Cate of the Lost Colony - Lisa Klein [37]
I held my breath, expecting a tirade, but she only waved him away.
“Begone, fool,” she said wearily. “I would be alone now.”
So he plied his wit among the ladies as we sat doing needlework and listening to Lady Mary read from a book of sonnets.
“Pish! Poetry is lies,” he said when she paused to turn the page. “And who is more fond of poetry than lovers? Believe no man who swears he loves, and believe no man who rhymes his love. Therefore, believe no man.”
Frances smiled. Anne, beside her, looked forlorn.
“By your logic, Dick, we should not believe you,” I said. “Unless you are no man.”
“Better to be no man than woe-man,” he said, winking.
“It is a woman’s woe to be in love with a lying man,” said Emme.
“My lover was no liar,” protested Anne. “And my woe is to be separated from him.”
“All lovers are liars; they love to lie in secret,” said Tarleton. “Yet beware of hiding love. I know a lady who hid her love so well that when she went looking for it she could not remember where she put it.” He grimaced. “Someone found it and stole it away.”
I started, pricking myself with my needle. Were the fool’s jesting words meant for me? I thought of Sir Walter’s hidden letters. I had not burned them after all. Once I had tried, crouching before the hearth at midnight with the bundle in my hands. But I could not destroy those scented pages with their words of love, the verses crafted solely for my eyes.
As soon as Dick Tarleton skipped out and the ladies were gossiping again, I slipped away to the dormitory. Reaching into my mattress, I felt for the bundle of letters. Only dry rushes scratched my fingers. I groped further, checking every corner. Nothing. I pulled the rushes out and scattered them all over the floor in desperation. No letters. Had I put them back in my chest? I threw it open and rummaged to the very bottom, but the familiar bundle was missing. I reached into the old shoe, where I had stuffed the handkerchief. It was empty. I threw it aside. There was no mistaking the terrible truth: the evidence of my secret love had been stolen.
“Who has done this to me?” I wailed into my hands. Then I recalled the day I had found the contents of my chest disturbed. The correspondence from Sir Walter that had never reached me. How careless I had been! All along, someone had been watching me, intercepting Ralegh’s letters, and waiting for an opportunity to steal the rest from me. Was it Anne, avenging my role in Graham’s banishment? Was it Frances, spying for someone or just being spiteful? What would the thief do with the letters? Try to betray or blackmail me? I wished I had overcome my vain desires and burned the letters months ago.
I put the stuffing back in my mattress, cleaned up the dormitory, and pondered my choices. To accuse anyone would lead only to denial; even to ask questions would raise suspicions about me. It was better to pretend nothing was amiss and watch my companions closely. But in the days that followed, no one confronted me with the letters. Neither Frances nor Anne behaved as if she were guilty. Nor did the queen treat me any differently, and I concluded she did not know of the letters. I considered warning Sir Walter, but I was afraid even to put ink to paper, lest the letter be intercepted.
After a week I could stand the suspense no longer, so I told Emme about the theft. As she listened, her eyes grew wide with innocent dismay. At least I knew that she could never have taken the letters.
“Remember, they are written in Ralegh’s hand. When they come to light—that is, if they do—you must deny you returned any of his favors,” she advised. “Let him explain himself.”
A terrible thought occurred to me. “Emme, what if someone has seized the letters I wrote to him?”
“If he is wise, he will have burned them.”
“And I was a fool and did not!” I lamented. “Though I meant to.”
But Emme only pursed her lips and shook her head.
When weeks had passed without incident, Emme asked if I had burned the letters after all.