“Gentlemen,” Blanche said, interrupting them gently. “You do me wrong by striving over what is, in fact, my choice. I am no schoolboy in breeches.” She swished her hips, allowing them to soak in that image for a moment. “I am not tied to hours or appointed times, but learn my lessons to please myself.”
Both men stared at her—I could tell Master Horton was struggling to get “Blanche in breeches” out of his mind—and then Master Cameron bowed his acquiescence. Master Horton hastened to follow.
Smiling her satisfaction, Blanche perched herself on the settle with room for one of them next to her. I sighed into my book. As if there was any doubt which lesson she would choose.
“Good Master Cameron, come sit you by me. Master Lucas, take your instrument and play meanwhile. His lecture will be done even before you have tuned.”
The fake music master had brought his harp today. He carried it to a plush chair, which he hooked with his foot and slid as close to them as he could without being noticed. Sitting upon it, he inched it closer still, until a screech of wood betrayed him. Both Blanche’s blue eyes and Cameron’s hazel fell sharply upon him. Nodding an apology, he set about tuning his instrument. With all those strings, it would take a long while to perfect the sound, as was surely Blanche’s intent. He glanced at the couple, clearly worried about his chances of gaining a place on the settle. “You will leave your lesson when I am in tune?”
“That will be never,” Master Cameron said. Blanche hid a smirk by turning her face into her shoulder.
Sparks shot between the men and yet no further words were spoken. Blanche let them bristle for a moment more, then drew Master Cameron’s attention back to her with a light touch on his sleeve. “Pray, where did we last leave off?”
Master Cameron opened a book and cleared his throat, flipping through the pages. Blanche leaned in closer. His hands trembled a little. “Ovid, mistress. We have been… reading Ovid.”
“Yes,” she said, hissing the word softly in his ear. “Ovid.”
The drone of Latin, the pluck-whine of the harp strings, the soft drip of the rain on the casements and hurrying in the gutters…. My eyes drifted closed. After Sir William’s late night visit, I had spent the night alternately pacing my room and tossing uncomfortably in my bed. Then there was all that close beadwork this morning. These quiet sounds soothed me, urging me toward sleep.
“Please, lady, listen carefully to what I say.”
Jolting awake, I had to grab at my book to keep it from falling out of my lap. Blinking, I looked around to see if the others had noticed.
Master Cameron was reading the Ovid aloud in a strong, pleasant voice, and Blanche was intent on every word, leaning forward slightly, her hands gripping the edge of the settle. Her interest could only be in him. This translation was nothing we had not done years before.
“Hic ibat Simois…,” Cameron intoned, then leaned closer to Blanche and, with a glance at Horton, who was furiously twiddling the keys of his harp, he lowered his voice and murmured, “I have something that I must tell you. Something very important, and very secret.”
Blanche, to her credit, did not flinch. She simply nodded and glanced down at the book in his hands as though he had drawn her attention to the words there. Following her lead, he pointed to the page.
“Hic est…,” Cameron went on, declaiming the Latin. “I am the true Matthew Lawry,” he said softly, his mouth next to her ear, so that I almost didn’t hear it.
I did hear her tiny gasp.
“Sigeia tellus…,” he said quickly to cover the sound.
“How?” she breathed. “Why?”
“The other is my servant, dressed as the master… Hic steterat….” When he spoke the Latin, it was loud, louder than Master Horton’s half-tuned harp, while the English was whispered urgently in her ear. “When I saw you, when I first arrived, I had to get close to you, and when I heard that your father would not permit anyone to court you, I devised this scheme…Priami….” He glanced at the music master and continued in a rush. “My servant has won your father’s approval for us to wed…regia!” The Latin word burst from his lips with such force even Master Horton shot him a look.
