by Joann Spears
“About the stockings…” I began.
“What about them?” Beaton asked. “Have you a preference, dear? We have either wool or silk.”
“Well…do I have to wear any at all?”
The Marys glowered at me even more sourly than they had before. I did my best to explain.
“Nowadays, back in the real world,” I said, “stockings are passé. The women who persist in wearing them endure a great deal of stigma. They become social outcasts. You should hear the insults hurled at them: ‘uptight,’ ‘masochist,’ ‘matronly,’ and ‘prude,’ to name just a few.”
“Well, have it your own way,” said Beaton doubtfully. “Won’t you feel terribly exposed, though?”
“What about the drafts under your farthingale?” asked Seton.
“The rope in the farthingale can be very chafing on the legs,” added Livy.
Flamina took a different approach altogether. “We have stockings in some lovely colors; are you sure you won’t reconsider, Dolly?”
I almost caved, but then I remembered that I was speaking to women who were not wearing any panties and did not have a problem with that. I stuck to my guns on the stocking issue and hoped not to be stuck to my own thighs before the night was out. With that particular cow off the track, the fashion train moved forward.
I could have spent a whole day picking out a petticoat from among the beautiful skirts that festooned the room. Silk, velvet, or taffeta; brocaded, embroidered, or barred; pleated, ruffled, or gathered—I simply could not decide. Figuring that it would be the last time I would ever have the benefit of free fashion advice from someone with a name like Flamina, I took advantage of the opportunity and asked the lovely redhead for a recommendation. She responded graciously.
“Since you’ve chosen the lace-trimmed shift, Dolly, I suggest a lace petticoat to go with it. There is nothing like repetition of a successful theme, and I think that one of the lace petticoats is the only right choice.”
“Why are you so eager to encase me in lace, Flamina?” I asked slyly. “Is it because of lace’s intricacy, which is suggestive of my complex nature?”
“No,” she replied.
“Is it because of the delicacy and purity of lace, so reflective of the relatively sheltered life I lived before Harry?”
“Don’t make me laugh, Dolly. Jane Seymour always wore a lot of lace for that reason, though, so she will appreciate the allusion when she sees you.”
“Is it because lace is lavish and elegant, giving a seductive peek into the less obvious aspects of my nature?” I inquired.
“Definitely not, Dolly.”
“So why does lace get pride of place?” I asked.
“It’s because you were so attracted to the lace in the first place. There was no hemming or hawing about that decision; you did not hesitate, Dolly. When your first choice is the right choice, you know it, because no other choice will do.”
“Very well, then, Flamina,” I conceded. “A lace petticoat it shall be. Beaton, the one draped over your right shoulder is the one for me. How is that for decisive, ladies?” I asked.
Flamina congratulated me on my choice.
“That is excellent, Dolly; the reticella is one of my favorites. Incidentally, that petticoat will win you favor with Katharine of Aragon. She introduced the lace trade into England, you know.”
By the grace of lace, I had already made two of the wives happy, and I hadn’t even met them yet. Only four to go, I thought.
To complete the main portion of my outfit, Seton suggested what she called a “French gown.”
“Your slenderness suits the fashion perfectly, Dolly, and Catherine Howard always admires women who can wear that style well. She never could herself, you know—much too buxom. But she is so good-natured that it makes her happy to see others enjoying the things she can’t enjoy herself.”
I decided that I liked Seton the best of all the Marys; she was certainly the most diplomatic of the bunch—and she had yet to slap me on the butt.
“I defer to your judgment but need some instruction,” I said to her, motioning toward some heaps of fabric. “Which of these things are the French gowns?”
Seton explained that they were the overdresses gathered tightly in the middle and split at the front (to show the petticoat beneath).
“Since we are in a hurry,” she said, “I suggest one of the French gowns that already has matching sleeves attached. We have piled those all in one place on the bed; come and see. Since the lace petticoat you chose is so lavish, I would suggest a relatively simple gown to go over the petticoat; but, of course, the choice is yours.”
