Virginia Henley (53 page)

That night at the evening meal in Crichton’s Great Hall, he told his moss-troopers about the arrangement he had made with the king to keep the Borders peaceful. “Percy and Clifford have pledged their allegiance to patrol and disarm the English shires and we’ll do the same in the Scottish dales. The old warden system and march laws will be abolished. The Border inhabitants will be subject to the same laws as the rest of the kingdom. If they refuse to disarm and keep the peace they will be hanged.”

Jock scratched his head. “How is this different from the Border patrol we’ve done fer years?”

Patrick grinned. “The difference is the new King of England is paying us three times as much for our services.” His expression sobered. “I’ve invested the money in sheep. Next year when we export the wool, using our own Hepburn ships, we’ll share the lucrative profits. Any who don’t wish to be included can have their money now.” He was relieved when none opted for their pay.

“We’ll split the moss-troopers. Half will guard Crichton lands; the other half will patrol the Borders. We’ll switch about every month. All in favor?”

A chorus of
ayes
was followed by the clink of pewter tankards.

Hepburn’s first days home were occupied by the necessity of establishing a range where the sheep could graze. Tyne Water formed a natural barrier along the western and northern boundaries of Crichton’s landholdings, but stone walls needed to be built in the south to prevent the valuable animals from wandering into the Moorfoot Hills, where they could be lost to wolves or human predators. Despite hours in the saddle, and the back-breaking tasks of collecting and piling stone, Patrick was restless. For the first time since he was a boy, he had difficulty sleeping, and as a result the hours of the night seemed endless.

Sometimes he arose at four in the morning and went hunting, with Sabbath and Satan his only companions. On the third successive morning of watching the sunrise over the Lammermuirs, he sat astride Valiant and addressed his deerhounds. “She’s ruined it for me, you know. I used to relish being alone. I loved nothing better than ranging on my own. Now, all the joy, all the pleasure, has gone out of it.” It took him a few more days before he admitted to himself that he was suffering from loneliness.

When Patrick saw newborn lambs, his first thought was of Catherine and how thrilled she would be if she could see them. He forced her from his thoughts, but she returned unbidden, and a gnawing ache grew inside of him that he found difficult, then impossible, to ignore.

Eating alone killed his appetite. He began taking all his meals with his moss-troopers, yet his food remained tasteless and unappetizing. His temper grew short; his usually wicked humor deserted him. Finally, Jock confronted him. “Ye’re like a bear with a sore arse. ’Tis obvious ye did not get yer hands on the English estate ye coveted.”

Though Hepburn was not given to brooding introspection, he lapsed into it now. Perhaps it was not the English estate he missed and longed for; perhaps it was the Englishwoman who owned it.
Is it Catherine I want, or Spencer Park?
He forced himself to be truthful.
I want them both!
Moreover, he was stubbornly convinced there was no reason on God’s earth why he couldn’t have them both. All he had to do was bring the little hellcat to heel.

“I’ll take the first Border patrol,” he told Jock, trying to make amends for his accursed temper.

“Nay, yer needed here at Crichton. I’ll patrol the Borders fer the month of June, and ye take over in July.”

At Spencer Park, Catherine grew wan and listless. She had stopped riding out on Jasmine because the solitary exercise brought too many memories of the glorious rides she and Patrick had enjoyed every day. She stopped going into the library for books, because it reminded her of times they had stolen into the room for an intimate hour when they could not wait until night.

To fill her hours, she sat with a sketchbook, but now that Queen Elizabeth was gone, there was no reason to design the fantastic garments the aging monarch had demanded. Cat often caught herself drawing the leopard and horse-head symbols of Hepburn, and one day she looked down to see that she had sketched Crichton Castle.

There were times that she longed for Scotland, for her grandfather and for Tattoo, her little black cat. With horror, she began to suspect that what she really longed for was Patrick, and then she would deny it with every fiber of her being.

She and Maggie began to sew tiny garments for Mary Carey’s child, but the ache inside her for a baby of her own became intense and then unbearable, and Cat began to fear for her sanity. What saved her was the letters that David Hepburn brought her when he returned from one of his journeys to London.

“Maggie, I have two letters: one from Philadelphia and one from Queen Anne herself!”

Maggie offered up a silent prayer of thanks. It was the first time she had seen delight on Catherine’s face for a long time.

Impulsively, Cat slit the wax seal on the envelope from Queen Anne first, saving the best for last. “It is an announcement of the coronation in July.” She passed the official card to Maggie and then read aloud the brief note enclosed.

Suddenly the Royal Court with all its trappings of pomp and splendor, along with its courtiers vying for attention, seemed far preferable to her lonely days and endless nights at Spencer Park.

With eager anticipation Cat read aloud from Philadelphia’s letter. The second paragraph was most gratifying.

Catherine raised her eyes from the letter. The picture Philadelphia’s words had painted was too enticing for Cat’s impetuous nature to resist. “Maggie, we are going to London for the coronation. I shall pack all my finest spring and summer gowns. Come, there isn’t a moment to lose!”

W
hat on earth is happening?” Catherine’svoice showed traces of fear as she looked at the milling crowd of filthy beggars who had stopped their carriage outside the city gates.

“Dear God, the slums have become overrun with the dregs of Scotland. Like rats, they’ve deserted Edinburgh and Glasgow and will soon turn London into a cesspool,” Maggie declared.