Trying not to stare, I forced myself to look out at the rain. Ellen had been correct after all! And then I had to acknowledge the clues that had been there all along, if only I had allowed myself to see them, if I had not been so determined to explain them away. The ill-fitting clothes on both of them. The awkwardness of “Master Lawry” at my father’s hearth that first day. He was a servant among his master’s equals, playing a part. And this “Master Cameron’s” sharp glances and aggressive ways toward Master Horton, whom he presumed to be a mere servant and therefore beneath him. Anger flared in me against this foolish, arrogant young man. If the servant were caught impersonating his master, he would be considered no better than a common thief and branded or worse, and all because this boy was in love with my sister! I wanted to speak out now, but for the false Master Lawry’s sake, I knew I should not.
Master Horton, having seen enough, leaped from his chair. “I am ready now.”
“Play,” Blanche said, too surprised by Master Cameron’s revelation to toy with the fat musician.
He drew his fingers along the harp strings, playing a pretty melody. Blanche shook her head. “Nay, master, the treble jars my ears.”
Grinding his teeth, Horton sent a killing look at Cameron, who, his face turned away from Blanche, gave him a smug grin. With a slight bow, Horton replied, “I would fain disturb your delicate ears, mistress. I will try again.”
Blanche took the book from the hands of her tutor, or rather, her true suitor. She glanced at me, and I quickly ducked my head down into my own book again. Waiting until Horton had settled back into his seat and was plucking away at the harp’s strings again, she said in a loud voice, “Now let me see if I have learned it well. Tell me how I do, if you please. Hic ibat Simois…” Then, as her tutor had done, she leaned toward him and murmured in his ear, “You shock me, Master Cameron, or is it Lawry? I know you not and cannot tell if I should trust you.”
Cameron’s—nay, Lawry’s—face fell. Blanche traced the words on the page with a delicate finger, and he shuddered as if she touched his own skin.
“Hic est Sigeia tellus….” She glanced at me again, and I turned a page, having no idea what I had just read. “We are not alone here and your speech is ill-advised,” she murmured in a tone that said just the opposite. “Hic steterat Priami…. Your servant may have spoken to my father, but you have not spoken properly to me… regia.” She paused, and his head drooped, defeated. “Yet,” she whispered, leaning close to him once again, “do not despair.” She snapped the book shut with a smile and handed it back to him. “How did I do?”
Lawry gaped, the book hanging in his hand like an overripe fruit on the branch.
“Mistress!” Master Horton called, and we all jumped in our seats. “My harp is in tune.” He strummed once to prove it.
It sounded fine to me, but Master Lawry, now proven as false as the other, growled, “Nay, the bass is off.”
“The bass is right, it is the base knave that jars,” Master Horton shot back.
“Gentlemen, please.” Blanche patted the language master on the knee. “Good Master Cameron,” she said, the tiny emphasis she placed on his false name making her power over him clear, “it is time for my music lesson.”
Master Horton rose and carried his harp over to the settle. As he passed Master Lawry, he bumped him with his shoulder. “You may go walk. I make no music in three parts.”
“I shall not walk out in the rain,” Master Lawry said, but he did withdraw to the chair where Master Horton had been. He opened the book in his lap but watched the two upon the settle carefully. Whether he knew that Master Horton was as much an imposter as himself, or whether he simply had the natural mistrust of a liar—“he that is giddy thinks the world turns round,” as the saying goes—he would see what transpired.
So
would I.
Blanche reached for the harp, but Master Horton stayed her hands. She pouted prettily.
“Nay, mistress, before we begin with the harp, I wish to acquaint you today with the rudiments of the art of music: the gamut.”
“The gamut?” Blanche repeated.
Taking her response for ignorance, Master Horton said, “The notes, the scales, the means by which we learn music.”
“But Master Lucas, I learned my gamut long ago.”
Master Horton was sweating under his hat, worn even indoors as part of his disguise, his hands quivering on the harp. “Yet, this is a most excellent gamut, more intriguing and delightful than any ever taught by any of my trade.” He pulled a tightly folded square of parchment out of his belt-purse. “Learn you now the gamut of”—he dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper—“Master Robert Horton.”
