Her stentorian tones cut through the melee, and the chase ground to a halt. A few of the ladies appeared chagrined, though not much so. They seemed more sorry Aunt Kat had interrupted their fun than ashamed they’d been doing it at all.
“Mistress Ashley, you do spoil our entertainment,” Seymour snapped.
Aunt Kat lifted her chin. “Perhaps best ’twere left for another day, my lord.”
I realized then what Aunt Kat had meant when she’d said there was more to this charade than a man wanting a young woman. He was plotting, though exactly what, I could not say.
Seymour was menacing, but Aunt Kat stood resolutely before him like a hen before a wild boar.
Aunt Kat was always brave—too much so, I believed at times, and Uncle John agreed with me. But she loved Elizabeth like a daughter and would fight for her with bright fierceness.
“Mistress Ashley, shall we step out?” Seymour gestured to the chamber door. Aunt Kat gave him one frigid nod of her head and stalked solemnly past him into the antechamber.
Seymour followed. Fearing he’d raise his fist to my aunt once they were out of sight, I snatched up the shreds of the bodice and scuttled after them.
Aunt Kat and Seymour stood together in the small wood-paneled antechamber, Aunt Kat in no wise worried. I closed the door to the bedchamber and retreated to a window embrasure to listen.
“I seek only to protect my Lady Elizabeth’s reputation, my lord,” Aunt Kat was saying. “You charge too quickly for her.”
“I mean no harm by it,” Seymour growled. “Can a man not romp with his own daughter?”
Not in the way you wish, I thought, my fingers curling around the torn fabric.
Aunt Kat regarded him squarely. “I only give advice, my lord.”
Seymour’s lip curled. “I’ll not be ruled by a pack of women.” He shot a glare at me, though I’d said nothing, and stormed from the room, the heavy door slamming in his wake.
I reflected that in this household, Seymour would not be able to escape the pack of women. The women here were family, and he was the stranger.
Aunt Kat instructed me soon after that to watch Seymour closely and tell her of his behavior. I was a dutiful spy and reported to her the day I saw him slip the key from Elizabeth’s bedchamber door into his pocket.
“Should you warn Queen Catherine?” I whispered.
“The queen has much to occupy her,” Aunt Kat said after a moment’s consideration. “She believes herself with child, and that a son will seal Seymour’s affections for her forever. Let her think her marriage idyllic for now.”
I did not see how she could. Seymour stalked Elizabeth with the single-mindedness of a hunter after a prize hart, while claiming that all he did was play.
Aunt Kat at least took the precaution of having me sleep in Elizabeth’s chamber with her. I did not believe my presence would keep Seymour at bay, but he did not appear in the weeks I stayed with Elizabeth, lying awake to listen to her soft breathing and the call of night birds.
Early one morning, I heard the key scrape the lock of the bedchamber door. I sprang from my cot, knocking my foot against the bed railing and stifling a cry of pain. Behind the thick curtains of Elizabeth’s tester bed, she stirred and muttered a cross word.
As I hopped, clutching my hurt foot, Seymour, wearing only a nightshirt and slippers, strolled into the room. His nightshirt dropped from muscular shoulders, his strong legs bare from the knee down. He ignored me and my struggles, fixing his gaze on the closed curtains of Lady Elizabeth’s bed.
Catherine entered behind him, she clad in nightgown and robe. I relaxed, but not entirely, remembering the scene in the garden when Catherine had held Elizabeth for her husband’s games.
Seymour abruptly yanked open the bed curtains and put one knee on the thick mattress. “Sleepyhead,” he called. “Is our precious daughter awake?”
Elizabeth, who was obviously now wide awake, scrambled to the opposite side of the bed and pulled the bedclothes to her chin. She peered over the top of the covers, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Catherine climbed upon the bed beside Seymour, and he held himself back, letting his wife reach Elizabeth first.
“Tickle,” Catherine said. “Our daughter is most ticklish.”
Elizabeth squeaked and tried to roll from her, but Catherine pounced, tickling Elizabeth until she began to giggle. Before my appalled eyes, Seymour’s closed his brawny hands around Elizabeth’s waist.
Elizabeth shouted with laughter. I set my weight gingerly on my hurt foot, pondering whether to run for my aunt. What could she do if the queen teased right alongside Seymour?
Elizabeth finally squirmed away from them and scrambled out of the bed. Both stepmother and stepfather pursued her, and Elizabeth dodged behind me, using my small body as a shield. My weight came down on my injured foot, and tears sprang to my eyes.
