Summerweek

by Katherine Traylor

  I linger over the poem, fingers resting briefly on the lines I whispered to her that night. I bless the place, and the time, and the hour, when my eyes looked to such a height…From her comes the joyous grace that leads one up the straight path to heaven…At last I close the book, raise it to my lips, and go to find something to wrap it with.

  The children are disappointed, of course, that I won’t come with them to the shore. My sister shushes them, but looks skeptical when I say I am ill: perhaps she knows a little of what I am planning. As they set off in the carriage, I wave to them from the front steps—but as soon as they have rounded the corner, I hurry upstairs to change.

  I put on a pink dress my lady once admired, and an old necklace set with red coral. I know the servants are perplexed by my actions, but fortunately they don’t know me well enough to ask questions. As my sister’s maid dresses my hair, I run through strategies of how best to proceed. Should I put the book into Her Majesty’s hands myself, or just set it down and leave? I know that I won’t be able to bring myself to stay at the party even a moment after dropping off the gift.

  I have wrapped the book in a square of red Chinese silk I purchased from a curio shop years ago. It is painted with a detailed pattern of vines and flowers: peonies, the shopkeeper told me, a symbol of royalty in China. My lady and I once spoke of how we’d both love to see China someday, though of course we knew that in this lifetime that would be impossible. I hope, seeing this, that she will remember the conversation.

  I put on a summer hat trimmed with red ribbons. Then I take a last look at myself in the mirror. I am no special beauty, and am well past girlhood—but the one person who mattered seemed to like my looks, and I do not think the last year has changed my face so much. In any case, I have decided not to present myself before the Queen; I will simply leave my gift with the attendants, and be gone. Thus, it doesn’t matter what I look like. Slightly reassured, I put the gift into my reticule and leave.

  As always, the Garden Party is crowded with wealthy families in their Sunday best, wandering the walks beneath fresh and whispering trees, sipping lemonade under striped canopies. Children play tag and graces on the lawn. Courting couples walk arm in arm, bending their heads together under the arbors. Everyone wears white or pink or red, with straw hats and parasols shading their faces. I am perfectly camouflaged—no one so much as looks at me.

  And it is a good thing, too, as to hand off my gift I’ll need to walk straight into the center of the party. In the midst of a field of bright canopies, three enormous tables have been set up, draped in pink and white, laden with thick ivy garlands and baskets heaped with red roses. Each table is governed by two or three attendants dressed in the height of summer elegance. And it is here that my plan ends—for all the attendants know me.

  I do not know why I didn’t think of this before. I did this service myself two years ago—greeting the arriving guests; taking down their names and a description of each parcel; carrying basketloads of gifts inside to clear space when the tables filled. I recognize each face: Ellery, Jonas, Morvarid, all the others. They smile at me, amazed: they cannot believe I’ve had the nerve to come so far.

  “Mistress Neumann!” Morvarid says, making a condescending little curtsey. My gut twists. “What a delight to see you after so long. Have you come to attend the picnic?”

  My mind goes blank. I hear whispers at the other two tables. I will take my gift and go—I can’t believe I’ve opened myself to this humiliation.

  “Is that a gift?” Ellery leans forward, peering at my hand. “You can give it to us, Belle. We’ll be sure Her Majesty gets it.”

  All of them are looking at me now, eyes fixed on the little red parcel I am holding. If they get it, no doubt they’ll open it, and pass it between them. They will quote the inscription I wrote in sniggering voices—bring it up whenever my name is mentioned—work bits of it into satirical poems for as long as any of us are alive. It will become a scandalous whisper across the city—the Queen, in fact, may be the only one who never hears of it.

  “No,” I say, covering the parcel with my reticule. “I’m only here to look around. In fact, I’d better be going.”

  “But you’ve only just arrived!” Anna Aneida calls merrily from the next table. She and I always got along well, so I can’t tell if she’s being genuine or not. “Why don’t you go and sit down, Belle, and someone can bring you a cup of lemonade.”

