talk of something else,” he ordered.
“Most willingly,” Elizabeth agreed sweetly.
She was throbbing with excitement and with impish satisfaction. Oh … this was a thrilling game … even a frightening game… And she’d won the first move…
She settled herself very upright in her chair and patted her shining skirts.
“When do you go to Whitehall?” she inquired with polite interest.
“Why should I go to Whitehall?” Seymour growled.
“Why—to pick up a Dukedom to match your brother’s, for sure! I hear how Lord Hertford grows in height these days. The Duke of Somerset now! Protector Somerset! The name has more weight than my brother the King’s.”
“What are these things to you?”
“You are strangely without ambition, Thomas. You should go there.”
“I? Without ambition?” He threw back his head and laughed aloud. “My girl, talk of what you know. … If it concern you—I need not be at Court these days to enrich myself. Nor, I fancy, to climb to where I would stand.”
“You need not,” Elizabeth said with meaning.
Seymour gazed at her.
“By God! It is you. … You want to trail your skirts across the floors at Whitehall! Is that it?”
“I am the King’s sister,” she said.
“I think not, for you are not my brother’s sister. …”
She let the sewing fall into her lap, the needle dangling at the end of its glistening thread. The provocative laughter had blown out in her white face. Her eyes went dark, the pupils distended till they looked black against her white skin…
“Sol” she breathed. "“I was right. He sits upon my brother’s throne and enriches himself at the people’s cost. They do not like it.” She paused, her voice rang suddenly. “I do not like it either.”
Seymour’s face was comically surprised.
“Well! There’s more goes on in this little head than I knew. Now, my good brother reckons himself to be the champion of the people … but what are these things to you, Bess?”
“I know what goes on in England,” she answered with an assurance which made him blink. He attempted to speak in a rallying tone.
“And would to Court, to have a hand in it?”
“I love my brother,” Elizabeth said calmly. “And I would be with him.”
“And so you shall—when he sends for you,” Seymour told her teasingly.
“When he remembers that I live,” she said on a flash of bitterness, and picked up her embroidery again.
“When next I see him,” Seymour yawned, “I will mention you.”
“When next you see him, you will take him this.” She held out the piece of work. “It is for him. A book cover, such as I used to make him when we were smaller. He will remember.”
Seymour fingered it carefully.
“Well! You are an excellent needlewoman. This is a fine conceit. What is it?”
He was speaking with a sort of amused condescension, deliberately keeping the talk in a lighter, bantering key…
“Letters! Those who can spell can read,” Elizabeth informed him pertly.
“E … R … Now, what is that?” Seymour ruminated. ‘Ah! the E’s for Edward.”