Книга - Taming The Tempestuous Tudor

Taming The Tempestuous Tudor
Juliet Landon


Passion and peril in the court of Elizabeth I…Henrietta Raemon, illegitimate daughter of Henry VIII, longs to go to court to be closer to her half-sister, the Queen. Fiercely independent, the last thing on Etta’s mind is marriage – until newly ennobled merchant Baron Somerville leaves her no choice!But the attractions of court turn perilous when Etta’s resemblance to Elizabeth makes her some powerful enemies. Her husband is there to protect her, if only Etta can conquer her pride…and surrender!







Passion and peril in the court of Elizabeth I...

Henrietta Raemon, illegitimate daughter of Henry VIII, longs to go to court to be closer to her half sister, the queen. The last thing on fiercely independent Etta’s mind is marriage—until newly ennobled merchant Baron Somerville leaves her no choice!

But the attractions of court turn perilous when Etta’s resemblance to Elizabeth makes her some powerful enemies. Her husband is there to protect her, if only Etta can conquer her pride...and surrender.


While they chatted about fabrics and fashion, both of them realised that this was not the sole purpose of her visit, and that what they said to each other about texture and pattern and softness had secondary meanings to do with hair and skin, beauty and availability, desire and attraction.

For Etta this was a new way to conduct a flirtation, and as she watched his strong, elegant hands fondle the materials she could almost feel the effect upon herself—warm and sensuous, silky smooth.

‘I should return home,’ she said, lifting a handful of sheer silk to her face. She could almost taste its beauty.

He was close—perhaps too close for a new acquaintance. Turning, she found that he too was holding the same silk behind her head, easing her towards his lips while swathing her in its warm luxury.

‘This is what you should wear,’ he whispered, bending his head to hers.

‘But it’s transparent.’

‘Yes. As I said, it’s what you should wear. But only for me.’

It was dangerous talk.


Author Note (#ulink_ea4cc44b-7626-5fb4-99d2-65208fd83b4f)

Eighteen years on from Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded, Sir Jon and Lady Raemon are now the middle-aged parents of Henrietta, the lovely stepdaughter whose natural father is King Henry VIII.

His mistresses are well-documented, so I have used some artistic license to invent Henrietta’s mother, though in fact several of his offspring resembled his daughter Elizabeth quite closely. Lady Catherine Grey was one of those—a young woman who unfortunately did not share the characteristics of her brilliant older sister, Lady Jane Grey. By including some factual characters in Taming the Tempestuous Tudor I hope to create enough reality to make the fiction sound plausible: men like Lord Robert Dudley, Dr. John Dee and Lord Howard of Effingham, and Queen Elizabeth herself.

The miniaturist Levina Teerlinc actually did live at the Tudor court, working for both Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth, and her father was indeed the artist Simon Benninck. Whether she had a brother or not I have been unable to discover, so I have taken the liberty of inventing one for her. She painted Elizabeth on several occasions, and Lady Catherine Grey too. Dr John Dee did go to live in Mortlake, near the church, where he had a vast library of scientific books, and the site of Mortlake Manor, once lived in by Thomas Cromwell, was eventually demolished and built on by the brewery.


Taming the Tempestuous Tudor

Juliet Landon






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


JULIET LANDON has a keen interest in art and history, both of which she used to teach. She particularly enjoys researching the early medieval, Tudor and Regency periods, and the problems encountered by women in a man’s world. Born in North Yorkshire, she now lives in a Hampshire village close to her family. Her first books, which were on embroidery and design, were published under her own name of Jan Messent.


I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my daughter and son-in-law for making it possible for me to write in peace and comfort. More than that, my daughter’s skills as an anger-management counsellor have been an invaluable source of advice on how Henrietta might have behaved, given her problems. Thank you, Susie.

To Brian I owe special thanks for his unfailing willingness to help a less than competent mother-in-law with the mysterious workings of a computer, even at the most inconvenient times.

I would also like to thank my editor, Linda Fildew, for her help, constant encouragement and friendship, and to Tilda McDonald whose work on the manuscript is so much appreciated. They make historical-fiction writing such a pleasure.


Contents

Cover (#u69b4f6c6-cdc2-5006-a17a-91d42e4695cd)

Back Cover Text (#ue567f727-8a3b-51e1-849b-a1c8ef64b6f1)

Introduction (#ucf982802-54b6-5bd8-bec6-d700ba13c4bb)

Author Note (#ulink_4b8c01aa-4071-51cf-aa8d-b3ea4205b506)

Title Page (#ua364d2b1-206f-52a1-8865-302344f18bac)

About the Author (#uc1371a10-fc47-5b50-a98a-affff46734ce)

Dedication (#u2392aa8d-18c5-560e-ac18-80d57f946b55)

Chapter One (#ulink_a2216a03-40b4-54d9-98c7-3a015e34a351)

Chapter Two (#ulink_89ff9dc6-98e7-5dbd-8a22-3be473166a1e)

Chapter Three (#ulink_2ae31fb3-9e71-5c66-a26a-9540f71aa069)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_d3863d01-0e30-5eb9-a2d0-b268d88eef16)

January 14th, 1559—London

Chosen some months beforehand by Dr John Dee, Royal Astrologer, the day before the coronation had begun in the freezing dark hours, when the starry sky echoed to the din of every bell in every church tower in every ward of the city. As it grew light, the stands erected along the route of the procession took on a clothing of blues, browns and reds, with pink faces shouting above the clamour.

Henrietta sat with her seventeen-year-old twin stepbrothers, their cousins and Aunt Maeve, slightly envious of her own parents, who would be in Westminster Abbey tomorrow with other members of the aristocracy.

Cheapside seats, however, were the next best thing, for here the wealthy merchants and shopkeepers had decorated every surface with bright carpets hung from windows, shelves of gold and silverware, the coats of arms of the livery companies repainted for the occasion. Here was advertising as never before for the Drapers and Goldsmiths, Merchant Tailors and Haberdashers, Mercers and Fishmongers.

As far as the eye could see in both directions, a ribbon of colour threaded its way from the Tower in the east, past Charing Cross in the west, then round the bend of the river to Westminster, stopping at intervals to the constant blast of trumpets to allow for recitations and dances, songs and poems of praise for the young Queen Elizabeth. A crescendo of sound reached the stands and grew into a mighty roar as the waving became more frenzied. Through an arch of stone appeared a swaying mule-carried litter covered with shimmering gold cloth where, beneath a canopy carried by four courtiers, sat the new Queen, a vision of gold, white and silver, waving and smiling at the welcome.

From her vantage point, Etta saw the same bright copper hair as her own, splayed over the ermine-clad shoulders like a loose mantle of silk. She saw the same delicate skin and fine arched brows, the brown eyes that pierced the crowd as if she too was looking for one person in particular. ‘Here,’ Etta whispered into the noise. ‘I’m here.’

As if she had heard it over the din, the Queen turned her eyes upwards towards Etta and, for the space of several heartbeats, exchanged looks of curiosity and recognition, telling Etta as clearly as words that her existence was already known about. Known, but not so far acknowledged. Then the glance slid away, leaving Etta as stunned by the recognition as she was by the radiant sight, the prancing white stallions and the gleaming forest of the halberdiers’ pikes. For that moment, it had been like looking into a mirror where the reflection had a life of its own, alike in every respect except age. The Queen had been born twenty-five years ago, and Etta only twenty-one, and this was the first time their eyes had met.

Since she was a lively twelve-year-old, Etta had known something of her parentage, her sensible and loving step-parents deeming it only fair to explain to her how, from time to time, the father she had never seen, King Henry VIII, had taken mistresses. One of these had been her mother, the beautiful Magdalen Osborn, her stepfather’s first wife who had died giving birth to her one and only daughter.

But despite their explanations, Lord and Lady Raemon had never been able to fill the deep emotional void inside Etta left by never knowing either of the parents who had given her life. To the sensitive and highly intelligent child, her natural parents were the shadowy and insubstantial figures about whom only their names and a certain amount of gossip had reached her ears, some of it carelessly dropped by her nurse, tutor or elderly maid who mistakenly believed that she would not heed it. She had heeded it, avidly. Throughout her most formative years her innocent coquettishness and occasional childish vanity had drawn remarks such as, ‘She’s taking after her mama, that one’, or, ‘That’s an Osborn look if ever I saw it’ which somehow Etta knew was not meant to be complimentary, for since she was scolded for these childish misdemeanours, it stood to reason that her mother’s behaviour had been worse, in some way.

Nor did anyone realise quite how much anxiety Etta was absorbing from her step-parents’ well-intentioned oversight to provide her with anything admirable in her mother’s character to cling to. Was she really taking after her mother? How would she ever know? Her stepfather, Lord Raemon, would not speak of her mother at all; her stepmother had not known her, but it seemed to Etta as if all the world had known her father. Every now and then, some scandalous information filtered through the system to her childish ears about his various wives and their failures, about his two daughters and their unhappy lives about which she was both sad and grateful not to be in their shoes, as she might have been.

After Henry’s death, his young son Edward and then his elder daughter Mary had reigned through eleven uncomfortable years of religious turmoil, and now the younger daughter Elizabeth had appeared at last with new hopes of tolerance. Lord and Lady Raemon’s explanation of why King Henry had recognised some of his illegitimate offspring and not others, though making some sense to Etta, had done little for her wavering sense of identity. To have too many families with ties to royalty, they had said, would make the accession of his legal heirs more difficult. But although the royal rejection was not for Etta to contest, it added yet another layer of uncertainty, and some resentment, too, to her growing emotional insecurity.

‘Did the King not want me?’ she had asked her parents. ‘Did I do something he didn’t like? Was it my mama he fell out with, as he did with the two Princesses’ mothers?’

‘No, dearest. Nothing like that. Your mama died giving birth. The King was too sad to want to see you, I suppose.’

That, however, was not quite enough to settle the questions, once and for all. ‘Well, the new Queen doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to see me, either,’ she observed. ‘I can’t help but feel there must be another reason.’ When she had expressed to her parents a hope that Elizabeth might send for her, even if only to put right her father’s omission, Lord Raemon had not seen any reason why she should. ‘It’s early days yet,’ he had told her. ‘She’s hardly had time to choose her ladies, never mind which relatives to recognise, and she’s unlikely to acknowledge half-siblings so soon. Be patient, Etta.’

‘I’m not asking to become her bosom friend, Father,’ Etta had replied, ‘but I long to go to court, just the same. All those interesting people surrounding her. Surely we must be alike in wanting that, wouldn’t you think?’

‘Alike in other ways, too,’ her mother said, rather unhelpfully.

‘What do you mean, Mama?’

‘Your looks, my dear. From what I’ve heard, she’s not one to welcome competition. Others might wish to exploit the likeness, but I doubt if she would.’

Etta had turned away, unable to argue the point. Only recently, she had formed a friendship with a persuasive young courtier who had obligingly recounted to her the glamorous details and doings of life at the late Queen Mary’s court, fuelling Etta’s interest and determination to become part of it, one day. With the death of that Queen, his interest in Etta had come to an abrupt end, and she could only assume that he had left the court or lost interest in her or, perhaps, been warned off by her father. She could not ask, for she had not told her father of her friendship nor sought his permission, but the idea of being given over for another woman was humiliating and it hurt.

