by Liz Lyles
Saintly statues had been carved into the small portal, more reminders that the chapel was to be—indeed—an image of Heaven. Yet Cordaella dismissed the figures as ludicrous. They were neither delicate nor expressive, carved by a village mason who knew too little either about limestone or about the human body. These saints had limbs and heads that were oversized for the small torso and the grouping of saints looked more like peculiar animals. Cordaella would kneel during Mass and half close her eyes, squinting at the statues to see if she could make them move.
Without turning her head, Cordaella could look from the statues to the row of her relations. From her position in the pew, she could see all of their bent heads—one short uncle, the Earl; his new wife, Mary, who only talked in a whisper; and her true blood relatives—three sickly-looking children terrified of their father. She lifted her head slightly to get a better look. The Lady Eton still knelt, her lips moving in silent prayer. The Earl’s chin was in his shoulder; he was probably sleeping. Philip read, Elisabeth traced the embroidery in her skirt, and little Edward picked his nose. Trust little Eddie to be picking his nose.
The priest’s intonation began again, his chanting a singsong of Latin. Cordaella could only understand the odd phrase, partly because her knowledge of Latin was still scant, and partly because the priest was very hard to follow. If the priest prayed in Latin, did that mean God spoke Latin? Did that mean she was supposed to only pray in Latin?
The priest said “Let us pray,” and everyone moved forward to the kneelers. Cordaella knelt with the others, folding her arms in front of her as Lady Mary had directed. The black sleeves of her gown fell back, revealing her small white wrists. She would wear mourning for a year in honor of her late grandfather, the Duke of Aberdeen, John Macleod.
To wear black for mourning. It was another new idea, a peculiar idea to wear only one color, and such an awful color, for a year. Nothing in the Highlands had been black, not even the night. In the mountains, the sky was blue or purple, violet streaked with gray, but never black, never so heavy and unrelenting. In the mountains, the sky was full of stars and wisps of cloud, the moon, and even the wind which was but a whisper in the summer.
Elisabeth moved suddenly, her elbow sharp on Cordaella’s arm. “What are you looking at?”
“Not you,” Cordaella answered, pulling her arm away.
“I hate you!” Elisabeth said.
Cordaella fixed her gaze on her cousin’s face, the light gray pupils unblinking. For a long minute she said nothing, content to look at Elisabeth with that hard pointed stare. Cordaella had faced fiercer beasts than this. “It is not as if I take every breath just to spite you—”
“You are not one of us!”
“I know.”
“You haven’t the breeding to become one of us.”
“And I don’t want your breeding!” Cordaella whispered angrily, pressing her hands closer to her mouth to stifle the sound. “The last thing I want is to become one of you, just a sheep, with no thoughts of its own.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m a wolf, and I eat sheep,” Cordaella said, baring her teeth.
“Shut up!” Elisabeth’s angry retort rose above the prayers, even the priest momentarily interrupted, his concentration broken. The Earl had been roused and, shaking himself from his drowsy state, he tapped Elisabeth and glowered at Cordaella who was just out of reach.
*
“I’ve been asked to Court. Bolingbroke wants to see me,” the Earl said smugly, holding out the letter to Mary. She smiled gently but shook her head; she couldn’t read. “Anyway,” he continued, “a week from today I’ll leave. I might even take Philip with me.”
The four children were just returning from a riding lesson, and the girls hung back as the boys continued towards their father. “Where does Philip go?” cried Eddie, overhearing the last part of his father’s conversation. “Why can’t I go? Why do I never get to go?”
“None of your concern, Edward.” The Earl half-heartedly rebuked his younger son, ignoring his daughter and Cordaella completely. Cordaella caught the look on Elisabeth’s face as her father passed her without acknowledgment.
“Father.” Philip hesitated in front of his sister. “Where was it that you said you might take me?”
“Oh, yes,” Eton offered the letter to the thirteen-year-old. “London. I’ve been asked to a meeting with the King.”
