Constant Heart (17 page)

“It begins, my lady, much like a galliard.” The galliard, I already knew. We stepped together first right and then left and then joined hands. But he soon dropped them and used one of his own to grasp my busk near the waist and the other to embrace me.

I knew then I could not do it and wriggled from his grasp. “I am sorry, but I cannot do this.”

“Come, girl, it is not as if you will be condemned to the stews for dancing a volt!”

“It is not . . . seemly, my lord.”

The dance master bowed toward the earl. “Perhaps, my lord, the lady would feel more at ease if you would agree to demonstrate.”

The earl sighed and then pushed to his feet.

We addressed each other as for a galliard and the music began. I lifted her by grasping her busk below the waist and propelling her upward with my thigh. She was so light of weight that I nearly threw her over my shoulder.

Her cheeks turned crimson with heat, but I had tired of that game as well. “You cannot pretend to be a blushing maid.”

“My lord, I do not pretend. I know little of court circles and their debaucheries.”

I clasped her to my chest with less than gentle arms. “When Her Majesty commands a volt, you
will
be able to dance it.” When I turned her loose to take the next step, she stumbled.

I made her practice the dance with me once. Twice. A dozen times even, until she could dance it with ease. Though her rhythm had ever been impeccable, her movements became more proficient, more fluid. But still her eyes reproached me. Their misery spoke volubly of betrayal.

And that just made my mood more foul.

If I had not suspected she might prefer it, I would have yielded the lesson to the dance master. As it was, we danced the volt three more times.

When we were done she left as an enemy defeated, spiritless and pathetic, as if in fact I had succeeded in imposing my tyranny. I had wanted to teach her the volt? It seemed as if I had done naught but teach her just how right she had been to fear me.

As the weeks progressed, I realized that I had little control over whether the earl was peopling the city with his bastards. I was forced to admit to myself that my marriage might never become what I had hoped, that it had been doomed from the start to become the marriage that was my parents’.

I did, however, continue to have some small successes at court.

Since having been introduced to paints by Lady de Winter, I had kept that regime faithfully, but Joan began to notice what I had noticed as well. Something was happening to my face.

“You’ll want some cool cloths for your cheeks.”

“Nay. Do not bother yourself. It hurts to touch them. They feel hot, but a cool cloth brings no relief.” My skin was dry. And quite red.

“An unguent, perhaps? I can send a page to the apothecary.”

I sat upon a stool, staring into a glass. My skin looked and felt like an expanse of mud, dried and cracked by the sun. I did not know what to do, except more of what I had been doing. The layers of ceruse hid the truth of what lay beneath.

The next morning Joan painted my face in the same manner in which she always had done. But when I went to court, I went to find Lady de Winter.

She kept me waiting at her elbow for some time before acknowledging my presence.

I curtsied, then came as close to her as my gown would allow.

When I spoke it was scarcely louder than a whisper. “My face is flush. I feel it under the paint.”

She peered at my face, her brow furrowed, and then at once it cleared. “It is dry? And red?”

I nodded.

“What is needed is a wash of mercury to leave the skin sleek and smooth. You will want a paste of gimminy and lemons to blend with it. Mix them with flowers of Brimstone and it will cure the red with pale. Apply it first, before the ceruse.”

I sent to the apothecary for the required ingredients and had Joan do the mixing of them the next morning. The heat did not burn in my cheeks as before, but I still felt flush. I made care to remember to have Joan add more mercury to the paste the next morn.

Though the mercury had soon cured my ailment, my skin was not my only complaint. It seemed the attention paid to me at court rested chiefly upon the presence of Lady de Winter. When she was absent, which was more often than not, I could not get any lady to talk to me. My favor in the eyes of others clearly rested upon her good name rather than my own.

I was given more than sufficient time to ponder the situation one day in her absence. More than sufficient time to think on how I might be accepted for my own merits. The earl appeared to have returned to Her Majesty’s good graces. His friends never had any lack of news to share with him.

I dared a glance toward the Queen when her back was turned. What did she want of me? What did any of them want of me? My gown sparkled with jewels, but those of others sparkled still more. I was neither the least nor the most fashionable in that court. I was as pale as a snow fairy. My ruff was as stiff as my busk. My hair was . . . still as black as a moonless night.

Perhaps . . . Was it as simple a thing to fix as my hair?

When Lady de Winter next showed herself at court, I made quick work of gaining her ear.

“My hairs. What can I do for my hairs?”

She smiled, revealing all the teeth she had remaining. “There are many things we can do to your hairs. First we color them, then we frizzle them, and when they finally fall out, then we have you made a periwig.”

“And how do I have it colored?”

She recited a list of ingredients and, upon my return to Lytham House, I sent to the apothecary for them.

The next morning she came to Lytham House to help me. She directed Joan to undress me.

“But why? I have only just now been clothed.”

“And I only want to color your hairs, not your ruff. Nor your robe.” She gestured permission to Joan to begin and then walked over to my jewel box and opened the lid. “What wonders to behold!”

Joan had begun to pull pins from my ruff, so I could only watch as Lady de Winter plucked a jewel from the interior and held it up, close to her face.

