Shadow of Night

by Deborah Harkness

  His hands stilled after he freed the last button. “This is a pleasant surprise. You’re not wearing a corset.”

  “It’s uncomfortable, and I’m blaming it on the baby.”

  He lifted the jerkin away from my body with an appreciative sound.

  “And he’ll keep other men from bothering her?”

  “Can this conversation possibly wait until later?” Matthew said, his exasperation showing. “Given the cold, they won’t be gone for long.”

  “You’re very impatient in the bedroom,” I observed, sliding my hands into the neck of his shirt.

  “Really?” Matthew arched his aristocratic brows in mock disbelief. “And here I thought the problem was my admirable restraint.”

  He spent the next few hours showing me just how limitless his patience could be in an empty house on a Sunday. By the time everybody returned, we were both pleasantly exhausted and in a considerably better frame of mind.

  Everything returned to normal on Monday, however. Matthew was distracted and irritable as soon as the first letters arrived at dawn, and he sent his apologies to the Countess of Pembroke when it became clear that the obligations of his many jobs wouldn’t allow him to accompany me to our midday meal.

  Mary listened without surprise as I explained the reason for Matthew’s absence, blinked at Annie like a mildly curious owl, and sent her off to the kitchens in the care of Joan. We shared a delicious meal, during which Mary offered detailed accounts of the private lives of everyone within shouting distance of the Blackfriars. After lunch we withdrew to her laboratory with Joan and Annie to assist us.

  “And how is your husband, Diana?” the countess asked, rolling up her sleeves, her eyes fixed on the book before her.

  “In good health,” I said. This, I had learned, was the Elizabethan equivalent of “Fine.”

  “That is welcome news.” Mary turned and stirred something that looked noxious and smelled worse. “Much depends on it, I fear. The queen relies on him more than on any other man in the kingdom except Lord Burghley.”

  “I wish his good humor was more reliable. Matthew is mercurial these days. He’s possessive one moment and ignores me as if I were a piece of furniture the next.”

  “Men treat their property that way.” She picked up a jug of water. “I am not his property,” I said flatly.

  “What you and I know, what the law says, and how Matthew himself feels are three entirely separate issues.”

  “They shouldn’t be,” I said quickly, ready to argue the point. Mary silenced me with a gentle, resigned smile.

  “You and I have an easier time with our husbands than other women do, Diana. We have our books and the leisure to indulge our passions, thank God. Most do not.” Mary gave everything in her beaker a final stir and decanted the contents into another glass vessel.

  I thought of Annie: a mother who’d died alone in a church cellar, an aunt who couldn’t take her in because of her husband’s prejudices, a life that promised little in the way of comfort or hope. “Do you teach your female servants how to read?”

  “Certainly,” Mary responded promptly. “They learn to write and reckon, too. Such skills will make them more valuable to a good husband—one who likes to earn money as well as spend it.” She beckoned to Joan, who helped her move the fragile glass bubble full of chemicals to the fire.

  “Then Annie shall learn as well,” I said, giving the girl a nod. She clung to the shadows, looking ghostly with her pale face and silver-blond hair. Education would increase her confidence. She’d had a definite lilt in her step ever since haggling with Monsieur de Laune over the price of sealing wax.

  “She will have reason in future to thank you for it,” said Mary. Her face was serious. “We women own nothing absolutely, save what lies between our ears. Our virtue belongs first to our father and then to our husband. We dedicate our duty to our family. As soon as we share our thoughts with another, put pen to paper or thread a needle, all that we do and make belongs to someone else. So long as she has words and ideas, Annie will always possess something that is hers alone.”

  “If only you were a man, Mary,” I said with a shake of my head. The Countess of Pembroke could run rings around most creatures, regardless of their sex.

  “ “Were I a man, I would be on my estates now, or paying court to Her Majesty like Henry, or seeing to matters of state like Matthew. Instead I am here in my laboratory with you. Weighing it all in the balance, I believe we are the better off—even if we are sometimes put on a pedestal or mistaken for a kitchen stool.” Mary’s round eyes twinkled.

  I laughed. “You may be right.”

