The Lady of Misrule by Suzannah Dunn Page A

supervision, which, to judge from Mr Partridge’s glance in my direction, was down to me. Jane’s only response to this message from Mrs Partridge was a nod. No clue as to how she felt at the prospect, although a week in her company had taught me not to expect any. She’d made no mention of that husband of hers all week, but why would she? I wondered if he might be easier, on this occasion: calmer, perhaps, than he’d been at their parting; it was possible, I supposed, that under less fraught circumstances he’d manage to show himself in a better light.
    So, I’d be playing gooseberry: I’d have to stand alongside the pair of them in that herb patch – although of course I could stand at a distance, or at as much distance as a herb patch could offer. Actually, I didn’t care where I’d be standing as long as I was out of that room. A week in the Tower, and playing gooseberry was something to do, a herb garden somewhere to go.
    That afternoon, on the strike of three, as arranged, we closed the Partridges’ front door behind us and there they were, Guildford Dudley and his attendant on the far side of various herbaceous tufts. Guildford was testing something – animal, vegetable, mineral? – with the toe of his boot, but left off as soon as he saw us. The white and gold of a week ago had been replaced by a tawny silk which inevitably did a little less for him, but still, he was a vision next to the pallid,sunken-eyed attendant. Jane should take a look at that attendant, I thought, and perhaps she’d realise she didn’t have such a raw deal after all. I was quite possibly a world of fun, compared.
    I loitered by the door, absenting myself as best I could, resolving not to eavesdrop nor meet anyone’s eye and definitely not that of my counterpart; I couldn’t envisage any cause for solidarity with him, and if his turning his back was anything to go by, he felt similarly. Jane was barely past the bee-fizzy lavender before Guildford – making no effort to lower his voice – demanded to know how she was being treated. I didn’t have to be watching to know she’d shrugged the question off. The detail of her reply escaped me, but the tone was unmistakable: non-committal, if not rather positive. Undeterred, her husband launched into noisy complaint: ‘Because I’m getting all manner of shit.’
    A notable lack of response from his wife – just a frown, I glimpsed, a dutiful expression of concern but her heart not in it nor anywhere near.
    Leaning back on to the wall of the Partridges’ house, I gave myself up to a warming by sun-struck brick. Being at ground level offered no obvious advantage over my usual view of the green so I closed my eyes and was entertained instead by the play of sunshine on the inside of my eyelids. Perhaps, I thought, I should’ve called Twig along for company; then again, he might have expected a walk; it would’ve been mean to lure him on false pretences.
    â€˜It’s pathetic,’ I heard Guildford protesting, ‘it’s just achance to throw rotten eggs at a king and queen, and it’s too much for them to resist; they just can’t stop themselves.’
    That did grab Jane’s attention. ‘Rotten eggs?’ I imagined her frown of concern deepening into one of incomprehension.
    Which he gave short shrift. ‘You know what I mean.’
    I wouldn’t bet on it.
    â€˜Our being stuck in here,’ he seethed, ‘is the biggest fucking excitement they’ve had in years.’
    â€˜Who?’ Jane asked, and her interest was audibly genuine. ‘Who’s doing this—’ throwing of rotten eggs , as it were.
    He was predictably hazy on the details: ‘Oh—’ and I imagined the dismissive flap of a fine-boned hand, just everyone. ‘Every last one of the bastards. Even the bloke who brings in my breakfast.’
    Not having the benefit of