Authors: Emily Purdy
“This filly is yet a bit wild,” my husband admitted, comparing me to a horse, “but, never fear, Father, I’ll soon break her and teach her who her master is.”
“Aye.” The Duke nodded. “I’ve no doubt you’ll soon have her docile and eating out of your hand. You’ve a way with horses and women, Robert”—he nodded approvingly—“and know how to use it; you know best when to use the whip and spurs and when to spare them.”
I couldn’t even raise my eyes to look at the array of unfriendly faces staring at me; all I could do was sit there, staring down, cradling my hurt wrist, and silently weeping into my ale until the Duke of Northumberland rose to signal that the meal was finished and we could all quit the table.
Rather than spend a day with Robert’s mother and sisters, listening to them gossiping about people I didn’t know and finding fault with me as we plied our needles, I claimed to feel unwell and stayed in bed all day. Nor did I come down for dinner or supper either. I had Pirto undress me and put out the candles, and in my shift I cowered under the covers, pulling them up high above my head, and hid from my in-laws. And even though it greatly vexed him when he came, expecting to find me elegantly gowned and ready to accompany him downstairs, I told Robert I was far too sick to sit up and could not bear to even look at a morsel of food, claiming it must be the London air or something I had eaten that had made me ill, though the latter he took as an insult to his mother’s table and said he would not “emulate my bad manners by telling her so”.
Thus I passed each day up until right before the wedding, hiding in my room, cowardly feigning illness, though it led Robert’s family to dismiss me as “a useless thing” and meant all my beautiful new gowns, intended to dazzle and impress my in-laws and their fine friends, were all for naught—“a splendid waste of money!” Robert declared them—but I just could not bear to face all those hostile faces that branded me so unsuitable and unworthy to take my rightful place amongst them at my husband’s side. Even my husband’s eyes burned me, and his tongue spat out scornful, scorching words every time he spoke to or of me. And that—the solid wall of disdain he readily and willingly joined his family in building against me, the lowly outsider who thought the golden ring on her left hand was enough to make her one of them—that is what hurt me most of all. I thought Robert was the one person I could count on to be on my side, to encourage, defend, comfort, and support me; I thought his love would keep me safe. Finding out how wrong I was was like a hammer’s blow to my heart.
The night before the wedding, Robert came into the room and ripped the covers off me and ordered me to get up or else he would take his riding crop to my back and flay my hide off. I leapt trembling from the bed and stood shivering before him in my shift. He barked at Pirto to get out my gowns and lay them on the bed so he could inspect them; he would choose what I would wear on the morrow, as it was the only way to be certain I did not disgrace him.
One by one, he rejected them, always finding some fault with them—“too gaudy,” “too pale,” “too bright,” “too sentimental,” “too whimsical,” “too complicated; that pattern will make any who beholds it cross-eyed or else drive them mad trying to puzzle it out,” “too bland,” “too plain,” “too prim,” “ugly as a monkey’s arse,” “too common,” “that colour hasn’t been worn in London since last year; if I were a woman and that was the last dress I owned, I would go to my grave naked rather than be buried in it!”; “too whorish; with that neckline, you’re ready to walk the streets of London—you might as well stick a banner on your arse that says
Fuck me!
” and so forth, never sparing me, despite my tears and hurt and appalled exclamations. Not a one of my new dresses seemed to please him.
Not even
one!
Not even my precious seashell-embroidered dress, though I had hoped it would stir happy memories in his heart and make him turn to me, kind and loving once more, just as he had been at Hemsby. At last, with an irritated sigh, he flicked his riding crop at the willow green silk extravagantly embroidered with silver artichokes and said I might as well wear that one, and pearls and emeralds with it, and the silver slippers, and then he walked out. Even the splendid array of gowns made for me by one of London’s finest tailors could not render me pleasing in my husband’s eyes! In a mixture of anger and despair, I swept all the dresses onto the floor and flung myself weeping onto the bed.
