Merry was not mistaken in her prediction. Gil was a natural courtier, and his wit and charm dazzled the ladies. More than a few gazed longingly at the comely Scot by the time he finished a lively trotto with the queen. Dancing lessons were mandatory at Edzell, for Lady Darra was the family representative in the Stuart court, and sought similar positions of respect for her brothers and sons. Gil embraced anything of a social nature with alacrity, while Merry doubted Ran had ever attempted so much as a leisurely bransle. She was pleased, however, Her Majesty approved of the dashing Gil, and the Lindsay name would not be unduly mocked.
Unfortunately, Sir Jasper Wickham joined the Court for the holidays. Merry found his sudden appearance more than disconcerting, but he was nothing if not fawningly gallant before the queen’s watchful eye. Sir Jasper kept company with other dissolute hedonists, and most particularly Penelope Rich, the daughter of Elizabeth’s cousin, Lettice Lady Essex, and hence Robert Devereux’s sister. Lady Rich was arguably one of the most beautiful and exotic women of the Court, a dramatic brunette, her skin lustrous like a fine pearl, her eyes alone fascinating for the fact they did not match in hue. Merry regarded Lady Rich as one might a jewel-toned snake, both mesmerizing and repelling at once. It came to her as no surprise that Sir Jasper counted this woman of dubious morals among his circle of friends.
Merry encountered the loathsome couple several times during the Twelfth Night revelries. The first time, Sir Jasper merely stopped and bowed exaggeratedly, while Lady Rich inclined her head in a chilly nod, and Merry did likewise. The next time she was with Gil, and she saw Essex’s sister lick her full lips and regard the youth with a predatory gleam in her odd-colored eyes. Lady Rich obviously demanded an introduction, for Sir Jasper brought her forward.
Civilities were exchanged while Lady Rich curtsied low before Gil, her full breasts nearly tumbling out of the deeply cut bodice. One could hardly miss the fact her areolae were rouged to match her cheeks, and Gil’s flush betrayed his mixture of innocence and fascination with the mature beauty.
“Enchante,” murmured Lady Rich as she rose, her husky voice prompting a visible shiver in poor Gil. He put her proffered hand hastily to his lips, and even after he released it, she held it there, brushing her knuckles back and forth across his lips in a teasing fashion.
Merry frowned and did not attempt to disguise her displeasure. Gil was too young and yet a neophyte at Court; furthermore the lecherous Lady Rich was old enough to be his mother.
“We must retire for the eve, ’tis getting late,” Merry said to the bedazzled Gil, who nodded and gazed after Lady Rich’s withdrawing hand. She turned the full force of her cloying court smile on Sir Jasper and his brazen companion.
“You will forgive us? I fear the family awaits our return.”
Sir Jasper arched an eyebrow. He was clad in mulberry satin, his garish outfit pinked and paned to fashion’s extreme, an enormous cartwheel ruff engulfing his neck to the chin. His pale blond hair was fussily arranged in the latest continental fashion, called a bull-tour, ends held in a short queue with a pearled clasp. Merry conceded he was handsome in a foppish sort of way, but she shuddered to imagine she might be his wife now.
“Naturally we must not waylay you, milady,” he said with a sweeping bow as mocking as his gaze. “Dear Penelope was but curious as to the identity of your escort.”
“Charming escort,” Lady Rich amended, her eyes gleaming with a satisfied light as she glanced over Gil one last time. “My interest has been but whetted all the more, I vow.”
Merry smiled through stiff lips. “Perchance our paths will cross again.”
“Oh, I do not doubt it.” Sir Jasper offered an ingratiating smile. “I shall insist upon nothing less.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
SOON THE EVE OF the Twelfth Night masque was upon them, and whilst Ambergate bustled with the preparations, Merry stepped away a moment from her costume fitting to check on Siany. Since arriving in London, the girl had been little more than a headache, slipping off every time Merry or Nell’s back was turned. It was useless to scold or lecture, and any assigned tasks were completed grudgingly but well, giving no complaint for dismissal. In view of Siany’s relation to Hertha, Merry could hardly discharge the chit in London and leave her to fend for herself on the streets.
