Seven Will Out: A Renaissance Revel (12 page)

“Snowball’s chance in hell of you achieving that level of elegance and élan, Dolly.”

“You may not fancy my chances, Kat, but perhaps you would be kind enough to humor my fancy. That plum color is just too pretty for me to let it go.”

“Well, I’d love to see you in the blue, Dolly. My poppet, when people started starching their ruffs blue, issued an edict against the use of blue starch because blue was the color of Scotland. It made people reluctant to wear blue at all. It meant that some lovely garments, such as this one, were consigned to oblivion for a long time. Now that my poppet is in a place where old politics
don’t matter, I think we can bring the blue out without risking upsetting her.”

“Yes, Kat, but the rich plum color of those sleeves—it is speaking to me!”

“Well, then, I suppose you should listen to what it says,” said Kat, holding up the sumptuous sleeves. As I fingered the rich fabric, I realized that the sleeves had slits in them.

“We could put a damask chemise beneath the sleeves, Dolly, and pull it through the slits for a puff-and-slash effect. Imagine that, combined with the blue of the kirtle and gown I chose for you!”

I could indeed imagine the combination. “The outfit would be very like the one worn by the sitter in Titian’s
La Bella
, Kat!”

“Really?” said Kat.

“You are not impressed, are you?” I asked her.

“
La Bella
is nothing next to the portraiture of my poppet!
The Pelican Portrait
!
The Phoenix Portrait
!”

“I know those two portraits well, Kat, and I must admit they are spectacular. One doesn’t know where to look for the jewels, the embroidery, and the embellishments in general. So much texture, color, and symbolism! Such conspicuous consumption, with the Pelican and Armada jewels prominently featured. Hilliard certainly did Queen Elizabeth I—your poppet—proud in those works of art!”

“And Gowers’s portraits of her, of course, further amplified her glory.”

“Yes, indeed, Kat, with everything Hilliard had and then some! Such creative use of props! Who’d have thought to paint a portrait of the queen of England with a sieve?”

“It was a fitting tribute to the woman known as the virgin queen!” Kat said with spirit.

“Of course, Kat; it was a skillful allusion indeed to Petrarch’s story of a vestal virgin who proves her chastity by carrying water in a sieve and not spilling a drop. Some trick!”

“And what Marcus Gheeraerts did for my Elizabeth’s image! Outstanding!”

“If you say
outstanding
, you must be talking about the
Ditchley Portrait
, Kat. The uber-farthingale that Elizabeth wore in one that was something, wasn’t it? It must have stuck out a yard. And from a waist that was noticeably narrower than the wearer’s sleeves.”

“And don’t forget,” Kat added, “the crotch-level rope of pearls, the lacy halo, the glove, and the fan to complete the ensemble. And of course, that world-atlas carpet beneath her feet!”

Kat threw her head back, reaching her arms out sideways and then upward in a great big, heavenward V. “My poppet was magnificent!” she said.

Kat surely had every reason to be proud of the woman she had raised. However, there was something about Kat and her enthusiasm for all that portraiture that was just not sitting right with my professorial side.

“Kat, pardon my mentioning it, but those stunning portraits—all were painted when Elizabeth I was at the height of her fame and success. Those were not portraits of the young virgin queen but of Gloriana, the mature Elizabeth. Surely you must have been—excuse my mentioning it—dead when they were painted.”

“Well, yes, Dolly, that is true. But here in this place, we have been permitted by a higher power to surround ourselves with many of the comforts and luxuries we were accustomed to in
life. There are the clothing and jewels we’ve brought for you, the furnishings in this room, the tapestries on the walls, the portraits that my poppet has brought here. They are all shades of the possessions we owned in life, just as we are shades of ourselves as we were in life.”

“So those portraits exist here, in shadow form?”

“They do! A whole gallery full of them.”

“What a thrill it must have been for you to see them when you arrived here!”

“It was indeed!”

“But you were not impressed with Titian’s
La Bella
—how were you familiar with that? Surely that portrait is not here as well? How could it be? Other than very recent overseas tours, it has been in Italy ever since it was painted—except for a brief stint in the Louvre during the Napoleonic Wars. And that was well after your time, Kat.”

