Summerweek

by Katherine Traylor

At last, after too long a delay, I say, “If Her Majesty has need of me, then of course I am at her service. But I really don’t think it’s likely, Marianne. The Queen was kind enough to invite us to a party, that’s all, because she knew me once. I’m sure there’s no more to it than that.”

  Even so, I make one more gesture of hope before I leave my room that night. I pick up the folded notecard, kept carefully in a drawer of my night table, and tuck it carefully into the bosom of my gown. By this talisman, I hope somehow that God or the universe will draw my lady’s eyes to me just once over the course of the evening. Let me have that much, I beg silently, and I shall ask nothing more.

  It is a lie. I know it is a lie. But I know, too, that to stand in the same room as the Queen, but never once look into her eyes, would be a torture as great as never seeing her at all.

  * * * *

  It’s strange to take a carriage ride for a distance so easily walked. Stranger, still, to sit face-to-face with my sister and her husband, all of us in our starched and scented evening wear, looking like people we’ve never met. My sister and I are far enough apart in age that by the time my debutante days began, hers were already ending. By the time I was seventeen, she was respectably married, and too busy with her newlywed’s duties to chaperone even a moderately social sister. Now she and Rolf are united in their respectability, clad in matching buff and ruffles, murmuring quietly about their children. I feel ill-matched, a stray pencil in a silverware setting. It is an uncomfortable ride.

  At last we arrive. Rolf springs out and hands my sister and me lightly to the ground. He is enjoying this—it’s a treat for him, a chance to eat some excellent food and rub elbows with the très-élite. Surely his heart is not pounding as mine is.

  My sister is more reserved. She knows she is not meant to be here, and is wondering what price she’ll have to pay for the opportunity. As for me, I am in such a daze I do not know what I am feeling.

  We climb the wide, clean-swept stairs and enter the foyer. I have been this way many times before, but Rolf and my sister stare up at the frescoes on the ceiling, at the framed still-lifes on the walls. The two of them look very small here. I feel small, too. Perhaps we won’t be noticed.

  We pass our invitation to the master of ceremonies and are announced, though not loudly. Inside, a four-couple minuet is in progress. Spectators are gathering on the sidelines. It is barely seven, so there is room to walk around comfortably, but I remember the long line of carriage lamps in the palace driveway. No doubt it will be very crowded soon.

  There are still seats available, so we sit for a while and watch the dancing. According to the programme, the country dances will begin in an hour. My sister and Rolf are eagerly awaiting a turn around the floor. I hope they’ll have the chance; there may be as many as two hundred couples here tonight. Myself, I was never much of a dancer; that is not my particular grace. In happier times, I would have taken this opportunity to spend an hour with my lady, who likewise rarely dances.

  Reflexively, I look for her—but the Queen is not yet in attendance. Generally, she waits until later in the evening, when the company is better established. Until then, I must wait, and avoid eye contact with anyone I know.

  “Do you know any of the dancers, Belle?” my sister murmurs, as if she has read my mind.

  I glance at the dance floor. Morvarid is there, graceful as a falling petal in her crimson gown. Her black hair gleams in the candlelight. “A few,” I say, noticing other familiar faces along the sidelines. “None I would call friends.”

  “Of course,” my sister says wearily. She knows my friendship with Jana was the only one that survived my disgrace. “Well, perhaps you could introduce us, anyway. It’d be very tedious to have to sit and talk among ourselves all night.”

  As it turns out, no such service is required of me. Rolf is soon spotted by a jovial young lord he assisted once in a court case. A round of introductions follows, and my sister and Rolf are soon included in a chattering circle of nobles, none of whom I have ever met. It is a relief; I have felt responsible for my sister and her husband being here without acquaintances. Now I need worry only about my own insecurities.

  I am included in their circle, of course, but my mind is not on the conversation. I scan the room, unable to stop looking for the Queen, though I know it may be hours before she comes. My sister sees me at it. Her lips tighten, but she can hardly reproach me right now. I know she would like to see me established with some young gentleman—and there are likely some in this hall who’d be willing to perform the service, now that my attendance here has given me back a bit of cachet. But it is impossible. I once was loved by the best and dearest woman in the world. My heart has no room for any other.

