by Lily Reynard
Antonia tried to steer away from the uncomfortable topic of his father. "Do you wish to remarry?" Antonia asked without thinking, and under her mask, her cheeks heated.
Kit shrugged. "Who would want to wed a poor soldier, my lady?" His expression was strained.
Antonia wondered what kind of husband Kit might take, and was surprised at her spark of jealousy. Ridiculous! Have I become such a pathetic figure, that only a few gallant words from a servant are needed to capture my heart?
But there was more to Kit than mere gallantry.
Was it so foolish to admire a man not only handsome but literate, both kind and strong, and who had saved her?
Better not to pursue this chain of reasoning, Antonia decided. It only led to danger.
She must accept his gallantry for what it was—a mere compliment—and keep her reputation intact.
* * *
The hackney took them east across the suburbs of London, crossing the polluted channel of the Fleet River via Holborn Bridge, and turning in to Fetter Lane.
All too soon, Antonia saw the familiar row of half-timbered houses.
Antonia, Kit, and Polly were admitted by a servant Antonia didn't recognize, and ushered up the steep staircase to the first-floor parlor.
There, Eliza Draper awaited them in one of two armchairs placed near a small fireplace that glowed with burning sea-coal.
Her salt-and-pepper curls were covered with a respectable lace cap, and her severe black gown was sewn from an expensive silk-wool blend.
As she rose to greet Antonia, her lips pressed into a severe line and a disapproving crease appeared between her eyebrows.
Antonia knew that look of old. It was going to be a difficult visit.
"Mother." She dipped in a brief curtsey—carefully calculated to show respect for a parent, but not so low as to demean her rank.
Her gesture eased some of the disapproval from Eliza's mouth. "Antonia. How good of you to come, daughter."
Kit and Polly moved over to the far side of the parlor. It overhung the street by two or three feet, and the wide windows offered an excellent view of the length of Fetter Lane.
While Kit stared out the window and studied the traffic below, Polly untied a small embroidery frame from her belt and began to thread a needle in an attempt to maintain the polite fiction that they were not, in fact, overhearing every word exchanged between Antonia and her mother.
The two women seated themselves in facing armchairs, Eliza rang a hand-bell and ordered tea and biscuits.
Then she leaned forward, scrutinizing.
"Take off that ridiculous mask," she said, irritably. "You know it's rude to wear one indoors."
Feeling like a warrior lowering her shield, Antonia reluctantly untied it.
The line reappeared between her mother's brows.
"Well!" she said, finally. "And not a single patch to conceal it. Really, Antonia! Do you want to frighten off your suitors?"
"Do you think it will work?" Antonia replied, her nails digging into her palms. "For I have been much troubled lately by importunate men."
"You could have your pick of husbands if you hadn't been foolish enough to stay in a house infected by the smallpox," Eliza countered.
"Would you have preferred I leave my husband to die alone?" Antonia strove to keep her voice cool. "It gladdened me that you survived last summer's plague, Mother. I suppose Bath was far enough away from London to be safe."
Antonia wondered how her mother would respond to her dig.
Fearing looters, Gerald Draper had stubbornly refused to leave the city at the onset of the epidemic. Not so her mother. Like thousands of other Londoners, Eliza had fled the city's unhealthy confines, leaving behind her husband.
Soon thereafter, Father had fallen ill. The house had been sealed with all its inhabitants, the dreaded plague-cross painted on its door and a watchman posted to enforce the quarantine. When the house was finally unsealed, all within had succumbed.
The pot of tea and tray of biscuits arrived, and her mother used the interruption to steer the conversation away from the tricky shoals of spousal loyalty.
"At least you've got money, so there's something left to attract a man. And you're still young—best to remarry as soon as possible." She looked thoughtful. "I know of one or two eligible men—up-and-coming politicians in the House of Lords—who have begged me for introductions."
And likely paid Mother a hefty bribe for the privilege, thought Antonia. "I don't intend to remarry."
