Seymour danced around the both of us, slapping Elizabeth on the hip as though trying to spank a naughty child. I attempted to block his blows, but Elizabeth swung me away, which allowed him to reach her more easily.
Catherine pushed loose hair from her eyes. “My dears, we must run in the garden. ’Tis a fine day.”
“A splendid idea,” Seymour said. “You,” he barked at me. “Ready her. We will return.”
Elizabeth stood shoulder to shoulder with me, out of breath, but flushed and pleased. Seymour reached around us and gave her one final swat, his hand half-landing on my buttocks in the process. I flinched, but Elizabeth giggled.
Catherine sashayed out the door, Seymour following. Before I could move to Elizabeth’s dressing room and find her a gown suitable for a garden frolic, Seymour returned.
“Leave us,” he shot at me.
I did not dare. I remembered Aunt Kat facing him down and stood my ground.
But Aunt Kat had a far more formidable presence than I. She had the weight of years, wisdom, and respect to bolster her. I was a fourteen-year-old waif, the product of a bad marriage, living here on Aunt Kat’s charity.
Seymour moved to Elizabeth, who backed from him until she rested against the high bed.
“Daughter,” he said, giving the word an ironic twist. Seymour laid his hands on either side of Elizabeth, resting them on the mattress behind her.
Elizabeth half-closed her eyes. She relaxed against the bed and did not fight when Lord Seymour eased his leg between hers. Before my astonished gaze, he cupped her face in one hand, leaned to her, and kissed her lips.
I could not decide whether to beat Seymour with a bolster or run for Aunt Kat. If I struck Seymour, an earl, I could be flogged, or much worse. If I hobbled for Aunt Kat, he might ravish Elizabeth several times over before I could return.
Seymour kissed Elizabeth again, a brief touch, but then it turned deeper.
The decision of what to do was taken from me. A small sound came from the doorway, and I turned to see Catherine, still in her bed attire, on the threshold, returning with Aunt Kat.
Both women stared in shock at Elizabeth lolling contentedly in Seymour’s arms, Catherine’s happiness draining swiftly from her.
Seymour sprang away from Elizabeth, any glib words dying on his lips.
There was no denying what Catherine had seen. I watched all belief that Seymour’s attentions to Elizabeth were lighthearted fade from her eyes. With it went hope that after three tedious marriages she’d at last wed a man with whom she could find happiness.
Seymour had been fairly caught, but I read no shame in him. His expression held only annoyance that his wife had chosen to enter at the wrong moment.
Catherine turned and strode from the room.
Later that morning, I helped Aunt Kat pack all of Elizabeth’s things. Catherine had decided that Elizabeth could no longer stay in her household.
That afternoon, we left for Cheshunt in Hertfordshire, to the home of Aunt Kat’s sister and her husband, joining Elizabeth in her first exile.
Chapter 4
Cheshunt. I liked the lilt of the name and hummed it often to myself, although I knew to Elizabeth it meant humiliation.
Whatever our reason for the sojourn, those June days in 1548, in the soft air of Hertfordshire were golden to me, with quiet afternoons and serene nights. No more dangerous games, no more fear of Thomas Seymour coming upon me in the dark, no more watching with worried eyes while he plotted and schemed.
I had little doubt that Seymour continued to plot and scheme—he was that sort of man. But perhaps with the absence of Elizabeth and bathed in his wife’s sorrow, he would grow remorseful, or at least be more cautious.
For me, existence returned to the simple pleasures of everyday living. Lady Denny, Aunt Kat’s sister and known to me as Aunt Joan, became Elizabeth’s appointed governess, much to Elizabeth’s dismay.
Aunt Kat was in disgrace for not stopping Seymour’s pursuit of her charge, and Lord Protector Somerset had demanded Aunt Kat’s replacement. Elizabeth, however, would not hear of Aunt Kat being sent away entirely, so she, Uncle John, and I lived cozily with Aunt Joan and Sir Anthony Denny—I called him Uncle Denny—and continued a quiet life.
The red brick house, built in a square around a plain courtyard, was far less ostentatious than the enormous one we’d just left. It was also mercifully less crowded. I had a tiny chamber adjacent to Aunt Kat’s, high on an upper floor, with a window that looked across a field to a wood. Aunt Kat said the whole place was murky and bleak, but I found the open air and multitude of birdsong refreshing.
“Jealousy,” Aunt Kat said one evening after Elizabeth had retired. She, Aunt Joan, and I sat in Aunt Kat’s chamber, I sewing busily, while Aunt Joan read. Aunt Kat pretended to write letters, using a large book on her lap as a desk.
“What do you mean?” Aunt Joan asked, turning her thin nose in Kat’s direction.
