Taming the Tempestuous Tudor

by Juliet Landon

  ‘Just leave it to me, my lady,’ said the seamstress, taking the last of the pins from between her lips. ‘You just write down what you want, what lining, what braids, and I’ll put in the yardage. Now, mistress,’ she said to Aphra, ‘once we get a nice wide farthingale under this, you’ll look quite splendid. I’ll make one in plain canvas and one covered with shot taffety for best.’

  ‘And a roll?’

  ‘Oh, yes, you’ll need a bum roll, too. I’ve left extra length in the train for that. Ready, ma’am?’ She held out a hand to help Aphra down. ‘And are we going to go for the wider ruffle round the neck? It’s a very pretty style. Ruffles are sure to get wider, eventually, so you might as well lead the way.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave that to Lady Somerville,’ Aphra said.

  ‘Why not?’ Etta muttered, scribbling. ‘If we’re going to make any impression at all, Aphie, it might as well be with a ruff.’

  Privately, the seamstress thought Lady Somerville and her cousin would turn heads wherever they went, with or without a larger-than-usual ruffle. This was the second week she had attended the two ladies at the Sign of the Bridge, though she had worked for Lord Somerville before on several occasions, making his shirts.

  The last two weeks had been hectic for everyone, with a new house to manage, servants to supervise, changes to be made to rooms for Aphra and her maid and, inevitably, a new wardrobe to withstand the royal scrutiny. Etta had been surprised by the size of the house behind and above the shopfront, large storerooms below ground, a large kitchen across the courtyard at the back, and many more rooms on several levels, all tastefully furnished and decorated in the latest style. Expecting to be visited by many more of her husband’s colleagues, friends and clients, she had worked hard to acquaint herself with the daily routine of a merchant’s life, being prepared to entertain at a moment’s notice, striving to look her best while admitting to herself that she had no good reason not to.

  The exciting spontaneity of that episode at Mortlake Manor had not been possible here above a busy shop, especially with Aphra never very far away. Lord Somerville’s days were taken up at the warehouses of the Steelyard, the Royal Wardrobe, or in his counting house, arriving home quite late on some evenings. She had not grumbled at his absences when each day was so full, but could not help anticipating his return when he would want to know how their preparations had progressed, what fabrics they had found on the shelves, what new dance steps they had learned and how the Queen’s gift was coming along. She had managed to make tiredness and a headache two poor excuses to avoid lovemaking for as long as it was possible, but the time came when, as she and Nicolaus admired armfuls of silk and soft velvets brought back from the warehouse, she was reminded of those occasions at the Royal Wardrobe when he had flirted with her, quite outrageously, through layers of diaphanous silks.

  They were in Etta’s bedchamber after a long day of dressmaking, when all those excuses not to become intimate were being obliterated by her desire for his arms once more and to know the conclusion to that suggestion for her to be clothed only in that transparent tissue. She was tired and her defences were no longer strong enough to hold him off. She had longed for him all day, wondering why her emptiness would only be assuaged by the sound of his arrival, wondering, too, if, against her will, she might possibly be falling in love with him. No. She must not allow that to happen.

  Yet in the dim bedchamber where they had undressed, the deep sound of his voice overcame all former resistance. She felt the soft cobweb tissue being draped across her breasts. She felt him turn her towards him, lift her in his arms and lay her down on the bed in a pile of rumpled silks. She felt his hand resting upon her ribcage where the silk covered her skin, then the warmth of his smoothing hand through the fabric, the soft lapping of his lips over hers, meant to amplify further explorations.

  She caught at his wrist as his caress moved upwards to her breasts, still unused to the surge of excitement it caused. His kiss stopped as he waited, feeling her grip slacken, letting him go, allowing him to hold her breast and to resume his kiss as her eyes darkened with approaching desire. Now the warmth of his naked body, the fresh male scent of his skin and the hardness of his muscular chest and arms added a more potent dimension to their contact. ‘Lift your head,’ he said. With one deft pull, he removed the gold mesh caul from her hair, burying his hand in the rich red tumbling mass of curls that spilled over the pillow and her shoulders, releasing the faint perfume of a rosewater rinse. ‘This,’ he said in wonder, ‘is how you should be clothed. Just this. Nothing else. Better by far than silk tissue.’