Still, she grappled for patience every time she must needs confront the girl. Nell needed help with the baby so she could finish hemming Merry’s costume, and, as usual, Siany had vanished at the opportune time. She could hardly ever be found in the morning. When she was not sulking in the servants’ quarters in the afternoon, she could oft be found wandering the halls in a dreamy daze. After some minutes of fruitless searching, Merry encountered her wayward maidservant hurrying in from the cold, wearing naught but a light shawl. Siany’s skin was very pale, but her eyes had a feverish sparkle.
Merry curbed her anger. “Are you ill, Siany?” she asked.
Vigorously the girl shook her head. By then, Merry had already noted the stains on the collar of her light-colored gown.
“Something did not rest well with you, I see. This is nothing to trifle with. If ’tis a chance of ague or worse, the household must be forewarned.”
Siany’s shoulders seemed to sag. “Nay, milady.” She bit her lip, avoiding Merry’s steady gaze. “There is nae risk t’ the others.”
“I am glad to hear it. Hmm. Is that kidney pie I smell baking in the ovens?”
At Merry’s idle remark, Siany clapped a hand to her mouth and rushed past her mistress, banging through the door to her room below stairs. Merry heard the girl being wretchedly ill and hurried after her, finding Siany on her knees above the chamber pot.
“Sweet Jesu!” Merry exclaimed, as realization dawned. She could not help but feel sorry for the girl, and steadied her with an arm around the shoulders when she was through being ill. Merry guided the shaking Siany to her bed and insisted she rest while she fetched a cloth dipped in cool water and sponged the girl’s sweaty forehead.
“How far gone?” she asked matter-of-factly. She was not a total innocent; more than one maid-of-honor had skulked away from Court in disgrace.
Siany turned a miserable face to the wall. “Nigh two months, milady,” she whispered.
“Does Hertha know?”
“Ohh, nay!” Siany gasped as if imagining her grandmother’s reaction. She curled up, hugging her knees to her chest. Never had a young face looked so tragic.
“Siany, I am most disappointed. Yet it takes two to dally, even in the Highlands. Who is the one responsible?”
Siany shuddered. “I canna say, milady. Dinna ask again.”
Something in the girl’s manner warned Merry not to press the issue, but she chafed with frustration. “The knave can be persuaded to honor the promise his loins made, m’dear. When you’re ready to tell me, I am prepared to take swift action.”
Siany shook her head. “’Tis nae even an option, milady.”
“Why not? Is he betrothed to another? Dear heavens, not … married?”
The maidservant did not answer, not those questions or a dozen others put to her, but remained in a miserable silent huddle on the bed until Merry sighed with defeat and rose.
“I must attend the masque, but we shall speak again when I return. In the while, I will tell Nell you’re ill and cannot tend Ashet. Although I am sure the experience will be sorely welcomed by midsummer.”
Merry left shaking her head, despairing over the situation but at a loss for any solution. If Siany would not name the father, there was nothing she could do to extract reparation from the rogue. She wished her parents had not returned to Ireland already, for her mother was a well of straightforward advice. Merry knew Slade and Bryony had not been wed ere long before the birth of the twins, and while it had shamed her for many years, it no longer mattered now.
* * *
THE THEME OF THE Twelfth Night masque was “Fair Virgin Thron’d in the West,” a phrase coined by Will Shakespeare in honor of Elizab
eth Tudor. Earlier in the evening, the queen went in state to St. Paul’s to offer thanksgiving for the country’s strength and continued blessings of the New Year. Elizabeth was drawn in a coach by white horses surmounted by a canopy resting on pillars—two of them bearing a lion and a dragon, the supporters of the English arms. She was attended by the officers of the state and a great company of ladies and gentlemen from her Court. Thereafter the company adjourned to St. James’s Palace and the revelries began in earnest.
Merry was lent use of her former apartment in the royal residence. Her former tiring-woman, Jane, now served Lady Scrope but stopped by to wish Merry well, and exclaim over the costume Merry had chosen. She and Gil were attending as Clove and Orange, after the term of intimacy derived from the custom of sticking oranges with cloves and roasting them during the holidays. The resulting liquor was called bishop, a rare pun on the Church, which might only be carried off with impunity during the mischief of Twelfth Night.
