Greeting them in turn, he lingered over Etta’s hand, smiling into her eyes as if to draw an answering smile from her. He lowered his voice for her alone. ‘I’m glad you came. I hope you will approve of what you see here and the living rooms above. Not as extensive as Tyburn House, but by no means uncomfortable.’
Etta knew the general plan of this kind of shop where business was conducted at street level, cellars and storerooms below, living quarters above. Everything about this shop spoke of quality, rarity and wealth. How could she not be impressed? Being cautious not to show it, Etta modified her praise by a question. ‘Is the shop door the only access, my lord?’
‘No, mistress. Our comings and goings are kept private through the side door. Come, allow me to show you where I live.’ A carved oak staircase led past panelled walls where portraits of his Flemish ancestors stared at them darkly. The ceilings were of the latest white plasterwork moulded with wreaths and symbols of the wool trade from which hung heavy chandeliers holding dozens of beeswax candles to light the way. Upstairs, polished wooden floors and tapestry-hung walls led their appreciative gaze towards huge plate cupboards with displays of silverware and exotic glass, polished tables with richly carved bulbous legs, stout chairs, stools with sheepskin cushions and glowing Turkey carpets. From the inside, the glass windows almost filled one wall. A handsome marble-and-wood fireplace on an inner wall held a roaring fire, its light shining through a set of engraved glasses next to a silver-lidded jug. ‘Joseph!’ Baron Somerville called into the next room. ‘Wine for our guests, if you please.’
A pleasant young man appeared at once, pouring wine and handing it round as their host answered his guests’ questions about how long, how far, how convenient it all was, already seeing Etta as mistress there, approving, satisfied. She had not known what to expect, but now the phrase ‘living over the shop’ was already taking on a different meaning from her first shocked protest.
The warmth of the wine, a delicious malmsey, percolated through her veins, softening the hard edges of the pessimism she had brought with her, her determination not to be affected by anything he could show her. But this was the first time she had seen him on his own property in this sumptuous setting, at ease with his own surroundings and every inch the successful merchant who would know to the last detail exactly where every item had come from, how much its value and, probably, how it was made, too. Hardly contributing to the conversation, she listened to his deep well-modulated voice and watched his face, his expressive hands, and once when he turned to smile at her, she knew that he sensed the reason for her reserve and saw what she was thinking. Later, he took them into the other rooms, many more than she had supposed, a dining parlour, his office where Joseph sat amongst sheaves of papers and strong boxes, letter racks and inkpots. There were kitchens below, storerooms, larders and pantry, servants’ quarters and, above these, several well-appointed bedchambers, one of which was furnished in the latest style with hangings of pale-blue velvet brocade that must have cost a small fortune. For a house above a shop, it was more than adequate, though it could not be compared to either Tyburn House or to Lea Magna, Sir Jon’s country house where there was a complex of outbuildings and stabling for forty horses. Whether he had other properties in England she was determined to show no interest, although for all she knew, her parents might have discovered something. Aphra squeezed her hand. ‘Like it?’ she said.
‘No garden,’ Etta said. ‘How am I going to manage without a garden?’
Her criticism was overheard from the other side of the room, making her suspect that Baron Somerville could lip-read. ‘By the time you come to live here, mistress,’ he said, ‘there will be a garden.’
She had been made to feel very uncivil. Even Aphra, her dearest friend, looked at her in some surprise. ‘Yes,’ Etta said. ‘That would be good. Thank you.’ She turned away to hide her blush, still struggling against conflicting emotions. She had braided her hair up again that day, intending to deny her future husband the pleasure of seeing it loosely splayed over her shoulders. It was a small gesture of defiance that gave her little reward, for the memory of his close admiration at their first meeting would not leave her and, between wondering how she could manifest her displeasure at the way this marriage business had been so hastily arranged, a thrill crept under her skin whenever she was near him. And to be near him every day in this beautifully appointed house would surely test her opposition to its limits, in the weeks to come.
A set of miniature paintings on the wall of the front parlour caught her attention by their exquisite detail and rich colour. The faces of the sitters were no larger than her thumbnail. Seeing her cousin’s interest, Aphra asked about them.
‘Some of them are by my father, Simon Benninck,’ Lord Somerville told them, ‘and these three are by my sister, Levina Teerlinc.’
‘I’ve heard of them both,’ Aphra said. ‘So you are Simon Benninck’s son? Are they both in Antwerp, still?’
‘My father is no longer with us, alas. But he taught my sister. She lives at Whitehall Palace. I go there to see her whenever I can.’
Striving to keep the curiosity out of her voice, Etta immediately saw the connection and could not resist her own question. This might be the link she was looking for. ‘Whitehall? The Palace? Near the Queen?’ she said. Her parents came to look. There was a limit to the questions she could ask about this interesting relationship. Perhaps they would ask some.
‘Yes, indeed. She is one of the few ladies from Queen Mary’s reign to be retained by the Queen. They’ve known each other for years, you see, and Levina has painted her portrait already when she was Princess Elizabeth. She’s working on her coronation portrait at the moment, I believe. The Queen saw no reason to dismiss her when she likes what she produces and Levina has nothing to go back to, in Antwerp.’