“As you know, Dolly, we have had guests here many times over the ages. Not all have been as low maintenance as you are. Some of them demanded all sorts of furnishings and supplies during their brief stays here. One such was Josephine—Napoleon’s wife and one-time empress of the French.”

“She was here to process marital issues, I presume, based on my last stay here.”

“Yes. As I recall, it was something to do with size.”

“Her husband Napoleon’s short-man syndrome, or some disappointment of Josephine’s with his other endowments—a teeny-weeny situation, perhaps?” I inquired.

“As I recall, Dolly, both.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised, given Empress Josephine’s, shall we say, zest for life.”

“What had to be brought here to satisfy Empress Josephine, even for a brief stay!” Kat said. “Fashion,
objet d’art
, portraiture, jewels, even a rose garden had to be installed! The Titian was here awhile during her visit, and that was when I got to see it. I have to admit that
La Bella
seemed rather plain Jane to me, Dolly, at least compared to my poppet.”

“Well, compared to your Elizabeth, Kat, who
wouldn
’
t
seem plain Jane?”

“Who, indeed, Dolly?” said the ginger lady with the pretty accent. She had returned, bearing the promised ruffs. “And though I shouldn’t say it,” she added, “I am proud and happy that
I
had something to do with that!”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Sidekick and Psychic

With her armload of ruffs safely piled up in a convenient chair, my newest acquaintance made her way toward me and grasped my hand. “Blanche Parry, Dolly. At your service!”

The lady turned over my hand, and looked into my palm with a gimlet eye not unlike that of my eponymous palm-reading friend back in the real world. She traced a line or two in it with her finger. “Change in store for you in the near future, Dolly!”

“Good or bad, Blanche?” I asked. Do not think I was being forward, addressing a new acquaintance thus by her first name. On my last visit, I had been instructed to address everyone here that way. Given the disputes among the various residents with regard to certain titles, they had decided it politic to do away with titles altogether.

“It will be a good change, I think, Dolly,” Blanche answered.

“I’m taking that as a thumbs-up for trading this nightdress for my sapphire-and-plum ensemble,” I said as Kat held up the garments in question to a discerning Blanche.

“Very well; we shall get you a Spanish farthingale for that ensemble, I think, Dolly.”

“Was the farthingale I wore on my last visit here a Spanish model?”

“Yes, Dolly, it was. Would you prefer a French farthingale?”

“What is the difference between them?”

“The French farthingale swells the hips more distinctly and rocks back and forth quite charmingly when one walks about!
And of course, it nips in and elongates the waist so much better than the Spanish.”

I had a fleeting vision of Scarlett clinging to the bedpost and Mammy doing everything short of putting her foot up Scarlett’s behind and pushing to lace Scarlett down to a nineteen-inch waist. There were bedposts aplenty available in this room, and Kat and Blanche looked like they could muster considerable strength—not to mention four feet—between the two of them.

I took the coward’s way out.

“One Spanish farthingale, sale on approval, please, Blanche. I like the idea of a softer, gentler, unstructured look.”

“Not too unstructured, Dolly,” Blanche warned, glancing covertly at Kat’s backside as she went to the doorway and hollered down the hall. “Jane! The Spanish farthingale! And those cordovan slippers, I think. The port wine–colored ones.”

“Well, we can’t dress you till we get the farthingale or bejewel you till we’ve dressed you, Dolly,” Kat pointed out.

“What does one do to kill time around here?” I inquired.

“I can do a full reading of your palm, Dolly,” Blanche offered.

I’d read that Blanche, child of the Renaissance and its fascination with the pseudosciences, had been quite the palmist. Surely, I reasoned, this was an opportunity not to be missed.

Kat did not agree. “Piffle! Tall, dark strangers. Blond, well-muscled strangers. Strangers with promising codpieces. Strangers with deep purses. Dolly is happily married, Blanche. She is not interested in your questionable prognostications.”

“I can see all sorts of things in palms, not just potential suitors,” Blanche responded. “When I was rocking our mistress, then the Princess Elizabeth, in her cradle, I peeped into her baby palm. I told her mother then and there that she would be England’s most glorious queen one day!”

“What had Ann Boleyn to say to that?” I asked.

