The Girl in the Glass Tower (16 page)

‘I will stay until you are better. Gilbert cannot take offence if I am nursing my sick niece, can he?’

I felt in that moment that if I were to let go of her I would disappear for ever into the vortex of my own mind.

The disease ravaged me, leaving me weak and muddle-headed and anxious for news of Dodderidge, though none seemed forthcoming. I had lost all sense of time but was aware it had been a while since I had left my bedchamber. I was resting and reading a letter from Starkey that must have arrived some weeks before, as he talked of his plans for Christmas, which I knew had been and gone. It had been opened, this time without any attempt to hide the fact. There was nothing in it of interest to anyone but me, only abstract ideas extrapolated from his reading of the ancients. It made me miss keenly our conversations.

Joan entered brusquely with my best silk brocade gown in her arms. ‘Your grandmother wants you in the long gallery. Here, put this on.’

I stood holding my arms out obediently, while she whipped the gown over my crumpled petticoats, fastened a scratchy lace ruff about my neck and began bustling about the room, searching for gloves and sleeves.

‘Why this rush? Where is Aunt Mary?’

‘Your aunt left for Sheffield yesterday, do you not remember?’ She had tied my sleeves on and was scraping my hair
away from my face, up and over a wad of wool, twisting it and pinning it tightly at the back.

‘Of course, Sheffield.’ I’d thought my confusion was in abeyance but clearly it was not, for I had no memory of Aunt Mary’s departure. I had no memory of anything much, save a shadowy sense that something bad had happened. There was a woman hovering behind Joan, holding something which Joan snatched up sharply and fastened into the tower of hair she’d created.

‘Who is that?’ I whispered, wondering if the woman behind was really there or was one of the battalion of people that visited my dreams.

‘You know Bridget,’ she said loudly in reply. ‘Your aunt’s woman.’

Bridget stepped forward, smiling with reassuring apple cheeks, and I remembered then who she was. ‘Do forgive me, Bridget, I haven’t been myself lately.’

‘No need to apologize, My Lady. Your aunt asked that I stay with you.’

I felt the decoration fall from my hair, catching it as it dropped. It was Grandmother’s jewel, set with an emerald the size of a robin’s egg.

Joan was on hands and knees, fumbling beneath the bed. ‘There must be a pair of suitable shoes somewhere here.’

Bridget whispered, ‘If you have need to contact your aunt, I will pass on any –’ she stopped as Joan emerged, mouthing the word
letters
.

Something was wrong if I needed to pass letters secretly to Aunt Mary too. My unease proliferated and I wondered whether Bridget had news of Dodderidge.

‘I knew they were here somewhere.’ Joan shoved some slippers on to my feet. They were too tight. She stood back to appraise me – ‘Goodness, you look terrible’ – and began pinching some colour into my cheeks. No permission asked
to touch my person. I supposed it was no longer deemed necessary.

‘The jewel, where’s the jewel?’

I held it out. ‘It fell.’ She took it and began to pin it in my hair again. ‘Why am I wearing Grandmother’s emerald?’

‘I’m just doing as I’ve been told.’ Her mouth was a harsh line, full of pins. ‘Now, where are your pearls?’ She was searching, opening boxes, looking beneath things.

‘I sent them …’ Realizing what I was about to say, I stopped.

‘Sent them where?’ She looked like a cat with a glimpse of a mouse, ready to pounce.

‘I’m all in a muddle,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen them.’

There was a moment of suspended silence as she looked at me, pondering on whether I was lying. But then she harrumphed. ‘You’ll have to do without them, I suppose. There’s no time to look.’

‘What’s the hurry?’ I asked again, but as she marched me towards the door she merely replied that Grandmother would tell me.

‘Wait!’ I shook myself free from her grasp and went to the ewer, pouring some water into the basin.

‘There’s isn’t time for that.’ Joan was tugging at my shoulder.

Ignoring her, I sluiced my face with the cold water, feeling instantly better, more myself, and I could sense my wits returning. Bridget passed me a cloth. I rubbed my face dry, feeling icy droplets escaping down the front of my dress.

‘I must say, you look better for that,’ said Bridget, offering me her smile again, and I remembered her clearly then, how she and Aunt Mary had taken shifts to sit with me through the worst of my illness.

‘I
feel
better for it.’

Joan sucked her teeth. ‘Ready now?’