  “Had you ever been to court, you would have no doubts on this score. Come,” Mary said, turning to her experiment. “Now we wait while the prima materia is exposed to the heat. If we have done well, this is what will generate the philosopher’s stone. Let us review the next steps of the process in hopes that the experiment will succeed.”

  I always lost track of time while there were alchemical manuscripts around, and I looked up, dazed, when Matthew and Henry walked in to the laboratory. Mary and I had been deep in conversation about the images in a collection of alchemical texts known as the Pretiosa Margarita Novella—the New Pearl of Great Price. Was it already late afternoon?

  “It can’t be time to go. Not yet,” I protested. “Mary has this manuscript—”

  “Matthew knows the book, for his brother gave it to me. Now that Matthew has a learned wife, he may regret having done so,” Mary said with a laugh. “There are refreshments waiting in the solar. I had hoped to see you both today.” At this, Henry gave Mary a conspiratorial wink.

  “That is kind, Mary,” Matthew said, kissing me on the cheek in greeting. “Apparently you two haven’t reached the vinegar stage yet. You still smell of vitriol and magnesia.”

  I put down the book reluctantly and washed while Mary finished making notes of the day’s work. Once we were settled in the solar, Henry could no longer curb his excitement.

  “Is it time now, Mary?” he asked the countess, shifting in his chair.

  “You have the same enthusiasm for giving presents as young William does,” she replied with a laugh. “Henry and I have a gift in honor of the New Year and your marriage.”

  But we had nothing to give them in return. I looked at Matthew, uncomfortable with this one-way exchange.

  “I wish you luck, Diana, if you hope to stay ahead of Mary and Henry when it comes to gifts,” he said ruefully.

  “Nonsense,” Mary replied. “Matthew saved my brother Philip’s life and Henry’s estates. No gifts can repay such debts. Do not ruin our pleasure with such talk. It is a tradition to give gifts to those newly wed, and it is New Year. What did you give the queen, Matthew?”

  “After she sent poor King James another clock to remind him to bide his time quietly, I considered giving her a crystal hourglass. I thought it might be a useful reminder of her relative mortality,” he said drily. Henry looked at him with horror. “No. Not really.”

  “It was an idle thought in a moment of frustration,” Matthew reassured him. “I gave her a covered cup, of course, like everyone else.”

  “Don’t forget our gift, Henry,” said Mary, now equally impatient.

  Henry drew out a velvet pouch and presented it to me. I fumbled with the strings and finally drew out a heavy gold locket on an equally weighty chain. Its face was golden filigree studded with rubies and diamonds, Matthew’s moon and star in its center. I flipped the locket over, gasping at the brilliant enamelwork with its flowers and scrolling vines. Carefully I opened the clasp at the bottom, and a miniature rendering of Matthew looked up at me.

  “Master Hilliard made the preliminary sketches when he was here. With the holidays he was so busy that his assistant, Isaac, had to help with the painting,” Mary explained.

  I cupped the miniature in my hand, tilting it this way and that. Matthew was painted as he looked at home when he was working late at night in his study off the bedroom.
His shirt open at the neck and trimmed with lace, he met the viewer’s gaze with a lift of his right eyebrow in a familiar combination of seriousness and mocking humor. Black hair was swept back from his forehead in its typically disordered fashion, and the long fingers of his left hand held a locket. It was a surprisingly frank and erotic image for the time.

  “Is it to your liking?” Henry asked.

  “I love it,” I said, unable to stop staring at my new treasure.

  “Isaac is rather more . . . daring in his composition than his master is, but when I told him it was a wedding gift, he convinced me that such a locket would remain a wife’s special secret and could reveal the private man rather than the public.” Mary looked over my shoulder. “It is a good likeness, but I do wish Master Hilliard would learn how to better capture a person’s chin.”

  “It’s perfect, and I will treasure it always.”

  “This one is for you,” Henry said, handing Matthew an identical bag. “Hilliard felt you might show it to others and wear it at court, so it is somewhat more . . . er, circumspect.”

  “Is that the locket Matthew is holding in my miniature?” I said, pointing to the distinctive milky stone set in a simple gold frame.

  “I believe so,” Matthew said softly. “Is it a moonstone, Henry?” “An ancient specimen,” Henry said proudly. “It was among my curiosities, and I wanted you to have it. The intaglio is of the goddess Diana, you see.”