"Don't be a ninny-hammer!" Eliza lowered her cup and peered at her through wisps of steam. "You need a husband to preserve your reputation, to manage your affairs, and to defend your honor."
"I can take care of myself," Antonia said, but with a little less confidence than she had had two days ago. "I have Mr. Fitzgeorge to guard my person, and my maid to chaperone my honor. I don't need to put myself up for sale like a prize heifer."
Eliza put her cup and saucer aside, and shook her finger at Antonia. "You're wrong, my girl. All women have to sell themselves. You're just fortunate that your position and your fortune allow you to sell yourself for a higher price than most. It's the way of the world—thanks to the sin of Grandmother Eve."
She cast a pious glance at the gold-framed Expulsion from Paradise hanging over the fireplace.
The dark colors used in the painting made Paradise look like a gloomy place.
When she was younger, Antonia had thought, blasphemously, that perhaps Adam and Eve had been rather relieved to leave Paradise and find a sunnier place to live.
"Thanks to you and to Father, I'm a countess, and a wealthy one, Mother," Antonia pointed out, gritting her teeth in an effort to keep her tone sweetly reasonable. "I can hire servants to guard me, and bailiffs and lawyers to advise me."
"And have your wealth and worldly position brought you happiness, daughter? What about children?"
"It was not God's will that I bear my husband a child," Antonia replied, raising her chin.
"Hm."
There being apparently no rebuttal for the will of the Almighty, Eliza chose to change the subject again.
She leaned forward and fingered Antonia's silver lace collar.
"How much did you pay for that?" Without waiting for Antonia's reply, she continued: "Not more than six shillings, I hope."
Antonia took a deep breath. "I can afford it."
"That's no excuse for extravagance. Your father, God rest him, worked long and hard for your dowry. And he would want—"
"—would want me to be dressed appropriately for service in Queen Catherine's household," Antonia interjected, smoothly. "I've been appointed as a lady-in-waiting."
"The queen?" Eliza's eyes widened with an awe that bordered on the comic. "Of course, she's a Papist, but your father would have been so pleased! Pity he didn't live to see it. Is the queen as ugly as they say?"
"I don't know," replied Antonia. "I go in three days to present myself."
"Well, at least at Court you'll be in a position to meet men of your own rank. Mind you keep your legs crossed until you receive an offer of marriage—no man wants a harlot for a wife."
Eliza shot a pointed glance at Kit's broad-shouldered back, and Antonia had to quell the childish desire to justify herself.
The moment passed quickly as Eliza leapt ahead to Antonia's appointment at Court.
Antonia spent the next hour listening patiently to a stream of advice about where to find a dressmaker, how to best paint her face to hide the pockmarks, and the odds of making a match with a duke, or at the very least, a marquess.
Antonia made her escape to the waiting carriage outside as soon as she could, followed closely by Kit and Polly.
"...and don't forget to buy some rose-colored ribbons—they'll show off your hair to its best advanta—" Her mother's last piece of advice pursued them down the staircase, then was mercifully truncated by the solid slam of the front door.
All three of them sagged with relief onto the hard se
ats in the hackney as it lurched into motion.
Antonia's face was once again hidden by her mask, but Kit saw exhaustion in the droop of her shoulders.
He gave her an encouraging smile.
"I think," Antonia said, slowly, "that it might have been kinder to allow those highwaymen to kill me."
Chapter Nine
That practis’d falsehood under saintly shew,
Deep malice to conceal, couch’d with revenge.
—John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book iv. Line 122.
The day of Antonia's appointment at Whitehall was overcast, and the dull-pewter hue of the low cloud ceiling promised rain before long. The air felt heavy and dense.
As was her custom, Antonia rose before dawn and led her household in prayers. She was a little disappointed that Kit did not join them, but then again, he did not strike her as a particularly God-fearing man.
Polly, was, of course, standing as close to Antonia as possible, her head bowed, her cuffs stiffly starched and impeccably white.
