Authors: Patricia McAllister
Alas, while Merry was delighted to find her herself restored in favor, she chafed that she could not be at Ambergate more often. Her visits were fleeting, and she resented every moment lost with the family she had missed. Never had she felt more secure than when she first returned and her father Slade swept her up in a tight hug, her mother Bryony leaning in to kiss her cheek. Merry’s five younger brothers skitted round, clamoring for attention, too, until she laughingly sent Siany to retrieve the little bags of sugarolly she had brought from Goldielands. With the boys occupied, she was able to visit awhile with her parents.
Bryony could not seem to tear her gaze from her second daughter. Nor the raven amulet gleaming at the base of Merry’s throat. “You’ve changed, colleen,” she said huskily. “I cannot put my finger on it, but you have.”
Merry nodded at the observation of her attractive, dark-haired mother. As usual, Bryony was wearing the mannish garb she preferred when sailing, but such humble attire no longer shocked or outraged her court-raised daughter. “Aye, Mother. I think I have grown up a bit.”
“It suits you, sweeting,” Slade Tanner interjected, punctuating his words with another squeeze of the arm still looped behind Merry’s shoulder. “I confess I was relieved to hear you did not wed Wickham, after all. I met him during negotiations and did not particularly fancy the man.”
“
You
did not fancy him?” Bryony laughed at her husband. “He was a pompous
Sassenach
arse, and a lech besides. Imagine, ogling a woman of my age!”
“Well, I cannot find fault with the man for that,” Slade said, flashing a rakish grin. Merry literally saw the love reflected between the two, so intense was it. Growing up, her parents’ unabashed affection and passionate embraces in public had embarrassed her greatly, but now she found herself smiling and feeling as wistful as the queen.
Sensing her daughter’s distraction, Bryony inquired, “What of Lindsay, Merry? Will we approve of your Scots rogue?”
“Aye, I fain as much. He is over proud and heavy-handed, and incredibly thick-headed at times.”
Bryony laughed at her daughter’s dry retort. “A true Celt, then.” She glanced amused at Slade. “’Twould appear I’ve inherited a fierce Highlander for a son-in-law, rather than a
Sassenach
fop and wastrel. Again, I must thank my wise old ancestors and the amulet for their protection and timely intervention.”
Slade shook his red-gold head, smiling. “Faith, don’t tell me you still believe in such quaint superstitions, m’love.”
“Oh, not a bit,” Bryony assured him, and winked at Merry. Merry chuckled, exchanging a look of perfect understanding with her mother for the first time in memory.
* * *
GILBERT LINDSAY HAD CHOSEN to stay with his former tutor whilst in London, and waited at Hepworth House for permission to attend Court with his sister-in-law. Sir Christopher laid the groundwork for the young man’s presentation, and Merry assisted by coaching Gil in all the latest fashion trends. She had greatly missed being called upon to advise in matters of wardrobe and etiquette, and Gil indulged her. To complement his darkness and unique eyes, Merry chose a dramatic outfit of black velvet and silver brocade, inset with royal purple silk panes. Gil had no personal jewelry but Kit loaned him a magnificent silver medallion with a great amethyst in the center, and the adornment flashed as brightly as his smile when he made his obeisance before the queen.
Merry was not mistaken in her prediction. Gil was a natural courtier, and his wit and charm dazzled the ladies. More than a few gazed longingly at the comely Scot by the time he finished a lively trotto with the queen. Dancing lessons were mandatory at Edzell, for Lady Darra was the family representative in the Stuart court, and sought similar positions of respect for her brothers and sons. Gil embraced anything of a social nature with alacrity, while Merry doubted Ran had ever attempted so much as a leisurely bransle. She was pleased, however, Her Majesty approved of the dashing Gil, and the Lindsay name would not be unduly mocked.
Unfortunately, Sir Jasper Wickham joined the Court for the holidays. Merry found his sudden appearance more than disconcerting, but he was nothing if not fawningly gallant before the queen’s watchful eye. Sir Jasper kept company with other dissolute hedonists, and most particularly Penelope Rich, the daughter of Elizabeth’s cousin, Lettice Lady Essex, and hence Robert Devereux’s sister. Lady Rich was arguably one of the most beautiful and exotic women of the Court, a dramatic brunette, her skin lustrous like a fine pearl, her eyes alone fascinating for the fact they did not match in hue. Merry regarded Lady Rich as one might a jewel-toned snake, both mesmerizing and repelling at once. It came to her as no surprise that Sir Jasper counted this woman of dubious morals among his circle of friends.