  The miniature within was more respectable, but startling nonetheless in its informality. I was wearing the russet gown trimmed with black velvet. A delicate ruff framed my face without covering the shining pearls at my throat. But it was the arrangement of my hair that signaled that this was an intimate gift appropriate for a new husband. It flowed freely over my shoulders and down my back in a wild riot of red-gold curls.

  “The blue background emphasizes Diana’s eyes. And the set of her mouth is so true to life.” Matthew, too, was overwhelmed by the gift.

  “I had a frame made,” Mary said, gesturing at Joan, “to display them when they are not being worn.” It was more a shallow box, with two oval niches lined in black velvet. The two miniatures fit perfectly inside and gave the effect of a pair of portraits.

  “It was thoughtful of Mary and Henry to give us such a gift,” Matthew said later, when we were back at the Hart and Crown. He slid his arms around me from behind and laced his hands over my belly. “I haven’t even had time to take your picture. I never imagined my first likeness of you would be by Nicholas Hilliard.”

  “The portraits are beautiful,” I said, covering his hands with mine.

  “But . . . ?” Matthew drew back and tilted his head.

  “Miniatures by Nicholas Hilliard are sought after, Matthew. These won’t disappear when we do. And they’re so exquisite I couldn’t bear to destroy them before we go.” Time was like my ruff: It started out as a smooth, flat, tightly woven fabric. Then it was twisted and cut and made to double back on itself. “We keep touching the past in ways that are bound to leave smudges on the present.”

  “Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to be doing,” Matthew suggested. “Perhaps the future depends on it.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Not now. But it is possible that we’ll look back one day and discover that it was the miniatures that made all the difference.” He smiled.

  “Imagine what finding Ashmole 782 would do, then.” I looked up at him. Seeing Mary’s illuminated alchemical books had brought the mysterious volume and our frustrated search for it vividly back to mind. “George had no luck finding it in Oxford, but it must be somewhere in England. Ashmole acquired our manuscript from somebody. Rather than looking for the manuscript, we should look for the person who sold it to him.”

  “These days there’s a steady traffic in manuscripts. Ashmole 782 could be anywhere.”

  “Or it could be right here,” I insisted.

  “You may be right,” Matthew agreed. But I could tell that his mind was on more immediate concerns than our elusive tome. “I’ll send George out to make inquiries among the booksellers.”

  All thoughts of Ashmole 782 fled the next morning, however, when a note arrived from Annie’s aunt, the prosperous midwife. She was back in London.

  “The witch will not come to the house of a notorious wearh and spy,” Matthew reported after he had read its contents. “Her husband objects to the plan, for fear it will ruin his reputation. We are to go to her house near St. James’s Church on Garlic Hill.” When I didn’t react, Matthew scowled and continued. “It’s on the other side of town, within spitting distance of Andrew Hubbard’s den.”

  “You are a vampire,” I reminded him. “She is a witch. We aren’t supposed to mix. This witch’s husband is right to be cautious.”

  Matthew insisted on accompanying Annie and me across town anyway. The area surrounding St. James’s Church was far more prosperous than the Blackfriars, with spacious, well-kept streets, large houses, busy shops, and a tidy churchyard. Annie led us into an alley across from the church. Though dark, it was as neat as a pin.

  “There, Master Roydon,” the girl said. She directed Matthew’s attention to the sign with a windmill on it before darting ahead with Pierre to alert the household to our arrival.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I told Matthew. This visit was nerve-racking enough without him hovering and glowering.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he replied grimly.

  We were met at the door by a round-faced woman with a snub nose, a gentle chin, and rich brown hair and eyes. Her face was serene, although her eyes snapped with irritation. She had stopped Pierre in his tracks. Only Annie had been admitted to the house and stood to one side in the doorway looking dismayed at the impasse.

  I also stopped in my tracks, my mouth open in surprise. Annie’s aunt was the spitting image of Sophie Norman, the young daemon to whom we’d waved good-bye at the Bishop house in Madison.

  “Dieu,” Matthew murmured, looking down at me in amazement. “My aunt, Susanna Norman,” Annie whispered. Our reaction had unsettled her. “She says—”

  “Susanna Norman?” I asked, unable to take my eyes from her face. Her name and strong resemblance to Sophie couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “As my niece said. You appear to be out of your element, Mistress Roydon,” Mistress Norman said. “And you are not welcome here, wearh.”

