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her of Queen Elizabeth dancing the lavolte alone every morning for exercise.
    At almost the last hour, Frances remembered the queen rode out on many a fine day, and she ordered buskins with heels for riding. Perhaps she would be among the ladies of the queen’s party, especially once Her Majesty saw how well her new lady sat a horse.
    Frances oversaw the packing of lace-edged gloves and upstanding neck ruffs, heavily starched and pleated in their wooden forms. When they were finished, she added close-knit hosen with ribbon knee ties. Lastly, her coffer of books and writing materials was included, and all carried to the great hall below.
    Frances was unable to sleep the night before she was to leave for court. She lay awake, sensing that her life was about to change in ways she dared not allow herself to imagine. Watching clouds pass before the moon, she wondered what the next weeks and months would bring to justify the excitement she was beginning to feel for a court position she did not truly want.
    Though she had been to court several times, she had gone as Sir Walsingham’s young daughter, and not as a lady in the queen’s own entourage. Was that why she felt such anticipation and yet some unease, as if she were entering an unknown and dark forest track, unable to clearly see the road out and into sunlight? Finally she was wearied from her own thoughts. It was always so much easier to read other people’s. She smiled at that, thinking how unladylike her father would consider it.
    She turned from her window and sank into her soft bolster, eventually easing into slumber.
    A fter eating a bowl of thick pottage, barely warm when it reached her from the distant kitchen, Frances made her way with Jennet to the carriage and drivers her father had sent from London. Her washerwoman and maid of the chamber climbed into a wagon that would follow.
    Her father’s man, called Pauley, was tall, with a thin mustache tracing his upper lip and leading to a strong, beardless chin. His clothing was well cut of very good cloth and drape on his wide shoulders and well-proportioned body, all worn with an ease of manner that separated him from other servants.
    He held the carriage door open and lowered the step for her.
    â€œYou must be Robert Pauley,” she said.
    â€œI am, and have no doubt from your father’s description that you are Frances.”
    Jennet quickly stepped forward and in a guardian’s voice said, “Lady Frances to you.”
    The man bowed low. “I beg pardon, my lady. I am used to hearing your father speak of you as Frances.”
    She was surprised to hear a learned man’s speech, and more surprised that her father had spoken of her to his intelligencers. “He speaks of me?”
    Pauley bowed again, and Frances remembered that her fatherhad called him overconfident for a commoner…nay, proud. She would be on the watch for any self-importance that might lead to disobedience. Her face might betray her youth, but not the steel behind it. She would never be one of those poor creatures who was ruled by her servants.
    â€œHe is very proud of his daughter, the wife of England’s foremost poet…of love.”
    A smile tugged at the corners of Pauley’s mouth. Was he mocking her? She was ready to be furious if the man was sly or arrogant, both insufferable in a servant. He held an obvious good opinion of himself, clearly much above his station.
    â€œWell, Pauley, please make certain that all my chests are securely tied,” she said dismissively, treating him as the servant he was supposed to be. She was able to recognize in his proud manner that he was ill at ease with his position, since she, too, was never quite at ease herself, always pretending to be someone she was not.
    He moved quickly toward the wagon to verify the stowing of all her belongings. Without appearing to watch, she saw him check the tie ropes, cinch one, and say something to her maid that