* * *

As the tail-end of the cavalcade disappeared from view, the crowds merged and with them went all hope of catching sight of the young man, no matter how intently she looked. Like touching a scar to find out if it still hurt, Etta revisited the site of her wounded pride, telling herself that he had never mattered to her, really. She had tossed her brilliant copper hair behind her, even as her eyes had sparked with anger, and had accepted her Cousin Aphra’s sympathetic embrace with no more than a sniff.

Only that morning, she and her step-parents had parted under a storm cloud when they had clumsily mentioned the delicate subject of marriage, signalling an end to their leniency over her choice of friends and her multiple rejection of suitors. ‘Interference, Henrietta?’ her father said. ‘I’d have thought it obvious by now that what you call interference concerns your mother and me as much as you. As my daughter, you cannot continue to associate with any gallant young thing who takes your fancy. We are looking for something more for you than mere respectability.’

‘Yes, Father. So is that why you warned Stephen Hoby off? I presume it was you, for I cannot believe there was any other reason for his disappearance.’ If Etta was at a loss to know how both her father and uncle had discovered who she had been seeing of late, she was careful not to ask. Next time, she would be even more mindful of who she told. Her maid, Tilda, would never have spoken of it, she was sure of that.

Lord Jon and Lady Virginia exchanged glances. They had known Etta would challenge them, but after long and arduous hours in preparation for the three coronation days, their stamina was wearing thin. It was her stepmother who replied, hoping to delay any controversy until later. ‘Etta dear, we’re all busy. We shall continue this conversation when we have more time. Now, you go upstairs.’

‘Etta needs to know,’ said Lord Jon. He used her full name when he was being serious, but the shortened name gave her a clue to his softening tone. ‘Sit down a moment. We were aware of the young man you refer to, even though you never gave us a chance to meet him, but your mother and I thought it had better come to an end. Your Uncle George thought so too when he discovered that Hoby is heavily in debt to his tailors and probably hoped you might be able to help him out of it. A man who visits the moneylenders as often as he does is not the kind of friend a father wants for his daughter. Hoby may not have had marriage in mind, for all we know, but we thought it best not to wait to see what else he was planning. Now you have the truth of it. Go upstairs and we’ll talk some more tomorrow.’

Etta had assumed that their friendship had ended to make way for another woman, but to learn that Hoby had been using her as a lifeline for his debts was, in a way, just as insulting. There was more she would like to have said, but this was not the time, and she knew any argument she could make would not appear at its most lucid. ‘I’m sorry, Father.’ Pecking them both on the cheek, she had gathered her skirts and gone to her room where her maid was still waiting patiently to dress her with not a single word of complaint.

Etta’s step-parents had not found it easy to raise King Henry’s illegitimate daughter, but the precocious and volatile Etta remembered little of those two motherless years before her stepfather’s marriage to Lady Virginia. Yet, even from the start, they had soon identified the Tudor characteristics which, in childhood, had caused as much amusement as anxiety, and her nurses had been kept on the hop from morn till night as her physical and mental energies outran their efforts to keep up. She could behave like an angel, but there was also a wilfulness behind the smile that had more than once evoked such responses as, ‘She’s her mother’s daughter and no mistake.’

‘She’ll have to commit herself to marriage,’ said Lord Jon to his lovely wife, ‘before...well, some time,’ he added, lamely.

‘You were going to say, before she runs into some real trouble?’

‘Perhaps not that kind of trouble, exactly. I hope she has more wit than that. I just wish she’d be more careful who she favours, that’s all.’

Jon was still the handsomest man Virginia knew, even at forty-six, and her eyes caressed him as she deliberated how much she could say to defend Etta’s strong bid for independence. ‘It’s perfectly obvious now what her relationship to the Queen is, Jon. Anyone can see that she and Henrietta share the same looks, and she’ll not be too keen on having Etta appear on the scene, will she? Can you imagine how sparks would fly?’

* * *

It seemed that neither Etta nor her parents could let the matter rest there, for the subject of her future was raised again a few days later when both parents attempted to explain that it was not so much that they wished to prevent her from making friends, but that she should now allow them to say who was suitable and who was not. Why now? ‘Because of your relationship to the new Queen, dear,’ said her mother. ‘We shall have to be extra-vigilant whose company you are seen in. Surely you can understand that? Can you imagine the comments if the Queen’s duplicate were to be seen in any but the very best company? That would hardly endear you to her, would it? Your freedom of choice must come to an end some time, my dear.’

‘In other words,’ said Etta, ‘you’re saying you intend to choose my future husband for me. Would you accept that, if you were me?’

‘Heavens above, Etta,’ said her father, ‘we’ve been more lenient with you over most things than we have with the boys, but a woman’s independence comes at a price, you know. Very few daughters of noble houses are allowed to choose their husbands. London will now be bursting at the seams with a younger generation of men eager to boost their careers and fortunes by marrying well. I’m not going to let you walk straight into the lion’s den, young lady, to be pounced on by some well-dressed young cockerel with big ideas who thinks he can win you simply by making sheep’s eyes at you. From now on, your mother and I will be saying who you are seen with. If you’d told us about young Hoby sooner, we could have saved you some heartache.’

On any other occasion, the menagerie of metaphors would have made her laugh, but when Etta made no immediate reply to that, Lord Jon turned to her. ‘Well?’ he said, aware that her silence didn’t necessarily mean acceptance.

‘This lion’s den you refer to, Father. Would that be the court? As you know, I had hoped that the Queen might have sent for me, since she must know I exist. How could she not? As half-sisters, surely we could meet? Is that not what half-sisters do?’

Etta’s mother tried to soften the edges of what she feared would come as unwelcome news. ‘It’s not as easy as that, darling,’ she said. ‘Our new Queen may not be quite as eager for your presence at her court as you are, you see. At the moment, she is the Queen Bee of the new hive. Now imagine how she would respond to an even more beautiful and younger queen bee in a hive swarming with handsome young men, watching them shower her with compliments in praise of exactly the same features as herself. Do you think she’d allow that? I don’t. She won’t stand for any rivals for her affection, Etta. She’s a Tudor. You’d get the sharp edge of her tongue before you’d been there one day. I was with her when she was a child of five, when she was often with Anna of Cleves, the lady I was with for a time. I know her temper very well, believe me. You would not care for it.’

‘And you really believe she would see me as a rival, Mama? Do you not think you and Father are making too much of this Tudor temperament?’ Even as she spoke, Etta had to admit that her mother knew Elizabeth far better than she did and that she was not likely to be mistaken in this.

‘Well, the truth of the matter is that we’ve had no word of her mind on this. Until she sends for you, there’s little you can do about it.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, m’dear,’ said Lord Jon. ‘If she doesn’t send for her, the only other way Etta could be received at court is by marriage or with someone who’s already accepted there and I’m not going anywhere near the place at the moment. Far too much going on, for my liking.’

Lady Virginia sighed and arranged the fur edge of her gown to cover her knees. ‘Throw another log on, Jon, will you? If you so desperately want to see her personally, Etta, then you must marry a courtier. But you rejected the last two courtiers before you’d even seen them, I recall.’

Lord Jon dusted his hands off and kicked the log into the blaze. Etta stood up and shook out her skirts. ‘But if I were to go to court, Mama, the choice would be so much more interesting, wouldn’t it, than it is at present? I think I could do better than the Lord Mayor of Norwich’s younger son, or Lord Torrington’s middle-aged heir. They were the last two on offer. And I don’t believe a title is an advantage, either. There are plenty of nobly born people at court without them.’

‘Then what would be an advantage, young lady?’ said her father, impatiently.

‘Love, Father. If love was good enough for you and Mother, then it’s good enough for me.’ That, apparently, was to be Etta’s last word on the subject before she walked to the door and closed it quietly behind her.

‘God’s truth,’ said Lord Jon, ‘she’s behaving more and more like Elizabeth every day. We’ve been too soft with her, sweetheart.’

‘But I think that was supposed to be a compliment, Jon dear.’

‘Come here, smooth-tongued woman,’ he said, holding out a hand.

‘What?’

‘This,’ he said, taking her into his arms.

* * *

Etta’s talk with her parents had given her some food for thought, and any mention of a love match was, she knew, as unrealistic as her dreams. The unpleasant truth about the young man’s interest in money had certainly shaken her, because she’d thought herself to be better qualified in her choice of friends than anyone else. Evidently that was not the case. She had been misled by his exquisite manners and charm. It would not happen again. She adored her parents and had striven to please them in all other respects, especially so since she had learned of her royal ancestry. She had taken schoolroom lessons with the boys in an attempt to emulate the Princess Elizabeth’s scholarship in so many subjects with the sole purpose of eventually making contact with her, on her own academic level. And no matter what reservations her parents had about the wisdom of this, she could not believe that anyone of Elizabeth’s intelligence would regard her as anything but an asset, if ever the Queen chose to recognise her as someone worth knowing, on whatever level. Friend, confidante, just another relative, occasional courtier or however Elizabeth chose to recognise her, any of these would help in her quest to relate, physically, to one of her own kin. But her father’s comment about not going anywhere near court, at present, did not bode well for any of the hopes she had nurtured for so long.

* * *

Next day, he had done his best to explain. ‘Your mother and I know the royal court well enough, Etta. We both spent some time in the service of your father. I was one of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, and your mother was a companion to the Lady Anna of Cleves. But we were quite happy for our duties to come to an end. Edward’s reign, then Mary’s were too fraught with danger to make life comfortable, and I have no reason to believe that Elizabeth’s reign will be any easier. That’s why we never took you or your brothers there. Too many intrigues for my liking.’

Etta had accepted this, but had still enjoyed hearing about life at court from Master Stephen Hoby, who seemed to know all about it, who he knew there, what they wore, what new fabrics he had handled at the Royal Wardrobe and what the newest Spanish fashions were. It had seemed to her then that only at court would she ever meet a more interesting and engaging type of man who did more than praise her eyes. Surely the young Queen, with her amazing intellect and reputation for scholarship, would gather around her men who could converse with her on serious subjects.

Her parents’ recent decision to find her a husband had been expected ever since the steady flow of suitors had begun to dwindle noticeably due, she was sure, to her reputation for rejecting them so quickly. So it was with some consternation that Etta realised that, this time, her parents were deadly serious and that her time of asserting her independence in this area was well and truly at an end.

Behind her step-parents’ reluctance to understand her longing to meet the new Queen, Etta caught the vibrations of another kind of fear, that Elizabeth might exercise her right to dislike her. She had not needed them to point out to her that the sovereign was under no obligation to receive her with smiles of welcome, for the recent news that she was choosing fewer maids and ladies to attend her indicated some caution in the matter. As for conducting herself at court, her only education so far had been gleaned from listening to the experiences of others and from gossip when someone had breached the complicated codes of etiquette.