Philip’s face brightened. “If it could be arranged, I’d like to go with you. I haven’t been to London in years.”
“The city has changed. It’s much bigger. Twice the size, or so it’s said.” The Earl read over Bolingbroke’s invitation again, thinking of what he, Grey Eton, would do with his revenues. It was clear to him by now that he’d never make a tremendous profit from the land. It was time to go into trade; maybe his son could help him.
“Mary,” he said, rousing himself to a decision, “take the girls in with you. I trust they have other things to do besides stand here in the way.”
Lady Eton nodded, drawing Cordaella and Elisabeth after her, Elisabeth’s face flushed with color while Cordaella appeared not to care. “Father.” Elisabeth stopped in the doorway, not wanting to be left out, again ignored. “Father—”
“Yes? What is it?”
“Could I go to London with you?” She wanted him to say yes, she wanted more than anything for him to smile at her, to include her in his conversation.
“Of course not. If Edward can’t go, you certainly may not either.”
“But why Philip?” wailed Eddie.
Eton sighed, signaling again to Lady Eton. “Because he is the eldest, the first son. Now Elisabeth, don’t be tiring, go along with Mary.” He waited until his wife had closed the door leaving him alone with his sons. “Boys,” he said with a groan of pleasure as he took a seat in the solar’s great chair, “have I told you about my last trip to Rome?”
CHAPTER THREE
‡
If it was hard losing her father, Cordaella thought. It was also hard leaving the freedom she knew in the mountains. Nearly a year after her arrival in Derbyshire, she still chafed at wearing stockings and heavy soled shoes, chemises that covered her neck, a scrunch of stiff cloth beneath her chin. That entire year she had fought the changes, resisting Peveril’s discipline and order. She thought the lessons in the nursery were boring, but worse than learning to read, was learning to sit still. She had always been so active before, and now look at her, trapped in this silly old nursery with a fat nurse that was stupid enough to let coarse black hairs grow out of her chin.
Cordaella leaned forward against the window, still amazed at the cool slick glass surface. They didn’t have glass in their windows in the Highlands, or hearths with thick chimneys and broad mantles either. She breathed on the glass just to see it cloud, tiny little puffs that spread along the window pane. She smiled at the clouds, pretending they were in the sky and not on a leaded window pane in an English nursery.
“Get away from there,” Mrs. Penny said from the corner. “You’re always dirtying the window.” Cordaella ran her fingers through the clouds, smearing them until nothing was left but streaky fingerprints. It hurt to smear them but she didn’t want anyone else to take them from her. She had so little for herself.
“Go on with you,” Mrs. Penny said irritably. “You should be in the kitchen learning something. There is plenty for you to do downstairs. Lady Eton always needs the help.”
“Then why don’t you go,” Cordaella said, her brow furrowed as she jammed her hands into the yellow and brown sleeves of her gown. She hated these colors. Hated this dress. Of course it had been one of Elisabeth’s. Almost all of her clothes had come from Elisabeth’s wardrobe.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” She left the window and walked through the door and down the three flights of stairs to the great hall. She could hear her uncle’s voice coming from the solar.
Pressing her ear to the solar door, she tried to hear with whom he was s
peaking.
Since it seemed like she would have to stay here, at least for a few years, she had given up pretending that she would be able to return to Scotland soon. There was no one in Scotland to take her. She had no other family but this, not that the Earl was her family. He was only an uncle by marriage, married to Cordaella’s Aunt Charlotte, the eldest of the three Macleod sisters. But everything was so different here. Peculiar. Like the way the Earl spoke to his children, and the indifference he showed Elisabeth. Cordaella couldn’t help comparing the Earl with her father. She couldn’t imagine her father ignoring her simply because she was a girl.
