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thought…. She must remember to be less hasty in her judgment.
    â€œYou are kind, Lady Sidney,” Pauley said. “I am limited in no way. Better you know, since I am to be in your service…except for special duties for your father.”
    Aunt Jennet now sat in rigid, disapproving silence, often casting warning looks at Frances for being in such personal conversation with a male servant.
    Frances ignored the warning. She was a married woman going to court. It was past time to escape her nurse’s constant scolding. “Can you play your guitar in this jouncing carriage? I have never heard such a fine instrument as you have.”
    Pauley nodded so eagerly that his hat slipped to his lap, exposing hair as black and curling as her own. He smiled and unwrapped the instrument, and she saw it had five double strings in the Italian style. Holding it gently, he began to play and sing in a baritone soft and rich enough to lull Jennet into sleep.
    Under the greenwood tree
    Who loves to lie with me,
    And turn her merry note
    Unto the sweet bird’s throat…
    â€œUnder the Greenwood Tree” was a tender song Frances had always loved, and today, of all days, it brought tears to her eyes. Mothers sang it to their babes, and young lovers sang it to each other. She could barely remember her mother, and Philip had never walked with her under the greenwood trees. She didn’t even know whether he could sing.
    Frances blinked and turned her head toward the passing fields glimpsed between the curtains hung to keep out the dust billowing up from the wheels, or as today, the rain. She must have a care and refuse to sink into self-pity, which could age a woman faster than years.
    Pauley stopped playing, concern showing on his face. “I did not mean to sadden you, my lady. Forgive my poor playing. I have been in France and admit to being unpracticed of late.”
    Now she saw something comforting in his manner, though by no means was it the fawning way of some servants. It was a positive attitude that invited confidence. She smiled, yet kept her mouth firmly shut on all her thoughts.
    She waved her hand, dismissing his apology. “Not so, Master Pauley. You are very skilled at the instrument.”
    â€œIs there something I can play to improve your sad humor?”
    â€œI am not in a sad humor; I am merely thoughtful of my newposition with the queen,” she said, determined to crowd out the heartache that she was surprised to feel, and even more surprised to hear he understood. She would not mourn a husband who did not love her, or long for more than she had.
    Jennet, awake again, had heard more than enough. “Frances, let us have silence, I beg you,” she said; yet as they complied, she almost instantly nodded off into a slack-mouthed, snore-filled slumber.
    Frances looked at Pauley and they shared muffled amusement, then sat silent for a time as the carriage slowed for a stream crossing, the downpour having ceased. But she could manage only so long in her own thoughts without conversation to distract her, especially since this Robert Pauley intrigued her. He had the carved features of noble descent to go with his speech. There was a story there, and any good spy would want to discover it.
    She did not sleep easily, as Jennet did, or close her mind against the crack of the driver’s whip and the snorting of horses dragging the heavy carriage along a road never free of ruts even in high summer.
    He didn’t break the silence again until he smiled at a particularly loud, rumbling snore from the older woman. “Is there any place where your good nurse cannot find deep sleep?”
    â€œI have never found such a place,” Frances said softly, smiling as his sense of the comical met hers.
    â€œYet it seems your aunt can sleep in a jouncing carriage and you cannot, so the talent is not in the blood.” He grinned, showing white, even teeth that suggested he must use the best