It was not easy to keep it simple, confronted as I was with a veritable Aladdin’s cave of sartorial treasures. The colors were incredible and predominantly earth tones: warm reds, salmon, tawny, brown, and gold. The satins shone; the brocades were rich and sumptuous; and the embroideries curled, rolled, and meandered. I didn’t know where to look first and cried out from the sartorial wilderness.
“Help me, ladies! Which color do you think would be the most flattering on me?”
Beaton suggested basic black. “It would best suit your complexion, Dolly, and set off the lace petticoat to perfection. And it would please Katherine Parr no end to see you wearing black.”
“Why, Beaton?”
“Well, because she wears so very much black herself. She got very used to it, having worn it in mourning for three successive husbands, so she feels an affinity toward other women who wear it.”
“Beaton, I think you are right,” I said, feeling confident in the choice. “My mother always said that you can’t go wrong with black. It’s a real no-brainer.”
My gaffe started Seton, Livy, and Flamina knocking on the wooden bedpost so hard that the French gowns began to slide off the bed and onto the floor. “Please, Dolly!” said Beaton. “Mind what you say! Thank goodness Ann Boleyn wasn’t here to hear you!”
I was afraid the four Marys were going to be none too happy with me; there would be a tangled mess to clean up once all those gowns had finished falling. But everything happens for a reason, as they say; and, from among the avalanching garments, one gown fell directly at my feet. It was black velvet with a wide bar of gold-filigree embroidery lining the neckline and split skirt and running down the length of the sleeves. It was simple yet elegant.
“Eureka!” I cried. “I’ve found it!”
The fashion train had pulled into the station. Slowly, smiles started to break on the faces of my four companions. We had nailed it; the dress was perfect.
Chapter Twenty-One
In Which are Discovered Two Peas in a French Hood
As Mary Beaton fastened me into my French gown, Flamina assembled the accessories that she said would give just the right panache to my outfit. These included a pair of ruby earrings, a French hood studded with rubies, a gold-and-ruby girdle belt, and a pair of pretty red slippers with tasteful red bows. Once I was securely in the gown, Flamina shooed the others away to the far side of the room.
“I will put the finishing touches on Dolly myself,” she announced to the other Marys. “No peeking till I say so! Nothing will be revealed till the ensemble is complete.” I worried that a lengthy session in makeup and wardrobe would ensue, but, fortunately, that was not the case.
With her centuries of lady-in-waiting practice, Flamina was able to breeze with ease through the accessories, and it wasn’t long at all before she had the jewels positioned perfectly. She also proved to be one spruce coiffeuse, and pinning my hair up was the work of but a moment. She added the French hood to the outfit last—the pièce de résistance. After she had set it on my head and secured it at the back, she walked around me to have a look at me from the front. Taking in the full effect, she arched her eyebrows and placed her hand over her heart in a gesture of surprise. Do I look that good, or do I look that bad? I wondered.
“Well?” I asked, the curiosity too much for me.
“I don’t believe it,” Flamina sa
id simply.
“What don’t you believe?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it in all the years I’ve been here. I didn’t see it at first, Dolly, but now that you’re in costume, it’s unmistakable.”
“What’s unmistakable?”
“I want the others to see you before I speak; I must validate my impression. Seton, Beaton, Livy!” Flamina called. “Come here at once to inspect Dolly. Tell me what you think.”
Seton, Beaton, and Livy hurried over to have a look. Three sets of arched eyebrows, three gasps, and three hands over three hearts followed.
“Well?” I said again.
Mary Seton was the first to regain her composure.
“The resemblance is remarkable,” she said.
Beaton concurred. “The similarity must surely be a sign. A portent. An omen.”
“Yes, but what of?” Livy wondered aloud.
“It can only mean one thing,” said Flamina, gathering the other three Marys about her. “It can only mean that Dolly is a very special guest, and that this will prove to be a very special night.”