Blanche gave him a quizzical look, Master Lawry a piercing one. Had it been his plan all along to reveal himself so soon, or had Master Lawry’s sudden revelation, which Horton could not have missed, pushed him to expose himself now? Surely this was not the way Horton had imagined declaring himself to Blanche, with Lawry scowling at him, and with me a few feet away.
Blanche unfolded the parchment and hummed a few measures. Just to prove to him that she did not need any teaching, I suppose.
“This was written to plead all Master Horton’s passion,” she sang softly. Horton nodded with enthusiasm, urging her on.
“Blanche, take him for your husband;
“He loves you with all affection;
“One clef, two notes have I;
“Show pity or I die….”
It was all I could do to stifle a laugh and turn it into a cough. Would Blanche take a hint from me and smash the harp over his deceitful head?
Blanche dropped the parchment into her lap and pivoted her body toward him. Her face was as clouded with anger as I had ever seen her show to anyone other than me. “Call you this the gamut? I like it not. I prefer the traditional one. Do you understand me, Master Lucas?”
Trembling, he adjusted his hat and grabbed the parchment back, crumpling it in his thick fist. “Full well, Mistress Blanche. Perhaps…” He stood. “Perhaps you would prefer not to have a music lesson today.”
She sat looking up at him for a long moment. Then she placed the harp in his hands and said, “Yes, Master Lucas, I believe you are right. I would prefer not to have any more music lessons. Today.”
But there was something in the way she said “today,” and something in the way he received it, that made it clear that “Master Lucas” would not be returning to our house again.
As he left the room, Master Cameron dared to return to Blanche on the settle. He had no book in his hand.
I did not want to discover what was going to pass between the two of them, so I followed Master Horton out.
Chapter 8
Saturday
Dame Hutton returned to the house on Saturday afternoon to put the wedding dress back together, and it was much prettier than I had hoped for. She had given the cuffs of the sleeves and the hem of the skirt a wide brocade border, a pattern of leaves and flowers that accentuated the greens of the kirtle. The train, which tied on with large bows, consisted of enough fabric to be reused later for something else. Perhaps a new bodice, or new sleeves, or a headdress and matching slippers. With the new beadwork on the bodice—which, I had to admit, was quite fine—I had an entirely new dress for my wedding.
There was no looking glass in the house large enough for me to see the final result of Dame Hutton’s efforts. Blanche had a looking glass that fit in her palm, but that was too small to be of any help to me even if she had allowed me to use it. But Blanche was more than happy to sit in judgment as Dame Hutton made the final stitches and Margaret tied the bows on the train.
My hands trembled inside the long angel sleeves. Would I be pleasing to him? Would he care what I looked like, or would he care only for the sack of gold that came along with me?
Blanche sighed faintly. “I suppose it’s the best you can hope for.”
I gritted my teeth and growled back at her, “Gloat now while you may, but we both know your own wedding will be the highlight of your sad little life, and Master Greenwood is fast approaching.”
“I’ll never marry him, no matter what Father says,” she spat back.
“If I must do as he says, so must you.” I could see I had touched the heart of her fears, so I kept pressing the sore spot.
“I will get my own way,” she insisted. “You’ll see. I will.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shrinking smaller despite her confident tone.
From across the hall came the Mountain’s booming voice. “Bring her here. I want to see.”
Margaret took hold of the train, lifting it high off the floorboards so it would not catch a stray splinter, and Dame Hutton helped me step down off the stool. We paraded across the landing into my parents’ room, Blanche trailing after.
In the shadows of the wide, curtained bed, the Mountain reclined under a light blanket, propped on goose-feather pillows the size of hay bales. I stopped at the foot of the bed for her inspection.
She squinted and puckered, not just her eyes but her whole face. “Yes, good,” she mumbled. “Presentable. Suitable.”
Dame Hutton smoothed the train, adjusting the bows. “Green was the right choice, don’t you agree, Dame Mulleyn?”