‘So she is widowed?’ Lady Raemon asked.
‘Indeed, my lady, but very content with her rooms at the palace. She knows everyone there. She’s painted many of them, too.’
‘Commendable diplomacy,’ murmured Etta’s father.
Commendable connections, too. How soon shall we be paying a visit to Mrs Teerlinc, I wonder? ‘Beautiful portraits,’ Etta said, seeing a faint ray of optimism for the first time.
* * *
With the arrival of the special licence signed by the Bishop of London, the wedding coincided with the greyest day February had to offer, timed so early that everyone was out of bed before daylight. This was so different from the wedding about which she had daydreamed for years, and, as the reality of the situation took shape, she almost managed to convince herself that her wishes were being ignored and that this hurried, mean, unromantic performance was entirely Lord Somerville’s fault. Dressed in her most serviceable clothes, she made her brief vows in a voice tense with the simmering disappointment of days during which she had directed her packing from dawn till dusk while, at each supper time, the conversation had revolved around matters of local interest and no questions asked about her feelings or thoughts. Baron Somerville had no need, she told herself, to interpret her word ‘simple’ quite so literally and not a word from him of persuasion to make her day special in some way.
Just before the ceremony, her mother had tried to console her with carefully chosen words about duty and love growing out of respect, and time healing rifts, and had said how much they would miss her. Lord Jon’s attempt at consolation was more robust, reminding her what a good match this was. But by this time, self-pity had turned to deep offence, and after a brief breakfast of ordinary porridge, she had boarded Lord Somerville’s barge with neither smiles nor tears to waste on those who had connived to dictate the course of her life. She had, however, said a tearful farewell to Aphra.
‘Well, Lady Somerville,’ said his lordship, covering her knees with a rug. ‘Was that simple enough for you?’ It was clear he did not expect an answer and her silence went unremarked
as they pushed off into the middle of the river, the company including Tilda and his man, Joseph. But to her surprise, the barge headed upstream instead of towards London’s Puddle Wharf, forcing a question from Etta about their destination.
‘Mortlake, my lady,’ Somerville said. ‘It’s near Richmond.’
‘Richmond? Mortlake? We’re stopping there overnight? You didn’t tell me that.’
‘You didn’t ask, did you? Too busy nursing your woes. Mortlake Manor is our Surrey home. It belongs in royal hands, but I have the lease of it. That’s where we shall live.’
‘So we shall not be going to London? Not to Cheapside?’
‘Not for a while. Well, not you, anyway. I shall have to attend to my business there, but I take my barge downriver. It’s much quicker by water.’
Etta hunched into her cloak, frowning. Yet another deception. Another setback. This was not what she had expected but then, neither was Mortlake Manor, a magnificent place built of red-patterned brickwork and timber, approached via a wide wooden jetty and a gravel pathway to the front porch, wide enough for an elephant. To one side, beyond the great house, was a spread of outbuildings, sheltered by elms where noisy wheeling rooks settled in for the night. Smoke rose white into the darkening sky from tall clusters of chimneys, dogs barked in welcome, men shouted orders, running towards their master and new mistress, lighting lamps, opening doors.
The deep disappointment Etta felt at not going to London first was weighed against the need to come to terms with this enigmatic man and the life she would be expected to lead with him. She had so far made no effort to please him, and when the chance had been offered her, she had refused to take it. Since then, he had made it almost impossible for her to thaw by remaining beyond her reach. Was he now offering her a second chance to make herself affable, or did he mean it when he implied that work would come first for him? Could she bring herself to share his bed? Would he wait for her to thaw? Could he afford to, when consummation of the marriage was such an important part of the contract? Pragmatic as usual, Etta’s common sense reminded her that she was unlikely to be taken to London as long as her frostiness continued, for she had seen how he could carry it further, and to greater effect. Catching his eye, she received his smile with a blink of acknowledgment. ‘You said nothing of this, my lord,’ she said.
‘I wanted to surprise you. Wait till you see inside.’
If she had been impressed by his house on Cheapside, she was even more affected by the richness of this interior glowing with mellow colour from tapestried walls, gleaming glass and silver, polished furniture and panelling, tables carpeted with bright eastern rugs, cushions and curios. Her parents’ houses were well appointed, but this reflected a man’s journeys through foreign lands, his ambition, success and portable wealth, and that when her father had reminded her what a good match she was making, he had known what he was talking about. On the other hand, she wondered if her father had bothered to mention to Lord Somerville that she was also a good match. Or had that small detail escaped him?
‘Well?’ he said. ‘D’ye think you could be comfortable here?’
‘This is a beautiful house, my lord. I was unsure what to expect after—’ She broke off, aware that, in her tiredness, she was close to revealing too much about her last few miserable days. Tears were close to the surface and confusion dried up any generous words she might have used.
‘Shall we talk about it later?’ he said kindly, keeping hold of her hand. ‘I think we may have some catching up to do, don’t you? This is the day of our wedding and there is still time to redeem it, if you wish.’