* * *

The next few days seemed intended to reinforce her longing to become a part of the royal court when she accompanied Lord and Lady Raemon and her brothers to the celebration banquets held by the various guilds associated with the Royal Wardrobe where Sir George Betterton, Uncle George, was a senior officer. So with banquets, jousts and masques, visits to the Abbey of Westminster to see the decorated interior and to Lambeth Palace to dine with the Archbishop of Canterbury, there were plenty of opportunities for her to meet gorgeously dressed men and women who reflected the latest fashions and spoke at first hand of life at court. With her parents close at hand to guide her through some of the complexities of names and titles, Etta felt that this was her sphere, even more so now when it had become obvious to all who saw her that the Queen had a close relative who rivalled her in beauty and grace. But for Etta, the experience of dressing in her finest clothes every day, being seen and admired, speaking with those who interested her as much as she did them, was enough to send her to bed each night longing to become an integral part of this enchanted and glamorous world.

Towards the end of that hectic week, she was invited to visit the Royal Wardrobe as the guest of Uncle George to see the Queen’s coronation robes that had been returned for cleaning and, if it was needed, some mending. As her brothers had worked under Sir George for two years already, they took her with them by river to where the Royal Wardrobe was situated near Blackfriars, only a stone’s throw from St Paul’s Cathedral. The River Thames flowed conveniently nearby and Puddle Wharf was the landing place for cargo ships and wherries that plied the river constantly. From the jetty at Tyburn House, they were rowed downriver huddled inside fur cloaks against the biting wind and flurries of snow, Etta wearing her white fur bonnet and the matching muff she’d been given for her birthday, a little over a week ago.

On their arrival at the vast complex of buildings known as the Royal Wardrobe, Etta found that she was not the only one to have been invited to view the robes, for her Cousin Aphra was there too, and her brother Edwin who worked there under his father’s eye. Other guests had accepted the invitation, some of whom she knew were wealthy merchants who supplied the Wardrobe with costly fabrics, furs and gems, silks for the embroidery, gold beads and threads. The twins, Michael and Andrew, went off with Edwin to the department where the tailors worked, while Etta and Aphra drew close together like sisters. As a four-year-old, Aphra had taken the two-year-old Etta under her little wing, acting as a mother hen to the mischievous child, and even now could not shake off the responsibility. ‘Show me the coronation robes, Aphie. I’m longing to see what she looked like,’ said Etta.

‘Father says it’s been frantic in here for weeks since the orders were given,’ said Aphra. ‘They even had to stop the mercers from buying up the crimson silk before the Queen had taken her choice. Of course,’ she added as they walked past ledger-covered tables and the bent heads of clerks, ‘it’s not going to finish now the coronation is over. Father says the Queen is insisting on a completely new wardrobe, to be as different from the old Queen’s as possible. And naturally, when the Queen sets a fashion, everyone else will follow. Here we are, see?’

Through a wide archway, the room ahead was filled with shimmering gold satin and rich velvets of purple and crimson, piles of white ermine, tissues of silver with pearls by the thousand, gemstones and gold lace overlaying the twenty-three yards of cloth-of-gold. Not one gown but four, for the coronation, then more for the banquet and several changes for every day since then, though some had still not arrived from Westminster and the nearby Palace of Whitehall. The cost was phenomenal at a time when funds were low, but the Queen’s insistence on a rich show was as much a statement of serious intent as vanity. Now Etta could see in detail what had passed her by on that morning when all her attention had centred on the Queen’s recognition, the gold fabric worked with Tudor roses, the gold-edged ruffles, the heavily encrusted tassels of the ermine-caped mantle.

‘These must weigh a ton,’ Etta said, letting her fingertips brush along the fur. ‘She must be strong to look her best through so many days.’

‘Apparently,’ said Aphra, ‘she had to take to her bed after the coronation with a heavy cold. Some of the events had to be cancelled.’

‘And no one to chastise her when she’s late. Lucky lady. I wonder how much she paid for her velvet. Is it more expensive than the...?’

Aphra had moved out of earshot, her place taken by a tall gentleman who answered Etta’s question without hesitation. ‘Twenty-two shillings the yard, Mistress Raemon,’ he said. ‘And, yes, it is considerably more expensive than the satin, which can vary depending on colour and country of origin.’

Etta was taken aback. It was not usual for a stranger to speak before being introduced. She decided to dispense with formalities, however, for this man was interesting on several levels: for one thing, he knew about fabrics and, for another, he was perhaps one of the best-looking men she had ever met and well-spoken in a soft deep voice. Well dressed, too. Fashionable, but not excessively so, in a suit of good quality fabric, a beautifully tailored doublet that fitted perfectly across a deep chest and broad shoulders. ‘Why should the price depend on the colour, sir? Are you telling me that some dyes cost more than others?’

‘That is exactly what I am telling you, mistress. Dyes such as blue and brown are easy to come by, but dyes like purple, for instance, come from distant lands and are difficult to source and obtain. Some are got by a complex dyeing process, which is why the Queen reserves them for royal purposes.’

‘Are you in the dyeing trade, then?’

‘I am a mercer,’ he said. ‘It’s my business to know about such things.’

‘And how did you know my name?’

He smiled, revealing perfect teeth and showing a pair of laughing brown eyes that sparked with admiration. ‘I could not help but know your name, mistress, when it’s upon everyone’s lips. Now we’ve had a chance to compare you, the sight of another woman with the Queen’s looks cannot help but be the cause of some comment. I was present at the Guild of Mercers’ banquet a few days ago, which you also attended with your parents, but you left before I could be introduced. Did your ears not burn?’

She looked away, laughing in embarrassment, though secretly she was excited to find herself the object of such interest. ‘No, sir. I think you are teasing. Perhaps you could tell me more about the Queen’s robes?’

So while the deep-voiced mercer told her of the Queen’s artificers who made up her gloves, purses, hose, shoes and hats, showing her the heavily embroidered velvet bags specially made to keep them in, Etta constantly cast her eyes over his handsome head and masculine figure and wondered how she might develop this budding friendship without suffering the investigations her parents were set on imposing. He was probably of no particular importance, she thought, for her parents to have overlooked an introduction, and yet, to her, his knowledge of fashion and fabrics, his charming manner and obvious good breeding was of more importance to her than any titled good-for-nothing with more wealth than intelligence. But, of course, he would be married. How could he not be?

They had moved into an adjoining room where liveried men carried rolls of fabric on their shoulders between ceiling-high racks piled with bales of fabric, their labels dangling like tassels, the soft thud of cloth-rolls hitting the shelves, the faint perfume of lavender and spices. ‘Did you not bring your wife with you, sir?’ she asked, looking towards the open door.

His eyes lingered over her face as if deliberating how to answer the simple question, making her fear that it might not be to her liking, after all. When he replied, it was as if he knew exactly the purpose of her query, exposing her thoughts and linking them to his own. ‘I have not yet taken a wife, Mistress Raemon,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could help me to find one?’

She tried to search his eyes, but they were searching hers and she could not maintain her quest for a meaning. Long-lashed lids flickered like shutters to prevent him from seeing any sign that might expose her interest and, with an effort at the brand of nonchalance she used on such occasions, she moved away from him, speaking over her shoulder. ‘I doubt it, sir. Perhaps you should look amongst the mercers’ daughters. There are sure to be some available. Now, I must return to my cousin. She’ll be wondering where I am. Through here, is it?’

She heard the soft laugh behind her, as if he were amused by her attempt at a dismissal, and it was no accident that she abstained from asking his name, if only to reinforce her uninterest. Except that she was far from being uninterested, for the sound of his laugh, his voice and the presence of him beside her stayed in her mind all the way home and for the rest of that day. Nor would she ask her brothers if they knew him, as indeed they must have done, as perhaps Aphra did, too. It looked to Etta as if, in that crowd of guests, not one of them was willing to admit that they had noticed either the meeting or the unceremonious parting.

* * *

Partly to cling to her independence for as long as possible and partly, she had to admit, to take another look at the handsome mercer, she asked to pay another visit to see the fine fabrics at The Royal Wardrobe, for there were one or two she had forgotten the name of, and perhaps Uncle George would sell her some.

‘No, he won’t,’ said her mother, closing the lid of the virginal and removing the music from the stand. ‘It’s all for the royal use, my dear. I thought you knew that. It’s bought in from the mercers and merchants, and it’s for her and the officers to say what’s to be done with it. But there’s no reason why you should not take another look, if you take Tilda with you and be home in time for supper.’

* * *

There was a heightened sense of anticipation in the river journey this time, though flakes of snow made her blink and hold the fur more tightly across her chin. Tilda’s eagerness to see the robes was reason enough for Etta’s visit so soon after the first, but added to that was the delicious feeling that she was still finding her own friends in defiance of her parents who, although having her happiness and safety at heart, could have no perception of how much she valued her independence. If the sneaking thought entered her head that her defiance was very close to deceit, then she pushed it away along with the knowledge that they might well find out for themselves, as they had done before. She supposed Uncle George would see to that.

But Sir George Betterton was not there, though it was staffed as before by the liveried men far too intent on their onerous duties to pay Etta and her maid much heed. Over by the window, a group of men turned over some bolts of cloth, angling them to the light, and it was one of these who came to her immediately with a word of excuse to his colleagues. ‘Mistress Raemon,’ he said, lifting off his velvet hat with a graceful bow. Smiling, he replaced it. ‘You hoped to find Sir George?’

She felt the breathless lurch of her heart betraying the nonchalance of her bearing, taking her quite unawares. He was every bit as handsome as she had remembered, giving her another chance to see the thick dark hair and the laughter in his eyes as they caught the small light from the window. It was at times like this, she thought, that staring ought not to be rated as bad manners, for if ever a man should be stared at, this fine creature was he. Suited in deep moss-green velvet, he proclaimed the gentleman down to the last discreet detail but, more than that, he had some indefinable presence that made women’s hearts race. Etta realised that she was very glad they’d met again, quite by chance, of course.

‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘My maid wishes to see the Queen’s robes. Mistress Tilda, this is... Master...er... I’m sorry, I don’t think you told me your name.’

‘My friends know me as Nicolaus,’ he said. ‘I would like to think you were both amongst them.’

‘Master Nicolaus,’ the two women whispered, dipping a curtsy.

Snapping his fingers towards two young men, he beckoned them over. ‘Escort Mistress Tilda round the display,’ he said. ‘She wishes to see the Queen’s robes. Tell her about them.’

Tilda went with them, happily leaving her mistress to look enquiringly at the man on whom her eyes had lighted as soon as they’d entered. He dipped his head as if to catch her thoughts. ‘That is what you had in mind I hope, mistress?’ he said.

‘If that’s what you wish to think, sir, then I have no objection.’ Her slow, heavy-lidded blink delighted him.

‘Your bonnet is wet with snow. Shall you remove it and lay it before the fire? And your cloak, too? Here, allow me to help.’ On this day, she wore a one-piece gown of expensive London russet that showed no more than the high frill of her embroidered smock at the neck and wrists, though now her hair fell loosely about her shoulders until she caught it up with her hands and threw it behind her with a grace that appeared to fascinate him. She had done it before to great effect, this time allowing it to brush over his hands before they could move away.