  ‘Show me what to do,’ she said, wanting to hear it from him, not because she had forgotten. ‘Will this be different?’

  Tenderly, he pressed the tip of his finger to her lips. ‘Shh,’ he said. ‘This is only the beginning. I rushed you through the first time. I cannot blame you if that was the real reason for your delays. This time, I shall not take you until you’re ready for me. We’ll do some exploring first.’ He smiled at her in the dimness. ‘And I need no compass for that. Each voyage we make together will be different, but if the first time is the most memorable, the second will be even more so.’ As he spoke, his hand moved over her body, stemming her flow of concerns and diverting her senses towards the path of his teasing fingers. She heard his murmur of delight before his mouth covered hers, kindling a sudden rush of desire, flooding her thighs with a melting softness. Her mind rushed crazily from her lips to the sensations caused by his tenderly kneading hand, then to the startling warmth of his mouth upon the skin of her breast, the closeness of his dark head and body within her embrace, so different from that last fierce coupling.

  Tentatively, her fingers absorbed the smoothness of his skin and the undulations of muscle and tendon, the thick silkiness of satin hair and the change of texture as she touched the back of his hand that still held her breast to his mouth. So much that was new to her, but none more so than that this powerful creature should have access to her body in so tender a manner, every secret place owning its own response. Slowly, as he discovered her, she found another existence that trembled and ached for more attention, greedily pushing back the hand that had moved on, arching herself into the newest crevices of his hard unyielding limbs, savouring their qualities and wondering at their steely strength and hardness. Now she began to understand that there was so much more to this process than her previous experience, exciting as it had been, and that perhaps being in love mattered less than she had supposed. Did love matter, if one could enjoy this so much with a man?

  The question dissolved before she could dwell on it as his hands moved down her body, slowly, smoothing, caressing the small mound of her belly and the rounded hips while his mouth took her lips with his own, playing upon them so skilfully that her mind was taken to the very edge of awareness. Consumed by the sensation growing like a warm fire within her, she gasped at the urgency of a response that told her not to wait a moment longer. ‘Now...please...do it!’ she said, threading her fingers into his hair.

  Broken sentences were healed by his nudging knees and for the first time she felt the unique experience of a man’s weight on her before he lifted and entered with care that place made ready to receive him. Etta’s long drawn-out ‘ahhhh’ came like an ecstatic sigh that he converted into a kiss, whispering words of endearment and admiration to accompany his careful movements, as if this were her first time. Now it seemed to Etta that nothing had prepared her for an experience like this where every rare sensation melded so seamlessly and with such accord. She now realised why no one ever spoke of it in anything like enough detail, for it was beyond description. If they had, they could not have conveyed the ecstasy of this giving and receiving, nor could they have described the all-consuming waves of pleasure that washed over her.

  Time receded as their delight in each other took over every other consideration, so he was delighted when she mewed softly and dug
her fingers into his upper arms, turning her head from side to side into the sea of her hair in a frenzy of growing excitement. ‘Sweetheart, am I hurting you?’ he said, pausing in his rhythm.

  ‘No...no! Faster! Quickly!’ she cried.

  Before the words faded, he was there with her, pulsating to a faster beat, his powerful body taking her with an energy that surprised even him. But now she was to experience that overwhelming surge when time itself is suspended in a rapturous void, when the cry of relief comes from another being, deep inside, contacted only at such times and no other. Hearing that cry from her again, he could be in no doubt of the bliss he had caused, or that it had coincided precisely with his own mind-numbing release that left him euphoric and sated.

  Unable to speak, Etta cradled his head against her own, rising and falling to the deep panting of his chest, dampened by his perspiration. She pulled up the tangle of silks to cover him, stroking the back of his neck and following its valley down as far as she could reach, feeling her own emptiness as he withdrew from her.

