“ ’Tis colder than Kashmir, these English winters,” she said with a small smile at her servants.
“The summers are not too warm either,” Rohana remarked dryly, taking up a cloth, soaping it, and then bathing her lady.
“You are both free now,” Jasmine reminded them. “If at any time you desire to return to India, I will dower you and have you transported upon one of grandmother’s ships. Her fleet will be leaving for the east next month. You must go then or wait another year.”
“The cold will not kill either of us,” Toramalli said, speaking for them both. “What would we do if we returned to India? There would be no one to arrange marriages for us. Even free, we have no caste. What if the emperor learned of our whereabouts? He has eyes and ears everywhere. Besides, our life is with you, my lady.” She helped her mistress from her tub. “Come, Rohana, do not be so slow with the towel! The princess will catch a chill!”
Jasmine’s costume lay upon her bed. It was a traditional Mughal jaguli. The beautiful high-waisted dress was made of turquoise-blue silk, which was shot through with threads of beaten gold. The long, tight-fitting sleeves had two-inch gold bands at the wrists which were sewn with tiny diamonds, pearls, and turquoise Persian lapis. The graceful, long-flowing skirt was edged with a band of gold, and the banding on the high, round neckline matched that upon the sleeves. The dress, although fastened with a large diamond button at both the neckline and the waist, had a narrow opening between that allowed a tantalizing glimpse of Jasmine’s full breasts. Upon her feet she slipped dainty heelless slippers of kid that had been covered in thin sheets of beaten gold and sewn all over with little diamonds so that with every step she took, her feet appeared to twinkle with a thousand lights.
Rohana fastened the Stars of Kashmir necklace about her lady’s neck. She attached ear bobs of sapphires and pearls to Jasmine’s ears. Toramalli plaited the princess’s hair into a single, thick, long braid which she interwove with strands of pearls and Persian lapis strung upon thin gold wires. Rohana knelt and clasped anklets of dainty gold bells about Jasmine’s ankles while her sister pushed delicate bracelets of gold, silver, and costly jewels upon her mistress’s arms. The princess herself
touched the deliciously elusive jasmine perfume to her pulse points and watched in the mirror as Rohana carefully placed over her head a gossamer sheer turquoise-blue silk orhni embroidered with small gold stars.
“So this is what an Imperial Mughal princess looks like,” Skye said, coming up behind her granddaughter.
“Wait until my eyes have been painted with kohl, Grandmama,” Jasmine said, and sat to allow Toramalli to do it.
The serving woman worked skillfully and quickly, and when she had finished, Jasmine stood and faced Skye.
The older woman shook her head. “You are even more beautiful than I was at your age, my darling child,” she said quietly. “Come, let us show your mother. Rohana, bring the fur-lined cloak for your lady. Even though we do nothing more than travel next door, the night is cold, and it has started to snow. I hope Robin’s guests will be able to get here. The roads, I am told, are icy already.”
Jasmine laughed. “Grandmama, there is no one in London in possession of an invitation to Uncle Robin’s fete who would not freeze to death in the snow rather than miss the occasion.”
Her grandmother chuckled. “You are probably correct, darling child.”
Velvet gasped softly as they came down the main staircase of the house. “Oh my,” she murmured. “You are every inch your father’s daughter, Yasaman Kama Begum. In your Mughal garments you are so exotic and foreign-looking; yet this morning you appeared so English.”
“Indeed, Jasmine, your transformation is quite amazing,” agreed Lord Gordon. “Indian garb is very beautiful, I see, and far more graceful than our English clothing.” He sighed. “Is it not possible for you to look less magnificent? Sibby will be quite put out, I fear. Pray God she will not cause a scene before I have had time to approach the Earl of Glenkirk, or after for that matter. It is not easy to maintain one’s dignity and paternal authority while dressed as a flame of fire.”
“Perhaps the flame should threaten to burn the moth if she does not behave.” Jasmine giggled mischievously.
Alex Gordon chuckled. Yes, he thought, I like this girl, no matter her paternity. I could wish she were mine, but would she be the same girl if she were? Or would she be like my little Sibby?
Jasmine allowed her gaze to take in her relations in their costumes. Her mother and grandmother were garbed as moths,
Velvet in blue-green silks with painted wings edged with gold paint. Skye, a mauve and purple moth, had wings edged with silver. Sandy and Charlie capered about in scarlet velvet breeches and doublets that were decorated in gold beads and small garnets. Their stockings were cross-gartered with cloth-of-gold bows, and they trailed orange, red, and yellow silks in imitation of flame. Their grandfather and father wore identical costumes.
