Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

As touching Mrs. Anne Basset, it is showed me that she is well amended. I will see her, by God’s grace, within this four days, and declare unto her your ladyship’s full pleasure.

—John Husee to Lady Lisle, 27 September 1538

6

On a bright mid-June morning, perfect for hunting partridge, a small party rode out of the town of Calais. When Mistress Philippa Bassett had insisted upon bringing her sister Mary along, Clement Philipott had asked Ned Corbett to come with them to keep the younger girl occupied.

Ned had agreed willingly enough. He even had a merlin perched on his forearm, ready to fly, although he did not much care for the sport. Trailing behind came two servants on mules. Their packs contained food and drink for an informal midday meal in the fields. The Pale of Calais did not encompass a huge area, but it was more than sufficient for their purposes.

Ned slanted a glance at Mary Bassett as they rode through the countryside beyond the wall. She was just sixteen, a bit more than a year younger than Nan. She was just as pretty, perhaps more so, although she was still too pale. Mary had been plagued by intermittent fevers even after being returned to her mother’s care in March, but at the moment she seemed in good health as well as high spirits.

Ned urged his horse a bit closer to her palfrey and spoke in a low voice. “Shall we endeavor to give them a bit of privacy?” He inclined his head in the direction of their two companions. “Philpott would appreciate an opportunity to speak with your sister alone.”

“As you wish.” Mary’s voice was low and well modulated and reminded him of Nan’s.

They reined in atop a grassy knoll to watch Philpott fly his merlin. Mary signaled for two servants to follow when he and Philippa rode after it. Then she turned curious eyes on Ned.

“Did you come along to distract me? It will not make any difference, you know. Philippa will not have him. She thinks Clement Philpott is a silly ass.”

Ned swallowed a laugh. “Lord Lisle must have been of another opinion or he’d not have brought Philpott here.”

“My stepfather had not met him. He relied upon the opinions of his friends in England.” She seemed confident that her sister would not be forced into marriage with someone she could not like. Ned hoped Mary’s innocent faith in Lord Lisle was not misplaced. Philpott was, if not an ass, at least a sheep, easily led and credulous.

Urging his horse onward, they rode in the direction Philpott’s bird had flown, keeping their progress at a crawl. Ned idly stroked the merlin he had borrowed from Lord Lisle’s mews. It shifted restlessly on his gauntleted fist, anxious to take wing. “All in good time,” Ned murmured.

At his side, Mary Bassett seemed lost in thought. He studied her, trying to recall the little he knew about her. She’d spent nearly four years living with the de Bours family. Madame de Bours was now a widow, Nicholas de Montmorency, seigneur de Bours, having died during the time Mary lived in his household. The de Bours lands were near Abbeville, but the family often visited Pont de Remy, a few miles farther along the river, where Nan had once lived in the household of Madame de Bours’s brother, the Sieur de Riou.

At the thought of Nan, Ned’s grip tightened on the reins and the big gelding he rode shied, startling the merlin.

“I do not want to go to England,” Mary said abruptly.

Ned stared at her in surprise. “You would be in the service of a countess, at the least. Scarcely a hardship. And if the king marries again, as they say he will, you could be a maid of honor to his new queen.” The current rumors had several French noblewomen in the running, along with Christina of Milan.

“But England is so far away.” Mary’s heartfelt sigh and the expression of deep longing on her face made the reason for her reluctance as clear as day.

“A Frenchman, I presume?”

“How did you—?” Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with alarm.

Ned chuckled. Mary was too open and honest to be able to hide her feelings. Her vulnerability made him feel oddly protective. “You can trust me, Mistress Mary. I’ll not betray you.”

His reward was a brilliant smile. “I love him, Master Corbett. He is the other half of myself. I knew it from the moment we first met, the very day I arrived at his father’s house.”

“Gabriel de Montmorency?” The young man had become seigneur de Bours upon his father’s death.

She nodded. “When he has established himself at the French court, he will ask to marry me.”

Ned raised a skeptical eyebrow. Was Mary deluding herself? If the young man truly wished to have her for his wife, he should already have spoken to Lord Lisle.