  “Mistress Norman,” Matthew said with a bow.

  “Did you not get my letter? My husband wants nothing to do with you.” Two boys shot out of the door. “Jeffrey! John!”

  “Is this him?” the elder said. He studied Matthew with interest, then turned his attention on me. The child had power. Though he was still on the brink of adolescence, his abilities could already be felt in the crackle of undisciplined magic that surrounded him.

  “Use the talents God gave you, Jeffrey, and don’t ask idle questions.” The witch looked at me appraisingly. “You certainly made Father Hubbard sit up and take notice. Very well, come inside.” When we moved to do so, Susanna held up her hand. “Not you, wearh. My business is with your wife. The Golden Gosling has decent wine, if you are determined to remain nearby. But it would be better for all concerned if you were to let your man see Mistress Roydon home.”

  “Thank you for the advice, mistress. I’m sure I’ll find something satisfactory at the inn. Pierre will wait in the courtyard. He doesn’t mind the cold.” Matthew gave her a wolfish smile.

  Susanna looked sour and turned smartly. “Come along, Jeffrey,” she called over her shoulder. Jeffrey commandeered his younger brother, cast one more interested glance at Matthew, and followed. “When you are ready, Mistress Roydon.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I whispered as soon as the Normans were out of sight. “She has to be Sophie’s great-grandmother many times over.”

  “Sophie must be descended through either Jeffrey or John.” Matthew pulled thoughtfully on his chin. “One of those boys is the missing link in our chain
of circumstances that leads from Kit and the silver chess piece to the Norman family and on to North Carolina.”

  “The future really is taking care of itself,” I said.

  “I thought it would. As for the present, Pierre will be right here and I’ll be close by.” The fine lines around his eyes deepened. He didn’t want to be more than six inches away from me at the best of times.

  “I’m not sure how long this will take,” I said, squeezing his arm.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Matthew assured me, brushing my lips with his. “Stay as long as you need.”

  Inside, Annie hastily took my cloak and returned to the fire, where she had been stooped over something on the hearth.

  “Have a care, Annie,” Susanna said, sounding harassed. Annie was carefully lifting a shallow saucepan from a metal stand set over the embers of the fire. “Widow Hackett’s daughter requires that draft to help her sleep, and the ingredients are costly.”

  “I can’t figure her out, Mama,” Jeffrey said, looking at me. His eyes were disconcertingly wise for one so young.

  “Nor I, Jeffrey, nor I. But that’s probably why she’s here. Take your brother into the other room. And be quiet. Your father is sleeping, and he needs to remain so.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Jeffrey scooped up two wooden soldiers and a ship from the table. “This time I’ll let you be Walter Raleigh so you can win the battle,” he promised his brother.

  Susanna and Annie stared at me in the silence that followed. Annie’s faint pulses of power were already familiar. But I was not prepared for the steady current of inquiry that Susanna turned my way. My third eye opened. Finally someone had roused my witch’s curiosity.

  “That’s uncomfortable,” I said, turning my head to break the intensity of Susanna’s gaze.

  “It should be,” she said calmly. “Why do you require my help, mistress?”

  “I was spellbound. It’s not what you think,” I said when Annie took an immediate step away from me. “Both of my parents were witches, but neither one understood the nature of my talents. They didn’t want me to come to any harm, so they bound me. The bindings have loosened, however, and strange things are happening.”

  “Such as?” Susanna said, pointing Annie to a chair.

  “I’ve summoned witchwater a few times, though not recently. Sometimes I see colors surrounding people, but not always. And I touched a quince and it shriveled.” I was careful not to mention my more spectacular outbreaks of magic. Nor did I mention the odd threads of blue and amber in the corners or the way handwriting had started to escape from Matthew’s books and animals flee from Mary Sidney’s shoes.

  “Was your mother or father a waterwitch?” Susanna asked, trying to make sense of my story.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “They died when I was young.”

  “Perhaps you are better suited to the craft, then. Though many wish to possess the rough magics of water and fire, they are not easy to come by,” said Susanna with a touch of pity. My Aunt Sarah thought witches who