“I feel like a bloody fool,” grumbled Adam. “At my age I should be allowed to wear my good black velvet suit and white lace ruff.”
“Why, my darling,” Skye said, kissing his mouth softly, “I rather like being a moth to your flame. Have I not always been so?”
“Wanton,” he murmured back, a twinkle in his deep blue eyes. “And at your age, too, madame, but do not change on me. I am too old now to sustain such a shock.”
Jasmine watched her grandparents. She thought that one day she would like to find such a love as they obviously shared. For a moment she remembered Jamal and, in remembering, realized that theirs had not been such a passion, nor would it ever have been, she suspected. They had been a royal match. It was a marriage of convenience, and fortunately they had liked one another enough to make it work. Whether that friendship would have withstood the test of time she did not know. Nor would she ever know.
The guests were beginning to arrive at Lynmouth House despite the falling snow. Sybilla Gordon, greeting them, took one look at her stepsister and frowned, but wisely held her tongue. She was rewarded by lavish praise from her family for her own appearance. Indeed, Sibby was a most charming, petite moth in her silver and gold silks, her dainty cloth-of-gold wings fluttering with her every movement. Her younger half brothers, dancing about her, did most certainly give the flattering illusion of flames to her moth.
Lord Southwood and his beautiful wife Angel were costumed all in white velvet, their garb sparkling with crystals and pearls.
“We are the Winter King and his Queen,” Robin announced. “What think you, Mama? Would my father have approved?”
“Most certainly he would have,” Skye told her son, remembering Geoffrey Southwood, Robin’s father. The “Angel Earl,” they had called him, and he had been Elizabeth Tudor’s favorite
courtier. He was an elegant, golden creature of wit and style, with whom she had shared a great passion. Forty-five years ago this very Twelfth Night she had come to Lynmouth House for that first of many Twelfth Night fetes. She had been carrying the very son who now hosted this gala. She had been too proud to tell his father, but Geoffrey had learned of it and finally convinced her of his love that they might marry.
Twelfth Night
. It had always been such a magic night for her family ever since. She felt Adam squeeze her hand, and Skye smiled into his face. “I cannot help but remember,” she said quietly.
“I don’t want you ever to forget,” her husband answered. “You loved him once, and Robin is proof of it, even as Velvet is proof of the love we share, little girl. I am far more fortunate than Geoffrey Southwood, or any of your other lovers for that matter. ’Tis I who have been the man lucky enough to be your husband all these years, Skye.”
The king and queen arrived. James, who disliked costumes, had not worn one. The queen, however, was garbed in a grass-green velvet gown, sewn all over with multicolored silk flowers. Atop her grizzled blond head was a golden sunburst. She beamed coquettishly at her host, and Robin smiled back, bowing over Anne of Denmark’s plump hand.
Straightening himself, the Earl of Lynmouth said, “Why certainly Your Majesty is the fairest springtime I have ever seen.”
“You see, James,” the queen crowed triumphantly. “I knew that Robin would understand my costume at once, even if you did not.”
James Stuart snorted irritably. He hated parties, and this one was known to go on until dawn. If he left much before, he would spoil everyone’s fun, and they would complain about it behind their hands for the next two months. He was their king, and he shouldn’t care, but he did. “And what do I represent, my lord of Lynmouth,” he groused at Robin, peering at him sharply for the answer.
“England, my lord, and may God bless and save Your Majesty,” Robin Southwood said quickly.
“Hah!” The king barked a single laugh. “You are a silver-tongued serpent, my lord earl. I thank God you prefer to spend your time in the country and out of politics.”
“Politics, Your Majesty, is for kings and fools, I think,” Lord Southwood replied, his lime-green eyes twinkling. “Kings are born to it and cannot help themselves. Fools involve themselves
because they think that they can change the world. There is, however, one exception to my rule, sire.”
“And what is that?” the king demanded, very amused by the Earl of Lynmouth’s swift repartee.
“Cecils, Your Majesty. They, too, seem to be born to politics, and England is the richer for it, I think,” was the clever reply.
James Stuart chortled with laughter. “You are right, my lord of Lynmouth, absolutely right!” He turned and poked Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley, the Secretary of State, with a sharp finger. “What think you, little beagle? Lord Southwood is quite correct! Hah! Ah-hah! Hah! Hah!”