“He sent me these sleeves.” Mary ran a hand over the soft yellow velvet. “And another pair in linen with cuffs of gold.”

“Very generous gifts.” But not necessarily those of a man interested in marriage.

“I had nothing so lovely to give in return,” she confided, “but I did send him a silk flower and he wrote to say that he looks at it hourly and thinks of me.”

“You sent a flower and he returned flowery words.”

Oblivious to his sarcasm, Mary rambled on, revealing that she kept her love letters in a box in her chamber. Her face came alive when she spoke of her suitor.

Ned flew the merlin and let her go on talking. She seemed grateful that he did not react like a typical Englishman, with prejudice against anything French.

She was a foolish young woman to speak so freely to him when she did not know him well enough to be certain he would not betray her secret to her mother and stepfather. She’d taken him at his word. Something about Mary Bassett’s naive faith in him touched Ned’s heart. He wanted her to stay as sweet and innocent as she was now. He even hoped that, someday, she would find the happiness she dreamed of with her Frenchman.

NAN SHIFTED RESTLESSLY on the bed, unable to find a comfortable position. The heat and humidity of an afternoon in late August invaded the chamber, increasing her misery. Her hair hung in limp, damp snarls and she did not have the energy to shove it away from her sweat-streaked face.

Her time was near. Soon this torment would be over. She knew she should not complain. Through the misfortune of others, she had been granted her dearest wish. No one but Kate and Constance were aware that Anne Bassett, once and future maid of honor to the queen of England, was about to give birth to a bastard child.

They had the house to themselves, save for the servants and the midwife. Cousin Mary had gone up the Thames by barge to the earl’s house at Mortlake, eight miles distant from London. Mary had been too distraught, and too anxious to see her son, who had been sent to Mortlake soon after his birth, to argue when Nan insisted she must remain behind in order to meet Lord and Lady Lisle when they landed at Dover.

Mary had conceived a second time within weeks of her churching, then lost the child to a miscarriage. She had very nearly died herself. Nan wished no harm to anyone, but Mary’s second pregnancy and its tragic outcome had been fortuitous. In their concern over the countess’s health, no one had paid the least attention to Nan’s burgeoning belly.

Nan had not put on a great deal of weight, the way some women did. She had been able to hide most of the bulk by letting out her kirtles and wearing loose-bodied gowns. She’d claimed to have a stomach complaint, along with her megrims, and therefore could not abide tight lacing. No one had questioned the lie, no more than they did her claim that the summer heat was the cause of her frequent headaches. Nan had kept to her chamber, out of sight, for a considerable portion of the last five months.

She only wished she had also been lying when she’d said her mother and stepfather were coming to England. They were due to arrive any day and Lady Lisle had ordered Nan to Dover to meet them. Cat had also been summoned and would travel there in the company of the Earl and Countess of Rutland.

“There must be some way to hurry this child along,” she gasped as Constance wiped beads of perspiration from her brow with a damp cloth.

“I have told you before,” Mother Gristwood said, “that I do not use potions to bring on labor.”

Nan subsided. The midwife might be the best in London—that was why Cousin Mary had selected her and why Mother Gristwood had moved into Sussex House a full month before little Henry’s birth—but Nan was not certain she trusted the woman. They had long since abandoned the fiction that she was “Constance Ware” and a servant. Mother Gristwood knew everything except the identity of the baby’s father.

In spite of the heat, Nan shivered. Her position was perilous and would continue to be until her baby was safely delivered to one Barnabas Carver and his wife. Mother Gristwood had found this childless couple and maintained that they would make excellent parents for Nan’s child, but she would not permit Nan to meet them.

Master Carver was a London silversmith, well respected and well to do. The arrangements were all in place. Mistress Carver would answer a knock and discover a foundling on her doorstep. After a brief and fruitless search for the person who had abandoned the child, the Carvers would adopt the baby. He would be christened James. Or Jane, if she was a girl.

My son, Nan thought. My daughter.

She struggled to sit up, her thoughts in turmoil. She did not want to give the child away. Her baby had been a part of her for many long months. She had felt it kick, sensed its life force.

