Papa, this is my new life! Here she was, surrounded by learned people who had traveled the world. Here she sat with such noble company at a table strewn with rose petals while the stars blazed overhead.
6
HREE MONTHS ON, AEMILIA rose in the misty light of a September dawn and splashed water on her face. Mornings began early at Grimsthorpe with prayers in the family chapel at six, followed by her lessons at six thirty.
She gazed into the steel mirror Mistress Locke had given her before returning to London. The gift had surprised her, considering how Mistress Locke despised every form of vanity. She could still hear Mistress Locke’s voice. Let this be a mirror of your virtue.
Tugging the comb through her hair, she smoothed her unruly curls as best she could, before tying them back with the pale violet ribbon Lady Susan had given her. How her fingertips thrilled just to touch the slippery satin. Over her new linen shift, she laced her new bodice and skirt, both gray to befit her station as a young scholar, yet Lady Susan had chosen the most delightful tone of gray that was nearly rose. A joy it was to feel the linen and lawn rustling around her as she walked. When she beheld her reflection, she could barely contain her delight.
AEMILIA PURPORTED HERSELF WITH as much dignity as she could as she descended the grand staircase to the family chapel with its stark whitewashed walls, its windows devoid of colored glass, and its single unadorned cross. Catherine Willoughby suffered no popish ornamentation. While the servants assembled on the main floor of the chapel, Aemilia took her place with the family in the balcony above. Lady Susan, Catherine Willoughby and her husband, and John Wingfield, the schoolmaster, all listened to the service with rapt attention, their eyes closed to better concentrate on the scriptures. Perry, meanwhile, looked as though he could barely stay awake. When Aemilia caught him yawning, he winked at her. His betrothed, Mary de Vere, had come to visit. As pale as alabaster with her ice-blond hair, she looked at him through her eyelashes. Lady Mary’s family was rich and ancient, her brother Edward one of Her Majesty’s favorites, but Aemilia thought she was nowhere near as lovely as Lady Susan.
With Mistress Locke gone, Aemilia set all her hope and affection on Susan. She had already written a poem for her but was too embarrassed to show it to her lest she deem it doggerel.
Noble Mistress, your rare perfections shone in the Glass
Wherein I saw my every fault.
You the Sun’s virtue, I that green grass
That flourishes fresh by your clear virtue taught.
WHEN THE SERVICE HAD ended, Aemilia shyly took her idol’s hand and walked with her to the schoolroom. Aemilia wanted to be nowhere else but here, taking her place at her desk with the tomes in Latin and Greek, with the foolscap cut into quarto size, and the quill and ink. The human skull on her schoolmaster’s desk served as a reminder that life was short and all earthly existence must end. Aemilia must seize every moment to grow in wisdom and grace until she could become Susan’s equal in learning if not in wealth or birth. Susan was even more learned than Anne Locke. She read Aristotle in Greek and could debate with the schoolmaster in Latin.
In truth, there was an air of loneliness in Lady Susan, though she appeared to try her best to hide it and not allow her melancholy to be a burden to others. A childless widow at twenty-three! Aemilia swore she would be a solace to her, her faithful handmaiden who would make her proud. Susan certainly seemed to love these hours in the schoolroom as much as Aemilia did, loved steeping herself in the ancient writings of Greece and Rome.
Master Wingfield was a tall and spindly young man of gentle birth but little fortune, as a third son, which explained why he had come to earn his bread as a schoolmaster. Under Lady Susan’s direction, he was giving Aemilia the identical grammar-school education that a boy would receive between the ages of seven and fourteen before he was sent off to university. Of course, no girl or woman could attend university, but some, such as Lady Susan and the Queen, continued their scholarly studies throughout their lives.
John Wingfield taught Aemilia rhetoric, mathematics, French, cosmography, drawing, dancing, and continued her musical education even though he was not a virtuoso. But the heart of her studies were the classics of ancient Rome. He drilled her with English translations from the text and she replied from memory, quoting the Latin.
“We are not born, we do not live for ourselves alone,” Master Wingfield prompted. “Our country, our friends, have a share in us.”