David Hepburn, who was sitting beside their driver, picked up the coachman’s whip and laid it about the backs of the more aggressive thieves who had climbed onto the carriage. The mob fell back long enough for the Spencer coach to get through the Aldergate. Inside the city, though the streets seemed packed with people, the crowds were not unruly.

“It’s stifling hot in here. I need some air,” Cat said.

“Dinna open the window! Overcrowded slums breed contagion.”

“You may be right, Maggie.” Cat shuddered and plied her fan.

By the time they arrived at Whitehall, it seemed like they were in another world, and Catherine heaved a sigh of relief. She thanked David for keeping them safe. She didn’t approve of his brutal tactics yet admitted they had been necessary.

“I’m sorry ye were subjected to danger, Lady Stewart. If ye confine yerself to the Court, ye will be safe.” He unloaded the luggage, lifted a trunk to his shoulder and picked up another.

His great height and strength reminded Cat of another Scot.
He’s ordering me to confine myself to the Court. All Hepburns are insufferably arrogant!
She led the way to her husband’s chambers. The well-appointed rooms were comfortably spacious but, since they hadn’t been used for some time, seemed airless. Cat threw open all the windows, and David went to get the rest of the luggage.

“I’ll order ye some bathwater, then ye can change into a lighter dress. If June is this hot, what will July be like?”

“If I unpack immediately, my gowns won’t be creased too badly.”

“Let’s see if we can do it before yer water arrives.”

That evening, when Catherine and Philadelphia strolled into the Great Dining Hall, adjacent to the Privy Chamber, they were immediately surrounded by ladies of the Court who were envious of their lightweight gowns. The Scottish females for the most part wore woolen garments whose colors tended to be deep and dark. Their clothes were designed to keep them warm in their drafty, cold castles. As the chamber filled up, the courtiers became overheated. Some gentlemen opened their doublets and the necks of their linen shirts, but the ladies were not so fortunate.

It wasn’t long before Queen Anne sent Christina, one of her ladies, to summon Catherine to the dais.

As Cat went down in a graceful curtsy, the queen beckoned her to come up onto the dais. “Lady Stewart, I am delighted you came.”

“Thank you for inviting me, Your Highness.”

“Christina will give you her seat so we may talk. I am sweltering to death. How do you appear so cool and elegant?”

“I’m wearing a summer dress of silk organza, Your Highness.”

“Are the summers always this hot in England, Lady Stewart?”

“Please call me Catherine. It’s not usually this hot until late July or August, but I think summer is here to stay, ma’am.”

“In that case I am in urgent need of a wardrobe like yours.”

“I shall confer with my mother tonight, and I promise we will devise a new wardrobe suited to this stifling hot weather.”

Philadelphia and Cat found Isobel with the sewing women. Many were English ladies who’d worked with her for years, but others were from Holyrood, and had previously sewn Anne’s garments.

“Catherine! This is a surprise.”

Cat braced herself for rejection. Her mother’s tone indicated it was not a
pleasant
surprise. “The queen invited me. She saw my gown tonight and voiced a desire for something similar. I promised you’d devise garments more suited to this hot weather.”

“That
I
would devise, or
you
would devise, Catherine?”

Philadelphia jumped in. “For pity’s sake, Isobel, your daughter isn’t trying to undermine your authority. We must all put our heads together and come up with a solution. Tonight! Anne and her ladies are roasting alive in their woolens.”

Isobel changed her tune. “Her Majesty’s comfort is paramount.”

“Mother, I know there is a vast array of materials packed away in storage. We must go through it and sort out all the lightweight cloth. We will need finespun lawn for undergarments and silk, sarcenet, cambric, lace, faille, organzine or taffeta for day dresses and gowns. I think Queen Anne would look especially elegant in taffeta.”

“Like the one I’m wearing. It rustles deliciously,” Philadelphia pointed out.

“I know that Elizabeth had well over a hundred fans. They need to be brought out of storage and put to good use,” Cat advised.

“I shall lead the way. Follow me, ladies,” Isobel directed.

Catherine began to sketch some designs that would flatter Anne’s statuesque figure, and within the hour the sewing women began work on a gown that the queen could wear the next day.

It was midnight before Cat retired, and as she lay abed feeling pleased with all she had accomplished tonight, Patrick’s words came floating back to her.
The lion’s share of the credit is yours, sweetheart. It was a resounding triumph, especially for a little wench who’s only goal used to be wearing the most elegant gown.
Suddenly, she felt that life at Court was shallow. She turned over and thumped her pillow, vehemently denying that she missed him.
Damn you Hepburn, you’ve spoiled everything for me!

 

Throughout the month of June, Catherine, Isobel and the ladies of the Queen’s Wardrobe worked diligently creating garments for both Queen Anne and her ladies. Before work could begin on Anne’s coronation robes, a design and a color had to be decided upon.

“Green is a Tudor color, and I don’t care for purple,” the queen told Catherine. “White doesn’t flatter me, and cloth of gold or silver would likely put James in the shade. Though it’s never been used for a coronation, I wish I could wear plain blue.”

“Your Highness, as Queen of England it is your right to set the fashion, rather than follow it. Why not wear blue? Not plain blue, of course; we will have to give it a more splendid name.”