"It was an excuse to hide her fury," said Essex complacently. "She would have been mad with rage whomsoever I had married."

"The point is," said Penelope, "what happens now?"

"I'm in disgrace. Cast out of Court. 'You will want to dance attendance on your wife,' she said, 'so we shall not be seeing you at Court for some time.' I bowed and left her. She is in a vile mood. I do not envy those who serve her at close quarters."

I wondered how much he cared. He did not appear to in the least at that moment, which was comforting for Frances.

"Think how much he loves you," I pointed out to her, "to incur the Queen's displeasure for your sake." Those words were like an echo coming down through the years—a repetition of the dance—with Essex the Queen's partner now, instead of Leicester. There was the usual buzz of speculation at Court. Essex is out.

What excitement for the others—men like Raleigh, who had always been at odds with him, and the old favorites. Hatton perked up considerably. Poor Hatton, he was showing his years, which was particularly noticeable in a man who had been so active and at one time the best dancer at Court. He still indulged and even took the floor with the Queen, as graceful as ever. Essex had outshone them all; and it was the younger ones like Raleigh and Charles Blount who stood to gain from his disgrace.

Poor Hatton did not benefit long from the decline of Essex. He became more and more weak during the days that followed and before long retired to his house in Ely Place, where he suffered acutely from an internal disease and died by the end of that year.

The Queen was melancholy. She hated death, and no one was allowed to mention it in her hearing. It must have been sad for her to see her old friends dropping from the tree of life like so many overripe plums, riddled by insects and disease.

It made her turn more and more to the young.

When Frances gave birth to a son we called him Robert after his father. The Queen relented. Essex might come back to Court, but she did not wish to see his wife.

So the Queen and my son were good friends again. She kept him by her side; she danced with him; they laughed together and he delighted her with his frank conversation. They played cards until early morning, and it was said that she was restless when he was not beside her.

Oh yes, it was like the old pattern with Leicester but, alas, where Leicester had learned his lessons, Essex never would.

I had at last accepted that fact that the Queen would never forgive me for having married Leicester and that I should always be an outside observer of the events which were shaping our country. That was hard for a woman of my nature to accept; but I was not one to sit down and mope. I suppose like my son and daughter I would fight to the end. I always felt, though, that if only I could have once met the Queen and talked to her, we could have repressed our resentment and I could have amused her in the way I had so long ago; then we could have come to some understanding. I was no longer Lettice Dudley but Lettice Blount. True I had a young husband who adored me, and that might displease her. She would think I ought to be punished for what I had done. I wondered if she had heard rumors about my having helped Leicester out of this world. Surely not. She would never have let that rest.

But I did not give up hope. Essex told me that on those occasions when he broached the matter of my reinstatement at Court her looks grew stormy, she became formidable and refused to discuss it with him, turning from him and not speaking to him for the rest of the evening. She had intimated that this was one subject which even he must not mention.

"I'll have to go warily with her," he said. "But I'll do it in time."

I guessed that she had been even fiercer than he implied, since she had made him realize that his insistence could bring about his banishment from Court. But I knew my Robert. He would not let the matter rest. It was, however, a question of her will against his.

So there I was—no longer young but still attractive. I had my home in which I took a pride. My table was one of the best in the country. I was determined to rival those of the royal palaces and I hoped the Queen would hear of it. I would myself supervise the making of salads from the products of my own gardens; my wines were muscatel and malmsey and those from Greece and Italy, which were often laced with my own special spices. The kissing comfits served at my table were the daintiest and sweetest to be found. I occupied myself with the making of lotions and creams specially suited to my needs. They enhanced my beauty so that there were times when it seemed it glowed more brightly as I grew older. My clothes were noted for their elegance and style; they were of silk, damask, brocade, sarcenet and the incomparable beauty of my favorite velvet. They came in the most delightful colors, for with every year the dyers grew more expert in their trade. Peacock blue and popinjay green; maidenhair brown and gentian blue; poppy red and marigold yellow. ... I reveled in them all. My seamstresses worked constantly to beautify me and the result I must say—despising false modesty—was good.

I was a happy woman—apart from one great desire: to be received by the Queen. Being married to a husband much younger than myself helped to preserve my youth, and with a family who gave me so much affection—and among that family a son who was generally accepted to be the brightest star of the Court—I had good reason for contentment and must forget this need which overshadowed my life. I must forget the Queen, who was determined to punish me. I must take my life for what it was. I reminded myself that it was filled with excitement and my greatest delight was wrapped up in my son, who loved me devotedly and had made me the center of our family.

Why should I allow an aging and vindictive woman to come between me and my pleasure? I would forget her. Leicester had gone. This was a new life for me. I must be thankful for it and enjoy it.

But I could not forget her.