Aemilia trembled in both effort and quiet pride as she uttered Cicero’s original words from De Officiis, “Non nobis solum nati sumus ortusque nostri partem patria vindicat, partem amici.” Amici, friends, sounded so like her name, the English name Perry had given her. Amy.
“Is anyone unaware that Fortune plays a major role in both success and failure?”
“Magnam vim esse in fortuna in utramque partem, vel secundas ad res vel adversas, quis ignorat?” She nearly sang, for she delighted so much in the words. Latin was the grandfather of the Italian language. Every syllable brought back Papa.
“The pagan Romans believed in Fortuna,” Lady Susan interjected. “But we Christians believe in Providence.”
Aemilia nodded and folded her hands as Master Wingfield continued.
“Of evils choose the least.”
“Primum, minima de malis.” Malis, malice.
LESSONS IN THE SCHOOLROOM ended at three, at which time Susan deemed it appropriate that she and Aemilia ride out on horseback, equitation being one of the most wholesome forms of exercise.
“Every lady must learn to ride well,” Susan told her, as they walked arm in arm toward the stables. “Think of what my mother and Mistress Locke endured. One never knows when one must flee.”
“May Providence protect us,” Master Wingfield murmured, trailing just behind them.
Perry and Mary de Vere were already mounted on fine Spanish coursers that gleamed in the sunlight, not a fleck of dirt on their white legs and oiled hooves. Lady Mary made a great show of riding aside on her saddle to show off her skirt trimmed in silver braid. She wore a hat with pheasant plumes set at a jaunty angle. But her perfect alabaster face soured at the sight of Aemilia and Master Wingfield.
“You said we would ride with your sister,” she told Perry. “Not play nursemaid to a child with a schoolmaster in tow.”
Aemilia burned to hear Lady Mary speak as if she and Master Wingfield were deaf and had no feelings.
“But Amy is my sister!” said Perry. “My little adopted sister. And Master Wingfield her celebrated mentor. Have you gone blind yet from all that Latin, little sister?”
Aemilia’s heart burst with affection for Perry, for his gentle humor that set everything right.
“Exitus acta probat,” she told him, quoting Ovid.
Master Wingfield laughed aloud, her beloved schoolmaster whose smile made her float above the ground. Best of all, Lady Susan squeezed her hand and gave her a complicit smile. Aemilia knew that Susan had no great liking for Lady Mary either.
“The ends justify the means,” Lady Susan translated. “But I think you’ll find our Amy hasn’t gone blind just yet.”
“Amy is our Hypatia,” Perry told his betrothed. “Our protégée, our laurel-crowned scholar.”
“The child’s head will grow enormous.” Lady Mary’s eyes drifted toward the horizon as though she were bored.
She and Perry rode off together, leaving the others to mount up and follow.
“I DO WISH HE would marry someone kinder,” Susan said as Master Wingfield helped her into her saddle. “Perhaps once she has a child or two, she’ll grow a bit softer.”
Both Susan’s and Master Wingfield’s horses were magnificent, for Richard Bertie only bred from the best Spanish bloodlines. The groom then led out Aemilia’s mount, smaller than the coursers, with an enormous grass belly and a sunburnt pink nose. Bathsheba nickered and nuzzled Aemilia’s hands to see if she carried any sweetmeats. Mistress Locke had intended to take Bathsheba back to London with her, b
ut on the day of her departure, the little mare had gone lame and thus at Grimsthorpe she remained. Now she was sound again and needed the exercise lest she grow even more rotund. Aemilia could have begged to ride one of the Spanish purebreds, but she was stubbornly attached to the chestnut mare, who possessed in character what she lacked in breeding.
“Careful when you ride out,” the groom said. “Marry, I think she’s in season.”
“What’s that?” Aemilia asked. Bathsheba was behaving no differently than usual.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Lady Susan said. “If the little mare can even manage to keep up with the coursers.”
The three of them set out at a steady trot and soon caught up with Perry and Lady Mary. Then Perry rode alongside Master Wingfield, giving him his full attention, as though to make him feel welcome. Aemilia observed the way her schoolmaster dipped his head to Perry. What he said next took her breath away.
“As I am born to little fortune, my lord, I hope to advance myself by seeking a career in the military where a loyal man might distinguish himself.”