I sailed past her, out of the door, through Grandmother’s chamber, and marched smartly up the stairs, with hefty Joan in breathless pursuit.

Grandmother was pacing the gallery with Uncle William and Mister Reason. All my painted relatives looked down from the walls.

‘At last.’ She seemed agitated ‘Mister Reason, go down and tell our guest that we can receive him now.’

She took me aside, pulling me by the hand to the centre of the chamber. ‘The Queen’s agent is here to talk to you.’ Her rings bit into my fingers where she held me. ‘Now, for pity’s sake, don’t dig yourself further into this treason, my girl. I did not raise you to be another Katherine Grey. We will all be tarnished if you do not think of some plausible reason for your actions.’

Everything – my thoughts, the room, Grandmother’s voice, her face – was distorted and I tried to focus on the splash of icy water, as if the mere thought of it might irrigate my jumbled mind, but couldn’t quite put things into the correct order. Fear was gathering like dark clouds and I must have looked gormless, for she took both my shoulders and stopped just short of shaking me, saying, ‘Lord preserve us all.’

She began to walk then, linking her elbow through mine, indicating for Uncle William to hold my other arm, pacing as if we were taking our usual daily exercise in the gallery, under the watchful eyes of those ranks of relatives.

We were at the far end when Reason returned with a man who, from that distance, seemed to have few distinctive features, save for the fact that he wore a rather gaudy outfit of raspberry wool, the sort of thing designed to impress, and a tall black hat with a large bouncing feather, framing rather than disguising his receding hairline. He stopped. Reason
positioned himself with correct deference a little behind, wearing a frown.

Sir Henry Brouncker, for that is who my visitor was, seemed unable to prevent his gaze from floating about the room, clearly, by his open-mouthed look of wonder, marvelling at the stately proportions and the sheer expanses of glass. Grandmother purred beside me, seeming to forget momentarily her woes, as the place had the desired effect on this royal emissary, who would doubtless spread word of the Dowager Countess of Shrewsbury’s splendid abode.

‘Sir Henry,’ she raised her voice to be heard from the far reaches of the room. ‘Come, come.’ She beckoned with a gloved hand. I didn’t recognize those gloves, they were made of kid and gold lace, threaded with pearls and precious stones. Her dress, too, was scattered with jewels and I understood then why Joan had pinned the emerald pendant into my hair. Grandmother was determined to assert her status on this man in any way she could. She would intimidate him with our splendour. I looked at Uncle William on my other side. He was in embroidered silk and velvet, with an army of gold aiglets, and his gingery moustaches were trimmed and curled as if he was to sit for his portrait. I wondered if Brouncker was beginning to feel his raspberry suit a little less lavish. ‘Have you met my son, William Cavendish, and my granddaughter, the Lady Arbella?’

‘No indeed, I have not had the pleasure.’

The occasion seemed to be rubbing off on me, for my muddled thoughts began to form an orderly line. I noticed that Grandmother hadn’t introduced me as Her Highness as she always used to; my relatives on the walls were bearing witness to this denial. A flutter of fear palpitated in my throat as I watched the man approach, in his blushing suit and stiff ruff framing a formless face that had all the allure of a potato.
I leaned in towards the solid shape of Uncle William to steady myself.

Brouncker’s approach seemed to take an age, as if he were rowing himself up against the tide. Grandmother’s indomitable hauteur buoyed me and she turned to me with a nod and a smile, which I reciprocated. It was the first affectionate gesture that had passed between us since that fateful letter had arrived, cancelling my visit to court, almost two years before.

‘Fret not,’ she whispered. ‘You are more than a match for this one.’ I felt a chip of love for her then, sensing myself no longer in isolation with a disparate scattering of supporters, but at the heart of something great and powerful and unassailable, a family that had united behind me.

Brouncker fell to his knees and held out a letter to Grandmother, making an effusive greeting, noticing her beautiful gloves, his eyes dancing over the brilliants stitched on to them and over her lavish satin sleeves before alighting finally, pupils dilating, on the heavy pearls, big as marbles, falling to her waist. I saw that the letter carried the royal seal and recognized Cecil’s precise script.

‘Sir Henry.’ I projected my hand forward towards the fellow and the ostrich feather in his hat bobbed giddily as he dipped to kiss it. His palm was slightly clammy, his lips dry and unpleasantly rough, but as he stood he smiled and his formless face took on a lively, congenial aspect that was less at odds with his outfit.
Perhaps
, I thought,
this wouldn’t be so bad after all
.

