“I don’t believe you.” Arthur put his arms around her and kissed her again. She could feel him smiling against her mouth. This time there was no hesitancy, simply a rush of physical sensation that almost swept her away.

“Lizzie Kingdom,” Arthur said, his lips an inch away from hers. “Who would have thought?” Then: “I should go. I really should.”

Lizzie hesitated for a split second. She was aware of the conflict inside her, the old fear of intimacy, the need for emotional safety versus an excitement so vivid it lit her up. She’d never felt like this before. She had had no idea. All the times she had thought that there was something wrong with her because she didn’t want a relationship, she just wasn’t that into someone...

“Stay with me,” she said, “Arthur. Stay with me. Please.”

22

Amy: Cumnor Place, Oxfordshire, April 1560

It had been a day of sharp little gusts of wind that raised the tapestries from the wall at Cumnor Place and squally showers that shattered on the diamond windowpanes. By four of the clock evening was already drawing in and the promise of spring that had set the daffodils dancing only the day before had vanished. The day was dark but my mood was fair. Revenge on Robert for all the neglect and injustices and humiliation he had piled upon me was a wonderful tonic. I sat before the mirror in my grand chamber, brushing my hair slowly, dreamily, as I imagined what my life might be in the future. In the chest beside me, hidden beneath the folded clothes, the gloves, shawls, petticoats and gowns of a quality appropriate to the wife of the Queen’s favourite, was the money I had accumulated.

Since coming to Cumnor I had been performing the most elaborate show. My entire life was now a play; a performance of devotion to my absent husband, of mute acceptance of his neglect, a display of sweet nature and pliability. Occasionally I would allow my sadness to show, as I had the previous day when Sir Anthony Forster had invited our neighbours to dine and I had mournfully pushed my food about my plate, rousing myself to smile and make conversation before sinking into reverie again. It was this pretty display of patience that had prompted my friends to visit me that afternoon—to cheer my mood or perhaps to feed on my misery. I did not care either way. They too were unwitting actors in my play.

They had clattered into the parlour:

“Dearest Amy, we are here to lift your spirits!”

Lady Pollard had brought me sweetmeats and was sympathetic: “Our poor, dear Amy! What a cross you have to bear.”

Mrs Wayneman was soothing and gave me a vial of sweet wine to help me sleep. “I am sure Sir Robert will send for you to join him at court soon,” she said, her gaze darting away from mine as she spoke. We both knew she lied.