  Smoothing damp strands of hair away from her cheek, he placed kisses on her forehead and each of her closed eyelids while he mused on how different things might have been if she had chosen to carry her earlier resistance further. That she was volatile and unpredictable was no surprise to him any more, but not even he could have foreseen how far her passion would take her, this time. And while he harboured no illusions about their future lovemaking and her thin excuses, he fell asleep with a smile hovering over his lips and a heavy tress of red hair splayed across his chest.

  * * *

  Out of courtesy, Master Leon of Padua had put up with three uncomfortable weeks of the Apothecaries’ hospitality before taking up residence with his friends on Cheapside where a small but pleasant room was prepared for him on the ground floor in which there was space enough for him to study. As he left to attend the Apothecaries’ Hall early each morning and return at suppertime, he was never there long enough for the two cousins to tire of his company, yet another reason for Etta to feel that she had moved into a more exciting phase of her life, for when the four of them sat together at the supper table to discuss, and eat, and exchange information so different from her parents’ more domestic themes, she knew that no better company existed. Which did not prevent her, even so, from believing that yet more good company was still to come, once she and Aphra were seen at court. So many important names to remember. Such complex etiquette. So many rules. And Whitehall Palace. What a rabbit warren it was made out to be. Surely it could not be as difficult as all that to find one’s way around?

  * * *

  Their optimism in that respect was misplaced. After walking the labyrinthine corridors, crossing courtyards and enclosed gardens, the cousins came to the conclusion that, if either of them had been alone, they might still have been there a week later. Etta, Aphra and Lord Somerville had dressed particularly well that day with the intention of visiting Mrs Levina Teerlinc, his lordship’s older sister, and to see what advice she could offer about the Queen’s activities that week. Lord Somerville took them in his own barge from the Puddle Wharf jetty upriver to Whitehall Palace, a luxury of which the women were glad on that frosty March morning as the white sunlight bounced off the glassy water and made silver vee-shaped ribbons in the wake of the swans. A veil of mist hung low over the buildings along the riverside, thinning here and there to reveal gable ends and towers and then, at last, the sprawling white stone palace on the scale of a village.

  Lord Somerville had dressed for the occasion in a suit of silver-grey brocade, the doublet and breeches slashed to show a creamy-white satin beneath, with a short matching cloak with wide embroidered guards along its edges. Gold aiglets dangled from every pair of laces. As they had dressed, Etta had been reticent about offering him any advice, for he had done admirably well without it, so far. But he had preened before her like a wooing lovebird, hoping for some comment, so she had adjusted the satin here and there through the slashes, checked the peacock feather in his flat bonnet and pulled the frill of his shirt closer beneath his chin. ‘There,’ she had whispered. ‘I doubt the Queen will spare me a glance.’

  ‘Will I do?’ he’d said.

  After that night of passionate loving, the memory of it was etched clearly in his eyes as they met hers, boldly. Etta’s smile was dreamy as she replied, ‘Very, my lord. As you well know.’ He had smiled at the quirky answer without realising how much, at that moment, she feared he might look at some other woman that day as he was looking at her now. How many women did he know here? she wondered.

  They walked up the steps through the impressive gatehouse directly into a series of gardens, covered walkways and more doors than they could count. Men and women passed them on morning business, becoming more and more numerous and better dressed as they entered ever more sumptuous rooms where footmen in the Queen’s crimson livery stood to guard the doorways. Occasionally there would be a distant shout of recognition, to which his lordship would wave and call out his greeting, coming at last to a corridor of polished doors. Pausing outside one, he pointed to the small painted crest on the centre panel with the initials L.T. beneath.

  Etta had not known what to expect, except that few of the ordinary rooms were spacious, not designed for anything more than sleeping and changing. Royalty did not encourage their courtiers to spend time anywhere but in their company. So when they entered, it became instantly clear that Mrs Levina Teerlinc was a favoured friend, an artist, who required rather more in the way of light and floor space in order to seat her subjects at a convenient distance from her. Having hoped to find her alone, they saw that she had the company of several white-clothed young ladies who sat on cushions on the floor to watch her paint their friend who was sitting with her back to the door.