“He is as clever as his father when he chooses to be,” Skye murmured softly to her husband. There was a hint of pride in her tone.
The musicians in the minstrel’s gallery played throughout the evening and well into the night. There were tableaus done by the various costumed guests. Skye and her family received much applause for their “Moths to the Flames.” Charlie and Sandy were ecstatic with their success at their first adult party.
Jasmine was presented in simple tableau, a turbaned Adali on one knee by her side, the magnificent blue and gold macaw, Hiraman, perched upon his raised white-coated arm. The guests gasped with amazement as the bird, looking directly at the king, said in a clear, if raspy, voice, “God save the king! God save the king!” There was much enthusiastic clapping, and James, fascinated, was shown how to offer Hiraman a piece of cake.
The bird took the cake from him, bobbing his head in a bow and telling James, “Thank you, sire.”
The king stepped back nervously. “ ’Tis witchcraft?” he said softly, obviously quite uncomfortable.
“Nay, my good lord,” Jasmine swiftly assured him, for she knew the king was most superstitious. “In my land there are many birds who speak as does Hiraman. Among God’s creatures, parrots have the reputation of being very intelligent, my lord.”
“Oh,” the king said, feeling less threatened. Nonetheless, he did not offer the bird any more treats.
Jasmine scratched Hiraman’s neck affectionately and then said quietly to Adali, “Return him home quickly, lest someone try to steal him. Take several of my uncle’s footmen with you across the garden.”
“Yes, my princess,” Adali replied.
“How clever of you to amuse the king so well,” the Marquess of Westleigh murmured, coming up next to Jasmine.
She turned her turquoise eyes upon him. “I was born knowing how to entertain kings,” she teased him. “It is in my blood.”
“Dance with me,” he begged her, smiling.
“I do not know if I should encourage you so, my lord. You insist upon calling upon me, and my grandmother, even though you know I do not wish it.”
“You cannot mourn forever, my love,” Rowan Lindley said wisely, and he held out his hand to Jasmine.
She laughed, for his charm was almost impossible to resist. Taking the proferred hand, she allowed him to lead her to the floor.
While the guests had been distracted by Jasmine and her parrot, Alex Gordon had taken the opportunity to gain James Leslie’s attention. Together the two men adjourned to Robin Southwood’s library, where they might speak in private. Seated comfortably before the blazing fire, large goblets of rich Burgundy wine by their sides, they remained silent for a long moment, and then Alex Gordon spoke.
“I am nae a man to dissemble, Jemmie. I prefer to come straight to the point. I would like to propose a match between you and my daughter Sybilla. Isabelle is dead almost five years. You hae no legitimate heirs of your own body. I realize that your brothers have sons, but do you really want Glenkirk given to one of them and not to your own son? I know your brothers would nae be unhappy should you remarry. Surely you dinna intend to spend your life alone and bereft of a wife and children?
“Sybilla is my only daughter. Legitimatized to be certain, for Velvet is nae her natural mother. Sibby’s ma is an English silversmith’s wench, Alanna Wythe. Alanna is now married to Ranald Torc. Velvet hae raised my daughter, and she is a fine young lady now, Jemmie. She’ll come to ye wia verra generous dowry, I promise you. Property as well as gold and plate. I’ll nae stint wi her, and ’tis nae secret I want ye for her husband.”
James Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, sighed deeply. He had known for months that BrocCairn would eventually approach him. If he had not heard it from others, the girl herself would have given it away. She had mooned after him quite openly since the day she had come to court as a maid of honor to
Queen Anne. There were few secrets at Whitehall. Indeed, a lady of his acquaintance who was also in the queen’s service told him one evening as they spent a relaxed hour together that Sybilla Gordon had bragged so openly in the queen’s chambers of how she would be the next Countess of Glenkirk that the queen had finally bidden her hold her foolish tongue.
James Leslie did not know if he would ever be of a mind to marry again, but if and when he did remarry, it would not be Lady Sybilla Gordon he took to wife. Oh, she was pretty enough, if that had been all he was seeking in a wife; and he had no doubt Alex Gordon would dower the girl magnificently; and the fact that she was Scots-born could not be discounted, despite her English mother. The circumstances of the girl’s birth were of no bother to him either. But the girl herself did not attract him one whit. She was obviously spoiled, quite spiteful, and had all the charm of a lump of suet pudding, as far as he was concerned.