Читать книгу In Mary's Reign - Baroness Orczy - Страница 14

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Never in all her life had Her Grace of Lincoln experienced anything so awful.

Her very coif, usually a pattern of propriety, looked awry and scarcely sober on her dear old head, whilst her round, chubby face, a beautiful forest of tangled wrinkles, expressed the most dire distress, coupled with hopeless, pathetic bewilderment.

“Well?” she repeated over and over again in breathless eagerness.

She seemed scarce to notice the pretty picture before her—two young girls standing with arms linked round one another’s waists, eyes aglow with excitement, and cheeks made rosy with the palpitating intensity of the narrative.

Yet was not Her Grace justly proud of the flock of fair maids committed to her charge? What more charming than these two specimens of austere Queen Mary’s dainty maids-of-honour, with their slim figures in the stiff corsets and unwieldy farthingales, their unruly curls held in becomingly by delicate lace coifs, and the sombre panelling of the room throwing up in harmonious contrast the vivid colouring of robes and kerchiefs, of lace and of complexion?

But to-day the Duchess of Lincoln had no eye for the charming sight. Leaning well forward in her high, straight-backed chair, her fat, be-ringed fingers were beating a veritable devil’s tattoo against its brocaded arms.

“Alicia, girl, why don’t you go on?” she added impatiently. “La! I vow the wench’ll make me die of choler.”

Alicia, in the eagerness of telling her thrilling story, had somewhat lost her breath; but now she made a vigorous effort to resume.

“Well,” she said, “Your Grace must remember the night was very dark. Barbara and I were strolling by the low wall, when suddenly the clouds parted, the river was flooded with light, and just below us, not ten paces away, we saw—”

But here she broke off suddenly. A look of genuine distress crossed her piquant little face; she looked inquiringly at her companion, then at the Duchess, whilst her merry eyes began to fill with tears.

“Oh! I scarce like to repeat it,” she said hesitatingly at last, “for truly I love her so.”

But Her Grace was in no mood to pander to girlish sentimentality just now. Her small round eyes, usually alive with good-nature and kindliness, were looking positively stern.

“Go on, child,” she commanded, “cannot you see that I am verily sitting on pins? Was it—was it the Lady Ursula you saw?”

“Nay, madam,” protested Alicia feebly, “’twas Barbara saw her—I do not believe that it was Ursula.”

“She was wrapped in a dark cloak from head to foot,” here interposed the other young maid. “When we called she looked up, but, seeing us, immediately fled along the bank.”

“Then the clouds obscured the moon again, and we saw nothing more,” resumed Alicia. “Barbara may have been mistaken.”

Barbara nodded, quite longing to convince herself that she had indeed been mistaken. The two girls were getting more and more confused. Clearly they had no wish to get their absent friend into trouble, and, having been led into relating their experiences of the night before, they tardily realized that they were collecting storm-clouds over Lady Ursula’s unsuspecting head.

With all her good-nature the Duchess was a stern disciplinarian, taking herself and her duties very seriously. When the Queen entrusted her with the formation of her own immediate feminine entourage, she also expressed a desire that her maids-of-honour and ladies-in-waiting should be models of decorum and veritable patterns of all the virtues.

The Court, which had been little else than a name in the old and gloomy palace of Richmond and the simple household at Esher, had seen some of its old glories revived since Mary’s proclamation as sole and royal liege lady, Queen Sovereign of England.

Before and since the coronation, Hampton Court had once more become alive with merriment and laughter, with tennis and bowling games, jousts, suppers, and balls even, as in the best days of King Harry. Young people, who had been only temporarily sobered through the raging political conflicts of the past few months, quickly reasserted their desire for gaiety and splendour, and the Queen herself, somewhat softened with the joy of seeing England’s loyalty towards her, tacitly acquiesced in this return to the ancient magnificence of her father’s court.

Moreover, there were the foreign ambassadors to entertain, all eager to secure the Queen’s hand for their respective royal masters, and in the meanwhile equally ready to be impressed with the luxuries of the English Court and the beauty and grace of its ladies.

The Duchess of Lincoln’s task was certes no easy one, since it involved the keeping in order of a very attractive, pleasure-loving, highly unruly little flock.

So far, however, nothing serious had occurred to disturb her equanimity. The maids-of-honour placed under her charge had quickly succumbed to the charm of Her Grace’s kindliness, and were easily ruled with the rod of good-nature.

Some scoldings and lectures, an admonition now and then, or a threat of more severe punishment, had readily quelled any incipient insubordination.

But since the arrival of Lady Ursula Glynde at the Palace matters had become more serious. The child was so terribly independent, so self-willed and unruly, and with it all so sweet and lovable, that the Duchess found all her scoldings of absolutely no avail.

Ursula defied her, then kissed and fondled her, rendering her absolutely helpless and defying her authority.