Later, I rose unsteadily, picked up the dress Robert had chosen, and, hugging it against my body, went to stand before the looking glass. Through my tear-swollen eyes I peered anxiously at myself, staring hard, trying to see myself as others saw me. How had I changed? How had I altered from the girl who used to delight Robert and make his eyes light up until a smile seemed to be the only expression he ever wore upon his face? What had happened to the girl he used to kiss and caress and call his “Buttercup Bride” and tickle and tease because she was so tenderhearted she could not bear to see even a crab or a goose die? What had I done wrong? What had brought my marriage to this low and sorry state? I wished with all my heart that I knew, and then I might, somehow, some way, correct my mistake before it was too late and bring Robert back to me, kind and loving just as he used to be. I was trying
so hard
to be what he wanted me to be, but I didn’t know how to be anyone else but me. And I was being me when he fell in love with me, so why was I no longer good enough?
The next morning when I arose to don my wedding clothes, I felt a bubble of rebelliousness suddenly burst inside of me. I flung aside the green and silver gown and ordered Pirto to bring the vibrant peach satin one festooned with yellow lace and embroidered with a wealth of yellow roses. I had loved that gown from my first sight of it and always planned to wear it to the wedding. Then, with my head held high, clad in the gown that I had chosen for myself, I boldly walked towards the door. But as my hand was reaching out to open it, my steps faltered, and I felt a shrill and sharp pang of alarm. What if the gown really was all wrong? What if it stood out as too bright and garish? What if Robert really did know best? The doubt that assailed me now was as violent as the rebelliousness I had felt earlier and made my stomach churn with cowardice and uncertainty. And instead of opening the door, my trembling hands reached behind me to frantically fumble and claw at my laces as I cried for poor, bewildered Pirto to “hurry and get me out of this!” and to “bring the green and silver gown My Lord chose for me; he surely must know best!”
When Robert came in, I was standing morosely before the looking glass, frowning as Pirto finished lacing me, inwardly cursing my cowardice and repenting my decision to change gowns and to let Robert win. Would the peach and yellow dress
really
have been
so
very wrong? It was ever so pretty! He waited until Pirto was finished and then stepped behind me and unclasped the opulent, shimmering ropes of pearls and emeralds from about my throat and tossed them aside, onto the unmade bed, as if they were nothing more than tin and glass trinkets country swains bought their sweethearts at the fair instead of a fortune in precious gems, and replaced them with a necklace of diamond artichokes to match the silver ones embroidered on my gown.
“What’s the matter?” Robert asked, looking over my shoulder at my glum expression. “Don’t you like it? When I give a woman diamonds, I expect her eyes to light up to rival their sparkle!”
“I never did care much for diamonds,” I reluctantly admitted, for better or worse choosing the truth over a lie. “They seem so cold and hard, like … ice that never melts, or … tears frozen in time.”
Robert threw back his head and laughed. “I never heard anything so absurd in my life! ‘Ice that doesn’t melt! Tears frozen in time!’” He brayed with laughter. “Oh, Amy! Don’t be a fool;
every
woman
loves
diamonds; most would sell their soul for them!”
“Really?”
I was surprised to hear it and turned to look him full in the face, to see his nod of affirmation for myself, not merely a reflection over my shoulder in the glass. “You’re serious? You’re not just teasing me? Well, then,” I said with a shrug and a sigh and a little shake of my head, “they must account their souls of very little value if they would sell them so cheaply. Pretty though they are in their way, they’re just sparkly rocks, Robert.”
“
Sparkly rocks!
This from the woman who says lace is like wearing snowflakes that don’t melt.” Robert laughed and good-humouredly kissed my cheek whilst inwardly I sighed, relieved to hear his laughter instead of a barrage of vexed and angry words. “You dear, sweet fool! If married life doesn’t suit you, you can always earn your bread and board as a jester; you’ve nigh made me split my breeches laughing! Sparkly rocks indeed! Oh, that
is
funny!”
Once he had recovered from his attack of teary-eyed, breeches-splitting mirth, he smiled and kissed me again, his hands reaching round to gently cup my breasts as he pressed his body against mine, letting me feel his desire. “Tonight,” he whispered, his lips hotly grazing my ear, making me shiver at the delicious, melting sensation that still, even after all these years, made my knees tremble, “we shall relive our wedding night.”
