Lady in Waiting: A Novel by Susan Meissner Read Free Book Online Page B

Dowager, King Henry’s widow. Bridget told me protocol forbade the presence of the widowed Queen’s new husband, the Lord Admiral Seymour, at the funeral. King Henry’s younger daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, who had lately lived here at Sudeley and who had left amid troubling rumors, would not be in attendance either, nor would the young King Edward, nor the Princess Mary, King Henry’s eldest daughter.
    Instead, an eleven-year-old girl would lead the procession to the chapel, wearing the borrowed gown I held in my arms.
    From behind us, deep within the castle, I heard the faint sound of aninfant’s wail. A faraway door opened and closed, and the sound disappeared. Jane raised her head, and her gaze traveled past me to the hallway and the other rooms.
    “There will be no one to love her,” Jane whispered.
    “My lady?”
    “The Queen’s child.”
    “Beg your pardon, my lady?”
    “Lord Thomas won’t even look at her.”
    “L-Lord T-Thomas?” I stammered.
    “Lord Admiral Seymour. He won’t even look at the babe.”
    I repositioned the dress in my arms. I could not tell for whom she grieved. A moment earlier, I thought her sadness was due to missing her home and family. Then, no, it was the unnamed baby. And now, was it the Lord Admiral’s sorrow that clutched at her heart?
    I said nothing else. I didn’t know what to say.
    “You need for me to try on that dress?” she said languidly.
    “Yes, my lady. I am afraid I do.”
    “Why didn’t Bridget come? I do not know you.”
    I did not tell her Bridget was losing her eyesight and couldn’t travel alone as the dressmaker. Bridget needed to stay at Bradgate where she could blend in with the rest of the wardrobe staff. No one but me knew she struggled to see her own stitches.
    “I am new to Bradgate, my lady. Bridget sent me. And the marchioness.”
    “What is your name?” Her young voice rang with subtle authority.
    “Lucy Day, my lady.”
    “I like that name.” But her voice was sad.
    “Shall we?” I hefted the dress in my arms.
    She nodded, turned, and we headed to her wardrobe room, which adjoined her sitting room.
    I helped her remove the green dress she wore. As I began to lift the black dress—so she could step into its skirt—Jane, with the folds of the black dress now all around her, began to tremble. I held the dress open and waited. Her eyes misted over and her trembling increased, and she stepped away from the ballooning fabric.
    “My lady?” I said.
    “I cannot stain it!” she gasped, savagely wiping away tears lest they should fall onto the material.
    She grasped at her heaving chest, flat and narrow underneath her chemise, as grief silently pounded its way out of her. She sank to her knees as a sob erupted from deep within.
    I dropped the dress I had carried on my lap for one hundred miles and knelt down by her, sisterly instinct sending me there before I could think clearly. Jane leaned into me, and I nervously slipped an arm around her and patted her shoulder, vaguely aware that if anyone came into the room, I would surely be dismissed for not knowing my place.
    Her tears and anguish were innocent and raw.
    “I miss her,” she whispered.
    “Your mother?” I whispered back. Lady Jane shook her head.
    The child grieved for the Queen.

Seven
     

     
    T he seams lay open on the curved bodice as I slid the whittled whalebone stays back into their tiny pockets. Lady Jane’s nurse, Mrs. Ellen, stood over me, sipping a tisane as I worked to resize the black mourning dress to fit a girlish bosom.
    Her presence made me uneasy.
    She had come into the room earlier as I assisted Lady Jane to her feet, after my lady’s tears had all been spilled. When she saw us, Mrs. Ellen rushed, aghast, to the lady’s side as if I’d poisoned her.
    “What have you done?” Mrs. Ellen had exclaimed, wrenching the girl from me.
    Before I could answer, Jane spoke. “She has done nothing except show kindness to me. Leave her be.”
    Mrs. Ellen, so