“There has to be a way,” she muttered as pain lanced through her body. Another sort of agony tore at her heart when she thought of never seeing her baby grow up, never knowing what kind of person he or she became.

After the contraction passed, Nan turned her head to stare at the midwife. Her vision blurred with tears. “There has to be a way to remain part of my child’s life. There has to be. A godmother—”

“Nan! Such foolishness!” Kate Stradling’s voice came from the other side of the bed. Nan had all but forgotten she was there. As usual, her cousin was hard at work on a piece of embroidery. She had not spoken for hours. “You cannot be associated with the Carvers in any way lest there be suspicion that you have some connection to their foundling.”

“I could pretend to be Constance.” Nan kept her eyes on the midwife, hoping for some encouragement.

Mother Gristwood shook her head. “I have told you before, Mistress Nan. We must take great care with your secret. Women who give birth out of wedlock face public humiliation. They are whipped, and worse. And the punishment is even more severe if they will not name the child’s father.”

“But that is only if a bastard is likely to become a burden on the community,” Nan objected. “That is not the case here.”

“The law does not differentiate. That is why midwives are charged with the task of learning the paternity of every illegitimate child they deliver.”

Nan scowled at her. “Since you have promised not to betray me, you have no need to know.”

Mother Gristwood permitted herself a small smile. “Consider it part of the payment for my silence.”

“So that you may then extort money and favors from me for the rest of my life? I do not think so!”

Another contraction prevented further speech. By the time it passed, Nan had reluctantly accepted that she could not serve as her child’s godmother, a role that would require her appearance at the christening to vow that the child would receive a Christian upbringing.

A stool scraped the floor as it was dragged close to the bed. Kate rearranged her skirts and squinted at her embroidery. Since no one was supposed to know that Nan was with child, her bedchamber had not been turned into a dark cave. Sunlight poured in through the open window, but so did hot, moist air.

“Master Husee was here this morning,” Kate said. “He is not best pleased with you. He arrived expecting to escort you to Dover to meet your mother.”

“You told him I was confined to bed with a megrim?”

“I did. And he told me the latest news from court. Negotiations for King Henry to wed Christina of Milan are still limping along, but no one now believes that marriage will come about. A French match does not seem any more likely. Christina’s uncle, Emperor Charles the Fifth, and the king of France have formed an alliance. As a result of their treaty, neither one will give the king of England what he wants in a marriage settlement.” Kate gave Nan’s belly a speaking glance. “Just as well.”

Oh, yes, Nan thought glumly. She was fortunate. As much as she wanted to return to court, she could not risk being seen in her present condition. She’d been relieved when King Henry had gone on progress in mid-July. The entire court would be on the move, visiting southern ports, until sometime in September. Unfortunately, His Grace had arranged to meet this week with her stepfather in Dover. Her mother had seen this as an excellent opportunity to bring two of her daughters to the king’s attention. Curse Ned Corbett! But for him, she’d be in Dover now, flirting with the king of England, perhaps even winning him away from his current mistress.

The next pain hit with agonizing force, leaving no room for any thought beyond the torment of giving birth. Punishment for Eve’s sin, the preachers said. She was supposed to suffer. Whether from compassion or from the desire to keep the few Sussex servants who remained in London from hearing Nan’s screams, Mother Gristwood dosed her with poppy syrup before she moved her to the birthing chair.

Hours later, dazed and dizzy, Nan lay in bed and watched the midwife bathe her newborn son in a lukewarm mixture of ten parts water, one part milk, mallow, and sweet butter. The solution was supposed to defend the baby’s body from all noisome things.

“Is he healthy?” Nan’s throat felt raw and the words came out as a croak.

“He is perfect.” Mother Gristwood removed him from the bath, dried him, and swaddled him tightly in the linen bands she had ready for that purpose. When she had made the sign of the cross over him, she brought him to the bed and placed him next to Nan.

He was perfect. Now that he was swaddled, Nan could not count fingers or toes, but his tiny face was round and pink and he had a tuft of pale hair.

“It is likely superstition,” Mother Gristwood said, “but some believe that if a child lies at his mother’s left side near her heart before she gives suck, she draws into herself all the diseases present in his body.”