The rest of their conversation was lost to Aemilia when Lady Susan began to speak to her. “Tonight when we gather after dinner, perhaps you can sing madrigals for Lady Mary.” Susan glanced from Aemilia who rode on her left, to Lady Mary who rode on her right. “You enjoy madrigals, don’t you, Lady Mary?”
As Susan went on speaking to Mary, Aemilia watched Master Wingfield and Perry conferring earnestly in hushed voices. Why would a schoolmaster wish to abandon his books for the battlefield? If he lacked wealth, surely the Willoughbys paid him handsomely enough. Who would teach her if he left? Perhaps Lady Susan, for she was every bit as learned as Master Wingfield.
Bathsheba, likewise, seemed to focus her entire attention on the men, or rather on Perry’s stallion. The mare whinnied and attempted to barge forward. It was all Aemilia could do to pull her back and make her walk sedately between Lady Susan’s and Lady Mary’s horses.
“All this tedious conversation!” Mary cried. “Anyone would think we were sitting at your mother’s table.”
Lady Mary spurred her horse into a canter. Riding alongside Perry, she dared him to race her to the stream at the end of the meadow. Master Wingfield had already fallen back to join Lady Susan, but Aemilia found herself surging forward as Bathsheba leapt into a furious gallop.
“Aemilia, no!” Lady Susan shouted after her. “Make her stop!”
The wind whipping Aemilia’s face brought tears to her eyes as she yanked on the reins with her entire strength, but Bathsheba had the bit in her teeth and there was no stopping her. Aemilia could only cling on helplessly as Bathsheba, whinnying and squealing, charged between Perry’s stallion and Lady Mary’s gelding, nearly unseating Mary who shrieked curses Aemilia never thought to hear from an earl’s daughter. Screaming her apologies, Aemilia could only witness in horror as her mare tossed her head and threw little bucks as she pranced alongside the stallion. In season. So that was what it meant. Bathsheba wanted only to mate. No, no, no, Aemilia thought, panic rising in her gorge.
Master Wingfield cantered up and seized Bathsheba’s bridle, yanking her to a halt. Sliding from the saddle, Aemilia collapsed in the grass and wept in humiliation.
“Feed that ill-bred creature to the hounds!” Lady Mary roared.
Is she talking about Bathsheba or me? Aemilia wondered.
Struggling to control his stallion, Perry laughed so hard he nearly came off. “Pray God, our gentle Amy has better morals than her fat little mare.”
Just when Aemilia thought her heart couldn’t sink any further, she saw Bathsheba squeal and hold her tail to the side, wantonly exposing her nether regions to the stallion. Perry could only force his horse around and ride for home, laughing all the way.
Lady Susan pulled Aemilia out of the grass and brushed the tears from her face. “It’s my fault. I should have listened to the groom and set you on another horse.”
Dazed, Aemilia could only thank her stars that Lady Susan was sweeter tempered than Lady Mary who would probably never speak to her again, no matter how many apologies Aemilia offered or how many madrigals she sang.
“Well ridden,” Susan said to Master Wingfield, touching his arm. “A cavalry officer couldn’t have done better.”
Aemilia watched her schoolmaster’s face flush to hear Susan’s praise.
“Thank you, Master Wingfield,” Aemilia said fervently. She didn’t dare think what might have happened if he hadn’t been able to bring Bathsheba under control.
Bathsheba nuzzled Aemilia’s hair and the crook of her neck, as though wondering what the tears and fuss were about.
AFTER DELIVERING THE HORSES to the groom, Lady Susan and Master Wingfield returned to the house. But Aemilia, still reeling from her disgrace, retreated to the Duchess’s rose garden, where she hunched on a bench and listened to the gushing fountain. From behind the great yew hedge, she heard voices. Perry and Lady Mary. She was about to creep away when she froze.
“It’s not the child’s fault she’s an ungoverned heathen,” Perry said, his voice placating. “Her father was at court most of the time, leaving her with her mother who had no more brains than a sparrow.”