‘I came, Master Nicolaus, to remind myself of two or three fabrics I saw yesterday so I can order some, once I know how to call them. May I show you?’

‘Certainly, mistress. This would be for yourself, would it? One must be careful, you see, not to overstep the sumptuary laws. I imagine the new Queen will be quite firm about observing them. Baudekin, for instance, has a distinct gold thread running with the silk, and although she wears it, very few others are allowed to.’

‘I doubt if the Queen will ever see me, sir. It was not the baudekin I saw, but this one, I think. Is this what they call popinjay?’

He reached up and pulled it down from the shelf. ‘The green-blue mix? Now, that would look well with your colouring. This one is silk. Feel the quality.’

‘Will the Queen be wearing this?’ she said, letting the silk flow over her skin like warm water.

‘My understanding is that the Queen will be wearing only black and white, Mistress Raemon. She knows it becomes her, you see, and those mercers who supply the Great Wardrobe are already sourcing suitable fabrics to please her.’

‘Only black and white? No colour at all?’

‘Oh, I believe she will allow colours to creep in with the embroidery and accessories, of course. But her maids will all wear white and nothing else, it seems. It lessens our scope enormously. I hope you won’t be following her lead in that.’

‘You must have good contacts at court, sir, to have discovered so much so soon.’

‘Indeed, mistress. Mercers must keep their ears to the ground if they want to have the fashionable fabrics in store as soon as they’re needed.’ He led her down the rows of shelving, obligingly pulling out rolls and bales, some of which had covers to protect them. And while they chatted about fabrics and fashion, both of them realised that this was not the sole purpose of her visit and that what they said to each other about the texture and pattern and softness had secondary meanings to do with hair and skin, beauty and availability, desire and attraction, strength and rarity. For Etta this was a new way to conduct a flirtation, and as she watched his strong elegant hands fondle the materials, she could almost feel the effect upon herself, warm and sensuous, silky smooth.

The January light was already fading, and Etta had found what she was looking for. ‘I should return home,’ she said, lifting a handful of sheer silk to her face. She could almost taste its beauty.

He was close, perhaps too close for a new acquaintance, but in the dimness it was hard to be aware of space. Turning, she found that he, too, was holding the same silk behind her head, easing her towards his lips while swathing her in its warm luxury. ‘This is what you should wear,’ he whispered, bending his head to hers.

‘But it’s transparent,’ she said.

‘Yes. As I said, it’s what you should wear. But only for me.’

It was dangerous talk and she knew she ought not to allow it, for she had intended their meeting only to be an exercise in having her own way, making her own choice of friends. It would have been so easy to allow a kiss, but their friendship could never go as far as that. He was, after all, only a mercer. Unsteadily, she drew away, pushing at his chest to evade the firm bulk of his body. ‘No, sir. This must not continue,’ she said.

‘I must see you again, Mistress Raemon,’ he said.

‘Well, perhaps you will, one day. Who knows? But now we must part. Thank you for showing me round. I hope you find a good wife who will be a help to you in your trade. I must return to my parents.’

‘If that is what you wish, mistress.’

‘It is, sir. There can be no future in our friendship. My father is determined to find me a husband very soon, you see.’

‘And you are saying that he won’t be looking for one amongst the mercers? There are some very eminent gentlemen amongst that company, you know. You must have seen some at the banquet last week?’

‘Yes, I did, sir, but I think my father will be aiming rather higher than that. Thank you again, Master Nicolaus, and farewell.’

‘The pleasure was mine, mistress. Will you allow me to give you a token, to remind you of our pleasant interlude? Here...a peacock feather. Will you take it?’

‘Thank you, sir. I’ll give it to my father for his hat.’

‘Excellent.’

As it happened, Mistress Tilda was not so very eager to be found, and having been attended by two lusty young men for an hour, she did not notice her mistress’s unusual silence on the way home, her own chatter sufficing for them both. Neither her brothers nor Uncle George and his son had been at the Royal Wardrobe during her visit, so the talk at supper skipped lightly over Etta’s meeting as if she had been shown the fabrics by one of Sir George’s assistants. She had no intention of mentioning Master Nicolaus or alerting her parents to yet another admirer of whom they would be sure to disapprove. A mercer, they would say. Respectable, but not quite what we’re looking for, Etta. Which only went to show how wrong they could be, for he was by far the most interesting and exciting man she had ever spoken to.


Chapter Two (#ulink_93e47db3-d020-5b61-b0b7-b17e39f1db01)

Beginning its life as a spring on the slopes of Highgate, the River Tyburn rattled gently down to the northern banks of the Thames near Westminster, where it was straddled by the gatehouse of the large residence called after it by Lord Jon Raemon of Risinglea. Tyburn House was an imposing mansion of decorative timberwork above stone foundations and surrounded by extensive gardens that sloped down to a jetty where wherries came to release their passengers. In the warm and welcoming hall where preparations were being made for supper, Etta presented her father with a snow-flecked peacock feather. ‘For your hat,’ she said, ‘from the Royal Wardrobe.’

Lord Jon received the gift with a smile, turning it this way and that before handing it back to Etta. ‘You shall stitch it on for me,’ he said. ‘It’s a beauty. Tell me about your visit to the Wardrobe. Did you find what you were looking for?’

‘Yes, Father. Very informative it was. I learned quite a lot.’

‘Good. And was your Uncle George there?’

‘No. Some buyers. Merchants, I think. That’s all.’ Somehow, she felt that to speak Master Nicolaus’s name might break the spell of intrigue that had just begun to surround him. And for the next three days, that experience had to suffice as heavy snow covered London, when no travel except the most urgent business was undertaken. At Tyburn House there was plenty to occupy her in the preparation of scented water for finger bowls and creams for chapped faces and hands. There were household accounts to be checked, lists to be made, visits to the nearby poor folk, shirts and smocks to be stitched by the white reflected light of the snow. But none of this could prevent Etta’s thoughts from revolving around the events at the Royal Wardrobe, the dim warmth of the storeroom, the scents and shimmer of cloth, and a man’s proximity that was quite unlike the innocent familiarity she had been used to. Asking herself why or how he was any different, a host of answers came to mind: his authority, his amazing good looks, his knowledge and intelligence—all of which placed him on a higher level than anyone else of her acquaintance. And, of course, his manner of conducting a flirtation by analogy to that exotic merchandise. Had he practised that on other women? Was she about to fall for his velvet words? Was it his years that had given him the audacity to speak to her that way? Well, she thought, nothing will come of it. A man in trade would never be her father’s choice.

After four days and nights of white-blanketed lawns and rooftops, the overnight rain washed away the snow and filled the River Tyburn up to its banks to roar away into its powerful sister and to lift the boats almost to the level of the jetty. ‘Just what we needed,’ said Lord Jon. ‘Now we can receive dry guests instead of damp ones.’

‘Guests, Father?’ Etta said. There was something in the way he said the word that had an ominous ring, making her look sharply at him. A shiver ran along her arms as, in a sudden flash of awareness, she feared the worst. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘Not unless you know Baron Somerville,’ he said, nonchalantly, walking away.

‘When?’ she asked her mother, later.

‘The end of the week, dear. He’ll be staying over one night, I suppose, now the days are so short. You’ll like him.’ Like. In the sense of like to marry.

‘How do you know I will, Mama?’

‘Why, love? Because your father and I do. Now, I have to go and speak to Cook.’

Their strategy of silence on the matter was hardly surprising, Etta thought, after her constant refusals to discuss the merits, or otherwise, of previous suitors. Obviously, they now believed that there was little point in supplying her with any details other than his name and title, when she would automatically resist. So, other than offering her the information that the guest was ‘quite a few’ years older than her and had not been married before, they remained annoyingly tight-lipped, which appeared to indicate that Baron Somerville’s need to father heirs had so far lay dormant. Too busy hunting, Etta supposed. Or too shy of women. Or both.

Her cousin Aphra, with whom she had visited the Royal Wardrobe, was invited to stay with them that week. Greeting her, Etta quipped, ‘I think I need some moral support.’

‘Do you, Ettie? Why?’ Aphra held a special place in everyone’s hearts as the sweetest and kindest of women, fair and slender, graceful in thought and deed, serene and as steadfast a friend as anyone could wish for. Everyone knew that, one day, she would find a wonderful husband and Etta looked upon her as an elder sister. ‘They’ve found a husband for you, haven’t they?’ Aphra said. ‘Don’t look so surprised. Your expression gave it away. Come on, it may not be as bad as all that.’

‘I think it may be worse, Affie.’ It was nothing new to Aphra to be the recipient of Etta’s woes, but this time the only help she could offer was in her calming influence and companionship, and the advice to speak with her parents about her concerns. Predictably, the conversation was brief.

* * *

Knocking on the door of her parents’ bedchamber, Etta entered at her mother’s call, taking in the sweet aroma of last year’s lavender and burning applewood. Half-dressed, they were both being pinned and laced into the various items of clothing, looking oddly lopsided. ‘May I speak with you a while?’ she said, sitting on the oak chest at the end of their bed.

Discreetly, the servants left the room. Her father’s demeanour had not changed all morning from the determined expression he now wore and she knew that this time they would insist. ‘Father,’ she said, catching the anxious glance her mother sent in his direction, ‘this time you’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘We’ve made our choice, Etta,’ he said, tying the last of his points. ‘You cannot expect us to change our minds. You must trust us to know what’s best.’

‘But if you thought love was the best reason for you and Mother to marry, then why not me, too?’

‘Love?’ Both parents’ eyebrows lifted as they stared at her. ‘Love?’ her mother repeated. ‘Etta, have you done something foolish?’

The temptation to pursue this line was almost overwhelming. ‘No, Mother, I haven’t. I just want some say in who I spend the rest of my life with. As you did.’

‘As it happens, Etta,’ said her father, ‘that’s what we want, too. You may not have given it much thought, but fathers don’t usually give dowries along with their daughters to any man who declares his love for them. There’s a lot of money at stake here and any father who throws that away on a young man’s declaration of love is a fool. Your mother and I had got beyond that stage when we agreed to marry. I’m sorry if that sounds mercenary, my dear, but these are important considerations that parents must take very seriously. We’ve found a man with enough wealth to make that unlikely. The love will develop as you get to know each other. I expect.’

‘Now go and finish your dressing,’ her mother said, ‘and try to take this with a good grace. We expect you to make yourself agreeable to our guest.’

There was no more she could say to them. All her personal preparations had been accomplished, hair washed and braided, skin scrubbed and perfumed, dresses chosen, pressed and mended, frills starched and gathered to perfection. She had chosen to wear a high-necked gown of deep-pink satin over a Spanish bell-shaped farthingale, the bodice making a deep vee at the front, stiffened by whalebone. Sitting down was only achieved with care, so now she stood with Aphra at the mullioned window of her room that gave them a view of the gardens with the great river beyond and the jetty where a small barge was coming in, its four oarsmen steering it skilfully against the tide.

‘He’s got his own barge,’ said Etta, ‘and his boatmen have liveries. That’s serious wealth, Aphie. That’ll be him, climbing out.’ The small diamond-shaped panes of thick glass made it difficult to see any details, only that the manly figure leaping out of the barge did not quite fit Etta’s mental image of a middle-aged aristocrat.