  Someone titters further down the row. Definitely not genuine, then.

  “I really must go,” I manage to say, curtseying quickly as I step back from the table. “I hope you all enjoy your day.”

  Jonas Gille, who has been watching the whole proceeding with a quiet smile, at last leans forward. “You really must come back and see us again, Mistress Neumann.” His voice is perfectly modulated, as always, blending with the wind in the leaves—and yet somehow is still pitched so that everyone nearby can hear it. “Everyone was terribly disappointed when you stayed away. It’s been very dull here without you to keep us all diverted.” A cruel glint flashes through his eyes. “And we know Her Majesty has missed you, as well.”

  Jonas Gille wore the same quiet smile, and the same glint of cruelty, on the morning when I was given my dismissal by the Master of Her Majesty’s Chambers. I’m quite sure that he had something to do with my invitation to leave. I wonder if he’s found the influence he sought in the months that I’ve been gone. Somehow, I doubt that he would be minding the gifts table if he had.

  I think about saying something to him—to all of these hangers-on, all constantly scrabbling for influence. They look the same as they did when I left—except perhaps a little older, a little more worn. I suppose they’ll stay here until Her Majesty dies, or until they somehow manage to disgrace themselves more spectacularly than I have. As bitter as I was when I last saw them, I can’t find it in me to envy them. I, at least, have spent the last year among loved ones. So, I am smiling when I say, “Good day to you, Master Gille. Good day, everyone. May Summerweek be as pleasant for you as it has been for me.”

  Let them make of it what they will. I don’t quite know what I mean by it myself.

  I do not go out the same way I came in. The picnic is too crowded, the sun too bright. I imagine I am being watched, though logically I know that only my old associates have even noticed that I’m here. I decide to leave through a smaller gate, one hidden in the trees on the east side of the garden.

  To get there, I must walk through a succession of tree-shaded paths, past stone follies and waterfalls, into a small labyrinth of lovers’ lanes. I tell myself that choosing this route has nothing to do with how my lady and I once walked here, meandering down the shady walks, as the others of her court played at lawn tennis and croquet. It’s only the fastest way out. It is not with any hope of seeing Her Majesty that I come this way…

  And perhaps I even convince myself that this is true—for I am truly dumbstruck when, turning a corner, I find myself standing before the Queen.

  She wears a gown of deep leaf green. Red roses nestle in the coils of her hair. There are others with her—a trio of courtiers I know only vaguely—but I barely see them.

  Her gray eyes go wide when she sees me. She takes a sharp breath.

  “Your Majesty.” I make a deep curtsey, keeping my eyes low. If I look at her, my heart will stop.

  “Mistress Neumann.” There is a hint of faintness in my lady’s voice, as if she, too, were breathless. I think I see her swallow.

  Bit by bit, I pull myself together. “Pray forgive me, Your Majesty,” I finally murmur. “I never meant to disturb your walking. I sincerely beg your pardon. I was just on my way out—”

  “No!” Her voice is soft and startled, more like a child than a Queen. “No, Belle—you certainly needn’t go. I was only surprised—it’s been so long since we’ve seen you.” She slips, with evident relief, back into the shield of her customary formality. “And have you been keeping well, Mistress Neumann? Are you still living in t
own?”

  I exhale slowly. Is it possible, then, that we may speak normally—like old acquaintances met by chance? “Yes, Your Majesty. With my sister, on Rosegarden Street. She has two little ones at home, and I’m glad to be able to help a bit with them.” Stop babbling, fool, I tell myself. I feel about ten feet tall, and as clumsy as a stork. The Queen’s new companions are listening openly, perhaps astonished by this intrusion. I do not know what I am doing here.

  As I struggle to think how I might excuse myself, my lady notices the gift in my hand. “My dear,” she says, “perhaps it is bold to ask you this…but might that parcel be for me?”

  I had planned to take the book home again, but no force on earth could stop me from giving it to her now. Lowering my eyes, I make a curtsey so deep that I am almost kneeling. Slowly, hardly breathing, I raise my hands and offer her the gift.