Nan looked up in alarm.

Mother Gristwood chuckled. “Have no fear. You will expel whatever evil you attract by the flux and issue of your womb, without any hurt to yourself.”

For a few golden moments, Nan held her infant son and imagined what it would be like to keep him, to build a life with him and his father. Tears welled in her eyes. Such a future was impossible. She had refused Ned’s offer. There was no going back. And in her heart, she knew she did not want to. Her course had been mapped out years before. She was not destined to marry a poor man.

“Time to take him to his parents,” Mother Gristwood said.

“In a moment.” Nan hugged the small, squirming body, fighting for self-control.

He was hungry. Mistress Carver had been given the name of a wet nurse, but she would not be able to send for the woman until after she discovered the foundling on her doorstep. Nan’s breasts ached with the need to feed her son, but when Mother Gristwood reached for the child, Nan let him go.

“I have left strengthening broths and caudles for you,” the midwife said, “as well as plasters and ointments to reduce inflammation and quell the bleeding. Expect afterpains and a bloody flux, both of which may continue for more than a month. A woman who has just had a child has no business traveling for at least a week.”

“But I must leave by tomorrow at the latest. My mother expects me to meet her.”

Mother Gristwood fixed her with a cold, implacable stare. “Would you risk your life? That is what it amounts to if you make a journey of any length before your body has time to heal.” With that last admonishment, she swept out of the room.

Kate appeared at Nan’s side with a restorative drink in a pewter goblet. “You were foolish to suggest traveling so soon and mad to think you could serve as the boy’s godmother. You must have nothing to do with him, nothing to do with his new family.”

Nan swallowed the medicine, but in spite of Kate’s advice she knew she could not simply hand her baby over to strangers and forget she’d ever given birth. Somehow, she must find a way to see her son again.

“A SLIGHT INDISPOSITION?” Honor Lisle repeated John Husee’s words in a tone that dripped disdain.

“A megrim, or so her cousin told me.”

“Ungrateful chit. She has no proper respect for me.” Honor had neither forgotten nor forgiven Nan’s reaction to the pearls she’d sent. Even after several months, the insult still rankled. “And she need not think I will travel to London to see her.”

“I am sure I do not know what Mistress Anne is thinking, my lady,” John Husee temporized.

Honor sat at one end of the parlor of the Angel, the inn where the Lisles were lodged in Dover. She occupied the room’s only chair. Her man of business hovered nearby, nervously wringing his hands, while her husband and her other daughter, slim and elegant in clothing the Countess of Rutland had given her, stood talking at the opposite side of the room.

“I will not coddle the girl,” Honor muttered. “I have weightier matters on my mind.”

“As to that,” Husee said, “there is something you should know before you meet with the king.” Honor made an impatient gesture with one heavily beringed hand to indicate that he should continue. “Your husband’s cousin, Sir Geoffrey Pole, was arrested yesterday and taken to the Tower of London. He is charged with corresponding with his brother without making the king privy to his letters.” Husee leaned closer. “Madam, if you have, by any small chance, even for the most innocent of reasons, written to that same gentleman, I would advise you to inform the king of it of your own volition and to cease all future contact.”

Honor frowned. Sir Geoffrey Pole had more than one brother, but the only one of interest to the king was Reginald, Cardinal Pole. His position in the Roman Catholic church had forced him into exile on the Continent. The cardinal’s place in the succession increased the threat he posed to King Henry. He and his brothers were descended from King Edward IV’s younger brother.

“I do not see why Pole’s arrest should affect me or my husband,” Honor Lisle told Husee. “Arthur has no claim on the throne.”

She had more pressing matters to concern her. There were problems with money—never enough. Arthur was in dire need of an annuity. Honor’s youngest son, James Bassett, also required an income. And how was John Bassett, the oldest of her boys, to support his new wife and the child they were expecting in the manner Frances Plantagenet deserved?

There was the dispute over Painswick Manor, too. That matter would have been settled long ago if not for the interference of that upstart Thomas Cromwell.