‘He’s tall,’ Aphra said. ‘Can’t see any more. Shall we go down?’

Purposely, they took their time, lingering to catch sounds of greetings and laughter, Etta readying herself to show a confidence she was far from feeling. Her mind slipped back to her meeting in that dim storeroom with the man who had made her feel womanly and desirable, when there had been no talk of wealth, dowries, bargains or filial obedience. Those had been moments she had kept safe in her heart, not even sharing them with Aphra. Now, she might as well forget them and face her real future.

He was standing with his back to the door as Etta and Aphra entered, accepting a glass of wine from his hostess, his tall frame matching Lord Jon’s as only a few other men did. He had obviously taken great care to make a good impression, for his deep-green sleeveless gown was edged with marten fur worn over a doublet and breeches of gold-edged green velvet, slashed to show a creamy white satin beneath. As he turned to greet them, they saw gold cords and aiglets studded with seed pearls, and in his hat was a drooping peacock feather like her father’s. He smiled, creasing his handsome face, making his eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Mistress Raemon,’ he said, softly, ‘your prediction was correct. We have met again, you see?’

A hard uncomfortable thudding in her chest made words difficult. ‘Father, there’s been a mistake. This man is not who you think he is. He was at the Royal Wardrobe when Aphra and I went there. His name is Master Nicolaus.’

Why were they all smiling?

Looking slightly sheepish through her smiles, her mother came forward to lead Etta by the hand. ‘Yes, dear. He is also Baron Somerville of Mortlake. We know you have already met. That was intentional. Shall you make your courtesies?’

‘No, Mother. I shall not. There is some deception here. Why did he introduce himself to me as Master Nicolaus? What is it that he’s not told me that he should have? Be honest, if you please.’ Her voice was brittle with anger and humiliation, and anything but welcoming. She had tried to make him understand that he was not the kind of man with whom she would form a relationship. She thought he had accepted that.

The smile remained in his eyes, though now tinged with concern. ‘I have been honest with you at all times, mistress,’ said Baron Somerville, reminding her of his deep voice and seductive tone, the reassuring words. ‘My name is Nicolaus Benninck, from Antwerp. Recently, the Queen honoured me with the title of baron. I am one and the same person, you see. I believe you were kindly disposed to the one, so it stands to reason that you will feel the same about the other. How could it be otherwise?’

But the colour had now blanched from Etta’s face as she made it plain what she thought of such reasoning. ‘It may have escaped your notice, sir, that I am a grown woman, not a child of six to join in this kind of game. What is it you wished to gain from this deceit, exactly? Do you try the same nonsense with everyone you meet? Does your new title embarrass you so that you could not have spoken of it?’

‘Henrietta!’ her father barked. ‘That’s going too far. You are being discourteous to our guest. You should apologise at once.’

‘The discourtesy is to me, Father. Tell Baron Somerville his journey is wasted. If a man is not honest enough to tell a woman of his status, on two separate occasions, then one must wonder what else he will keep from her. If I did the same, Father, you would have me locked in my room on nothing but bread and water.’

‘You’re taking this quite the wrong way,’ said Lord Jon, crossly.

‘On the contrary, Father. I find it patronising in the extreme to be fed misleading information as if I could not manage the truth. But that’s not all, is it, my lord? Didn’t you also tell me you were a mercer?’ She turned to her mother, her eyes blazing with scorn. ‘A mercer! I ask you, Mama, is it in the least likely you and Father would expect me to marry a mercer? Really?’

Her father’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Henrietta, you had better say no more. Baron Somerville is one of London’s most successful mercers, a merchant of some standing, a freeman and alderman of the City of London, and the owner of several shops on Cheapside. Your mother and I have always had the greatest respect for mercers, otherwise we would not have been invited to their banquet last month. The mercers are one of the most influential companies, and one of the wealthiest. You yourself were impressed by the event.’

Still white with shock, Etta listened to this list of distinctions with a growing confusion, trying desperately to link what Master Nicolaus had told her about himself, which was very little, with what he might have said if he’d been trying to impress her. ‘You didn’t say you had spoken to my parents on that occasion,’ she said to Lord Somerville. ‘Why could you not have told me?’

‘Because, mistress, I did not speak to them. I said I’d seen you there with them, but there was no opportunity for us to be introduced. Your father and I have spoken since then, and...’

‘Yes, I see,’ she retorted, ‘and decided on a clever little plan to deceive me. The peacock feather. That was a sign, I suppose? Carried by me to my father. What a jest! How you must have laughed up your sleeves at that, both of you.’

‘Etta,’ said her mother, ‘you have already said far too much. We expected some resistance to whomever we chose for you, but this is as much to do with names as much as anything else, isn’t it?’

‘No, Mama. It isn’t. But never in all my born days did I imagine you would choose a mercer for me to live with, over a shop in Cheapside. I thought you had higher hopes for me than that, knowing of my ambitions. How on earth...am I...to...oh!’

Covering her face with her hands, she turned and ran to the door, fumbling with the latch until Aphra opened it for her, following her out and calling after her up the stairs, ‘Etta! At least come and talk about it!’

But the door to Etta’s room slammed and Aphra knew, as they all did, that her cousin felt betrayed. To Aphra’s relief, their guest showed none of the signs of consternation one might have expected. As he smiled at her, she noticed that his teeth were white and even, his skin still glowing after the river breeze.

‘We have not been introduced,’ he said to her, ‘but I hope you will take Mistress Raemon’s place until she re-establishes contact with us.’

‘Aphra Betterton,’ she said. ‘Sir George’s daughter.’

‘Ah, of course! You were there...’

‘I was, my lord. And if I had known you then, none of this would have happened, would it? I blame my father for not doing his duty on that day.’

‘He was busy, Mistress Betterton.’

‘Blame me, Aphra,’ said Lord Jon. ‘I thought it might work. Indeed, your aunt and I were convinced it would. A bad start, I fear. But come, let’s go into the parlour for some refreshment. Ginny, shall you go up to her?’

* * *

In the privacy of her bedchamber, Etta berated herself for a fool. Unable to see their plan as anything other than a ploy meant to deceive her, Etta was effectively blinding herself to any of the advantages. Knowing what the reply would be, Lady Virginia did not ask for admittance, but walked straight in. ‘Etta darling, this won’t do,’ she said. ‘Lord Somerville is a very attractive suitor.’

‘Well I’m not attracted to him,’ Etta said, keeping her back to her mother. ‘Any man who can deceive me in such a manner is profoundly unattractive to me and I want no more to do with him and I’m ashamed and hurt...yes, hurt, Mother...that you and Father could think to marry me to a mercer. A tradesman.’ The words fell out of her mouth in a torrent and ended in a squeak of fury, and Lady Virginia saw now that tears were getting in the way, a typical Tudor response that Lady Virginia had seen time and again in the five-year-old Princess Elizabeth. It would be interesting to hear, she thought, how the new Queen would react to anyone who tried to impose their will upon her in matters of the heart.

‘Dry your eyes at once, Etta,’ she commanded. ‘This kind of behaviour will cut no ice with your father. You are a grown woman and this is most unbecoming. Whatever you feel, Lord Somerville is our guest and you must act accordingly out of courtesy to us all. Come now, mop your face, come downstairs with me and be civil.’

Etta realised that there would be more to it than civility. ‘Mother,’ she said, turning to show brown eyes sparkling with tears of anger, ‘is he...are you...so determined on this...this union? Is this really the way you wish to make an arrangement?’

‘Etta, the way we’ve made the arrangement is neither here nor there. All women must accept their parents’ choice unless they are widowed and even then marriages may be arranged for them. It’s what happened to me and it will happen to you, too.’

‘You always told me that you and Father were in love when you married.’

‘We were, in a way. But that didn’t mean I was given any choice in the matter.’

‘So you mean that Father will insist on it?’

‘Yes, dear. There is no good reason to prevaricate any longer. Lord Somerville and your father have already entered into negotiations. That’s all there is to it.’ Her heart softened towards her beautiful stepdaughter, so intelligent and sensitive, brimming over with vitality and expectations.

* * *

To have continued the talk of dishonour and treachery over dinner would have been unthinkable, for Etta had been well schooled in good manners and the arts of hospitality. Even so, she could not pretend that nothing had happened to change how she felt about the man, his deceit, his profession. Her deeply felt anger at the deceit overpowered the meal to such a degree that she tasted nothing of the roast meats and savoury sauces prepared with such care, and it was only because Aphra was there to converse with their guest that the diners managed without Etta’s usually bright contributions. Politely, she spoke when she was spoken to, but since Lord Somerville made no attempt to coax her to say more on any subject, she found the meal miserably tasteless and tense.

There was still an hour of daylight left, though it was only mid-afternoon when they rose from the table. Etta had it in mind to excuse herself immediately, but her father had other ideas before she’d had time to speak. ‘Henrietta, I think our guest would like to see the gardens with you before it gets any darker.’

There was no way out. Much too quickly, Tilda brought her woollen cloak, and since it seemed to have been taken for granted that their guest would soon be one of the family, no escort followed them out on to the paved pathway leading to the herbier. With the intention of walking quickly to avoid any attempt at conversation, Etta marched away down the path between low hedges of hyssop, lavender and thrift, brown-spiked and tangled grey, reflecting her mood. But there was to be no evading the long stride of her companion who, without her knowing quite how it happened, managed to steer her into the trelliswork allée covered with the winter stems of honeysuckle and climbing roses. Shielded from the house, Lord Somerville wasted no time in bringing her contrariness under control, catching her beneath one arm and swinging her round to face him.

Momentarily off balance, all her resentments, hurts and loss of face rose up to the surface and, with all her pent-up energy, she aimed a blow at his head which, if it had connected, would certainly have hurt him. But he was too quick for her. He had noted how her anger had simmered throughout the meal and how that, before too long, something would explode. In the blink of an eye, her wrist was caught and held away into the small of her back, his grip so painfully tight that no amount of twisting or writhing would dislodge him or prevent her other wrist from joining the first.

‘Let me go!’ she snarled. ‘Let me go! I do not want you. Not now or ever!’

‘Yes, I know all about that. Saints alive, woman, I never met anyone with so many preconceived ideas about men as you. And when you find a man you like, you’re prepared to dislike him because he’s even better than you thought he was. What kind of nonsense is that?’

‘It isn’t nonsense,’ she said, pulling against his restraint. ‘I’m prepared to dislike you, sir, because of your deceit and because I told you of the reasons for our mismatch well before this. You lied to me about—’

‘No, I didn’t. I spoke only the truth, mistress. If you put your own slant on it, that’s your fault, not mine.’

‘So why could you not have told me who you were, instead of...?’

‘Shop-owner, ship-owner, mercer and merchant. I am proud of what I do, mistress. I have not lied to you, but nor did I tell you everything, either. What man would be flattered to know that it was his wealth and status that won the heart of a woman, rather than the man himself? Fathers may arrange marriages for their daughters along such lines, but I don’t entirely fall in with that principle. And don’t pretend you were not interested, because I know differently.’