  I feel her take it from my fingers, but do not hear her open it. That embarrassment, at least, I may be spared. After several seconds, I gather the courage to lift my eyes again.

  My beloved is cradling the gift in both hands, as if an angel had bestowed it on her. “Thank you, my dear,” she says, quite softly. “I’m very glad you came. Will you stay and walk with us a little? I don’t believe you’ve met my friends.”

  Reflexively, I look again at the three courtiers, who have politely averted their eyes. All of them are dressed in green or mossy brown, as if I’d stumbled upon a court of elves walking in the forest. I feel very out of place in my silly pink dress. I don’t believe my nerves can stand another minute.

  As gracefully as I can, I straighten. “No…I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” I want to drop my eyes, but can’t look away from her. “Truly, I must go. But…I wish you many happy returns of the day.”

  She makes a small, graceful gesture—benediction, or possibly release. “Then a good day to you, Belle. We do thank you for the gift.” She seems about to say something else, but then she glances at her companions and falls silent.

  I tear myself away from her. My eyes hold hers until the last moment—as if I were looking on sunlight for the last time. Then I bow once more, and flee.

  * * * *

  I am in a daze the rest of the day. I go home quickly, and hide in my room. I have been too much in the light—I can’t stand to be in the world’s eye any longer. Eventually I take a cold supper. I try to write, to read. No distraction holds me long, though. I soon find myself up in the garret again, staring out over the rolling green waves of the parkwood, drinking in the sight of the castle.

  When the family returns late the following afternoon, I’ve mostly recovered. When the children find me, I am sitting in the garden with a cup of tea close at hand, writing a little more successfully. Three times now I’ve seen my lady, and perhaps that will be enough. I have given her a gift, conveyed my regards. She has received it—I allow myself to hope she has even read it. It is far more than many lovers may hope for, especially in our circumstances.

  I am staring at a fragrant red rose, trying to put in words the exact shade of the roses that had crowned her. I will write a sonnet—perhaps, like Petrarch, I’ll write a multitude of sonnets, all to the glory of my Laura.

  Then the door crashes open, and the children are upon me. They wrap their travel-sticky arms around me and tell me their stories. I drop the pen and let myself be subsumed in hugs and kisses.

  “You should have come with us, Aunt Belle.” Marianne is sun-brown, radiant; she has been running about without her hat again. “We made a sand palace—it was exactly like the real one, only better. And Father bought us sugar-glass to use for the windows!”

  “It sounds marvelous, darling.” I turn to Gregory. He is holding out a seashell. “And what did you see, my love?”

  He presses the shell into my hand. “I collected a hundred shells,” he says. “Mother says she’ll keep some in a bowl in the drawing room. This one is for you.”

  I turn it over. It’s beautiful, almost a perfect circle. The outside is pure white, and tightly pleated. The inside is a deep, soft pink.

  A shell, I think, reaching absently for my pen. One side the pure white of her skin—the other side as pink as my lady’s lips…

  Then I put the pen down and rebuke myself. You are at home, Belle. Put all this behind you. “It’s beautiful, Gregory,” I say, turning the shell over in my hands. It is a gift to be treasured—a reminder that here, at least, someone will always love me. “Thank you very much.”

  Marianne has something else to say. She’s practically vibrating with excitement. “Aunt Belle,” she says, “Mother says to come inside. There is a letter from the palace!”

  “What?” I feel myself pale. All my composure is lost in an instant. “What…sort of letter, darling?”

  “A little one, with golden flowers on the envelope! It’s for Mother and Father and you. Mother says it’s an invitation.”

  My mind whirls as I stand. I know, without looking at the envelope, what the invitation must be. On the last night of Summerweek, there is always a grand ball at the palace. It’s open mostly to the nobility, and to the very, very wealthy, as well as to a select few commoners who are being honored for particular achievements. I attended before, of course, as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, but I earned that position through the recommendation of one of my school friends—our family was never distinguished enough to earn such an honor on our own merit. My brother-in-law is a lawyer—an honorable profession, but a profession nonetheless. He, too, is unlikely to be honored with an invitation to the Summerweek Ball.