  When the set dances begin, I am left alone. All Rolf’s new acquaintances are engaged, and there is room for Rolf and my sister in the formation after all. I watch them for a while—smiling as Rolf shows off footwork he likely hasn’t used since his courting days—but soon I lose interest. I trail about the ballroom, avoiding the eyes of anyone who might know me. I am so focused on this that it is quite a surprise when I run into Jana.

  “Belle!” She hugs me and kisses both my cheeks, face alight with surprise and pleasure. “What on earth are you doing here? I never expected to see you!”

  “We were invited.” I feel self-conscious all over again, faced with her elegant amber ball gown, her appearance of absolute belonging. “It was a surprise to us, too, I assure you.”

  Jana’s eyes light up. She drags me to a corner and leans close so we will not be overheard. “What a mystery,” she whispers, positively grinning as I start to blush. “What an enigma, darling. So, you went to the Garden Party after all?”

  My blush deepens. “I did.” I still can hardly believe my own audacity.

  “And you saw her?”

  “Yes…We spoke briefly.” I debate going further, but then decide Jana may as well know. “I gave her a gift.”

  Her eyes gleam. “What was it?”

  I shake my head. I cannot tell her—the words won’t pass my lips.

  Jana draws a sharp breath. “I see.” She looks around the ballroom, but what she is looking for I can’t tell. “Well, you must see her—you must speak to her tonight, Belle; I won’t hear of anything else. She should come down soon—she’s been late to a lot of entertainments this year, but since you were invited…” She hooks my arm in hers and leads me from the corner. “Come, I’ll introduce you to some of my friends—there are a lot of new faces at court since you left.” This last is said in a pointed tone that I can’t quite decipher. “We’ll keep you entertained until our lady arrives.”

  I let her lead me along, suffering one introduction after another—though fortunately, Jana being Jana, her friends are mostly amiable and intelligent people. I am soon surrounded by scientists, philosophers, poets, satirists—a circle I might have entered before, perhaps, had my star not been drawn so unerringly into the Queen’s orbit from the moment I saw her. And so, the time passes, and I am temporarily diverted—until a blast of trumpets draws my attention to the door and I catch my breath.

  There she is.

  She wears white, tonight, a voluminous gown like a full moon. Her head is crowned once again with roses. A little silk bag hangs from her wrist. She surveys the crowd as if to see that all is well, but I imagine that she’s looking for someone in particular—I imagine that she’s looking for me.

  A wave of quiet has swept across the hall in the wake of the Queen’s entrance. A second wave, now, as all the guests make their bows and curtsies in unison. As we all rise, the Queen steps forward. She scans the room again, but says only,

  “We thank you all for coming here, and for making up such a pleasant company. We hope that you will enjoy yourselves tonight, and that you’ll take with you warm memories of Summerweek, and our best wishes for a prosperous year to come.”

  She waits for the applause to fade. Then, nodding graciously to the band leader, she withdraws to t
he small throne that has been set up for her at one end of the floor.

  The dancing soon begins again. My current circle consists mostly of spectators, though, and none of them are shy about commenting on what they’ve seen.

  “She looks well tonight,” says a young astronomer in lime green, who may or may not be Jana’s lover. “She’s been so down these last few months—it’s good to see some color in her cheeks.”

  “She looks like a debutante,” murmurs a woman beside him, who doesn’t seem much impressed by anyone in the room. “She used to dress a bit more soberly, didn’t she? I wonder what’s gotten into her head.”

  “I think she looks beautiful.” Jana is not looking at me, but I know her comment for the expression of loyalty that it is. “She’s a person like anyone, isn’t she? Who does it hurt if she wants to dress a bit youthfully?” She doesn’t quite glance at me as she adds, “Perhaps there’s some guest here whom she wants to impress.”

  I move away from them, then. Though Jana sends me a searching glance, she lets me go. I know I won’t have the courage to approach the Queen—but to stand here and hear them talking about her is torture.