Merry’s gown was a lavish concoction of burnt orange satin and cinnamon velvet, huge sleeves slashed and paned with gold silk and jet beads, with a gold-embroidered chemise and petticoats visible at her bosom and hem. Her hair flamed just as brightly as her costume, dressed high and threaded with tiny citrines and seed pearls. She wore a clove-studded orange pomander and her fan was dyed to match, orange feathers with gold-dipped points. Though identities were established early by the canny courtiers, the pretense was maintained until the light of dawn. Therefore, as a last touch, Nell fastened an orange silk half-mask over her mistress’s face, and clapped with delight at the results.
“Ye look fair tasty, milady!” she cried. “Beware lest one o’ the Sassenach scoundrels tries ta sample yer sweet juices.”
Merry laughed. “I daresay he should get more than he bargained for, Nell.” She showed the wide-eyed maidservant the little jeweled dirk she kept up one sleeve. Since her mother had reminded her of Lovelle’s previous treachery, she agreed it would be wise to have some means of defense in close quarters. Nell nodded. Practical Highland lasses ken a thing or two o’ weapons, the maid mused, or what damage a swift, well-placed kick could do.
* * *
A LUSTY GALLANT GREETED Gil and Merry as they entered the festive, foiled dancing hall where dancers already promenaded, leaping and turning in time to the beat, the ladies’ skirts swirling like bevies of bright butterfly wings. The arrival of Clove and Orange caused a ripple of interest to run through those not presently engaged with the gallant. Gil looked exceptionally dashing in his dark-brown velvet doublet, slashed with gold silk to match Merry’s gown, and knee-length breeches of a tan brocade patterned with gold. The “cloves” were tiny smoky quartz sewn all over his costume, casting a glittering reflection whenever he moved. Despite his mask, his identity was obvious enough, for all the ladies of the Court had exclaimed upon his beautiful violet-blue eyes before. Merry watched in amusement as every lady’s hand he bowed over caused a resulting flutter or giggle in the one so honored; despite his youth, Gil was born to courtly ways.
Uncle Kit and Aunt Isobel had already arrived, and were comfortably ensconced at a banqueting table with fellow knights and ladies of similar rank. Kit was a “fox” as every year, since Elizabeth adored it so, and Isobel came as her lord husband’s pretty little snow goose. She was garbed in pristine white satin with crystals sparkling over her skirts and hair, and waved a great feather fan to combat the stuffiness of the hall. Twelfth Night was the usual crush of revelers, some reeking of perfume and others sweat or ale, but excitement permeated the air and all heads craned as each new arrival was presented.
The queen had not yet appeared, doubtless awaiting the moment when her entrance was made even more spectacular by the suspense preceding it. Elizabeth Tudor was nothing if not shrewd. Merry was relieved she had a moment to relax and circulate, and while Gil fetched her a plate from the vast spread of delicacies, she gazed over the colorful crowd. There was still a line of those waiting to be presented at the door, but some of the costumes must needs explaining, and Merry was amused by the furious whispering going back and forth between the announcer and the impatient arrivals.
Gil reappeared and handed her a glass of malmsey and a plate containing roast goose, several slivers of cheese, and sections of orange. She laughed and offered him one of the slices. While they were thus engaged in playful banter, the announcer’s voice rang out over the crowd.
“The Earl and Countess of Crawford.”
Merry froze, the orange slipping from her fingers to the plate. Could there possibly be another? She turned and Gil grabbed her elbow, held her fast.
Her startled gaze flew from him to the couple entering the throng, amid whispers of confusion and uneasy laughter. The man, neither so tall nor broad as Ran, was outrageously garbed in a mock Highlander kilt, sporrie, and bonnet, walking knock-kneed on his companion’s arm. It was obviously Sir Jasper Wickham despite the dark wig, and Merry drew herself up with outrage.
“Bastard,” Gil seethed beside her. But the worst was yet to come. For “Lady Lindsay” was not a caricature of Merry, but Blair. The sight of the blond wig and grotesquely red smiling lips made Merry sick. Lady Rich, doubtless, or one of Wickham’s other paramours; she’d heard he kept company with a lusty widow, too. How could even Sir Jasper be so cruel?
Merry leaned against Gil for support, whispering, “Take me home.”
He nodded, his eyes bright with rage and disgust. “They are not worthy of your presence, Merry.” His contemptuous gaze took in the sniggering courtiers and ladies as well; only Sir Christopher and his wife realized the depth of evil intent behind Wickham’s actions, and soberly, anxiously, watched Merry from across the hall.