“I suspected as much when I heard Dolly’s backstory,” Seton said, “and this would seem to confirm it. What should we do about it?”
“We must tell the queen,” replied Beaton calmly.
I was starting to get restive.
“Did you say ‘the’ queen?” I demanded. “You have got to be kidding! This place has more queens in it than La Cage aux Folles! Which queen do you mean? And for God’s sake, Beaton, what are you going to tell her?”
“Mary, Queen of Scots is the queen we are accustomed to answering to. It is to her that I shall go to now with the news.”
With that, Beaton left the room. I spun around to face the remaining three Marys and demanded an explanation. Flamina spoke for the group.
“We didn’t recognize it at first, but now we can see, Dolly; you look just like her—exactly like her. Knowing what you know, surely you can see why we are so astounded.”
“I look…just like…who?” I asked, desperate.
Flamina replied slowly.
“Just…like…Catherine Willoughby.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
About a Dead Ringer Who Was Saved by the Bell
Flamina had put it mildly when she said that I would understand about Catherine Willoughby. We had many things in common, ‘Cathy’ Willoughby and I: intelligence, looks, spunk, scholarship, capability, and sharp wit, to name a few. Cathy had been the daughter of Baron Willoughby by Maria Salinas, the Spanish lady-in-waiting and best friend of Katharine of Aragon. When Cathy’s parents died, Charles Brandon, Henry VIII’s brother-in-law through Henry’s sister Mary, took custody of Cathy as his ward. When Mary Tudor Brandon died, the widower Charles turned around and married Cathy himself. Then Charles Brandon died, leaving Cathy a widow. (Don’t think too hard about all that. There will not be a quiz afterward.)
Henry VIII, at that point, was married to his last queen, Katherine Parr, a woman with whom he occasionally got out of humor—and Henry’s court was well aware of what could happen when Henry got out of humor with the missus. They were equally well aware of Henry’s policy on infertile spouses, and Parr had yet to conceive. Naturally, plenty of book was made on which English noblewoman would become queen in the not-unlikely event of Katherine Parr predeceasing Henry.
Henry began showing a marked preference for a particular young English noblewoman, and ambassadors wrote home about rumors of a seventh English queen in the offing. The smart money was on Cathy Willoughby, the two-to-one favorite for wife number seven. As it turned out, Katherine Parr beat the odds and outlived Henry VIII, and Catherine Willoughby ended up a nonstarter.
I can’t say that I was shocked when I learned that I physically resembled Catherine Willoughby. Given my experiences thus far that night, it actually seemed quite natural—but, like the four Marys, I wondered what it might portend.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Enter the Gladiators” or “Stealing a Screamer March”
Thanks to the four Marys, I was suitably attired to “enter the arena”; but, as it turned out, the arena came to me. Six women—they could only be the six wives—streamed into the room single file. Flamina, Seton, and Livy, having hurriedly arranged enough chairs for the six wives and me, scattered like leaves in the wind. I was on my own and confident in my fashion choices. I especially liked the touches of red; they defined the outfit, like the scarlet lining of a matador’s cape.
The six wives wordlessly seated themselves in an arc, facing me; it was like looking at a gallery of Holbein portraits come to life. I had looked at them a million times: those simple, feminine, unmade-up faces, holding their own in settings of bejeweled and sartorial splendor. I would have recognized them anywhere.
They seated themselves in chronological order: Katharine of Aragon, Ann Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard, and Katherine Parr. Each appeared at about the age she was when she left Henry VIII’s employ, so to speak.
Katharine of Aragon was a stout dowager. In stark contrast was Catherine Howard, barely out of her teens. She was lush with youth and looked remarkably agile for such a full-figured girl. The other four wives were good-looking young women in their twenties and thirties. In modern-day dress, coiffure, and makeup, none of the four would have looked amiss on a women’s magazine cover, I thought—Ann Boleyn on Vogue, Jane Seymour on Woman’s Day, Anne of Cleves on BUST, and Katherine Parr on Ladies’ Home Journal.
