Page 18 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

D espite Thurloe’s advice, Thamsine returned to The Ship Inn. At the end of the day she had nowhere else to go, and no one who could offer her friendship as the Marshes had done.

She pushed open the door of the quiet taproom. Jem looked up from polishing the pewter mugs and smiled.

‘Well, well, let you go, did they?’

She nodded. ‘It was a misunderstanding.’

‘Of course,’ Jem agreed with a knowing wink. ‘Looking for your old job, are you?’

Thamsine shook her head and straightened. ‘No, I am seeking proper lodgings.’

Jem squinted at her with his one good eye. ‘Come into some money, have you?’

Thamsine produced the purse. ‘I have secured respectable employment. Now, Master Marsh, a plain, comfortable room is all I need.’

A shriek from the doorway announced May Marsh. ‘You’re back! Nan, she’s back.’

Clasped to May’s ample bosom, Thamsine looked over her head at May’s twin who gave a cursory nod and a half smile of welcome.

‘She’s here for lodging. Got herself a proper job, she has. Show Mistress Granville to the small bedchamber,’ Jem said, with a low bow.

‘Oh!’ May released Thamsine and looked up at her. ‘Watcha going to be doing?’

‘A music tutor in the household of the French Ambassador.’

‘Go on!’ Nan’s voice was disbelieving. ‘You get carted off to the Tower, on charges of attempting to do in Old Ironsides no less, and a few weeks later you’re released with a job at the Frog Ambassador’s?’

Thamsine shrugged. ‘That’s how it happened. Now I am filthy and stinking and would like a bath. Is such a thing possible?’

The twins looked at each other. ‘A bath?’ they chorused, as if such an idea had never entered their heads.

‘A bath to begin with,’ Thamsine said. ‘And if I can borrow some respectable petticoats from someone, I must go shopping for new clothes.

***

Thamsine smoothed the petticoats of her new green wool gown.

A spotless collar and cuffs edged with lace, new shoes that pinched her feet, and a hat and sturdy cloak completed the ensemble.

She had tamed her hair within the confines of a neat white cap, and she hoped that she presented a picture of genteel modesty.

Clutching the folio containing some sheet music that she had also purchased the previous day, she knocked on the door of the French Ambassador’s house.

Baron Bordeaux greeted her in the parlour.

‘Mademoiselle Granville, I am so glad you could come,’ he enthused, as if she were an honoured guest, not a prospective employee. ‘The Lord Protector spoke most highly of you.’

Thamsine’s eyes widened. ‘The Lord Protector?’

‘Indeed, he said that you had made quite an impression on him at your last meeting.’

Thamsine swallowed. ‘Well, I hope that I can live up to the Lord Protector’s opinion of me,’ she said.

‘Now, tell me, do you speak French?’

‘I am afraid not,’ Thamsine replied.

‘It must be something of a problem for you in the rendering of French lyrics, mam’selle,’ he observed.

Thamsine flushed. ‘I read the words but I am afraid I do not understand the meaning.’

‘Well, perhaps we can help with that. A little, how would you say … “quid pro quo”? As it is, your pupil is English so language will not be a problem. Marie, ma cherie ?’

He only raised his voice slightly, and a side door opened to admit a slight woman with protruding teeth and freckles. Bordeaux’s mistress was not what Thamsine had expected. Thurloe’s idea of the “pretty English mistress” was not hers.

Even in a poor light, Mary Skippon would only be described as passably plain. However, Thamsine considered uncharitably, she must be possessed of hidden talents that brought her to the bed of one of the most powerful men in the country.

‘Mistress Skippon is most anxious to improve her skills in the lute and the virginals.’ Bordeaux indicated a table in the corner of the room where a closed, painted box sat beside a lute. ‘Would you be so kind as to give us an example of your work, mademoiselle?’

Thamsine selected a piece of music from her folio and opened the box.

A pretty piece , she thought, running an appreciative hand over the bucolic scenes of shepherds and shepherdesses cavorting across the inside of the lid.

She spared a thought for her own plain and unadorned virginals, sitting disused at Hartley Court.

It had been a long time since she had played, but her fingers caressed the keys with practised familiarity. She had selected a simple English country air and she sang as she played. Mary Skippon applauded as the last note died away.

‘Oh, that was lovely. Do you think I shall play like that, Baron?’ She looked up at her lover and he smiled and patted her hand.

‘I am sure Mistress Granville will do her very best for you, my dear. We are agreed, Mistress Granville, that you will come on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday at ten in the morning and spend two hours in the instruction of Mistress Skippon.’

He named, as Thurloe had said he would, a comfortable fee.

‘If Mistress Skippon wishes, we could start instruction immediately,’ Thamsine said.