When it was discovered that the naughty child had, on the very day following Her Majesty’s coronation, visited East Molesey Fair, masked and veiled, and attended only by weak-willed, silly Margaret Cobham, Her Grace felt nigh to having the palsy. But even that unseemly escapade was nothing in comparison with the terrible revelations which had recently come to Her Grace’s ears. One or two rumours had already gained currency that one of Her Majesty’s maids-of-honour had been seen alone and at night outside the purlieus of the Palace. So far, fortunately, the Queen knew nothing of this, nor had it been talked about among the gentlemen of the Court.

Heavens above! if such a thing were to happen! . . .

“A scandal!” moaned the Duchess piteously, “a scandal in my department! Oh, I shall never survive it! If Her Majesty should hear of it, who is so austere, so pious! . . . And with my lord Cardinal staying in the Palace just now. . . . What would he think of the morals of an English Court! . . . Oh! the naughty, wicked child, thus to bring disgrace upon us all.”

Some of the rumours anent Lady Ursula’s mysterious nightly wanderings had already reached her; she had placed the other girls under severe cross-examination, and finally elicited from them the confirmation of her worst fears.

“Nay, madam,” rejoined Alicia, tardily smitten with remorse, “I feel sure she means no harm. Ursula is gay, a madcap, full of fun, but she is too proud to stoop to an intrigue.”

“Aye! but, child, she hath vanity,” said the Duchess, shaking her grey curls, “and vanity is an evil counsellor. And, remember, ’tis not the first time she has been seen alone, at night, outside the purlieus of the garden. The Lord protect us! I should never survive a scandal.”

“An Your Grace would believe me,” added Barbara consolingly, “I think ’tis but a bit of foolish curiosity on the Lady Ursula’s part.”

But Her Grace would not be consoled.

“Curiosity?” she said. “Alas! ’tis an evil moment when curiosity leads a maiden out of doors at night . . . alone . . . Oh!”

And she made a gesture of such horror, there was such a look of stern condemnation in her kind old face, that the two girls began to feel really afraid as to what might befall that madcap, Ursula Glynde.

No one had ever seen the Duchess actually angry.

They were all ready to take up the cudgels for the absent girl now.

“Nay! ’tis harmless curiosity enough,” said Alicia hotly. “Ursula is being very badly treated.”

“Badly treated!” exclaimed Her Grace.

“Aye! she is affianced to the Duke of Wessex.”

“Well, and what of it, child?”

“What of it?” retorted the girl indignantly, “she is never allowed to see him. The moment His Grace is expected to arrive in the Queen’s presence, ’tis—‘Lady Ursula, you may retire. I shall not need your services to-day.’”

And looking straight down her pretty nose, dainty Lady Alicia Wrenford pursed her lips and put on the starchy airs of a soured matron of forty.

The Duchess of Lincoln threw up her hands in horror.

“Fie on you, child!” she said sternly, “mimicking Her Majesty.”

“’Tis quite true what Alicia says,” here interposed Barbara, pouting; “everything is done to keep Ursula out of His Grace’s way. And we, too, are made the scapegoats of this silly intrigue.”

“Barbara, I forbid you to talk like that!”

“I mean nothing disrespectful, madam, yet ’tis patent to every one. Why are we relegated to this dreary old chamber this brilliant afternoon, when my lord the Cardinal and all the foreign ambassadors are at the Palace? Why are we not allowed to join the others at tennis, or watch the gentlemen at bowls? Why were Helen and Margaret kept from seeing the jousts? Why? Why? Why?”

She was stamping her little foot, eager, impatient, excited. The Duchess felt somewhat bewildered before this hurricane of girlish wrath.

“Because Her Majesty ordered it thus, child,” she said in a more conciliatory spirit; “she hath not always need of all her maids-of-honour round her.”

“Nay! that’s not the reason,” rejoined Barbara, “and Your Grace is too clever to believe it.”

“You are a silly child and—”

“Then we are all silly, for ’tis patent to us all. ’Tis Ursula who is being kept wilfully away from the Court, or rather from seeing His Grace of Wessex, and in order not to make these machinations too obvious, some of us are also relegated in the background in her company.”

“And ’tis small wonder that Ursula should wish to catch sight of the man whom her father vowed she should wed or else enter into a convent,” concluded Alicia defiantly.

Her Grace was at her wits’ ends. Too clever not to have noticed the intrigue to which the girls now made reference, she would sooner have died than owned that her Queen was acting wrongfully or even pettily.

However, for the moment she was spared the further discussion of this unpleasant topic, for a long, merry, girlish laugh was suddenly heard echoing through the great chambers beyond.

“Hush!” said the Duchess with reassumed severity, “’tis that misguided child herself. Now remember, ladies, not a word of all this. I must learn the truth on this scandal, and will set a watch to-night. But not a word to her.”

The next moment the subject of all this animated conversation threw open the heavy oak door of the room. She came running in, with her fair hair flying in a deliriously mad tangle round her shoulders, her eyes dancing with glee, whilst above her head she was, with one small hand, flourishing a small piece of paper, the obvious cause of this apparently uncontrollable fit of girlish merriment.