Antonia finished with a short reading from the Gospel of Matthew, which bolstered her own apprehensive spirits about her forthcoming visit to Court.
Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you...
Then she and Polly went upstairs, where Antonia dressed in her best gown of dark satin laced with silver.
Her stomach was churning with nerves, and she barely touched her breakfast of bread and ale.
She missed the familiar comfort of Mall's no-nonsense manner as Polly brushed, pinned, and crimped Antonia's hair into elaborate ringlets and painted her face with a thick layer of cosmetic.
Peering into her looking-glass when Polly had finished, Antonia thought that the makeup made her look like a garishly-painted statue of herself.
Only her eyes looked alive beneath her artificially arching brows.
Kit was waiting for her downstairs, and the three of them walked out to the river stairs, where he hailed a water-man.
As the boat rowed upstream, Kit chatted easily with the waterman while Antonia stared at the dirty water, imagining different scenarios of her arrival at court. None of them were comforting.
Whitehall Palace came into view as they passed the spire of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
The palace dominated the bank of the Thames with an unbroken line of facades in a jumble of architectural styles—some gabled, some crenellated, some of smooth gray stone, and others of brick blackened by accumulated soot.
Behind the riverfront façade rose buildings of varying heights, innumerable chimneys, and rising above all, the enormous gray bulk of the Banqueting House.
They passed the public stairs, and slid past a large balustraded terrace dotted with potted trees. Their boat came to rest at the palace stairs, which were distinguished by a covered walkway supported by marble columns in the Greek style.
Antonia gathered her courage along with her voluminous skirts, and prepared to disembark from the boat.
Kit, unencumbered, leapt out, and helped her and Polly onto the green-slimed marble steps. He gave Antonia a smile that warmed her despite her nerves.
When they were standing safely on the stairs, Kit bowed and kissed her hand. "Good luck, my lady. Send a boy to fetch me at your pleasure—otherwise, I'll return here at six o'clock."
She nodded, throat too dry to speak. He winked at her before re-entering the waiting boat.
Antonia watched him go, wishing he could accompany her.
Enough dithering, girl! Get on with it! The voice in her head sounded very like her mother.
Taking a deep breath, Antonia squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and marched toward the entrance to the palace.
The door was open, and two scarlet-uniformed guards stood on either side. As she approached, an official stepped out.
He bowed, cautiously polite. "Your business, my lady?"
Antonia swallowed to moisten her throat. "I am the Dowager Countess of Cranbourne. I have an audience with the queen."
At her nod, Polly handed the official Antonia's letter of summons.
He perused it briefly, handed it back with a deeper bow than before, and called for a page.
The young man led her through a confusing jumble of courtyards, halls and galleries.
Some of the rooms were newly refurbished and splendidly decorated with gilt and frescoed plaster. Others were gloomy and ancient, reeking of mildew, long-unaired tapestries, and stale urine.
They walked and walked and walked, sometimes outside, sometimes inside, and Antonia almost immediately lost her way in the labyrinth.
Finally, they entered a large chamber hung with a multitude of oil paintings in elaborately carved and gilded frames. It was crowded with splendidly-dressed people.
"The Queen's Presence Chamber, my lady."
Cued by his expectant stance, Antonia reached into her skirt pocket for a pair of silver shillings.
The servant accepted the gratuity coolly, and Antonia immediately worried she had not given the expected amount.
"Thank you, my lady. I'll inform the queen's chamberlain that you have arrived." He bowed again, and deftly made his way through the knots of brightly dressed courtiers and petitioners.
Left in Polly's awe-struck company, and horribly aware of the sidelong glances and whispers from the others in the chamber, Antonia arranged her features in what she hoped was an expression of becoming serenity, and pretended to study the nearest painting. It was a large battle scene filled with rearing horses and grimacing, open-mouthed men frozen in the act of shouting heroic slogans.