Merry encountered the loathsome couple several times during the Twelfth Night revelries. The first time, Sir Jasper merely stopped and bowed exaggeratedly, while Lady Rich inclined her head in a chilly nod, and Merry did likewise. The next time she was with Gil, and she saw Essex’s sister lick her full lips and regard the youth with a predatory gleam in her odd-colored eyes. Lady Rich obviously demanded an introduction, for Sir Jasper brought her forward.
Civilities were exchanged while Lady Rich curtsied low before Gil, her full breasts nearly tumbling out of the deeply cut bodice. One could hardly miss the fact her areolae were rouged to match her cheeks, and Gil’s flush betrayed his mixture of innocence and fascination with the mature beauty.
“
Enchante
,” murmured Lady Rich as she rose, her husky voice prompting a visible shiver in poor Gil. He put her proffered hand hastily to his lips, and even after he released it, she held it there, brushing her knuckles back and forth across his lips in a teasing fashion.
Merry frowned and did not attempt to disguise her displeasure. Gil was too young and yet a neophyte at Court; furthermore the lecherous Lady Rich was old enough to be his mother.
“We must retire for the eve, ’tis getting late,” Merry said to the bedazzled Gil, who nodded and gazed after Lady Rich’s withdrawing hand. She turned the full force of her cloying court smile on Sir Jasper and his brazen companion.
“You will forgive us? I fear the family awaits our return.”
Sir Jasper arched an eyebrow. He was clad in mulberry satin, his garish outfit pinked and paned to fashion’s extreme, an enormous cartwheel ruff engulfing his neck to the chin. His pale blond hair was fussily arranged in the latest continental fashion, called a bull-tour, ends held in a short queue with a pearled clasp. Merry conceded he was handsome in a foppish sort of way, but she shuddered to imagine she might be his wife now.
“Naturally we must not waylay you, milady,” he said with a sweeping bow as mocking as his gaze. “Dear Penelope was but curious as to the identity of your escort.”
“Charming escort,” Lady Rich amended, her eyes gleaming with a satisfied light as she glanced over Gil one last time. “My interest has been but whetted all the more, I vow.”
Merry smiled through stiff lips. “Perchance our paths will cross again.”
“Oh, I do not doubt it.” Sir Jasper offered an ingratiating smile. “I shall insist upon nothing less.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
SOON THE EVE OF the Twelfth Night masque was upon them, and whilst Ambergate bustled with the preparations, Merry stepped away a moment from her costume fitting to check on Siany. Since arriving in London, the girl had been little more than a headache, slipping off every time Merry or Nell’s back was turned. It was useless to scold or lecture, and any assigned tasks were completed grudgingly but well, giving no complaint for dismissal. In view of Siany’s relation to Hertha, Merry could hardly discharge the chit in London and leave her to fend for herself on the streets.
Still, she grappled for patience every time she must needs confront the girl. Nell needed help with the baby so she could finish hemming Merry’s costume, and, as usual, Siany had vanished at the opportune time. She could hardly ever be found in the morning. When she was not sulking in the servants’ quarters in the afternoon, she could oft be found wandering the halls in a dreamy daze. After some minutes of fruitless searching, Merry encountered her wayward maidservant hurrying in from the cold, wearing naught but a light shawl. Siany’s skin was very pale, but her eyes had a feverish sparkle.
Merry curbed her anger. “Are you ill, Siany?” she asked.
Vigorously the girl shook her head. By then, Merry had already noted the stains on the collar of her light-colored gown.
“Something did not rest well with you, I see. This is nothing to trifle with. If ’tis a chance of ague or worse, the household must be forewarned.”
Siany’s shoulders seemed to sag. “Nay, milady.” She bit her lip, avoiding Merry’s steady gaze. “There is nae risk t’ the others.”
“I am glad to hear it. Hmm. Is that kidney pie I smell baking in the ovens?”
At Merry’s idle remark, Siany clapped a hand to her mouth and rushed past her mistress, banging through the door to her room below stairs. Merry heard the girl being wretchedly ill and hurried after her, finding Siany on her knees above the chamber pot.
“Sweet Jesu!” Merry exclaimed, as realization dawned. She could not help but feel sorry for the girl, and steadied her with an arm around the shoulders when she was through being ill. Merry guided the shaking Siany to her bed and insisted she rest while she fetched a cloth dipped in cool water and sponged the girl’s sweaty forehead.
“How far gone?” she asked matter-of-factly. She was not a total innocent; more than one maid-of-honor had skulked away from Court in disgrace.