‘In a wily knave like you, my lord? Never. I would rather—’

Whatever her high-flown protest was to have been, it was cut short by his kiss, hard, thorough and long enough to make her forget. Wedged with her head on his shoulder and unable to move away, she could only wonder at the change in him from soft-spoken courteous gentleman to this, as if the sudden revelation of his title had endowed him with an authority of a far more potent kind. If this change had any direct link to the change in her, too, then she conveniently forgot it. It was, however, a side of him she had not expected and one which, if the truth be told, she found exciting, for it suggested that she could protest all she liked but would still be as desired as she was before. ‘Let me go,’ she said, not quite as emphatically as she had intended. ‘If you think I appeared to be interested in you, my lord, you are mistaken. I was more interested in what you had to tell me about the fabrics That’s why I returned—to take another look at them.’

His hold on her relaxed. ‘And look where that got you, mistress,’ he said. ‘Was it worth all the effort?’

‘No, it certainly was not, my lord. How could you ever have believed I would take kindly to being manipulated in this way?’

‘I believed your father when he assured me it was probably the only way, mistress. He still does. But if you’d come down off your high horse, you’d see the advantages rather than the hurt to your pride. Recall, if you will, how you enjoyed talking with me about fabrics and the exotic places they come from, and about the latest trends in fashion. I could show you much more than that: the warehouses, the furriers and cordwainers for your leathers, the shoemakers, the very finest tailors.’

Her stony expression almost softened at that, but there was yet another cause to keep her anger simmering, too good not to use as ammunition. ‘I wish to attend the royal court,’ she said. ‘Of what use would finery be if I could not show it there? I believe the Queen knows of me, my lord, and it is my dearest wish to meet her.’

Placing an arm across her back, he moved her along the allée and out into the knot garden where a tiny wren flitted beneath their feet into the foliage. ‘It’s not quite as rosy as that, mistress. Surely Lord and Lady Raemon have explained the position to you?’

‘If you mean they have doubts about her wish to see me, then, yes, they have done their best to pour cold water on the idea. I’m not at all convinced.’

‘Then I don’t suppose I shall be any more successful, mistress. But I think you should be aware of the problems that would arise. The young Queen will not tolerate any competition, especially on a personal level. She has sent most of the late Queen Mary’s women home and now retains only six maids. Her ladies are either personal friends or women the late Queen didn’t like. What’s more, even if I did attend court regularly, she would be unlikely to accept you simply because you were my wife. I understand that she enjoys having men around her, but she doesn’t make any accommodation available to their wives. Nor will she feed them.’

‘She would accept me. How could she not like her own half-sister?’

Their stroll along the gravel came to a halt as he turned her to face him. ‘Listen to me, Henrietta. In many respects, you are alike and from a distance you could be taken for her, but anyone who’s seen her at close quarters would see that she doesn’t have your beauty. And that’s the first thing she’d see. I shall not be taking you to meet her. That would be asking for trouble.’

‘That’s as roundabout a compliment as ever I heard,’ she said, beginning to walk away. ‘You paint a harsh picture of her, my lord, and a fulsome one of me. I refuse to believe she and I are so very different.’

Again, his hand caught a fistful of her fur cloak, pulling her back to him. ‘You have a lot to learn then,’ he said, ‘and one is that I don’t flatter women as other men do to soften them up. The second is that your obstinacy and wilfulness are on a par with hers and that when I said it could be tamed, I meant it. You would do well to take my advice, Henrietta, if only to keep out of trouble.’

Etta glared at him with all the indignation of a thwarted young woman seeing for the first time that she would have to deal with a man as obdurate as herself. ‘Tamed, my lord? You would prefer a pliant and obedient wife, then?’

‘Yes, woman,’ he said, holding her still by her elbows. ‘I would prefer a pliant and obedient wife to a shrew. What man would not?’ He bent his head to hers, looking deeply into her eyes with a piercing glare that made her blink. ‘But you will not be twisting me round your little finger as you have been used to doing with your father. Your relationship to the Queen will not help you as much as you think. In fact, you may discover that you’d rather not be related. And, yes, you may glare at me like a tigress, Henrietta, but with me you’ve met your match. And tomorrow, we shall discuss our wedding plans.’

‘No need to wait for tomorrow for that, my lord,’ she said sharply, shaking his hands off her arms. ‘That can be arranged in one word. Simple! The shortest possible ceremony with the fewest possible witnesses. There, how does that sound?’

She did not fully expect to be taken at her word on this, when everything she had said so far had been countered with some argument, and she had anticipated that publicity, grand guests and a show of his good fortune would be essential requirements for a man of his considerable standing and wealth. So when he agreed with her that a simple ceremony was very much to his taste, she realised with a nasty thud under her ribs that her retaliation had rebounded on herself instead of him.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I shall go ahead and buy a special licence to avoid all that time-wasting, if that’s what you prefer. It’s not cheap, but probably cheaper than feasts and dresses and all the trimmings. Worth it, to get things over and done with.’

Etta tried out what she hoped might be an impediment. ‘But what about the Queen?’ she said, frowning at his eagerness to comply. ‘As a relative, surely I shall need her permission?’

‘I don’t see that that will be necessary, mistress, when she has not yet recognised you as her relative. Has she?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘Well then, the sooner we get the formalities out of the way, the better. She’s very unlikely to go searching for beautiful young female relatives, is she? In fact, quite the opposite, I’d say.’

This was not at all what she had wanted, or expected, but to say so was now impossible. By pretending to oblige her, he must know that he was acting to the contrary. And whose fault was that? ‘It will take a while for you and Father to complete the formalities,’ she said. ‘There’s the matter of dowries and jointures.’

‘That’s already in hand,’ he said, setting off towards the house. ‘Our lawyers are already drawing up draft agreements. I’m not difficult to please.’

‘Already? What do you mean, already? When?’ she yelled.

Ahead of her, he stopped and turned, his face a picture of merriment. Shaking his head with laughter, he came back to her. ‘When?’ he repeated. ‘As soon as I saw you, Henrietta. At the Mercers’ banquet. I spoke to your father the very next day. I know my own mind, too, you see.’

‘And you had the audacity, my lord, to flirt with me at only our second meeting? Because you thought you were on safe ground? I find that behaviour disgraceful. Does my father know you went so far?’

‘What, that I might have stolen a kiss, had I tried?’

‘Enough!’ she yelped. ‘You are a knave and I neither desire you nor do I wish to marry you. I want nothing you can offer me. Nothing!’ She would have dodged round him to walk away, but the pathway was narrow between hedges of box and, with one sidestep, he barred her way. Goaded beyond endurance by his trickery and his unyielding bulk, she pummelled his chest with her fists as she had not done since childhood fights with her brothers. ‘Nothing!’ she yelled. ‘Nothing!’

Easily, he caught her wrists and held them together on his chest, obliging her to stand close to him. ‘Yes, you do,’ he said, softly. ‘Oh, yes, you do, mistress, though I know you’ll not admit it. If you’d truly not liked the look of me, even a mere mercer, you’d not have returned for a second look, would you? You came to see me, not the fabrics, little schemer. And I have quite a lot to offer you. Now calm down, or do you want me to kiss you here, where we’re being watched from the house?’

‘No, I do not. Neither here nor anywhere else.’

Smiling, he let her go, retaining one of her hands in his. ‘Good. Now walk with me up the path and show me the rest of the gardens, if you please.’

Like her royal half-sister, Etta had a pragmatic streak strong enough to influence those decisions and emotions that might have looked to the uninitiated like the perversity of an indulged and beautiful woman. Being aware of this, her step-parents intended to overrule their wayward daughter in the matter of marriage to Lord Somerville, once the peacock feather had signalled her interest. But for Etta, even through the humiliation of defeat, the bitter pill was made easier to swallow by knowing that this handsome creature was not to be compared to other young noblemen she had met, neither in manner, ability, intelligence or success in business. Nor would he easily be deterred from having his way, once he had decided on it. And in this particular, Etta was determined to test him to the limit, for he had deceived her, whatever excuse he gave, and he would not be allowed to forget. As for making love in the future, she was angry enough to hold out against him for as long as she could, for they had spoken neither of affection nor love and, as far as she was concerned, he had forfeited any right to expect it.

Her body, however, told her a different story, now she had tasted his kiss and felt the hard power of his arms. The man was despicable, unprincipled and arrogant, yet her conscience told her that, as his wife, she would have to call on all her reserves of will-power not to let him dent her armour. Or was it already too late for that?

* * *

With her parents and Aphra, Baron Somerville was totally at ease, showing no signs of the opposition that would have daunted men of lesser confidence. But as she sat in dignified silence, Etta was able to discover, through their interest in him, how much of the world he had seen. As a man of Flemish origin, a ship-owning merchant, he had travelled far and wide, even up to the ice-cold northern lands where waterfalls fell from the sky, animals swam beneath the sea, where lights danced in the night and jets of hot water spurted from the ground. In any other circumstances, she would have asked questions and shown an interest in the man she was to marry, but pride forbade this now and her eyes found other answers in their surreptitious examination of his thick, silky hair, his eloquent hands and the zest for life that shone from his eyes. As she watched, it became clear why he had packed so much into his thirty years, why he had won the admiration of his guild and why his business ventures had flourished on the back of his ambition. It came as no surprise to her to learn that an aimless life at court was to him a waste of time unless he could contact those men he needed. Perhaps, she thought, he saw her as a useful acquisition with her resemblance to the Queen, a way to attract attention to himself and to make contacts that might otherwise have taken longer. Everything about him added to her impression of drive and capability, even the way he had conducted this speedy claim to her hand, efficient even by her father’s standards. Asking herself if she might have preferred a longer, slower wooing, she had to concede that her interest in him had been immediate, but that she had made some serious errors by her pique and overreactions. What this predicted for the next phase in their relationship Etta hardly dared to think, in the light of his considerable energies.

* * *

Nicolaus was not a man to be easily daunted by opposition, however, though opposition from a woman was something unfamiliar to him. But then, he had known that this one was different—as a successful merchant, he had taught himself to look out for rarities and Mistress Henrietta Raemon was about as rare as one could get, with her looks and breeding.

The breeding, of course, was something of which she was intensely aware and proud, and which, he thought, must be why she wished to make contact with her half-sister Elizabeth. Presumably, then, she had set her heart on acquiring a courtier husband, and although not exactly disappointed by this stance, Nicolaus believed it was unrealistic and rather naïve of her to set such an unnecessary target, especially when her father had alerted him at the beginning to his daughter’s dream of finding a potential for love in her future husband. Taking this hope seriously, Nicolaus had suggested a way of finding out what was more important to her, girlish romance or a courtier husband. For him to conceal his new title and any mention of his wealth and status from her at a trial meeting had been his suggestion, meant to discover any sign of attraction upon which they could base a relationship that would suit them both. Had he not been reasonably sure of the success of this plan, he would not have suggested it.

