Elizabeth I (69 page)

We were of the same family. Was there anything, anything I had inherited that she might value? Mary Boleyn . . . I did have the Boleyn
B
necklace. She had given it to my mother; after my mother died I had kept it in memory of her but never worn it.

I had never known my grandmother Mary Boleyn. She had died the summer before I was born. I was said to be very like her in looks and temperament. I knew that, like me, she had married a younger man after her husband died, and it had caused a bit of a scandal—not because he was young but because he had no rank. Well, I knew all about that: two earls as husbands, then a plain gentleman, turned into a “Sir” only by my previous husband knighting him.

I remembered her young husband, though—William Stafford. He had come with us to Geneva when we fled England during Queen Mary's reign. There he had died, unfortunately just before it was safe to return. What an unhappy life my whole family had had. We seemed to be under some sort of indictment. It was only through my son that we had a chance at going down in history. The rest of us would be forgotten, lying in forgotten graves.

I kept my grandmother's necklace in a stout table chest with brass bindings. I had not opened the little box inside, containing the necklace, in many years. The hinge was stuck, and for a moment it refused to open. I did not want to break it, but I kept prying the tiny lids apart and slowly it gave way. Inside lay the initial
B
pendant with three pearls hanging from it, suspended on a gold chain. Carefully I drew it out, held it in the palm of my hand. The gold was undimmed, but the pearls had clouded a bit, their luster filmed over. It had been many years since it had hung on a woman's neck. Someone told me once that pearls should be worn next to the skin to keep them shining, and that the best way to do that was to have a kitchen maid wear them when she worked. That seemed a good way to lose them to thievery, so I had never tried it. But the pearls needed moisture. I would rub some olive oil on them.

A world lay in that necklace—the vanished hopes of the Boleyns. Truly, dull though they might be, these were pearls of great price. I had said no pearls, but these were different. They came trailing a lost world, the one from which we both sprang.

As the days wore on, we awaited the royal summons. Robert assured me that she would be issuing it shortly; she planned her schedule only a few days ahead.

“Assassins,” he said. “They must not know her whereabouts in advance.”

I carefully selected my clothes for the forthcoming occasion. I would dress plainly, soberly, and keep my red hair, still my best feature, neatly tucked under a cap. But most important, what would I say? And what would be the setting to say it in? She would receive me in a great public ceremony, as she did everyone she wished formally to recognize. That would be in the presence chamber, before the entire court. But afterward ... would she invite me to supper? Or to sit beside her at a musical performance, where we could talk privately?

What would I tell her? Should I leap backward over the troubled years, back to our youth, when we were both Protestants under threat? Once we had been friends; I had looked up to her, my decade-older cousin, admired her, wished to be like her. She always seemed so sure of herself, so circumspect, so self-contained. I never saw her make a mistake, take a false step, whether in games or in speech. Later I came to resent it as a standard I could never attain. I made mistake after mistake, spoke when I should have kept silent, misread motives, wanted things too fiercely for my own good. It had taken me a lifetime to learn what Elizabeth was seemingly born knowing. But now that I had, wearily, come more or less to the same place, I was ready to make peace, yes, even to bow to her as the wise one, the victor.

I would tell her how grateful I was to be received again ... how sad the years away had been ... how fine she looked ... how I had longed to embrace my dear cousin and to enter into her life again.

I would not ask her forgiveness because I had committed no crime—beyond wounding her vanity. Best to leave that unsaid. But what I wanted to say—and never could, of course—was that Leicester was not worth it. In the years since his death, it had become obvious that he left no memory or legacy; he had been all presence and no substance. Even his supposed friend, Edmund Spenser, wrote:

“Vapoured to nought” ... Yes, he had completely disappeared from memory, from history. There had been nothing there, or it could not have vanished so instantly and completely. Even a beloved hound lingers longer in the memory of its owner than Leicester had done in the country's consciousness.

Leicester should come between us no longer. Let him keep to his grave.

January gave way to February, and still no summons. More and more nervous, I kept questioning Robert about her mood, her health. Was she well? Keeping to her chamber?

Quite well, he said. Attending plays and enjoying them. Playing her virginals regularly, dancing with her ladies.

Could he not remind her of her promised invitation?

He laughed. “Mother, you have forgotten her nature. To remind her of anything is to rebuke her, and she does not take that kindly. Lately it is worse, as she actually does forget things and is fiercely sensitive about it. In the past, her ‘forgetting' was politic, a way to make people dance to her tune. Now it is real.”

What if she had truly forgotten? I had not reckoned on that. “Do you mean ... Is she becoming senile?”

“Only selectively,” he said. “With her, it is hard to tell.”

“Can you not whisper a hint to her?”

“That might be dangerous,” he said. “One does not want to anger the tyrant.”

“I assume you mean that as a general principle, not that she
is
a tyrant?”

He shrugged. “What was the definition of a tyrant in ancient times? A ruler who behaved capriciously and unpredictably, with absolute power. She has long done so, excusing it by her ‘sexly weakness'—blaming it on being a woman. But a tyrant in petticoats is just as much a tyrant as one in breeches.”

“You should try to put those thoughts out of your mind and be in love with her again,” I warned him. “For politics' sake.”

At last the invitation was delivered. The Countess of Leicester was bidden to Whitehall on February 28, to come to Her Majesty's privy chamber.

I clasped the letter to my bosom. This was my deliverance; this was my reward for years of patient waiting and for the pain of recognizing my own part in our estrangement. A biblical phrase came to me (we never forget our childhood drills) that in its beauty and peace was like a caress from God: “And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten.” God can actually restore time, a Geneva preacher had said. Others can restore the goods, but only God can restore time.

My time would be restored, and Elizabeth and I would be young cousins again.

I waited nervously in the privy chamber, standing with a group of courtiers who were expecting her to emerge from her inner rooms at any moment. It was ten in the morning, and soon she would be going to dinner, passing through the chamber. Suddenly my dress felt too tight; I had trouble taking a good breath. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. She must be coming. But moments passed and nothing happened. At length a guard announced that Her Majesty would not be coming through the privy chamber; she had taken the private door from her apartments.

She had deliberately done this! I could hardly grasp her meanness in inviting me for a specific time and then avoiding it. I was insulted, shocked, disappointed beyond words. And more important: What should I do now?

Robert had a suggestion: He could ensure an invitation for me to a private banquet that she would attend.

An invitation to a great dinner party given by a rich noble, Lady Shandos, was procured, and I took myself to it, again wearing what I called my modesty outfit. Lady Shandos made a fuss about welcoming me and gave me a seat high in ranking.

And when would the Queen arrive? Her carriage was reportedly ready outside the royal apartments, waiting for her departure.

It waited and waited, and the voices at the banquet table grew tired and hushed. Then came a message for Lady Shandos: Her Majesty would not be coming.