I shivered again, this time not from desire, as I wondered if Robert had forgotten or remembered all too well the bruising violence with which he had first taken me that night. I felt of a sudden so cold and sad. Most women would be in a tizzy of anticipation had a husband they married for love whispered such tender words in their ear. Most would not have to worry whether he was rewriting history and remembering that night, and himself, in a better, much kinder light, or if he liked well enough to remember it exactly as it had been.
And then he kissed my cheek again. “Don’t be too long, you silly goose,” he whispered, giving my ear a playful nip, then, with a fond and indulgent peck on my cheek and a pat on my bottom, he started for the door, still chuckling to himself, still scoffing at my ridiculous notions about diamonds. “Sparkly rocks! Ice that doesn’t melt! Tears frozen in time!”
At the door he turned back. “Shoes, Amy!” he said, pointing at my bare toes peeping out from beneath the hem of my green and silver gown. “The silver slippers, don’t forget.”
“Yes, Robert.” I nodded and forced a smile, as Pirto hastened to fetch them. Somehow, in my flustered flurry over what to wear, I had forgotten all about my feet, and Pirto had too, and had I indeed gone downstairs in the peach gown, I might not have realised my feet were bare until it was too late.
“For the life of me,” Robert sighed, shaking his head as he drew the door shut behind him, “I’ll never understand why a woman who owns three large chests filled with the most beautiful shoes would ever want to go barefoot.”
As I turned back to the looking glass, I could still hear the faint echo of his laughter upon the stairs as he again repeated my observations about diamonds. Was it really all
that
funny? Of a sudden I felt gripped by a rising panic. Was there something
really
wrong with me, the way I thought, the things I did and said? What if there was, and I was the only one who didn’t know it? Was I
really
making a fool of myself and Robert?
Nervously, I queried Pirto about it, giving voice to my concerns to the only person I knew would not scoff at, dismiss, and belittle me.
“Pirto, is there something wrong with me? I try
so
hard, but … I don’t think or behave like Robert thinks I should …”
“If you mean like the highborn folk we’ve encountered here, I’d say thank and praise God for it; you’ve a deal more sense than any of them, pet!” Pirto said as she rolled a green stocking up my leg and tied the white silk garter just below my knee.
Pirto looked up and smiled at me from where she knelt helping me ease my feet into the new—and just a little too tight—silver slippers.
“Stuff and nonsense! You’re right as rain, Miss Amy!” She smiled up at me as she smoothed my skirts down. “And I don’t care”—she snapped her fingers smartly as she stood up—“what Lord Robert says to the contrary!”
“Oh, Pirto!” I hugged her.
She kissed my cheek and reached out to adjust the angle of my French hood, then gave me a nod of approval. “Off you go, then!”
That Whitsunday was to be a triple wedding, a grand show with three gold and silver brides and grooms. The King was too ill to attend, but he graciously sent fine and costly fabrics of silver and gold and precious gems to clothe all three bridal couples. The chapel of Durham House was decked from floor to ceiling with great shimmering sheets of red and gold tinsel cloth that reflected the light of thousands of tall white wax tapers.
And in the Great Hall there were new Turkey carpets with fantastical designs, swirls and arabesques, vines, flowers, and animals woven in rich colours that fascinated the eye. There was also a series of six tapestries worked in brightly coloured wools and silks shimmering with silver and gold threads illustrating the tale of Patient Griselda and its overpowering theme of wifely obedience and submission. Robert proudly informed me that he had personally chosen them and that he had paid—or overpaid, in my opinion—£2,000 for them.
Someday, he said, they would adorn the walls of our own home. He went on to paint a picture with words for me of the tapestries hanging in the Long Gallery and us sitting by the fire with our family, me sewing and Robert reading aloud from Chaucer the very tale told in the tapestries to instruct our sons and daughters; he hoped by then he could point to me and say, “There—in the form of your mother—Griselda lives and breathes!” He kissed my cheek and daringly, though we were surrounded on all sides by wedding guests, reached down to pat my bottom through my full skirts and said he might even let me take them home with me and hang them where I could look at them each day and meditate upon the story. For one who could not read very well, Robert said, these tapestries were a fine picture book on how to be the perfect wife; even a child or a simpleton could follow the story just by looking at them.