Siany turned a miserable face to the wall. “Nigh two months, milady,” she whispered.
“Does Hertha know?”
“Ohh, nay!” Siany gasped as if imagining her grandmother’s reaction. She curled up, hugging her knees to her chest. Never had a young face looked so tragic.
“Siany, I am most disappointed. Yet it takes two to dally, even in the Highlands. Who is the one responsible?”
Siany shuddered. “I canna say, milady. Dinna ask again.”
Something in the girl’s manner warned Merry not to press the issue, but she chafed with frustration. “The knave can be persuaded to honor the promise his loins made, m’dear. When you’re ready to tell me, I am prepared to take swift action.”
Siany shook her head. “’Tis nae even an option, milady.”
“Why not? Is he betrothed to another? Dear heavens, not … married?”
The maidservant did not answer, not those questions or a dozen others put to her, but remained in a miserable silent huddle on the bed until Merry sighed with defeat and rose.
“I must attend the masque, but we shall speak again when I return. In the while, I will tell Nell you’re ill and cannot tend Ashet. Although I am sure the experience will be sorely welcomed by midsummer.”
Merry left shaking her head, despairing over the situation but at a loss for any solution. If Siany would not name the father, there was nothing she could do to extract reparation from the rogue. She wished her parents had not returned to Ireland already, for her mother was a well of straightforward advice. Merry knew Slade and Bryony had not been wed ere long before the birth of the twins, and while it had shamed her for many years, it no longer mattered now.
* * *
THE THEME OF THE Twelfth Night masque was “Fair Virgin Thron’d in the West,” a phrase coined by Will Shakespeare in honor of Elizabeth Tudor. Earlier in the evening, the queen went in state to St. Paul’s to offer thanksgiving for the country’s strength and continued blessings of the New Year. Elizabeth was drawn in a coach by white horses surmounted by a canopy resting on pillars—two of them bearing a lion and a dragon, the supporters of the English arms. She was attended by the officers of the state and a great company of ladies and gentlemen from her Court. Thereafter the company adjourned to St. James’s Palace and the revelries began in earnest.
Merry was lent use of her former apartment in the royal residence. Her former tiring-woman, Jane, now served Lady Scrope but stopped by to wish Merry well, and exclaim over the costume Merry had chosen. She and Gil were attending as Clove and Orange, after the term of intimacy derived from the custom of sticking oranges with cloves and roasting them during the holidays. The resulting liquor was called bishop, a rare pun on the Church, which might only be carried off with impunity during the mischief of Twelfth Night.
Merry’s gown was a lavish concoction of burnt orange satin and cinnamon velvet, huge sleeves slashed and paned with gold silk and jet beads, with a gold-embroidered chemise and petticoats visible at her bosom and hem. Her hair flamed just as brightly as her costume, dressed high and threaded with tiny citrines and seed pearls. She wore a clove-studded orange pomander and her fan was dyed to match, orange feathers with gold-dipped points. Though identities were established early by the canny courtiers, the pretense was maintained until the light of dawn. Therefore, as a last touch, Nell fastened an orange silk half-mask over her mistress’s face, and clapped with delight at the results.
“Ye look fair tasty, milady!” she cried. “Beware lest one o’ the
Sassenach
scoundrels tries ta sample yer sweet juices.”
Merry laughed. “I daresay he should get more than he bargained for, Nell.” She showed the wide-eyed maidservant the little jeweled dirk she kept up one sleeve. Since her mother had reminded her of Lovelle’s previous treachery, she agreed it would be wise to have some means of defense in close quarters. Nell nodded. Practical Highland lasses ken a thing or two o’ weapons, the maid mused, or what damage a swift, well-placed kick could do.
* * *
A LUSTY GALLANT GREETED Gil and Merry as they entered the festive, foiled dancing hall where dancers already promenaded, leaping and turning in time to the beat, the ladies’ skirts swirling like bevies of bright butterfly wings. The arrival of Clove and Orange caused a ripple of interest to run through those not presently engaged with the gallant. Gil looked exceptionally dashing in his dark-brown velvet doublet, slashed with gold silk to match Merry’s gown, and knee-length breeches of a tan brocade patterned with gold. The “cloves” were tiny smoky quartz sewn all over his costume, casting a glittering reflection whenever he moved. Despite his mask, his identity was obvious enough, for all the ladies of the Court had exclaimed upon his beautiful violet-blue eyes before. Merry watched in amusement as every lady’s hand he bowed over caused a resulting flutter or giggle in the one so honored; despite his youth, Gil was born to courtly ways.