And being a girl meant that she couldn’t take fencing lessons with the boys. Instead, she must learn to sew, or stitch, whichever it was with the needle and spool of silk thread. Even the clothes seemed designed to keep her from moving quickly, the layers, sometimes three of them, weighting her down, making it hard to lift her arms or pull up the skirts to climb. It was nearly impossible to run now, the endless folds of fabric catching between her legs, trailing behind her in the dirt. Lady Eton said she musn’t run anyway, explaining that Cordaella was too old—marriage being but five or six years away—and Cordaella wrinkled her nose. Marriage? How strange the English were. Why should she care about marriage? She was only nine.
She pressed her ear closer to the door, listening to the discussion—it was still the Earl talking, more about his business with merchants overseas, something that the Earl called exporting and importing.
Her uncle was awfully long-winded. He could go on for hours and she guessed it was Philip inside, enduring another of the Earl’s lectures on improving trade. She had learned enough by standing outside doors to know that the Earl owned three ships and had arranged trade agreements with a port called Lisbon and another called Barcelona. She was intrigued by the idea of ships carrying goods from one country to the next. Although she had never seen a ship, she knew that they looked like long houses with sails and decks and chambers below for the sailors. And better yet, ships sailed on the ocean, and ever since she was a wee mite of a child she wanted to see the ocean, to see water so big that it stretched as far at the eye could see, blue waves with white crests breaking against the shore.
Inside the solar, the Earl was still announcing his plans, something about visiting Italy in the spring. He was talking about being competitive, and needing to carry more goods at a cheaper price. Money, he said, could be made that way. She didn’t hear Philip’s question but heard Eton answer, “Yes, in theory, but in practice there are also innumerable opportunities for disaster. Storms. Disease. Fire. War. Robbery.” She imagined the Earl to be at his table littered with maps and record books, his writing quill lying on its side, dribbling ink across one ledger.
“When you go away next time—” Philip began, clearly a question in his voice.
“Yes?” the Earl was waiting.
“I was wondering—” and again Philip’s voice failed him.
“Yes?”
“It’s just that I thought—or hoped that—”
“What?” Eton slapped the table with his palm. “What do you want?”
“Books.” Philip could scarcely bring himself to speak. “More books.”
“God in Heaven! You do try my patience.”
“I am sorry, Father.”
“I am sorry, Father!” Eton mimicked, his voice high and quavering. “Philip, I thought you might share my interest in the business, have some curiosity about maritime trade. Now ships—” he said, sounding as if he were tapping something on the table, “—they change everything. Sea trade is more fascinating than anything I’ve ever dabbled in before. Everything is still new, open to exploration, ready for growth. We can be a part of it, Phil, we can take a piece of it, make it ours. What do you think? Eh?”
“I am glad for you, Father. Very glad.”
“Is that all?” the Earl boomed. “Don’t you find it exciting?”
“Yes, Father. Very exciting.”
“Crock of shit!”
“Father?”
“It is a crock of shit, Philip. And you know it. You don’t mean a thing you say.”
Cordaella heard a thud followed by a high splinter of glass. It sounded as if the Earl had swept everything off his table. “Leave them!” Eton shouted. “You don’t care what happens to the business, so don’t pretend to care about the books. Go on—” he shouted even more angrily than before, “—get out.”
Cordaella turned and ran up the stairs before the door opened. She didn’t know where to go; she didn’t want Philip to know she had heard everything. She peeped into the nursery and saw that it was empty. Mrs. Penny must have gone down the backstairs to the kitchen or to the privy in the tower. Cordaella shut the door and hid on the other side of her bed.
Moments later, the nursery door was flung open and Philip threw himself on his bed. She could see his thin wrists where the sleeves of his coat fell back. Although three years older than she, he wasn’t much bigger, and she felt sorry for him, sorry for the smallness of his hands and the narrowness of his shoulders. She listened as he cried, wondering if she should go to him. “Philip?” she whispered after several minutes passed.
He didn’t speak, his shoulders still heaving.
“Can I come sit with you?” she asked.