Honor was an old hand at courtiership. Social gatherings, private meetings over business, the exchange of tidbits of news—all those were familiar ground. Familiar, too, was the snail’s pace at which things proceeded. Nothing could be accomplished quickly and, in a court without a queen, there were far fewer opportunities for a woman to influence the king’s decisions. All the same, Honor had high hopes for this visit to Dover. King Henry himself had sent for them and today they had been summoned to the castle east of the town to meet with His Grace.

When she’d dealt with the remaining business Husee had brought to her, Honor ordered their horses brought around. With the king in residence, all of Dover’s inns were filled to capacity. The Angel was an excellent hostelry, but it had no stabling of its own. They had a long, frustrating wait before they could set out.

The last time Honor had visited the royal apartments in Dover Castle, she had been in attendance upon Anne Boleyn. Not yet queen, the king’s notorious concubine had been about to accompany His Grace to France. Honor had embarked on the voyage with mixed feelings. Her religious upbringing required that she side with Queen Catherine of Aragon and deny the possibility of divorce. But the ambitions she harbored for herself and her family were powerful. To win and keep royal favor, she’d been prepared to be flexible. She still was.

Together with her husband and daughter, Honor entered the king’s apartment by way of a spiral staircase in the southwest corner. The chamber was well lit and boasted an enormous fireplace decorated with old King Edward IV’s badge of the rose en soleil. Honor’s spirits soared. It seemed to her that they were being shown special favor … until she recognized one of the other people in the room. Thomas Cromwell emerged from a dark corner to stand at King Henry’s elbow. Several persons in Cromwell’s livery accompanied him.

Honor had not expected to be alone with the king. There were always attendants about. But she had planned to complain to His Grace about Cromwell’s meddling. That was impossible now, and Honor suspected their long-anticipated “private” meeting with the king would be both public and disappointingly brief.

“But where is Mistress Nan?” the king asked when he had welcomed Honor and Cat with light kisses. “We looked forward to seeing both of your daughters again, Lady Lisle.”

“A trifling indisposition, Your Grace, but sufficient to prevent her from traveling.”

“What a pity,” said the king.

At a nudge from his wife, Arthur attempted to raise the issue of Painswick. And he hinted delicately at the matter of an annuity. His Grace ignored both overtures. When he dismissed them a few minutes later, nothing whatsoever had been settled.

Dissatisfaction made Honor’s manner curt when a lad in Cromwell’s livery followed them out into the passageway and tried to speak to her. She continued on without acknowledging his presence. Cat, however, out of courtesy, stopped to listen to what he had to say.

“That did not go so badly,” Arthur said as Cat caught up with her mother and stepfather.

Honor opened her mouth to contradict him, then closed it again. Let him retain his foolish optimism. She knew better. She did not object, either, when he suggested climbing up to the roof of the keep before they left the castle. He wanted to show Cat the view.

From that height, they could see the town and port, the shallows known as the Downs, and miles of undulating countryside. “That is St. Margaret’s Bay below,” Arthur said. “At low tide you can walk under the base of the cliffs, but there is always the risk of being cut off.”

“Is that Calais?” Cat asked, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. At the far side of waters that leapt and sparkled, the distant coastline shimmered, more illusion than reality. Only about twenty-five miles separated England from the Continent.

“It is,” Arthur said. “On rare occasions, one can see these very chalk cliffs from the walls of Calais, and sometimes even make out the shapes of men walking on the battlements.” He peered intently toward the far shore. For a few minutes, the only sounds to be heard were the cries of gulls and guillemots.

Losing interest, Cat drifted over to the spot where her mother stood. “Our Nan has made another conquest,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“That boy. The one who followed us when we left the king’s presence. He was most anxious about my sister’s health. He heard you tell His Grace she was ill and wished reassurance that it was nothing serious and that she would recover.”

“He looked to be thirteen or fourteen at the most. Somewhat young to have formed a romantic attachment.”

“Still growing,” Cat agreed, “and awkward with it. Color flamed in his face when he said Nan’s name. He’s encountered her somewhere and been taken with her beauty. We should not be surprised. Half the retinue at Calais fell under Nan’s spell during the short time she lived there before leaving for England.”

