“Ah! You would dress up Catherine Howard! She is a romp, that child. And what a sheltered life she has led! I have kept her away in the country, perhaps too long.”
A new woman joined the Duchess’s household while they were at Lambeth. Her name was Mary Lassells, and she was of lower birth than most of the Duchess’s attendants; she had been nurse to Lord William Howard’s first child, and on the death of his wife, the Duchess had agreed to take her in. During her first week in the Duchess’s establishment, Mary Lassells met a young man who was dark and handsome with bold roving eyes, and to whom she felt immediately drawn. She was sitting on an overturned tree-trunk in the Lambeth orchard, when he strolled by.
“Welcome, stranger!” he said. “Or am I wrong in calling you stranger? I declare I should recognize you, had I ever seen you before!”
And so saying he sat down beside her.
“You are right in supposing me to be a stranger. I have been in the Duchess’s establishment but a few days. You have been here long?”
“I made the journey up from Norfolk.”
His bold eyes surveyed her. She was well enough, but not worth risking trouble with little Catherine, who, with her naivete, her delight, her willingness, was giving him the most amusing and absorbing affair he had enjoyed for a long time.
“I rejoice to see you here,” he continued.
“Indeed, sir, you are very kind.”
“It is you who are kind, to sit thus beside me. Tell me, how do you like it here?”
She did not greatly like it, she told him; she found the behavior of some of the ladies shocking. She was rather bitter, acutely feeling herself to be low-born, inexperienced in the ways of etiquette, having been merely a nurse before she entered the Duchess’s household. She had been delighted when she was offered the position, and owing to the unconventional ways of the household Mary had been accepted into it without ceremony. But among these ladies she felt awkward—awkward in speech, awkward in manners; she fancied that they watched her, sneered at her behind her back. This was pure imagination on Mary’s part, for in actual fact the ladies were much too absorbed in their own affairs to give much attention to her; but she nursed her grievances, aired them to herself with great bitterness, until they grew out of all proportion to the truth. She occupied a bed in the dormitory with the rest, but there had been no feasting nor love-making in her presence yet, as at the Lambeth house the dormitory was not so conveniently situated. Still, she could not help but notice the levity of the ladies; young gentlemen had looked in on some of them during the day; she had seen many a kiss and indications of greater familiarity. Mary had thought bitterly: And these are those who would look down on a good woman such as I am!
She told him that she did not like what she had so far seen of the conduct of those who were called ladies.
He raised his eyebrows.
“There is much familiarity between them and the young men.”
Manox laughed inwardly, thinking it would be amusing to lead her on. He feigned shocked surprise.
Warming to the subject, she went on: “Gentlemen—or those who would call themselves gentlemen—look in at the dormitory at all hours of the day. I was never more startled in my life. There was one, who would doubtless call herself a lady, changing her dress, and a gentleman looked round the door and she pretended to hide herself by running behind a screen and was much delighted when he peeped over the top. I declare I wondered whether I should not go at once to Her Grace!”
Manox looked sharply at her. The severely practical headdress, the thin disapproving lips, the pale eyes—all these belonged to a bearer of tales. She was a virgin, he doubted not—a virgin of necessity! he thought cynically; and of such material were made the tale-bearers, the really dangerous women.
He laid a hand over hers. She started, and a flush spread over her face, beginning at her modest collar and running swiftly to her flat and simply-arranged hair. She was nearer to being pretty at that moment than she would ever be.
He said gently: “I understand . . . of course I understand. But would you take a word of advice?”
She turned her eyes upon him, smiling, thinking him the handsomest and most charming person she had met since entering the house.
“I am ever ready to take good advice,” she said.
“It would be most unwise to carry tales of this matter to Her Grace.”
“Why so?”
“You have told me that you were a nurse before you came here. I am but a musician. I instruct ladies at whichever musical instrument it is decreed they shall learn to play.” His voice became caressing. “You and I are but humble folk; do you think we should be believed? Nay! It is you who would be turned from the house, were you to tell Her Grace what you have seen!”
This was fuel to the bitterness in her; she had lived in noble houses, and had longed to be one of the nobility; she saw every situation from this angle. I am as good as they are. . . . Why should I have to serve them, just because I was born in a humble house, and they in castles!
“Well I can believe that the blame would be put on me, rather than on those delinquents.”
He leaned closer to her. “Depend upon it, it most assuredly would! That is the way of life. Be silent about what you see, fair lady.”
“I cannot tell you what it means to me to have met you,” she said. “Your sympathy warms me, gives me courage.”
“Then I am indeed glad that I walked this way.”
Mary Lassells was trembling with excitement. No young man had ever taken notice of her before. The eyes of this one were warm and friendly, one might say bold. Mary began to feel very happy, very glad that she had joined the Duchess’s retinue after all.