Gil wrapped his arm protectively around his sister-in-law. Though Merry was older, she was petite enough to appear a waif under his guard as they headed for the exit, giving the mock Lindsays a wide berth.
“What, canna stay for the lively reel, lad?” Sir Jasper called out in an exaggerated brogue, and beside him “Blair” pealed with laughter. Their goading remarks trailed Gil and Merry out the door, though Merry remained remarkably composed until they reached Ambergate. There she alternately wept and raged, both for their actions and for leaving without a final cut. Too late she thought of the little dagger; she should have thrust it in Wickham’s black heart in passing!
Gil patted her shoulder awkwardly while she cried, then spoke to her in soothing tones when she stormed. “Och, Merry, ’tis glad I am now for my own bungling attempt at highway robbery. If I had not foolishly waylaid your uncle’s coach, you would be wed to that Sassenach snake.”
“I know. Bless you, Gil.” Merry smiled through the remnants of her tears, and soon composed herself again with the aid of a stout port left in her uncle’s library. She considered the wasted work and expense of their beautiful costumes, and sighed. “I suppose we can always sell them before we leave London.”
“What’s wrong with hosting your own ball sometime at Auchmull?” Gil suggested with a wink.
“Oh, certainly you jest. I know none to invite, and, besides, Ran would be furious.”
Gil shrugged. “Darra and Fiona have all the connections you need, and as for Ran, he can go hang. You’ve brought light and laughter to that gloomy old keep, Merry, and I for one should be quite distressed if we did not permit the same for you.”
Impulsively she set down the port and hugged the youth. “Gil, I count you among my dearest friends. You’ve grown into a fine young man, and I trow you have a position at Court if you but seek it.”
“Aye. After tonight, I’ve no desire to associate with such cruel folk. ’Twas amusing for a spell, with the music and dancing and bonny lasses all about, but they lost my respect when they all turned on you with Wickham’s act. I wish now I’d gone reiving as Ran wanted me to. I’d show that smirking Sassenach swine a thing or two!”
Merry took her turn at calming the other, then hugged Gil again and wished him good night. As she started up the stairs, he a
nnounced he was returning to Scotland. She turned, her momentary lift of spirits gone.
“Why, Gil?”
He shook his head, shrugged. “I miss it, I suppose. Don’t you?”
“Sometimes.” Merry did not feel like lying. She missed the cozy hall and hearth, the laughter of Lindsay retainers and the gruff affection they bore for her. She missed her husband most of all, but Ran neither wanted nor needed her there. Her pride rebelled against the notion of returning so soon, crawling back in defeat after Wickham’s public humiliation. God willing, Ran would never hear of what transpired tonight. His fury would make a frenzied wolf look tame by comparison.
Gil nodded, realizing the answer lay in her cautious reply. “I’d like to set out on the morrow. Your uncle promised to see you home in style and comfort whenever you wish, and there are things I can attend while Ran is busy with the king’s rebels.”
“I understand. But could you possibly take Siany with you? I fear she hasn’t been well since we arrived.”
“What’s wrong?” He looked alarmed.
“Homesick, I think. Nothing serious, but she is pining for the Highlands.” Merry smiled to disarm his visible concern. “I am sure Hertha is missing her terribly, too.”
“All right. I’ll leave Hugo here for now, hire a couple of men your uncle recommended. The border still isn’t safe, especially with a pretty lass in tow.” Gil grinned, and Merry was delighted to see the roguish twinkle had returned to his eye. He had already moved on, dismissed the Wickham incident, and it was the wise and healthy thing to do. Yet she knew she would agonize over her mistakes tonight as she did the countless ones she had made with Ran.
Chapter Thirty
MERRY HAD VOWED NEVER to return to Court after the humiliation of Twelfth Night, but Uncle Kit insisted she must quickly reclaim her dignity and secure her status. Elizabeth Tudor proved quite querulous upon inquiring after the real Countess of Crawford and was not pleased to hear one of her ladies had left without permission. The queen had not seen the mocking charade Wickham and Lady Rich enacted, and thus it appeared Merry had dashed off in some flighty fit of emotion most unbecoming to a married woman.
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