I could not imagine it either. But I recalled the handsome Philip concealing himself behind a screen in Mary’s chamber to make certain Mary reconciled with Elizabeth after Woodstock. I had little doubt that the same voice guided Mary this time, although most likely in letters penned from afar.
“If Philip told Mary to cover herself with feathers and cluck like a chicken, I believe she’d do it,” I said darkly.
“Eloise,” Aunt Kat admonished, but the sparkle in her eyes told me that she agreed.
In August Mary’s guards released us, but we were not allowed to return to Elizabeth. Rather, we were instructed to remain far from her.
Aunt Kat cried bitterly about this stricture. We stayed with Uncle John in London, where I tried to resume my needlework that I’d been deprived of in the prison, and listened in vain for news of my husband.
All we knew was that Colby had not been publicly executed. Whether he’d died in prison, either from illness or of his injuries from torture, I could not discover.
Elizabeth continued living at Hatfield under house arrest, but had been allowed to retain most of her household, except, of course, Aunt Kat and me. We had to be content with that.
I tried to contrive ways to find news of Colby. I thought of Robert Dudley, now one of Mary’s courtiers, who could possibly discover his friend Colby’s whereabouts.
But Robert—despite the fact that his Dudley cousin had been up to his neck in the recent plot against Mary—was sitting quietly at home in Norfolk with Amy. William Cecil was also carefully watched, and I had no chance to approach him.
Neither did I know whether Colby had been informed of my own arrest or of my release, or if he’d known I’d carried his child. That last thought always brought tears, which furthered my anguish.
“No more intrigue,” I snapped at Uncle John on a day I was at my darkest. “I want my husband and my life. I never wish to hear a prison door shut on me again.”
Aunt Kat and her husband exchanged glances. “She has been like this since she lost the babe,” she murmured to him.
I fell silent, frustrated. Aunt Kat lived for Elizabeth, as she’d revealed while we stewed in the Fleet. Aunt Kat loved Elizabeth even before her own husband, I’d witnessed many a time.
I was not so certain of my loyalty these days, because my love had caused me to lose everything.
Aunt Kat and I moved to the country in September, though not to Hatfield, because Mary still considered Aunt Kat a dangerous person. We dwelled with Uncle John’s friends in Woolwich, far from court and any intrigue.
Elizabeth continued doing as she pleased, Uncle John told us, ostensibly overseen by Mary’s guards, but she had most of her usual entourage about her. The wishes of Philip protected Elizabeth, and Mary dared make no move against her.
Toward the end of the year, Mary must have relented still further, because I was allowed to return to Hatfield, even if Aunt Kat could not. Aunt Kat sent me off with many well wishes for the princess, and I arrived in time for Elizabeth to be summoned to court to spend Christmas with Mary.
Elizabeth’s greeting to me after months of separation was to demand I help ready her wardrobe.
“Your Grace,” I ventured, my heart beating thickly. “Have you any word of Colby?” I swallowed as Elizabeth turned her cool gray eyes to me. “I have heard nothing of him. No word whether he be dead or alive.”
My downcast countenance softened her a little. “My poor, sweet Eloise. Rest easy, my friend. Your husband, I believe, has gone to France.”
I gaped in sudden amazement. “France? You believe so? Do you know for certain? Why?—?”
Elizabeth made a curt gesture, cutting off my tumbling questions. “He was turned out of the Tower once he’d recovered from his injuries, and put on a ship for France. He had no time to search for you, as he had to leave at once.”
My limbs grew suddenly weak, and I had to sit down before I could ask permission. Elizabeth merely glanced heavenward and returned to where her maids waited to continue her fitting.
Sweet happiness flooded me. My husband was not dead, not prisoner. He was in France, safe.
Where exactly he was, how safe, and for how long, I did not know, and I doubted I could discover the answers. For now, it was enough to know that Colby lived, in a place out of Mary’s reach.
I rode with Elizabeth to London at the end of November. She surrounded herself with liveried outriders, traveling once more as a princess in fine style. I’d created a gown of white velvet, thick against the winter cold, for Elizbeth to wear on the journey. Chance sunlight caught on its gold embroidery as we went, as though the air itself promised her better tidings to come.
When we arrived at St. James’s Palace, Mary invited Elizabeth almost immediately to her privy chamber. No more ignoring her sister and leaving her to pace and stew—Mary sent an entourage to escort Elizabeth to her the day after her arrival. I accompanied Elizabeth, at her request. She’d scarce wanted me to leave her side since my return.
In her chamber, Mary grasped Elizabeth’s hands and kissed her cheek.
“You look well, sister,” Mary said. “The time spent in contemplation and study has been good to you.”
Mary’s countenance was smiles, her square face lighting as though she had genuinely missed Elizabeth. But her eyes were as hard as ever, a darkness flickering behind her sunny gaze. Her friendliness rang false, and I could only wonder what she was up to.