His friendship with Lady Raemon’s brother-in-law, Sir George Betterton at the Royal Wardrobe, had been the link by which he could make himself known to her without any of the resistance her parents had warned him about. She was, they said, fascinated by fabrics and fashion, as most women with her connections were. What better, then, than an innocent invitation from Sir George to see the Queen’s coronation robes? From the first meeting, his experience with women had assured him of her interest, not only in the materials of his trade but in himself, as a man. Suspecting that she would return for a second look, he had arranged with Sir George for a little privacy and, because he was trusted, his precious moments with her had proved to him that she found him attractive. Her refusal to allow a kiss was no great matter and her aversion to a mercer as a suitable husband had not deterred him either, thinking that her attitude would surely be softened when she learned what else he had to commend him. Perhaps he had underestimated what a complicated character she was. Perhaps his little deceit had been a step too far? Or was it not only that she was a complicated lady, but also an insecure one, too?

Her stepfather had made him aware of Henrietta’s parentage, which would account for her resemblance to the new Queen, but since neither of her parents had been known to Nicolaus, this information had not concerned him. It was only when he had met Lady Raemon at a later date, when she had mentioned Etta’s wish to attend court, that he had been made aware of their concerns, wanting only to protect her from what they saw as the inevitable malicious gossip of those who had known that particular mistress of the late king. Having been exposed to such wounding jealousies themselves, they knew what could happen to Henrietta if she was ever, as a young and innocent woman, brought into contact with court life. The fact that he, Nicolaus, had assured them of his lack of interest in this direction had been an added bonus to his suitability as a husband, though with Henrietta, it had been exactly the opposite. He was not only a mercer, of all things, with a home above a shop, but a most unlikely source of access to the Queen’s presence, too.

Etta had not had the chance to explain to him exactly what lay behind this urge to make contact with her half-sister, but her reason of a mere relationship did not seem to him to justify a rejection of everything else he had to offer. If that was not a sign of insecurity, then he did not know what was. What did she want, apart from to see her sibling? What had that outburst been all about? More to do with a thwarting of her hopes, he thought, than with being the wife of a mercer.

Settling down into the warm feather bed that night, Nicolaus wondered if her lovely cousin Aphra would be of any help to him in explaining the deeper reasons for her unexpectedly violent aversion. He had felt Etta’s body soften under his kiss, the way it had in his dreams. He had desired her from his first glance and knew he would have to make her his wife. Now, he saw that he would have to tame her to come to his hand, for she was of a wilder and more passionate breed than any he’d had dealings with so far. So much for her royal parentage. His last disjointed thoughts were of the peacock feathers. Such a boyish thing to do. No wonder she had not thought it funny.

* * *

The gardens at Tyburn House were not only extensive but also beautifully designed and kept in pristine condition throughout all the seasons. Few of Lord and Lady Raemon’s guests were allowed to leave without first taking a look at the knot gardens and borders, the fountains, water courses, and Lady Raemon’s delight, the large topiary hedges cut into the most fantastic shapes, lining the pathway to the orchard. Hoping to escape Lord Somerville’s company before he returned home, Etta walked with her cousin along the path where a tall pudding-shaped tree would surely have hidden them from sight if they’d not first been seen by the tall figure of the mercer. For some reason which she could not name, Etta felt the thrill of excitement at his approach, for not even she could have faulted his appearance, the virile masculinity of his walk, the assurance of his bow as he swept off his hat, the proud reach of his arms as he replaced it. Etta knew she would not be allowed to get away with any more of her incivility, yesterday’s furious objections having been dealt with quite pitilessly. A night of broken sleep and long periods of contemplation had told her that, this time, she would be obliged to accept, though perhaps not with the good grace her mother had commanded.

At his approach, Aphra disappeared with a diplomacy Etta did not appreciate. Even so, she retained a grain of satisfaction from knowing that, since supper last evening, she now knew much more about him than he had so far discovered about her. And she would have kept it so, had he not insisted on trying to redress the balance. ‘Tell me about yourself, mistress,’ he said, walking beside her.

She looked away into the distance where high shaped hedges enclosed them. ‘I don’t talk about myself to order,’ she said, ‘as some do.’

‘Not even to the man you’ll wed?’

‘If the man I’m being obliged to wed could not bestir himself to find out more before he offered for me, then I’ll be damned if I’ll spell out my life story for his pleasure. Most men would have shown some interest before they made an offer.’

‘I showed an interest, mistress,’ he said, laughing. ‘Ask your parents.’

‘Then you know all you need to know, my lord. There is no more.’

‘I see. Then you are content for me to find out for myself?’

‘No, I am far from content. I thought you knew that, too.’

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Most intriguing. Your parents told me you were fluent in French, Italian and Spanish. Is that what you mean by no more?’

‘Don’t patronise me, if you please. I’m not a child to recite what I have learnt for the benefit of my elders. Women seldom receive any credit for their learning, at the best of times, and it was not at my father’s request that I joined my brothers in the schoolroom. It was my wish to find out if I could match the Princess Elizabeth’s abilities. But so far I have not. I don’t have her Latin and Greek yet, nor her Welsh. And I don’t suppose I play on the virginal as well as she does, or dance. I doubt if I shall ever know now, shall I, my lord?’

He refused to rise to the bait. ‘I find that quite remarkable,’ he said. ‘It’s a pity, in a way, that you never had the chance to meet Lady Jane Grey. She was a scholar, too. Unlike her two sisters. They’re feather-brained to a degree. Jane didn’t dance well, though, and I’m sure you do.’

‘Again, I’m hardly likely to dance before the court unless I can...’

‘Go there, yes, Henrietta, I think I have the message now, I thank you. I can see we may be plucking on that one string until it breaks.’

‘Yes,’ she said, stonily. ‘I intend to.’

‘So how many children shall we have, mistress? Have you thought about that yet?’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ she cried, turning her head to avoid seeing his grin. They walked on in silence until Etta slowed and stopped, realising that her coldness was not going to help matters, yet it was the only defence she had.

‘Etta?’ he said. ‘Look at me. Can we be friends now as we once were? Just as a start? It will make things easier for both of us if we can talk about this.’

Turning to face him, she tried hard to find the same sincerity he had shown before he’d revealed his conspiracy to influence her decision. Her long silence signified the mental conflict still raging in her mind until finally she sighed with a slight shake of her head. ‘As for being friends, my lord...that counts for little, doesn’t it, when my future has been decided for me? I thought at one time that we could be friends, but you have lost ground since then and I shall need some persuading that your integrity is what I thought it was. Don’t ask from me any more than I can give, if you please. I have little choice, it seems, about becoming your wife, but you can hardly lay the blame at my door if you find you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. I am my father’s daughter and I am being forced into this situation.’

‘It was never my intent to forfeit your trust, Henrietta. Perhaps my determination to have you for my own, before anyone else, blinded me to the way it might be seen as underhand. But nor do I believe for one moment that I’ve taken on more than I can handle.’

Etta slid a hand to her cheek to cool it, knowing that he referred to her incivility. ‘I have not been used to having a man other than my father telling me what I must do, sir. It will go hard with me. And you, too.’

‘I think I know that, mistress, without you telling me.’

‘But you’ve had women, I suppose? All of them compliant?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve had women, but you are the first I’ve ever offered marriage to.’ His hand moved through the shadows to touch her brow, then to trace a line down her cheek, his thumb brushing against her lips, feeling her tremble.

They parted slightly as something told her to stand firm, not to relent against this tender invasion, but the coldness she tried to summon was slow in coming and now the messages she was sending were the wrong ones. Etta knew how well he would be able to decode them. Placing a warning hand on his shoulder, she tried to hold him away, but it was too late and, before any words would come to her aid, she was being held against him with her face slanted across his.

The warmth of his mouth blanked her mind to everything except the thrilling sensation, and no matter that he’d had women before her, she believed in that moment that she was indeed the only one he had ever wished to marry. For those unfettered moments of honesty between them, each revealed to the other that desire would rise above all other conflicts, with or without their permission, for his kiss was persuasive. Had she not retained that indignation and hurt about being manipulated, she might have given in to the moment, the thrill, the newness of surrender. But she pulled away, moving back into the shadow of the hedge to hide her confusion, one hand covering her mouth. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘this is not...’

‘Listen to me, Etta,’ he said, easing her back to him. ‘This is what we want. It’s what we wanted from that first meeting. We both know it. But it doesn’t mean your surrender if you don’t want it to. You can fight me until you tire of fighting, but from time to time, sweetheart, we can indulge in a truce without shame to either of us. We shall be married within the week and think what a waste that would be if we were to spend our wedding night in useless animosities. That would be pointless. Is that what you intended?’

‘It’s my only weapon,’ she said, looking away into the dimness.

‘What? How can you say so, woman? You of the thousand pinpricks.’

‘That’s an admission, coming from you,’ she said.

‘Do your worst, Etta. I can handle you, but don’t stifle what could be an endless capacity for loving, just to try to hurt me. Our new Queen may do as she pleases about marrying, but you don’t have to emulate her in that, too. Be yourself.’

‘Is this meant to...?’

‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking, that I want a submissive wife in all things. But, no, that’s not what we’re talking about, is it? I’m talking about you denying yourself to get back at me. You were made for love, Etta. Not just that kind of love, but compassion, empathy, kindness, generosity. I cannot believe that this recent resentment will last for ever. That’s not the Tudor nature, is it?’

‘How do you know that, my lord?’

‘I’m learning every day. I think you could keep most men guessing as to which was the real Henrietta, just as the Queen does with her courtiers. But I’m getting to know you, sweetheart, and I’m better placed to discover every single facet.’

‘Bad, as well as not so bad?’

‘Yes, you need a strong hand. I can protect you. I can share all I have with you. Will you not do the same for me?’

Materially, she had little to offer him except what her father had decided she was worth in wealth and estate, but if he meant to know about all her vices as well as the virtues, she would show him exactly what he was taking on before she succumbed completely to his charms. ‘What I have, my lord, is what you see and what you will eventually find out about. I am prepared to share with you my deep humiliation and anger, that’s all. You think you can change me. Taming is what you call it. But I do not intend to change at any time in the near future, not until I have achieved something of what I have set out to do. Uncompromising that may sound, but it was you who wanted the connection, not me. I suppose my father will have warned you about what you’re taking on,’ she said, allowing him to hold her hand against his chest, ‘and I’d be a fool to add anything more to his list. In fact, I dare say he’s quite relieved for you to take responsibility for me. As for the rest, it’s no more than you deserve, is it?’

Even in the dim light of that winter morning, she could see the dark slits of his eyes twinkle with a mischievous laugh. ‘As you say, my beauty,’ he whispered, bending his head close to hers, ‘it will be no more than I deserve.’ He touched her lips with his own before she could move away, then released her hand. ‘Now, I must catch the next tide if I want to reach my home by midday. I want you and your parents to visit me at Cheapside, just to satisfy you that a mere mercer can reach your high standards. Bring your cousin Aphra with you, too. She might help to convince you of my suitability.’

‘Please, don’t say any more about that. My intention was not to insult you, or the mercers in general.’

‘What was it, then? Is it that I’m not a courtier? Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I am no nearer to the royal court than I was before and I find that hard to accept, my lord.’