  I let myself be drawn back into the ebb and flow of the party. I dance a few sets with men from Rolf’s lord’s little circle, but their faces slide from my memory as soon as the music stops, and I know I won’t remember their names tomorrow. I am no more aware of anything than a dreamer, and might as well be walking through the park or the streets for all the ball affects me. But in a corner of my mind, pulsing like a golden heartbeat, is the constant awareness that my lady is here—is right there—is only a room away, had I but the courage to go and see her.

  I don’t. The Queen sits on her throne, and accepts the greetings of anyone who wants a moment of her time; while I, her coward lover, must be content to orbit her like a distant star. It is so hard now to take my eyes from her face. She does look younger—not in a physical sense, but so bright with energy—with hope?—that she almost looks feverish. It is arrogance to assume that I have prompted all this energy myself—but what else am I to think?

  I have almost gathered the courage to go near her. The moment this set ends, I will make my apologies to my dancing partner, whose name I do not know. Then I’ll have the rest of the evening to edge closer and closer to her, and finally—if I am lucky—I may stand by her side. Perhaps, with the whole evening to work on it, I may even think of something clever to say.

  And then, between one moment and the next, she sees me, and the whole world changes.

  She straightens. Her mouth opens, as if she wants to speak—but the room between us is now a whole world, and any word she said would be lost to the ether as soon as it left her lips. She half-extends her hand—actually begins to stand—and then the music ends, and supper is announced.

  I watch, dismayed, as an elderly gentleman bows to the Queen and helps her to her feet. He is a duke, I think—he must be the highest-ranking nobleman here, and therefore Her Majesty’s assigned dining partner. Her eyes linger on me for just a second. Then she is gone, and my latest dancing partner is offering me his arm. I can only accept, and let him lead me, taking our places near the end of a very long queue to enter the five great galleries where supper has been laid out.

  “It’s a beautiful ball, isn’t it?” My new companion is a genuinely friendly man, whose name I remember as Hess or Haas or something like that. He is around my age, or perhaps a little older. His features are pleasing, and his manner is sensitive and kind. He is exactly the sort of person I ought to be ingratiating myself with, if I want to be anything but a dependent for the rest of my life.

  I can barely look at him. “Beautiful,” I murmur, but my mind is far away.

  My companion tries again after a moment. “You are Mistress Maurer’s sister, are you not? Have I seen you here before?”

  “A long time ago, perhaps,” I say. I wonder what he would think if he knew that I had once watched this ballroom from beside the seat of honor—that I was once one of the glittering bevy of ladies who encircle the Queen like jewels in a diadem. Would my story impress him—or would he pity me? I don’t bother to find out. I know I won’t speak to him again.

  My dining partner tries a few more conversational overtures, as we sit down and begin helping each other to the lavish supper, but his efforts cool as my eyes and thoughts wander. He is soon drawn into conversation with our neighbors, and I am free to wistfully count the paces that stand between me and the Queen. We are in the fifth gallery, as far from her as it is possible to be and still be in the same party. Across the trembling sugar centerpieces—the architectural cakes—the mountains of roses and nasturtiums—I can barely see the doorway. It is easy to imagine, here, that my moment of bliss was a delusion—that my lady never saw me at all—that perhaps she is not even here.

  I realize that my companion is asking my opinion of a novel that I have not read. I know it is only from politeness that he includes me in the conversation now—and know, also, that with a few words, a few smiles, I could probably reignite the spark of interest that drew him to me in the first place. I am still young, still pretty enough. I should leverage these things to gain myself a position that doesn’t involve staring mournfully at the walls in a house that is not my own.

  I do not smile. I say something uninspired. The conversation drifts away from me again.

  When supper finally ends, Hess or Haas escorts me dutifully back to the ballroom, but his disinterest is now clear. With obvious relief, he accepts my excuse that I wish to rest a bit before dancing. I am left to walk the floor again, restless as a ghost.

  The Queen is not in sight.