“As I recall, she said, ‘That is the plan.’”

Given what I’d learned from Ann Boleyn on my last visit here, I was not at all surprised by this response. Or, for that matter, by Ann’s being brave, or foolish, enough to say it aloud in the face of Henry VIII’s obsession with being succeeded by a male heir.

“Anyone who knew our mistress in her childhood could have told what the future held for her without looking into her palm. Her cleverness, her beauty, her courage—they spoke for themselves. No spurious sixth sense needed!” said Kat.

“First off,” Blanche replied, “my sixth sense is not spurious. Second off, I predicted the outcome
before
the child was old enough to show her wits, her full beauty, or her courage. You seem to forget, Kat,” Blanche said, walking over toward the jewel boxes, “that, unlike you, I was there from the very outset. I rocked our mistress in her cradle.”

“I don’t forget it, Blanche,” Kat replied. “Your constant mentions of the fact make forgetting about it impossible. And my memory, of course, is excellent. I am, after all, a scholar—our mistress’s first educator, in fact.”

The two glowered at each other from across the chair that held the ruffs. The competition between Elizabeth I’s two oldest and closest retainers was promising to erupt into quite a little dustup. Being conflict avoidant, I felt compelled to head this off at the pass.

“So!” I chirped. “My palm has been held by the hand that rocked the cradle whose occupant rocked the world.” Blanche glowed. Kat scowled.

“
And
,” I added immediately, “I have discoursed in art history with the lady who laid the foundation for Elizabeth I’s contribution to both art
and
history; her first teacher. It’s ‘lucky joys and golden times’ for me!”

As the lady I presumed to be Jane entered the room, I realized that I had rhapsodized too soon about my good fortune. She was bearing, among other things, the Spanish farthingale. My free-form time in my nightdress was over. The poets would have it that “iron bars do not a prison make.” I could tell them a thing or two about donning a farthingale with bars of whalebone, as I was doughtily about to do.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Must We Force It into a Corset?

Jane turned out to be Jane Dormer, lady-in-waiting and best friend of Bloody Mary I. She was young and lovely; what a contrast she must have been to the aging and plain woman Mary had become by the time she assumed the throne. Jane had suitors but Mary, valuing her company, would not see her marry. When Mary eventually died, Jane wed the Spanish ambassador, de Feria, and moved with him back to Spain.

With Jane’s assistance, getting me into my cambric foundation garment was easy. I was surprised at the softness of the material; it put my Cuddleduds to shame. The corset, farthingale, gown, skirt, and sleeves that were to follow looked a lot more like work.

I was skeptical, when first I eyed the corset and farthingale presented to me, that I would fit into them. A brief flashback to Scarlett, Mammy, and that antebellum bedpost ensued.

“Needs must when fashion drives,” I thought to myself and headed over to the bedpost, embracing it firmly in my arms. “Bring on the farthingale and corset, Jane! I am prepared!”

With less agony than I thought possible and a little assist from Kat in the way of muscle-and-tussle, Jane managed to get me into my foundation garments.

“England lost an ace fashionista when it lost you to Spain,” I said to Jane, impressed with her skill. As if to confirm my estimation, she turned her attention to my proposed garments with an expert air.

“Your outfit will mirror that of Titian’s
La Bella
, Dolly,” she said.

“And you are an art history maven, as well,” I added.

“I, for one, approve your choice of outfit,” Jane said kindly. “It is so nice to see some continental flair for a change! My mistress, while always beautifully turned out, was never, shall we say, venturesome when it came to fashion; always conservative and good-old-English, even with her cosmetics and toiletries. The woman did love her lavender; I always kept a generous supply of it on hand,” Jane said.

“So Mary I was ardently Catholic with a capital C, but not catholic with a small C, at least not when it came to dress.”

“You could say that, I suppose,” Jane replied.

“Grammatically correct, Dolly!” Kat assured me with a scholarly look.

“We are not here for academics; we are here for costuming and ornamentation,” said Blanche, the woman who had served as Elizabeth I’s keeper of the jewels in life. “Into your skirt now, Dolly! We can’t choose your jewels and accessories until you are dressed!”

Getting into the skirt was the work of a moment, thanks to Jane’s efficiency and skill.