The Mountain grunted, picking over the plate of sweets and savories on the bedside table.
“Oh yes,” Blanche replied for her. “It saves her complexion from being entirely sallow.” She selected a little tart from her mother’s tray and nibbled at the crust. “Too bad nothing can be done about her eyes.” She held the tart up in front of her own eye, demonstrating. “Like a cow’s, big and round and brown.” She giggled a little and said, “Oh, I know! I will allow you to use some of my creams tomorrow for the wedding.” She gestured vaguely toward my face as though she were painting it. “Would you like that, Kathryn?”
“Mistress Blanche,” Dame Hutton began.
“Can you not add more padding, Dame Hutton?” Blanche continued, her tone a little sad. “Poor Kathryn is so skinny, Sir William will think we don’t feed her.” And she smiled to show that her words were not to be taken as a criticism of me.
“Now, Mistress Blanche,” Dame Hutton said, more sternly this time, “there is nothing—”
“No, Dame Hutton,” I said, “it’s quite all right.” I looked at my sister. A body like Blanche’s spoke of prosperity, richness, wealth. It promised ease in birthing children, and delight in getting them. What did I offer?
What did I offer?
I could not breathe. “Margaret, get me out of this dress.” I charged out of the room, yanking Margaret behind me on my train.
There was no good reason for the language tutor to come to our house any longer, now that the fiction of the tutors had accomplished its goal. I was betrothed, and Blanche’s hand would be decided once word was received from Master Lawry’s father. Yet, Master Cameron came uninvited, and my sister did not send him away. Had my father given it any thought at all, he would have been suspicious, or at least wary, but my father, like my sister, never exercised his brain if it were not required of him.
After Friday’s rain, the courtyard was fresh and sparkling, and they sat together on a bench while the gardeners worked around them frantically preparing for the wedding on the morrow. I watched them from the doorway of the hall, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder on the bench, having all but abandoned the pretense of studying. I saw the way he looked at her, the way she half looked at him from under her lashes. The way he spoke and she laughed, so softly. The way he leaned in and she leaned in, then away. It was a dance, a dance I had never learned, a dance I had never had the chance to learn.
I leaned my forehead on the doorframe. If I had a different sister—if things between us were different—I could ask her, How does that happen? How do you make him attend to
you like there is no one and nothing else in the world? I could ask, How do you curb your tongue and speak only sweet words? Why was this so easy for her and so impossible for me?
She had nearly offered her help yesterday. She’d expected me to ask, but after that argument, there was no way I could.
Why did I care? What did it matter? My wedding was a business transaction, my husband a fortune seeker.
Still….
It would have been nice to have some idea of how to act, of how to be different from who I was.
I slapped my palm against the doorframe and went away.
Nightfall. At last, or already, depending on how one looked at it.
The dress hung on hooks in my bedchamber, stuffed with clean rags to keep its shape.
The whole house smelled like heaven, for Cook and her staff had been making ready since Friday morning. An array of breads had been ordered from the bakery and nestled, covered in cloths, in baskets around the kitchen. Before dawn, a side of beef would be set over the massive kitchen fire. There was blancmanger—a thick, pasty stew of chicken and rice, sweet with spices and almonds—platters of roasted pork, bowls of peas with onions, vats of salted herring, a giant crock of beans in a sweet-spicy sauce that was Cook’s specialty, huge wheels of cheese, cinnamon-stewed apples, fresh fruits, and, of course, a cake.
The courtyard had been raked and weeded, the gravel of the path washed and relaid, the bushes trimmed, new flowers planted. Trestle tables had been set up for all the guests. Father had invited everyone of note in town to this event he had imagined would never take place. In the morning, the tables would be covered with white cloths, decked with flowers, and laid with trenchers and goblets of silver-chased pewter. Garlands of ribbons and flowers would be hung from window to window across the courtyard and over the door at the front of the house. It would announce to the world that here, here we were having a wedding.
Finding Kate Page 13