“The light here is dim. Garnet or ruby?”

The light did not seem any less in her area of the room, but it seemed rude to remark upon it. “A garnet. From my father.”

She placed it back into the coffer and came up pushing a ring onto her finger. “This ring?”

It was of sapphires and rubies. “From the earl. To seal our betrothal.”

She turned toward me and smiled. “He always knew how to choose a jewel.” She drew it from her finger and placed it back in the box. I heard her sift through the contents for a moment before she pulled forth my rope of pearls. “A lovely necklace.” She drew the length of pearls across her hand, caressing the largest between a finger and her thumb.

She picked out other sundry pieces, holding them close to her nose to examine them.

Last, she pulled from the box the smallest jewel I owned. A brooch worked in gold which took the form of a beehive, and from it dangled several bees fashioned from amber. They looked to swarm whenever I moved.

“You must always wear this one.”

I had worn it, several times with some success, but not of late.

“It is the smallest of the lot.”

“Aye. But this can be your fashion. You signal you are a bee, busy with the work of your Queen. Loyal. True. One of those who work while the drones merely dance.” She punctuated the statement by shaking the brooch in my direction. She laughed at the animation and ran a finger through the bees to make them spin and turn. Then, of a sudden, she clasped it in her fist and dropped it back in the box.

“You know the drones profit from your hard work. And so will the Queen. But what of you, honeybee?”

“My lady?”

“The honeybee forages for any kindness she can find. And then she dies.”

“But, thank heaven, we are not drones.”

“And what of them?”

“It is said that once they mate with the Queen, then their death is not far off.”

She appeared to think on it a moment and then she burst into laughter. Laughter so merry it forced water from her eyes. When it had quieted, she was able to speak. “When they mate with the Queen, they will die? Just so. Certainly so for many of her favorites. Aye, better a honeybee than a drone.”

18

S
ome while later, once I had been stripped to my shift, Lady de Winter instructed Joan to mix the dye.

Joan began by adding some water to a mortar.

“Nay, girl! The quicklime first. Otherwise we risk explosion.”

Joan did as she was bid. The mix began to bubble and boil.

“Is it . . . safe?”

“Safe? We all use this. At least we do until our hairs fall out.”

Lady de Winter ordered up several ewers of water and a tub.

The tub she had placed at my feet, directing me to kneel before it.

And then she turned her attentions to Joan.

“Girl, you will douse your lady’s head with this potion. You will let it rest for a time and then you will wash it clean with the water from the ewer.”

Joan curtsied and as she did it she looked at me. Pointedly.

I gave her the smallest of shrugs. I knew that she did not want to do this. Knew that she nurtured a growing distaste for Lady de Winter. But what was I to do? If dyeing my hairs would gain me entrance to court on my own merits, then I could not be about it soon enough.

I knelt beside the tub. A chambermaid covered the rim with a towel and I placed my neck upon it.

I heard Joan take a position beside me and then I felt the potion drip onto my hairs. It was warm. It had a not unpleasant smell. But the longer it stayed on my head, the less I smelled of it and the lighter my head began to feel. There was an . . . odor . . . “What is it? What is in the mixture?”

“What is needed. Lead, sulphur, and quicklime, with a bit of water mixed in.”

“Rinse it off!”

“It needs time to do its work.”

“My head feels . . . far away. And I can no longer smell.”

“Then consider yourself fortunate, girl.”

I knelt there until my back had cramped and my knees had dug holes into the floor. Finally, I felt the cool relief of water cascading down my tresses.

“Keep your eyes closed or they will suffer.”

I was afraid that if I closed my eyes, I might drift into a faint, but I clenched them shut and waved an arm for a towel. I heard Lady de Winter command one from a chambermaid. The water stopped flowing and a towel soon appeared.

“Does your head become clear?”

“Nay.”

Again, my head was doused with water. And a third time. And a fourth until I began to feel I had possession of myself once more.

Joan helped me up and then dressed me in a loose robe.

Lady de Winter drew me toward a chair placed by the fire. “Sit you here and let your hairs dry.”

She sat with me while Joan retreated and a chambermaid combed out my hairs.

“My head itches.”

“And so it will for a time, but at least it itches under red hairs now.”

When it had dried, we observed the color to be so pale it was hardly a color at all. Joan held up a looking glass to me and I saw my skin had been made sallow by the discolored strands. Nature had never intended me to have red hairs. But it had achieved my greatest hope. Would that my eyes were glowing orbs of gray like Her Majesty’s, for the blue eyes blinking at me looked startling, like turquoise, when placed into a setting so wan. But there was nothing I could do about that color.

The maid curtsied before Lady de Winter.

“Now, we shall frizzle them.”

The chambermaid bobbed once more and went to find the tongs.

“Frizzle?” I was hoping I had misheard her.

“Have you no tongs?”

“Aye, but—it cannot be waved? Or curled?” Either would have taken less time to accomplish than would contorting my hairs into those short, sharp frizzles.

“By all means, if you would rather not play for position at court.

If this is your desire, then I will gather myself to go and not disturb you any further.” Lady de Winter rose from her chair and took a step toward the door.

“Nay. Stay. Please.”