  My sister has clearly drawn the same conclusion. When I reach the drawing room, she has set the invitation on a table and is staring at it as if it had suddenly spoken to her. “Belle,” she says, looking up as I come in, “I wondered if you could shed some light on this? I wasn’t aware that our family had suddenly joined the ranks of the nobility.”

  I hold back. I do not wish to have this conversation with her. “Perhaps because we live in the neighborhood?” I begin—but my sister’s sardonic stare tells me that excuse won’t be accepted. “Ah…I met Her Majesty by chance the other day,” I admit, more quietly. “I suppose, because she remembered that we were acquainted…”

  “You met the Queen. By chance.” My sister’s stare is deadly.

  “Ah…Well, I went by the picnic…”

  “Belle.” My sister abruptly straightens. In her eyes is the same censure she wore when she finally worked out what had caused my dismissal from the palace. “What are you doing? I thought you’d grown some sense. You can’t keep going back there—you know it’ll end in nothing. Why would you subject yourself to this exposure?”

  “I did not mean to see her!” I say helplessly. “Not up close. I just wanted…to…”

  My sister’s face softens. “I know what it is to love,” she says. “And I know how it hurts, when the love is not returned. But this cannot continue, Belle. You are going to make yourself an object of gossip—” again, her tone reminds me—” and it’s going to affect all of us. Do you want the children’s names caught up in this? Do you want strangers to stop and point at us in the street? You cannot go back there again.”

  I breathe out slowly. “So. We should reject the invitation?”

  “I don’t suppose we can,” she says dryly. “Certainly, Rolf would never forgive me. But you must stay with us, and not…well, just stay with us. Dance a few sets, maybe, if the opportunity arises. Just keep your feet on the ground, please.”

  “All right.” I know I’ll never have the courage to approach the Queen again on my own. But perhaps you’ll see her from across the dance floor, I remind myself. Perhaps that will be enough.

  I know it will not be enough.

  * * * *

  There is not enough time to prepare something special to wear. Maybe it’s for the best; in the agony of choice, I would likely lose my mind. Instead, we all take our best old things and have them re-trimmed. And my best ball gown, I am both embarrassed and pleased
to realize, is a white silk robe à l’anglaise patterned with red roses.

  Marianne lingers in my doorway as my sister’s maid dresses my hair. “Aunt Belle,” she says presently. “Will you see the Queen tonight?”

  Her tone is more subdued than usual, and she seems almost wary of the answer. Remembering the floods of rapture with which she initially responded to the invitation, I wonder what has her so unsettled.

  “I suppose so.” I arrange and rearrange the jewelry I’ve laid out on my dressing table. “Shall I tell you what she wears?”

  “Yes, please,” says Marianne; but I can tell from her voice that this was not the question she came to ask. I hear her fidget and shuffle, picking up things around the room and putting them down again. “Aunt Belle,” she says at last, very timidly, “are you going back to live at the palace?”

  A garnet bracelet slips through my fingers, clattering to the table. The maid’s fingers still in my hair. “Marianne,” I say carefully, trying to keep my voice even, “why would you ask me that? What gave you that idea?”

  Marianne fidgets. At last she comes forward, wrapping her little arms around my waist, staring into the mirror with me. Her round dark eyes are like small reflections of mine. “I heard Mama and Papa talking,” she says quietly. “About what to do for the ball. Mama said the invitation’s more for you than for them—she said she and Papa are just the chap-chaperones.” She glances up at me to confirm that she’s pronounced the word right; I nod tightly. “And then Papa said—he laughed and said—that perhaps the palace wants you back.” Marianne takes my hand, holding it as if she doesn’t want to let me go. “That’s why I wondered.”

  I have no idea how to respond. I stare at my own reflection in the mirror, and see the maid staring at me, too. Marianne doesn’t speak again, but she tangles her fingers in mine, as if she already has her answer.