Grandmother had opened the letter and was reading. ‘So you are here on Her Majesty’s business. Well, we knew as much.’

‘I am indeed, My Lady. Just a conversation in the hope that the Lady Arbella might be able to shed light on the circumstances with your retainer Dodderidge and his meeting with the Earl of Hertford.’

So it was to be a gentle exchange rather than an interrogation. Grandmother squeezed my hand once more, which spurred me a little.

‘I’m afraid I will need to sit,’ I said. ‘I have been unwell, you see, unable to leave my bed for …’ I realized I didn’t know how long I’d been ill. For all I knew I had lost several months, although I gathered from the chill in the air and the grim sky beyond the window, with the leafless trees silhouetted against it, that spring hadn’t arrived without my knowledge.

‘Why don’t you take a seat, dear?’ said Grandmother, as if she always spoke to me with such affection. ‘Sir Henry will not think it rude under the circumstances.’

Brouncker was nodding in deferent agreement as Grandmother led me to a throne-like seat at the end of the chamber, beneath the painting of the Queen in a dress that I noticed, only then, was not dissimilar to the one Grandmother was wearing. ‘William, would you fetch a seat for Sir Henry.’ She pointed to one of the small stools that the children used to sit on. I had forgotten how Grandmother had a formidable instinct for creating an atmosphere of intimidation. I had been on the receiving end of it only too often.

‘We shall give you some privacy,’ said Grandmother, taking Uncle William’s arm and moving slowly off towards the far end of the gallery, like a galleon put to sea.

Brouncker carefully lowered himself on to the stool and the effect was complete: I on a throne and he at my feet.

I caught sight of my shoes. I didn’t recognize them. They were very pretty; sparkling with little jewels, and pinched horribly. Brouncker was talking but the rushing of blood in my ears prevented me from hearing. I watched his mouth move, his shining bead eyes flicker. Heat blossomed beneath my dress.

‘How was your journey?’ I asked as a way to bring myself back. ‘Not too arduous, I trust.’

He was talking about the weather but my head started to swim once more.

‘Might I be direct, My Lady?’ he said eventually.

I looked at those beadlike eyes and slowly nodded, as a knot of trepidation tightened in the pit of my stomach.

‘It has been reported that you sought the hand of the Earl of Hertford’s grandson.’ He was smiling but his tone was not light to match and I imagined his teeth were sharp fangs, like a cat’s; fear began to creep from my belly through to the far reaches of my limbs. The word
treason
circled my head.

‘Then your information is incorrect, sir.’

‘So your man Dodderidge did not visit the earl at his house in Tottenham with a proposal from you?’

That pain had returned, jabbing at me, a crow pecking at carrion. ‘You are mistaken.’ I managed to speak but felt as if my voice was far, far away and I couldn’t help thinking of Dodderidge. My heart stammered as I realized I might have to sacrifice my dear friend. I didn’t think I could. ‘Dodderidge is visiting his sister, who is ailing.’

‘Dodderidge is under lock and key at the Westminster Gatehouse.’

‘Now, yes. But I meant he left here to visit –’

‘We know he was at Tottenham, he was arrested there,’ Brouncker interrupted.

My head was spinning. He was looking at me intently, too intently. ‘At Tottenham … yes.’ I was all a dither. ‘Yes – on an errand.’

‘For you?’ Too intently.

My head was empty.

He was riffling through his pockets and pulled out a creased sheet of paper, unfolding it, flattening it out, presenting it to
me as if it were a New Year gift. The crows pecked on, still circling about me.
Treason, treason, treason
, they carked.

I swallowed. The paper was written over. ‘What is it?’ I began to read. What was it? Had Dodderidge jotted down my instructions? It looked like his hand. Was it a confession? There it was, the plan, each detail explained in ink. ‘I did not write this.’ The words were dancing on the page. My mouth was dry.
Peck, peck, peck
.

Brouncker said nothing, only looked at me with an expression that was impossible to read.

Then words spewed out of me: ‘Dodderidge must have gone to Hertford of his own accord. Perhaps he saw some profit in it. He is a man who will do anything for gain.’ A fog of shame gathered over me; I was filthy with it. ‘No! I am confused. My illness has muddled me. Dodderidge is a good man. A loyal man.’ I tried to retract my betrayal but just as blood cannot be unspilled, words cannot be unspoken.