She was interrupted by two gentlemen tottering in her direction on high red-heeled shoes.
They stopped, looking top-heavy with massive curled periwigs, and each made her an elaborate bow. Both men were dressed in the height of fashion, their wide petticoat breeches trimmed with Brussels point and colored ribbons, their silk doublets unbuttoned to reveal brocade waistcoats with jeweled buttons.
"Surely this vision of loveliness cannot be Lady Cranbourne!" said the taller of the two men.
Antonia noticed that he wore as much rouge as she, which made his hollow cheeks look positively cadaverous.
"My lady, I am your most affectionate servant!"
Vision of loveliness...? Antonia blinked at him, unconsciously raising a hand to her painted cheek. Is he mocking me? And who on earth is he?
As she tried to gather her thoughts, the second man, whose waistcoat stretched dangerously tight across his belly, stepped forward and declared, "My lady, I am your most humble slave!"
The first man shot his companion an irritated glance, and placed his hands over his heart. "My lady, pray pay my lord Billingsley no heed. I am yours to the center of the earth."
Lord Billingsley snorted. "My lady, I pray that you pay Sir William Streater no mind. I am yours to the Antipodes."
Not to be outdone, Sir William growled, "My lady, I am yours to the lowest pit of hell!"
Antonia saw an older man, wearing the queen’s livery, approaching. She felt relief at the impending rescue.
"And there, my lords, I must leave you," she said, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
She curtsied to both men and turned away.
As she did so, she caught sight of a handsome young man standing nearby, miming silent applause.
He was tall and well-built, and was dressed entirely in black mourning, a color that complemented his hazel eyes and wealth of dark gold hair.
Catching her glance, he gave her a slight bow and a flirtatious wink.
She followed the liveried servant out of the room, feeling a little more confident. Perhaps it would not be so bad here.
* * *
"My God, Chelmsford, is that grotesque creature really the Dowager Countess of Cranbourne?" murmured Julian.
He straightened from his bow and watched her follow the queen's chamberlain out of the room.
Upon
receipt of Kit's letter, Julian had hastened back to London, there to await developments—and to catch his first glimpse of the woman who would be the next Countess of Thornsby.
"I believe so," replied Edward de Voir, the Marquess of Chelmsford.
The eldest son of the Duke of Selborough, Chelmsford was barely eighteen.
He had great liquid brown eyes, like a fawn's, and like a fawn, seemed all slender legs and elbows. His soft, hesitant manner of speaking heightened his resemblance to a shy woodland creature, quite at odds with his gold-embroidered waistcoat and the ribbons fluttering from every seam.
Standing next to him, Julian felt like a lion waiting for prey to wander by. He enjoyed the contrast afforded by the younger man, and used it to his advantage.
"Her gown's a disgrace—she looks like a Wiltshire grand-dam in that lacing! No woman of any fashion is wearing anything but gowns en déshabille these days," Julian commented. "Well, at least she's rather younger than I was expecting."
"Lady Cokehatton says Lady Cranbourne was an old man's folly," offered Chelmsford. "But Thornsby, with all that paint on her face, how can you possibly tell her age?"
Julian smiled condescendingly at Chelmsford.
The young man had only recently arrived at Court, and was enormously flattered by the attention of a man who had regular access to the king. Chelmsford had more money than sense, and Julian took shameless advantage of his new friend's lack of skills with cards and dice.
"The hands, Chelmsford—the face can be painted but a lady's hands never lie. Nor her bosom." Julian's smile turned into a predatory grin. "And this lady, despite her deficiencies in face and fashion, displays fine, firm fruit."
Chelmsford gave a nervous giggle. "I hear she's worth 15,000 pounds a year, and has a house in London as well as properties in Kent."
Julian twirled a lock of hair around his finger, considering the difficulties raised by Lady Cranbourne's arrival at Court. Things would have been easier if his original plan had succeeded, and he silently damned Kit for his slowness in carrying out his assignment.