‘Then let’s shelve the problem for the moment, shall we? You may find that, eventually, there will be other things to occupy your time and energy, mistress.’

She would have been a dullard indeed not to have known what he alluded to, but she did not think that, in the circumstances, the prospect was very enticing. Nor, if she could help it, was it even feasible.


Chapter Three (#ulink_d76952cf-9e79-5a52-97f8-727e9f8f827a)

‘He kissed you, didn’t he?’ Aphra said.

‘You can tell?’

Aphra chuckled. ‘Well, there’s nothing to see, exactly, but...’

‘But what?’ Etta peered into the mirror, touching her lips with the tip of a finger, feeling not only the firm pressure of his mouth on hers but also the hardness of his thighs, even through her farthingale. His arm had pressed into her shoulders, bending her into him. Not a tender kiss by any means. She ought not to have allowed it, but Baron Somerville was not a man against whom she was likely to win any argument, as her time in the garden had proved. He would hear her side of things but, in the end, he would retain the upper hand.

‘You look as if you might be seeing eye to eye at last,’ Aphra said. ‘Are you?’

Etta scowled. ‘Indeed not,’ she said. ‘Not as long as I’m expected to live over a shop. He wants us to go and see it. As if that will make any difference.’

‘Just think of all those exotic fabrics and feathers, straight from the Orient and the Indies.’

‘Aphie! You’re not taking this seriously, are you? And anyway, where are the Indies?’

‘I don’t know, love. Sounds good, though.’

Etta was glad of her cousin’s company at a time like this when her deepest thoughts had begun to conflict with the impression she was trying to give of being resolute, strong-willed and still deeply frustrated by recent events. If the truth be told, her first experience of being held so forcibly, of being overruled, kissed without her permission and made to listen, had dealt a serious blow to her attempt at a frosty and implacable manner, and now she felt confused by a riot of new feelings brought on, she knew, by the man’s powerful and shocking closeness. Naturally, with his experience, he must have known how it would affect her, an innocent. He had been places, met people, done things, had women. That thought in particular made her frown. ‘He’s had women, Aphie,’ she said.

But Aphra was looking out of the window, her lovely face suddenly lit by an excitement she tried hard to control. ‘It’s Ben!’ she said, breathlessly. ‘I can see it is. He has someone with him. I must go down, Ettie. Come!’

Instantly switched to a different channel, Aphra dismissed Etta’s potentially interesting snippet of information to focus on their newest guest, their uncle, Dr Ben Spenney—Dr Ben, as he was known to the family—was the half-brother of Aphra’s mother and Etta’s stepmother, and was now an eminent apothecary whose home at Sandrock Priory had been left to him by his father, Sir Walter D’Arvall. Sir Walter and his long-suffering wife had been allowed to buy the priory after the closure of the monasteries over twenty years ago, spending a vast amount of money and effort on remodelling it for domestic use. Now, it was occupied by Dr Ben and his household, amongst whom were several young students of medicine from various parts of Europe come to study in England. He was a gentle and scholarly man, not unlike the monks with whom he’d been raised, and his family doubted he would ever find time to marry. In spite of the disparity in their ages, Ben and his niece Aphra had always held an extraordinarily deep affection for each other, though this had never been actively encouraged because of their close relationship. It was no secret to the family, but nor was it a subject ever singled out for comment, even by Aphra’s younger brother Edwin or the twin cousins with whom he worked. Now, as Etta saw the sparkle in her cousin’s eyes and the quick flush of colour to her cheeks, her heart ached for Aphra, whose special affection for Ben could never be allowed to flourish.

Downstairs, by the roaring log fire, the delight at seeing Dr Ben after an interval of several months was truly genuine, Sandrock Priory being miles away in the Wiltshire countryside within visiting distance of other second homes belonging to the D’Arvalls and Bettertons. Far enough away from London for the air to be sweet and pure. Dr Ben’s companion was quickly made welcome. ‘Master Leon of Padua,’ said Ben. ‘One of my very brightest students. I’m taking him with me to lecture at the Apothecaries’ Hall. For the experience,’ he added.

Master Leon, a well-made young man with large dark eyes and a skin that could only have been burnished by an Italian summer, wore a sober gown of dusty black over a grey-brown wool tunic and a flat cap that had seen better days. His manner and speech, however, suggested that his education had been exceptional. ‘Dr Spenney,’ he told them, ‘is either trying to offer me the experience or show me how little I know and how much I have yet to learn.’

They laughed, but Aphra said, ‘How little you know about what, sir?’

‘About the curative qualities of plants, madonna,’ he said, smiling.

‘But any housewife knows which plants heal. It’s part of a woman’s training,’ she said. ‘We have recipe books that are generations old.’

‘Aphra,’ said Dr Ben, gently, ‘stop teasing. You know what he means.’

The glances they exchanged seemed to imply much more than words, and the laugh that rose in Aphra’s throat was of a kind not often heard by the others. But his half-sister, Lady Raemon, who also had a special fondness for Ben, suspected that the real reason why he had chosen Master Leon to accompany him was to meet Aphra, and it was not long before the two were gently sparring about which plants were native to their respective countries. Etta joined in, then took them both to inspect the herb garden. So it was quite by chance that they missed the arrival of two more guests in the same barge from further down the river, Baron Somerville and Sir Elion D’Arvall, the eldest son of the late Sir Walter, and elder brother to Lady Raemon.

Sir Elion D’Arvall had once aspired to a senior position in the royal household, having assumed that he might be offered the post as King’s Cofferer on the death of his father. But with the change of sovereign had come a change in many other departments and Sir Elion had been overlooked, only to be instantly recruited by William Cecil, advisor on financial matters to the young Princess Elizabeth. Now she was Queen at last and Sir William made Secretary of State, Sir Elion had become an extra pair of ears and eyes both in England and abroad, acting as diplomat in the courts of Europe. It was inevitable that he and Baron Somerville would one day arrive together, having often met while on business abroad. ‘Where was it last, Nic?’ Sir Elion said, passing him a handsome silver-lidded tankard. ‘Antwerp, wasn’t it?’

Lord Somerville took it from him. ‘I was doing deals with silk merchants,’ he said, remembering with a smile. ‘I’ve learned a lot since then.’

‘And now you’re to marry the lovely Henrietta. Well, you’ll have your work cut out there, lad, and no mistake. Brave man, eh, Jon?’

Lord Raemon twitched an eyebrow in Somerville’s direction. ‘He knows what he’s doing,’ he said, laconically. ‘I’ve warned him. Don’t blame me.’

‘Shame on you both,’ said Lady Virginia. ‘Henrietta’s a lovely young woman and intelligent, too. If she has both of you running round in small circles, you can blame each other for forcing her hand.’

‘What’s this about?’ said Dr Ben, looking from one to the other. ‘Surely you didn’t think you could make Henrietta’s mind up for her, did you? Was that wise?’

‘It was the only thing to do, Ben, if we didn’t want to spend the next twenty years failing to see eye to eye on the subject. She’ll come round,’ said Lord Raemon, ‘once she gets this latest bee out of her bonnet.’

‘Which bee?’ said Ben. He looked at Somerville for enlightenment and was told of Henrietta’s insistence that, because she had Tudor blood, and looks, the new Queen would automatically want to know her. ‘I see,’ said Ben. ‘So if her father won’t oblige and her future husband won’t oblige either, who d’ye think she’ll try next to make it happen? Three guesses.’

Sir Elion shook his head. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘We don’t need three, do we? Any moment now, my niece will be in here to request a quiet word in my ear concerning a matter of courtly introductions. Do I have it right, Nic?’

‘That’s about the sum of it,’ Somerville said. ‘She’s not going to take no for an answer from any of us, anyway. We need a strategy.’

‘I think you need to be careful,’ said Ben.

‘I think you need to be very careful,’ said Lady Sophia, Sir Elion’s wife. ‘She doesn’t know the ways of the court as well as I do. She’ll be hurt.’

‘Not by any of us, my lady,’ said Lord Somerville, gently. ‘And anyone else who tries will have me to deal with.’

Sir Elion was familiar with personal disputes between couples whose marriages had been arranged for them, having helped to smooth the stormy path of his sister Ginny’s marriage to Sir Jon Raemon, as he then was. So he was not surprised to learn that their Tudor stepdaughter meant to have her own way in one direction if she could not have it in another and, knowing the Queen’s mind better than any of them, was able to see where the biggest dangers lay. When his friend Lord Somerville asked him how the new Queen fared once the excitement of the coronation had died down, his reply came as something of a shock. ‘Oh, it’s all about Lord Robert Dudley now,’ he said, witheringly. ‘Since she made him Master of Horse, you’d think a crown came with the job.’

‘What?’ said Ben. ‘He thinks he’ll be made king?’

‘There’s a lot of talk,’ said Sir Elion. ‘And not all of it innocent, either. Ah, here come the ladies. Congratulations, Niece,’ Sir Elion said to Henrietta.

‘Thank you, Uncle. Commiserations are in order. May I have a word in your ear, before we leave?’

‘Certainly, love. About how to cope with mercers, is it?’

And so they laughed and teased each other before the roaring fire that took up half the wall, the logs sizzling and spitting and smelling of last year’s apples.

Obligingly, Sir Elion made himself available to his niece, his answer formed well before her enquiry was delivered. ‘Will you be returning to court any time soon?’ she said.

‘Not before the wedding, I think. Will that be here?’

‘Yes, I expect we shall be going straight to Cheapside afterwards, but I want...well, the truth is, I want to find a way of seeing the Queen and I thought you might...?’

‘You mean, just to see her, or to have her see you? I can tell you now, Etta love, that if Somerville won’t take you, then I don’t see how I can.’

‘I simply want to see her, just to take a look. I don’t expect to be presented. Not until she wishes it, that is. That may take some time.’

‘And you want me to take you there? Is Somerville supposed to know about this? Because I shall not be doing anything unless he knows, Etta.’

‘Uncle, if he knows I’m with you, he won’t object, will he? And it will be all right for me to walk in with you, because you’re known there and I’m your niece. That won’t be against the rules, will it?’

‘Not as long as you abide by them, Etta. I can’t afford to get on the wrong side of court protocol when I earn my living there.’ Sir Elion saw this conversation taking a rather different course from the one discussed earlier, but what she was proposing sounded relatively innocuous, compared to what her father and future husband had anticipated as a head-on confrontation with their sovereign.

‘I know that, Uncle Elion. I would not do anything to embarrass you.’

‘Of course you won’t, m’dear. Shall we be invited to the wedding?’

Etta shook her head and looked away. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I doubt it. Lord Somerville prefers us to have a very modest ceremony. Only Mother and Father, that’s all.’

‘Oh, my dear,’ her uncle replied, taking her hand. ‘I’m sure he has his reasons. But give it time. You’ll get to know each other eventually. He’s a very astute man, you know. The Queen made him a baron at the same time as she knighted William Cecil, my master, and Baron Hunsdon, her half-brother. Somerville sent her money when she was still Princess Elizabeth and without a bean. When Queen Mary released her from imprisonment, she was in a sad state, poor creature. She doesn’t forget those who’ve shown loyalty to her in the past.’





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