After the cacophony that had accompanied the advent of some of my other visitors that night, the silence in which the wives paraded made quite an impression. I thought at first that they must have meant it to be intimidating. Luckily for me, any intimidation quotient that “the big six” had was decidedly diluted in my case by their familiarity factor.
The wives were, not surprisingly, dead ringers for my own Harry’s six exes. My experiences in the real world with my marital predecessors had shown me that, as one woman against six, the odds were against my ever having the last word on any given good night. I reasoned, then, that tonight, I might as well have the first word. I was feeling fully up to it; the six of them could not possibly have anything to hit me with that I haven’t been hit with before, I thought. Looking back, I am glad I did not give voice to that sentiment. If I had, I would have felt damned silly by the time the night was over.
“I wish that I was in the portrait gallery with all of you rather than here in the peanut gallery all by myself,” I ventured, securing the victory of the first word (not to mention the subsequent twenty-two).
“A point for you, Dolly. You attempt to outwit us and be a clever girl! That gives truth to the rumor,” said Ann Boleyn, “about you and Catherine Willoughby.”
“Word travels fast around here, doesn’t it?” I asked her. Then again, with so many women in a contained area, that was hardly surprising.
“Word does indeed travel fast within this place, but words from without travel here slowly or not at all. We have to admit that we do not know what a peanut is,” said Ann Boleyn.
First word and first submission! It had not occurred to me, as I said what I did, that the peanut was unknown on the European stage when these women trod the boards. I was feeling quite full of myself. But then, as I was about to see, so was Ann Boleyn.
“Most of our guests,” she said, sighing with boredom, “speak of things that did not exist in our lifetime. That does not surprise us; you are not the first to do so—merely the latest in a long line. If you think to intimidate us in that way, perhaps you’d best think again.”
“I thought,” I parried defensively, “that you meant to intimidate me by your silence. And,” I added, taking back the offensive, “I hate head games.”
Ann Boleyn rose from her chair, did the bedpost honors, and returned to her seat.
“Cheap attempts at power politics do not surprise us, either,” she said wearily. “What does surprise us is you speaking to us before one of u
s speaks to you. Most of our guests are more mindful of their manners before an assembly of six queens!” She began to huff. “Margaret Beaufort went on at such great length, Dolly, about how well your mother had brought you up! All those things Margaret said about your mother must have been sheer invention.”
“My mom was not a sheer invention! She was one real, dyed-in-the-wool mother!”
Realizing that I had just been reduced to calling my mom “one real ‘mother’” made me take a moment to regroup and size up the enemy. To Ann Boleyn’s immediate right, Katharine of Aragon was nodding approvingly at Ann for taking me to task. Anne of Cleves and Catherine Howard were cracking up but trying hard not to show it. Katherine Parr, pressing her hand down on Catherine Howard’s leg as if to help her contain her laughter, smiled at me conspiratorially. I could see why Henry VIII’s children, variously orphaned, had glommed on to Katherine Parr as a surrogate mother; there was definitely something of Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music about her.
With that, the song “Do-Re-Mi” popped into my head, and you know how it is when that happens with a song: there is just no other way to get it out than to sing a few bars. Besides, my mother had always encouraged me to sing a little tune if I needed to keep my courage up, so I went for it.
“Doe, a deer, a female deer—”
“Dolly,” interrupted Jane Seymour, “do you speak of Mr. Wyatt’s sonnet about Ann Boleyn: ‘Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind?’ Doe is a much prettier word than hind, I think, for the female deer that he likened Ann Boleyn to so aptly; but still, it is a pretty poem.”
“The man definitely had a way with words,” said Katherine Parr. “‘Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,’ he says in the poem. Those were my very words to your brother Tom Seymour when he first began to pursue me so hotly, Jane. Tom certainly had a taste for that which belonged to the man in charge; he wanted me because I was Henry VIII’s property, and I suppose that’s why he wanted my stepdaughter Elizabeth as well.”