Belatedly, Honor thought to ask who the lad was.

“He’s Lord Hungerford’s son and heir,” Cat said.

“That does nothing to recommend him. I have no high opinion of his father. He was elevated to the peerage through Cromwell’s influence.” Honor frowned. What was it she’d heard? Some rumor about Hungerford’s mistreatment of his wife? She could not quite call the details to mind.

When a salty breeze came up, lifting the lappets on her headdress and making her skirts billow around her ankles, Honor dismissed both Hungerfords from her thoughts. It was past time to return to the inn.

There were letters waiting for her at the Angel. One came from Arthur’s daughter, Frances, in Calais. Honor’s entire body went tight with dread as she read what the girl who was both her stepdaughter and her daughter-in-law had written.

“Mary is gravely ill.” For Cat’s benefit, she added, “Your sister has been plagued by an intermittent fever ever since she returned to Calais in March. It is some sort of ague. I hoped it would pass, but Mary was in her fourth week of daily fevers when we left and Frances reports that she has taken a sudden turn for the worse.” Honor had only been gone a few days. She’d never have left if she’d thought Mary’s fever would rise. In most cases, agues became less severe over time.

“You should be with her,” Cat said. “Everyone in the household at Calais looks to you for treatment of their ailments. Even some of your friends in England write to you for advice when they are ill.”

“But I have obligations here,” Honor objected. “And I am not sure how much more I can do for our Mary. I have tried every cure I know for agues and fevers and none has worked for more than a short time.”

Cat looked thoughtful. “I have heard of something they use in the Fenland called ‘the stuff.’ It is opium poppy juice coagulated into pellets. Perhaps you can locate a supply here in Calais. It is said to be a sovereign remedy for all sorts of agues.”

Arthur, who had been listening to the exchange without comment, at last spoke up: “If you can obtain some of these pellets, you had best deliver them to Calais yourself.”

“But, my dear—”

“No, sweetheart. I can manage well enough here on my own, and Mary needs you.” He frowned. “Unless you think Nan has more need for your skills?”

Honor snorted. “Nan has no need of anyone or anything. That wretched girl is the most independent creature I have ever met.”

AS SOON AS Nan was able to travel, she, Kate, and Constance joined her cousin Mary and the rest of the household at the Earl of Sussex’s house at Mortlake. News from court reached them there only belatedly, but provided many happy hours of speculation. When it came time to return to London, Nan and the others were still marveling over King Henry’s demand to personally inspect seven or eight potential French brides. He’d suggested bringing them together under a marquee to be pitched on the border between France and the English Pale of Calais. The king and queen of France had been invited to chaperone. King Francis had angrily rejected the suggestion, ordering his ambassador to inform the king of England that it was not the custom in France to send damsels of noble and princely families to be passed in review as if they were horses for sale.

In the nearly two months she’d spent at Mortlake, Nan had devised a plan that would allow her access to her son. At her first opportunity, she slipped away from her cousin’s house and made her way to Cheapside, the widest thoroughfare in London. All along the way the houses and shops were the most fashionable … and the tallest … in the city. Some rose as many as five stories.

Nan hurried past the elaborate buildings, barely aware of them. She could see her destination ahead, near where the west end of Cheapside led into Newgate Street—the shop of Barnabas Carver, silversmith.

“There is no need for this,” Constance muttered as she trotted along behind her mistress. “He’s well cared for. Well loved. The midwife said so.”

Nan turned aside, entering the Liberty of St. Martins le Grand. She had not changed her mind. She had one stop to make before she entered the silversmith’s shop.

The area was one in which many foreign craftsmen had settled. Nan could hear snippets of conversation in Flemish and Italian and French. She was fluent in the latter and a few judicious questions led her to a tiny shop that sold jewelry.

The Liberty of St. Martins le Grand was exempt from the jurisdiction of the lord mayor of London. The ancient rights of sanctuary applied there, although Nan was not sure why. That scarcely mattered. What was important was that these craftsmen were not bound by the regulations of the Goldsmith’s Company. As she’d hoped, the merchant she found sold counterfeit jewelry, both silver and the long strands of fake gold links popularly known as St. Martin’s chains.