  I pretend to myself, at first, that I am not looking for her. Again and again, I pause to watch the dancers—their twining feet, the gentle touches of their hands, how they meet and part and meet again with every turn of the music. I pretend that I am not also scanning the ballroom from angle after angle, looking for any corner my eyes may not have reached. Is she greeting her guests? Is she dancing? Or has she retreated from the ballroom already—overwhelmed, as she often was, by the pressure of the crowd?

  Slowly, I begin to accept that I won’t see her again tonight. Perhaps it is time for me to retreat, too. My sister will be getting tired. It may be best for everyone if we simply go home now.

  I look for my sister’s buff-colored gown, for Rolf’s pale russet suit. Instead, I find myself face-to-face with a maiden clad in moonlight.

  Well, that’s putting it dramatically. She is the Queen’s new handmaiden, one of the three I saw my lady with when we met on the path through the arbors. She is slim and ethereal, dressed in silver silk—but her smile, when she sees me, is entirely human.

  “Mistress Neumann.” Her voice is a golden bell. “Her Majesty would like to speak with you. Are you at liberty?”

  In this life, or the next, I think, murmuring something shaky. The maiden dimples, and takes me by the hand, leading me to a curtained alcove I have somehow overlooked.

  And there she is.

  She sits on one of a pair of brocade chairs. The white skirts of her ballgown almost fill the little alcove. When she sees me, her eyes light up. “Belle,” she says.

  I curtsey. “Your Majesty.”

  The Queen stands, skirts rustling like a forest. “My darling,” she says. “I’m so glad you came.”

  Hearing those words, I can hardly move. My darling. “I…thank you for the invitation, Your Majesty.”

  When I look up, she is holding out her hand, her expression quizzical. “Are you all right, Belle? You seem…unsteady.”

  I take her hand, and shiver as our lace gloves slide across each other. Her skin is warm beneath the lace. “It…it is…good to see you, Your Majesty.” To my horror, a knot of tears is rising in my throat. I swallow hard, and lower my eyes until I can control myself.

  She releases my hand, and gestures to the seat beside her. “Will you sit? I…wish to speak to you.” She sinks back into her chair, and th
e white sea of her skirts fills the alcove once more.

  Hesitantly, I move past her, careful not to tread on her gown. When I sit, our skirts overlap—two seas meeting, one patterned with red roses.

  “You look…very well tonight, Your Majesty,” I say. It is such an understatement as to be insulting, but I cannot express the full depth of my feelings without sounding much too forward. “And the ball is beautiful.”

  “And you are its ornament,” she says softly.

  My breath catches in my throat. Reflexively, I draw back from her, trying to gather my wits. But the Queen takes my hand and weaves our fingers together, and I cannot escape, and do not want to.

  “I don’t know what made you come back,” she says, voice shaking, “but I am eternally grateful for it. I can’t tell you how I’ve missed you, Belle—I’ve longed for just a glimpse of your face. And…the gift you gave me…” Her voice drops to a whisper. She is blushing like a girl. Opening the silk bag that dangles from her wrist, she takes out the book of sonnets. “I never let it from my sight. I take it with me everywhere. I’ benedico il loco e ‘l tempo e l’ora, che si alto miraron gli occhi mei…” She gazes at me, eyes shining. I think I see true happiness in her face.

  An impulse suddenly moves me. It is immodest—much too bold—but I am driven by the urge to reciprocate, to commune somehow. From the bodice of my gown, I draw out the folded card that has lain above my heart all night.

  “What is that?” the Queen says curiously. “A letter?”

  Can she not know? I open the card and hand it to her, looking away as shyness overcomes me. “Your letter, my lady.” I feel as though the heat of my own blush will consume me. “I could never have stayed away, knowing that you still cared for me. I’ve treasured it, I—”

  I realize that the Queen has gone quite still. When I look up, she is frozen, eyes fixed on the card in her hands. I’ve said something wrong—I have made some vast, unconscionable error—

  A soft rustle alerts me that someone else has entered the alcove. It is Jana, coming to look for me. She is smiling—glad to see me with the Queen, delighted that I’ve found the nerve to speak at last. She has not yet seen the panic in my eyes, has not realized that I’ve put my foot wrong already…