  Laying her brush down with great care, Levina was quite unruffled by the interruption, rising to greet her brother with a warm smile of happiness, her arms out wide to embrace him, then eagerly turning to Etta and Aphra with multiple kisses to both cheeks. She held their hands, apologising for receiving them in her apron. ‘My work clothes,’ she explained, smoothing delicate hands down the spotless white linen. ‘No, my dear,’ she said in reply to Etta’s query, ‘of course you’re not intruding. You are my new sister-in-law. How could you be?’ Levina Teerlinc showed all the signs of having been a very handsome woman in her youth and even now there was a sweet gentility that Etta instantly warmed to.

  The sitter, however, felt differently about the interruption. Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she called to Levina, ‘What is it, Mrs Terling? Tell them to come back later.’ The voice was sharp and imperious, unused to being ignored. But it was probably due to the astonishment written on the faces of her friends that made her turn round completely to stare rudely at Levina’s relatives, her own face then reflecting that same element of incredulity, recognising features so similar to her own. She and Etta might have been looking at their own images in a mirror: same slender build, same red hair parted in the centre under a jewelled French hood set well back on the head, same beautiful brows and mouth. Only the eyes were different, for Etta’s were brown and dark-rimmed while the sitter’s were pale blue and heavy-lidded. And angry. ‘Who is this?’ she demanded, rising to her feet.

  Levina remained quite calm. ‘I’ll introduce you, my lady,’ she said.

  ‘Is it not they who should be introduced to me, as the Queen’s cousin?’ the lady insisted, drawing her fine brows together. The gold-edged ruff and lynx-fur collar appeared to be holding her head in place, not as wide as Etta’s, but neither was her plain black gown as full or as sumptuous. Nor did Etta’s triangular forepart of silver-grey brocade find any favour in the woman’s eyes.

  The Queen’s cousin? This was most unexpected, and not at all welcome. Etta did her best to keep an expressionless face, but it was difficult when being confronted by an angry reflection. Was she...could she be...an un
known relative? Heaven forbid. In the circumstances, Etta decided on a certain coolness.

  It was Lord Somerville who had more definite thoughts about this young woman who, of all people at court, he would rather his new wife had not met. He ought to have warned her about this trouble-making individual who was at court only because that was where her half-cousin Elizabeth could contain her mischief. He hoped no sparks would fly at this first meeting, particularly, for her presence could mean difficulties for Etta’s future hopes.

  ‘Henrietta, my dear,’ said Levina, ignoring the lady’s instructions, ‘this is our new Queen’s half-cousin, Lady Catherine Grey. Lady Catherine, this is my brother’s wife, Lady Somerville. And I never tell him to come back later or he might well go off to the Indies between times.’

  Unsure of the exact protocol in these circumstances, Etta decided not to curtsy but simply to bow her head in acknowledgement, for Lady Catherine was obviously the kind of woman of whom one must stay a step ahead in the ranking game. ‘Half-cousin?’ she said. ‘How interesting. It is always good to meet distant relatives.’

  ‘And how distant is your relationship to Her Majesty?’ said Lady Catherine.

  ‘The Queen and I are half-sisters,’ Etta said. ‘We share the same father.’

  The slight narrowing of Lady Catherine’s water-blue eyes lasted only a moment before switching to Lord Somerville with a forced smile. ‘Your brother, Mrs Terling? Lord Somerville?’

  ‘Baron Somerville of Mortlake,’ Levina said, proudly.

  His lordship made a formal half-bow. ‘I fear we have called at an inconvenient time,’ he said, noting how his sister hurried to cover her paints and the tiny card portrait on which she’d been working. ‘But we do not intend to stay long. Allow me to present to you Mistress Aphra Betterton, daughter of Sir George Betterton, Assistant to the Keeper of the Royal Wardrobe. He had the ordering of the gown you wore at the coronation, my lady.’