“This is not pure silver,” she said, selecting a pretty bracelet from an array of such trinkets. Lying next to it was a carcanet, a jeweled collar studded with fake jewels. Colored foil had been set behind glass to make it resemble precious stones.

The shopkeeper assured Nan that she was mistaken.

“I do hope not, since it is silver-gilt jewelry I seek.”

The Frenchman shrugged. Speaking in his native language, as she had, he sang the praises of imitations that looked like the real thing. When he quoted a reasonable price for the bracelet, Nan paid it. Then she asked for the loan of a knife with which to scrape off enough of the thin silver coating to reveal the dull metal beneath.

A few minutes later, Nan was back in Cheapside and entering Master Carver’s shop. Her heart raced in anticipation. She warned herself that she had to be careful. She must not appear too eager, or even mention the child the Carvers had adopted. To display overt interest would arouse suspicion.

“May I help you, mistress?” asked the man Nan assumed was Barnabas Carver. He had a slight build and wore little silver spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. His hands were small, too, but he had long, graceful fingers. Nan supposed he needed a delicate touch to create the jewelry and other beautiful silver objects he had on display. There were cups and spoons, ewers and saltcellars, candlesticks and elaborate standing cups. From the back of the premises, she could hear the steady sound of hammering as apprentices shaped new pieces for sale.

Nan produced the bracelet she had just purchased. “A gentleman who seeks to marry me gave me this.” The fabrication came easily to her lips. “He claimed it was pure silver but, as you can see, I have reason to suspect he lied.”

Shaking his head and making a tsking sound, Carver took the bracelet. He ran one finger over the scratch Nan had made with the knife. “Alas, mistress, this is only silver gilt. The piece is not nearly as valuable as your suitor would have you suppose.”

“Oh!” Nan cried in a distraught voice. “Oh, it is too cruel.”

She wished she could coax forth tears at will, but had to settle for hiding her eyes behind a handkerchief and choking out sobs. Constance fussed over her, wringing her hands and beseeching the shopkeeper to find a place for her mistress to lie down.

“I know her well, sir.” Constance’s whisper contained just the right amount of urgency. “She will work herself into a terrible state if she’s given half a chance. There’s nothing for it but to take her somewhere private, and quickly. And perhaps a sip of wine to restore her?”

Peeking through her fingers, Nan watched Carver panic. Her plan was working. Within moments, she had been transferred from the ground-floor shop to the first-floor living quarters. She was led to Mistress Carver’s very fine bed—in truth, it was better than Nan’s own—and urged to lie down. She did so, but only until she heard the unmistakable sound of a baby crying.

“You have a child!” Abruptly, she sat up. Genuine tears threatened to undo her.

Regarding her warily, Mistress Carver nodded. “My son, Jamie.”

“May I see him?” She sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes. “I love children. It would calm me if I could spend a few moments with your little one.”

Mistress Carver looked as if she’d like to refuse, but since Nan was clearly a gentlewoman, not to mention a potential customer, she reluctantly agreed to fetch him and scurried out of the room.

Nan told herself she approved of the other woman’s caution. She wanted her son’s mother to feel protective toward him. Hastily, she got to her feet, smoothed her skirts, and righted her French hood. Her nervousness returned tenfold. She had little experience with babies.

Mistress Carver returned carrying a tightly swaddled child. Jamie was bigger than Nan expected and the tiny cap he wore completely covered his hair. She would not have known him for her own if she had not found him here.

Without giving Mistress Carver the chance to object, Nan tugged the baby out of the other woman’s arms and hugged him tight. Jamie blinked up at her with Ned Corbett’s eyes. Then he began to wail. Nan hastily handed him back to the silversmith’s wife.

The baby calmed as Mistress Carver crooned to him. “He is a good baby.”

“A healthy child with lusty lungs,” Nan agreed. “He is more precious than gold or silver. Guard him well.”

Her son would never lack for material things. More important, the little boy would have love and attention in abundance. Reassured, Nan knew she should make a clean break. Instead she heard herself asking Mistress Carver if she might call on her again and bring a small gift for Jamie.