‘ Excellente !’ Bordeaux smiled. He had a charming smile beneath the moustache. He picked up Mary Skippon’s hand and kissed it. ‘Until this evening, cherie .’

She giggled and watched as the door closed behind him. ‘You are not shocked, Mistress Granville?’

‘Why should I be shocked? You are fortunate to have so attentive a man.’

‘His wife does not agree,’ Mary said with a smile. ‘She will be even less than enamoured when she discovers that I am with child.’

As she spoke she placed a hand protectively on her still-flat stomach, her lips curling in a small, tight smile of triumph. An ugly look on the plain face, Thamsine thought.

Thamsine retrieved a piece of music from her folio. ‘Now, Mistress Skippon, shall we commence with the lute?’

Mary Skippon had no ear for music. After half an hour, Thamsine tried not to grimace as the girl hit yet another wrong note in the simple air that she was attempting.

She wondered, as she gazed out of the window at the wintry sunshine, whether she should have accepted Thurloe’s offer with quite such alacrity.

Both women looked up as the door opened to admit a man dressed in what Thamsine could only hazard was the most outrageous of Paris fashion, a red velvet suit covered in silver lace and bows. He gave them both a deep, florid, all-encompassing bow.

‘ Pardonez-moi ,’ he said, as he straightened. ‘I heard the voice of an angel and just had to see for myself. Mademoiselle Skippon … ’

He crossed to the virginals, where Mary had risen to her feet, her plain face colouring as he took her hand and kissed it.

‘Oh, Baron,’ she giggled.

‘And who is this exquisite creature?’ The Baron spoke in English as he turned to Thamsine.

No one had ever described Thamsine as an “exquisite creature” before. She bit her lip and lowered her head as she curtsied to hide the smile.

‘Mistress Granville is my new music teacher, Baron,’ Mary Skippon said.

The Baron minced towards Thamsine and took her hand, pressing it to his lips.

‘Baron de Baas, my dear lady. Why have I not seen you before?’ This time he spoke in French.

Thamsine looked blankly at him.

‘Mistress Granville does not speak French, Baron,’ Mary Skippon explained, speaking French with an appalling accent. She addressed Thamsine in English. ‘He asked why he has not seen you before.’

‘I am sorry Baron, but I have been in London but a short time,’ Thamsine responded in English.

‘Ah, an English country rose … perhaps you will allow me to sing a little duet with dear Mistress Skippon here.’ De Baas returned to his heavily accented English.

‘Please.’ Thamsine held herself in rigid control, resisting the urge to laugh at this absurd creature. What was it about him that so intrigued John Thurloe?

‘When did you arrive back in London, Baron?’ Mary asked in French.

‘Yesterday evening,’ he replied, also in French.

Thamsine had to school her face not to display any interest in the conversation. This, she supposed, was the sort of intelligence that Thurloe wanted.

‘How was Paris?’ Mary continued, ignoring Thamsine.

The Baron rolled his eyes. ‘An oasis of civilization compared to this dank country. How I suffer!’ He pressed a kerchief to his lips as he raised his eyes heavenwards.

Mary Skippon’s lips tightened. ‘England is not that bad, surely?’ she continued in her atrocious French.

‘No, no, of course,’ the Baron replied, ‘but your English politics are causing much concern at court in Paris.’

‘How is that, Baron?’

‘The presence of Charles Stuart is an embarrassment. A king with no throne and no money! It is only the generosity of his cousin that keeps him in Paris. God willing, this is a situation that will not continue long.’

‘Why do you say that, Baron?’ Mary asked ingenuously.

‘There are ways of returning your King to his rightful throne.’ The Baron smiled. ‘But come, Mademoiselle Skippon, we are being impolite to your teacher, who is waiting patiently for us.’

The Baron smiled at Thamsine. ‘My apologies, Mademoiselle Granville,’ he said in English. ‘We have been rude. I see the music you have selected. Perhaps you will allow me to take the lute part?’

De Baas picked up a lute and began to strum with some talent, Thamsine conceded, and indeed he had quite a fine tenor voice.

At the conclusion of the lesson, the Baron lingered as Thamsine collected her music and put away the instruments.

As he nattered on about the latest French fashions, Thamsine nodded and made the appropriate noises.

As she walked to the door, he intercepted her, seizing her hand and placing it to his lips.

‘You are a very talented musician, mademoiselle.’

‘You are too kind, Baron.’ Thamsine tugged at her hand. ‘You are a fine musician yourself.’

He inclined his head. ‘ Merci , mademoiselle.’

Thamsine freed her hand. ‘Good day to you, Baron.’

He opened the door for her. ‘Until next time, chere Mademoiselle Granville.’