Even so my family affairs provided perpetual interest. Penelope was growing more and more dissatisfied with her marriage, although she had borne two more children to Lord Rich. She was having a love affair with Charles Blount, and they met constantly at my house. I did not feel I could criticize them. How could I— understanding full well their feelings for each other? Moreover if I had, they would have taken no notice of me. Charles was a most attractive man and Penelope told me that he would very much like her to leave Rich altogether and set up house with him.

I wondered what the Queen's reaction to that situation would be. I knew that she would blame me. Every time Essex displeased her by a display of arrogance she would comment that he had inherited that trait from his mother, which showed that her animosity to me persisted.

Much that happened to my son is common knowledge. His was the sort of life which is an open book for all to read. So many of his emotions were displayed to the lookers-on; and when Essex rode through the streets people came out of their houses to stare at him.

He was arrogant, I knew; and very ambitious, but in my heart I also knew that he lacked the very quality to use his talents. Leicester had had that; Burleigh had it in excess; Hatton, Heneage, they all had stepped with the greatest care; but my son, Robin, liked to skate where the ice was thinnest. I sometimes think there was in him an inborn desire to destroy himself.

He told me that he despaired of ever realizing his ambition at home. Burleigh's one thought was to advance his own son, Robert Cecil, and Burleigh held great influence with the Queen.

I was amazed that my son should have dreamed of taking over Burleigh's place in the State, which was of course the most important one of all. The Queen would never dismiss Burleigh. She might dote on her favorite of favorites, but she was always the Queen at heart and knew Burleigh's value. Often twinges of uneasiness would beset me when I was talking to my son, because he was fast believing that he was capable of leading the country. I, who loved him dearly, knew full well that even if his mental accomplishments had fitted him for that task, his temperament would have failed him.

During the few months he had lived in Burleigh's house, he had made the acquaintance of Burleigh's son, Robert like himself. But how different they were in appearance. Robert Cecil was very short; he had a slight curvature of the spine which the mode of dress at these times tended to exaggerate. He was very sensitive of his deformity. The Queen, who was fond of him and ready to advance Burleigh's son, aware of his undoubted brilliance; however, she helped to call attention to his disability by giving him one of the nicknames she loved to bestow on her favorites. He was her Little Elf.

With Burleigh firmly in his post and unlikely ever to be removed from it except by death, Essex believed that his best way of advancing himself was through glory in battle.

The Queen was, at this time, much concerned with events in France, where, on the assassination of Henri III, Henri of Navarre had taken the throne and was having difficulty in holding it. As Henri was a Huguenot and Catholic Spain was still considered a threat in spite of the defeat of the Armada, it was decided to send help to Henri.

Essex wanted to go to France.

The Queen refused permission, for which I was glad; but I was worried, knowing what he had done previously and believing that he was quite capable of doing the same again. He was clearly becoming convinced that, whatever he did, the Queen would forgive him.

He sulked and begged and would talk of nothing but his desire to go, and at length she allowed him to do so. He took with him my son Walter and, alas, I never saw Walter again, for he was killed in the fighting before Rouen.

I have not written much of Walter. He was the young one, the quiet one. The rest of my children all asserted themselves, calling for attention in some way. Walter was different. I fancy the others resembled me, and Walter his father. But this gentle, affectionate boy was beloved by all of us, although we were inclined to ignore him when he was with us, but how we missed him when he was not! I knew that Essex would be heartbroken, and particularly so because he had persuaded him to go out and fight with him. It had been Essex who wanted to go to war and Walter had always wanted to follow his elder brother, but Essex would remember that, had he stayed at home as I—and the Queen—had wished him to, Walter would never have met his death. Knowing Essex well, I could imagine that his melancholy would match my own.

I heard news of him. He was brave in battle. Of course he would be, with his reckless, fearless nature; he cherished his soldiers and lavished honors on them when, Burleigh pointed out to the Queen, he had no right to. We were very anxious about him because men who returned home spoke of his absolute recklessness and oblivion to danger and how even when he wanted to hunt, he never hesitated about venturing into enemy country.

The loss of Walter and my fears for Essex made me very nervous and I even thought of begging the Queen to receive me that I might implore her to bring him home. Perhaps if I went on such a mission and somehow was able to have it conveyed to her why I came, she would see me.

I did not have to go as far as that, for she, sharing my anxieties concerning him, recalled him.

He made excuses about returning and I thought he was going to defy her, but finally he obeyed her. I saw little of him though, for the Queen would have him at her side through the day and far into the night. I was surprised when she allowed him to return to the field of action. I suppose she could not resist his pleading.

So he went out again and the anxieties returned.

Frances visited me often, and we comforted each other. She was a gentle creature and she accepted Essex's wildness as she had Philip Sidney's passion for Penelope. There was a strength in her which contrasted oddly with her docility. She was a woman who had quickly learned to accept her fate with resignation, which was admirable, I supposed; and I thought of how I had raged against Leicester's absences and had revenged myself on him by taking a lover. Yet I could respect Frances's mildness and realized that it was a good crutch which carried her through the difficult periods of her life; but we are what we are, and I could never be like her.