It was obvious to her by this time that their arrival had been planned some days ago, and that if she had shown any kind of interest, she could have discovered it for herself. Servants were everywhere in evidence, the enticing aroma of food wafted along passageways and all the luggage which had gone ahead of them had been unpacked and set about the place, clothes in chests, personal belongings arranged. Her own large bedchamber was sumptuously furnished with cushioned chairs, carved tables inlaid with ivory and a huge bed curtained in the colours of spring with a matching silken bedspread heavy with gold fringing. Reflecting light from dozens of candles, the white plasterwork ceiling was a maze of pattern more recent than the low beams of Lea Magna. This place, she thought, was a palace.
Left alone, she and Tilda began the transformation into a dress more worthy of her first supper as Lady Somerville, a gown of dark-green velvet with white fur around the high neck and over-sleeves, paler green undersleeves with gold embroidery, a gold mesh caul for her hair, studded with pearls. The simple gold wedding band felt as strange as it had when he had placed it on her finger that morning, since when she had not been able to forget it was there. Tilda saw her examining it and took her hand in comfort. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she whispered. ‘It’s for the best, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. I’ll go down, Tild. Shall you wait up for me?’
‘Yes, if you want me I’ll be in that little room over there,’ Tilda said, pointing to the corner. ‘There’s a bed in there just my size. Come, m’lady. This is not like you. You’re not afraid, are you?’
‘Too late for fears, Tild. It’s just that this man is...well...’
‘Different? Not a boy, but a man? Better that way. He’ll know what he’s about.’
‘Yes, I only wish I did. I’m not afraid, just mixed up.’
‘About your feelings for him? But you like him, don’t you?’
‘I don’t intend to fall in love with him, Tild. Not yet. It’s all happened too fast for me.’
Tilda smiled and said nothing to that. Love would not wait on convenience. She might have added that, in her opinion, her mistress was already part way there and that the next few hours would tilt the balance one way or the other, if only she would put away her grievances.
This was Etta’s second experience of observing Somerville on his own ground, hearing how he spoke to his servants with quiet authority and how eager they were to please him. Giving a last order to his house steward, he received her with an outstretched hand at the bottom of the grand staircase, affording her a leisurely view of his dull gold suit of figured brocade from which jewelled aiglets winked in the candlelight. Framed by a white gold-edged frill around his neck, his tanned skin and dark hair gave him, she thought, the air of an adventurer, needing only a gold ring in one ear to complete the effect. She saw how broad were his shoulders accentuated by slashed pickadils, how deep the chest, how shapely the fine legs encased in smooth jersey hose and how strong the hand that supported her down the last step. She had placed a wide gold band there only that morning.
His eyes held an obvious admiration as they moved over her, drinking in the willowy grace of her bearing and the amazing brown eyes that still looked on him with a hint of resentment. ‘Your taste in dress is faultless, my lady,’ he said. ‘I cannot ever recall seeing a woman look more lovely in that colour.’
‘And I think, my lord, that you would have thought twice about offering for any woman who could not share your love of fabrics. Wouldn’t you?’ She was aware how clumsily she had accepted his compliment and was instantly sorry.
‘Twice? Three times, perhaps. But then, I didn’t have to, did I? I offered for you before we met. That was enough. It was not your sense of style I wanted most.’
‘Are you as certain about everything you want, my lord?’
‘A merchant has little time to deliberate, usually. He has to make his mind up quickly before others snatch up what he has his eye on.’
‘A risky business, then.’
‘Not if he knows what he’s doing.’
Etta could have argued along those lines when his scheme to win her had suggested a certain over-confidence, but they were entering the dining parlour where the ambience was too cosy and intimate to spoil with bickering, and the aroma of roa
st meats reminded her of the day’s deprivations. ‘I know you wanted simplicity,’ he said, ‘and so far I’ve done my best to oblige. But here, it’s all about the modest company rather than the fare. I didn’t think you’d appreciate musicians and trumpet fanfares, or speeches and silly jests about newly wedded couples, so it’s just you and me. Alone. Is this what you had in mind, my lady? Do we need company?’
Pride prevented her from saying what she would have preferred, a crowded supper table with smiling faces all round, music, happy banter from those she loved and the support of her family. She would have liked his friends to be there, too, if only to show them how well she could manage, how civil her manners and conversation, and what a good mercer’s wife she would make. So she made no reply to his impossible questions but wrote him down in her mind as uncompromising and much too perceptive for her comfort. She would have preferred some kind of persuasion.
The meal could not be faulted, however, for although they ate alone, the variety and quality of the dishes presented by silent young men was worthy of any wealthy merchant’s household. Poultry, game and fish served with spinach and onions, leeks, spiced baked apples dressed with parsley and lemons, pastries and sauces enough to cover the long table with white-glazed dishes from Antwerp, the wine in Venetian glasses engraved with the initials N.B. As she cast curious glances over the room, she noted how many items were of foreign origin, not only the tableware but the tapestries from Brussels, more portraits of his Flemish ancestors, coffers from Italy, shelves of brass instruments and a revolving globe.
Taming the Tempestuous Tudor Page 7