He sat up quickly, trying to wipe the traces of tears from his face. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a moment, and hardly that,” she said, not wanting to hurt him. He had such tender feelings. She crawled over her bed to his and gingerly sat down next to him. “What is the matter? What has happened?”
“My father,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “He can be so hateful.”
“He doesn’t understand you, does he? All he wants to talk about are his ships.” She looked at his profile, the slender nose and boyish mouth. She wondered if he looked like his mother, because he didn’t take after the Earl, and he was more slender, fairer, than his brother or sister.
“You are so different from Elisabeth,” he said with a short laugh, a hiccup in his voice. “She wouldn’t care if I cried myself to death…not that men should cry. You mustn’t tell anyone,” he urged, taking one of her hands in his. “Swear to me you won’t.”
“I swear.” He released her hand and she tucked it under her, sitting on it. “But you needn’t make me swear. Of course I wouldn’t tell anyone. And who should I tell? Your sister doesn’t talk to me and Eddie—” she laughed, “—he is such a baby.”
“Spoiled, he is.”
Cordaella nodded. “But you’re not. If anything, your father is too hard on you. Has he always be so strict?”
“I am the eldest. And Father thinks I should be like him. He wants me to fight and go on expeditions. He thinks it is wonderful to have a business. Make money.” Philip shook his head. “I will never be like that. I don’t care for wealth. Not at all. I wish I were the second son, and maybe then I could be a scholar. Join the Church or go to Queen’s College.”
“Like Mr. Pole?” she said, horrified.
He smiled weakly. “Well, not exactly like Mr. Pole.”
“I think he’s dreadful. And what do you want more books for?”
He stared at her for a long moment, his mouth pursing. “You were listening, weren’t you? Outside the door again!”
She shook her head. “No, no I wasn’t.”
“Do you swear, Cordy?”
She looked him in the eye, his as gray as hers, and it was like seeing her eyes, the expression nearly the same. She dropped her head. “I did listen.”
“Why, Cordy?” his tone was full of reproach.
“I wanted to know about your father’s ships. I wanted to learn more about Italy.” She answered nervously. “I know it is wrong. But I listen because no one will tell me anything—”
“Of course they won’t,” he interrupted with a hint of impatience, “you’re a girl. It isn’t your place.”
“I don’t want to be a girl then.”
“You have no choice. That is fate.”
“Rubbish!” she turned away from him, her jaw jutting obstinately. “I do not have to be a girl and be made ridiculous by these stupid skirts—” she flicked the top gown disdainfully. “In the Highlands it didn’t matter.”
“But it does matter here, Cordy.” He leaned forward to get a look into her face. “Why is it so hard for you? Elisabeth—”
“And Elisabeth, yes, she does mind being a girl. If you’d only look at her you’d see. But none of you look, you don’t see how lonely it is for her or Lady Eton or even me. But Elisabeth, she wants your father to like her, to notice her. She cries when no one is looking. If she wasn’t so mean to me I’d feel sorry for her.”
“When you grow up, it will be different. You will have important roles, important decisions to make.”
“Such as?”
“Babies. Minding the staff. The kitchen and all the functions of the estate.”
She pushed off the bed and stood up, a slight figure in the vast yellow and brown embroidered dress. “Well, I don’t want babies and why should I mind the staff? They know their job better than I do.” She looked at him hard, as if trying to see the way he saw these tasks. “And needlework! Needlework is awful. All I do is pierce my finger.”
“But what of the linens? The tapestries that will need mending?”
She shuddered. “Stop it. I would rather sit in the solar and listen to talk about ships. I think it sounds much more exciting.”
Philip pulled her fingers from her sleeve where she had been picking at the embroidery threads. “You will ruin the dress if you’re not careful, and then Mrs. Penny will be after you again.”
“But I hate yellow.” She plucked at the neckline of her houppelande, the collar too tight, the ruffle rubbing the skin raw beneath her chin.