“It’s all very well that your sister concerns herself with an unfortunate orphan, but must she join our every pastime?” Lady Mary no longer sounded angry, but cool and considered, as though choosing her words with care. “The way she preens before you to show off her Latin! Honestly, what good will Latin and Greek do for a girl like her? At least do her the mercy of reminding her of her place now and again. One day she shall have to return to her family.”
“You wouldn’t wish that on her,” Perry said. “We receive letters from her mother, who can’t even write for herself—her son-in-law writes them for her. All of them shamelessly begging for money. My mother daren’t show them to the child. She burns them to spare her. Amy’s life is troubled enough. Let her enjoy a few years of innocent reprieve.”
Aemilia thought her heart would stop beating. A few years’ reprieve—was that what Lady Susan offered? As soon as her education was finished, or as soon as Master Wingfield found an appointment in the military, would they send her back to Mother and Master Holland? But Lady Susan was so kind! Surely she wouldn’t abandon her.
Yet Aemilia knew she couldn’t expect to remain at Grimsthorpe Castle forever. She thought back to Master Wingfield’s talk with Perry. Was her schoolmaster a fellow humble soul who hoped to use his fleeting time in this great house as a stepping stone to a better future? She, too, would have to make the most of her education, learn as much as she could in order to become a poet, a lady. Then, as a woman grown, she would return to London and drive Master Holland out of Papa’s house.
“There you are!” Lady Susan appeared from beneath a bower of white roses. She sat on the stone bench beside Aemilia and touched her hot, tear-stained face. “You’re not still crying over that naughty mare, are you? Think no more of it, dear.”
Susan took Aemilia in her arms, a rare gesture, for the lady wasn’t given to extravagant displays of affection. Leaning against her, Aemilia let herself be held, Susan’s heart beating against her ear as Papa’s once had.
FRESH SNOW MANTLED THE gardens and hedges in a train of diamonds. Golden shafts of winter sunlight poured into Lady Susan’s room where Aemilia lingered, surrounded by her mentor’s books and maps. Before the looking glass, she whirled in her new gown of rose-colored silk with brocade sleeves, a gift from Susan. She had pink and scarlet ribbons woven into her hair and a wreath of gilded rosemary crowning her brow.
Today Perry would wed Mary de Vere in the family chapel. Grimsthorpe Castle heaved with guests who had come from as far away as Oxford and Exeter. Aemilia’s room had been sacrificed to accommodate such eminent persons, but the greater glory was hers, for Lady Susan had invited her to share her four-poster with the embroidered draperies.
Alone in Susan’s chamber, Aemilia practiced her dance steps before the mirror
. She would play the lute and sing madrigals in honor of the newlyweds. She would join the sons and daughters of earls in a masque Lady Susan and Master Wingfield had arranged. Such a day of celebration this would be! The aroma of roasting and baking wafted up from the kitchen.
Smiling into the mirror, Aemilia tried to embody the sweetness and grace Lady Susan expected of her. She spoke in dulcet tones, in her most cultivated voice. “My name is Amy.”
But Angela’s corpse-cold face intruded on her thoughts. Catherine Willoughby had finally broken the news that Aemilia’s sister had died in childbirth. How could her beautiful sister be dead while she lived in such pomp? Did her good fortune make a mockery of all Angela had suffered? If Aemilia gave in to her grief, she feared it would devour her, that she’d start crying and never be able to stop.
She told herself she must be strong and make the most of this precious chance she had been given. Looking once more in the mirror, she said first shyly, then boldly, “Amy Willoughby.”
For a long moment, she allowed herself the comfort of pretending that Susan, not Angela, was her sister. That she had been born to this manor house, titled and rich.
But she didn’t look the least bit English. Even in the depths of winter, her skin remained olive in tone, no match for Susan’s complexion of cream and roses. Aemilia’s eyes were as black as ink with amber flecks swimming inside them. Her hair, even in high summer when exposed to the full flood of sunlight, remained dark with only a few auburn lights.
Still, she curtsied before the mirror and uttered her incantation, her prayer. “Amy Willoughby.”
Then she shrieked when, like a phantom, Mary de Vere’s pale face appeared in the glass behind her.
“You can preen all you want, girl,” the Earl of Oxford’s daughter, Perry’s bride, said. “But you will never be a Willoughby.”
The Dark Lady's Mask Page 6
