The Heather Moon

by King, Susan

  "If you'll put the gown on," he said, "I'll lace it for you and we'll be done. I think you can put your stockings on without my help."

  "I tried the gown," she said. "It doesna fit. Your sister must be thinner than I am, for the lacings dinna meet over my waist or my—" She stopped. "'Tis too tight. And too long."

  He picked up the gown. "Put it on again," he said, and tossed it to her.

  She slipped her arms into the sleeves of the kirtle, a bodice with an attached skirt, opened in the front like a coat. She distributed the voluminous folds of the black brocade skirt, and the hem pooled, too long, at her feet. The sleeves were snug at the top, and wide and long at the elbows, the sleeves of the chemise visible.

  Grabbing the silk cord laces at either side of the waistband, she tried to tug them together.

  "See you," she told William. "They willna meet. I must be wider in the waist than Helen."

  "You're slimmer, if anything," he murmured, frowning as he surveyed her. "Something is missing." He poked among the items of clothing on the bed: a cloak, chemises, a gown in dark blue damask, and an odd skirt of plain linen with stiff strips in it and one panel of brocade.

  "This goes on first," he said, and handed her the pale linen skirt. "'Tis some sort of Spanish undergarment, with whalebone sewn in it to support the overskirt. A verdugale 'tis called."

  She accepted it, staring up at him. "How do you know, when I dinna know such things about women's fancy clothing?"

  "If you must know, my good wife, I have undressed my share of ladies."

  "Oh." She felt her cheeks heat, and she dove into the verdugale, trying to pull it over her head.

  William took it from her and laid it on the floor. "Step into it and pull it up. Take off the kirtle first."

  She did, tossing the black brocade on the bed, and then stepped into the flat pool of the underskirt, pulling it up over her chemise-covered legs. The bone hoops sewn inside the skirt clicked and swung. Her chemise slid up, and she shimmied her lower body as she stuffed the chemise under the verdugale.

  "Please," William said in a thin, choked voice. "Dinna do that, lass. At least not when I'm watching."

  She glanced at him. His cheeks seemed on fire. The pink stains set his blue eyes to sparkling. She thought he was teasing her, but the spark in his gaze told her that he was serious.

  Hesitantly, she smoothed the skirt, tugged at the cords that fastened the waist. William did not offer to tie it for her, and though her knot was clumsy, it held. Then she picked up the brocade kirtle and put her arms into it again. The black skirt spilled neatly over the verdugale, giving a conelike effect, the hem just brushing the floor, trailing a little behind her.

  Once more she tried to bring the kirtle together at the waist. "'Tis too small, and doesna even cover the underskirt!"

  William rubbed his chin. "Perhaps the underskirt is turned around. Here..." He slid his hands around her waist.

  She took in a little breath at the warm, gentle shock of his hands nearly on her skin, with only the thin chemise between them. Something low in her abdomen seemed to swirl and pool with heat and yearning, just as when he had kissed her.

  She could not think about that wondrous kiss, hardly had time at all to dwell on what had happened between them. He bent his head toward her as he tugged, and she looked down at the glossy, dark waves of his hair, wanting to touch that thick softness.

  She flexed her left hand thoughtfully, tempted to slide it over his head, wanting desperately to give back to him some small part of the comfort and reassurance that he had given her.

  Despite the infinite kindness he had shown her regarding her hand, he had broken the kiss that had happened between them, had looked at her as if he were horrified with her—or with himself. She too had felt stunned by the kiss and, even more, by her body's strong response. She would have given herself to him in an instant had he asked, had he urged. Instead, wholly unsure of his reaction, she had run from the room, unwilling to face him again.

  But the tangle of the gown and its many lacings had defeated her. She knew that William wanted her to come down to supper with his family. She wanted to counter her performance at dinner with some dignity at supper, but she needed help to fasten the gown properly.

  William's behavior now seemed all frown and hurry, all seriousness. She wondered if she had dreamed those tender moments between them. He said nothing as he tugged at the narrow waistband of the verdugale, pulling it around her a little impatiently, as if he wished to be done with the task. She could hardly blame him for that.

  She glanced down. A panel of black brocade, reembroidered in gold thread over the floral pattern, was stitched into the linen. William swung it into view beneath the opening of the overskirt. "There," he said, standing back.

  "Oh!" Tamsin said. "'Tis lovely. But the bodice is still too small." The sides still gapped wider than a hand span over her chest. The sheer lawn chemise bunched there, her breasts shadowed beneath. She covered herself with a spread hand.

  William sat a hip on the edge of the bed, and pulled on her arm until she glided forward to stand between his legs. Her heart beat oddly fast, and her breath constricted. She studied him, so close to her in the firelight, as he studied the puzzle of her gown. She thought that she had never seen a man with such quiet, striking beauty.

  "Sometimes the bodice laces up the front, and sometimes it laces up the back," he said. "And some ladies wear a bodice piece fastened to the front. That must be it." He rummaged among chemises, stockings, caps, veils, and shoes. A little silver casket, its velvet lining gleaming with necklaces, rings, and earrings, tipped over.

  Tamsin hardly looked at what he did. She stared at him, and fisted her hands at her waist. Suddenly she did not care that the gatherings of the chemise might reveal more than modesty allowed. Her mood soured with a bitter trickle of jealousy.

  "You know a great deal about dressing ladies," she snapped.

  He glanced at her, his hand stilled on the bed. "I know how to undress them," he admitted. "Though nae so much how to dress them again. I leave that to their servant maids."

  "Then there have been many ladies in your life."

  He tilted his head, watching her. "Enough to acquaint me with women's gear," he said slowly. "Does that fret you, then?"

  She lifted her chin. "Nay. Do what you like. You are not, in truth, my husband. And I am not truly your wife. And so none of what you do with women matters a bit." She glanced away, aware that it did matter, a great deal. She stole another glance at him, unable to stop herself.

  He lowered his eyelids, which took on the appealing, languid droop that she sometimes noticed when he was deep in thought, or ready to flare out in temper. "True," he said. "We are not wed, are we, but just doing a favor for one another. Here, my lady"—he inclined his head in a mocking little bow—"put this on."

  Those clipped words hurt her. She was neither wife to him nor lady of Rookhope. And she was certainly not equal to the ladies he apparently knew so well.

  He handed her a stiff black piece, almost square, meant to fill the gap in the bodice. She noticed several ties along the edges. Silently, she held the stiff thing against her chest and began to tie the silken cords, pair by pair, to the bodice.

  She turned away. "Thank you. Go now, if you wish. Of course, 'tis your chamber, so you may do what you like."

  He sighed. "Tamsin," he said. "Pray your pardon, lass. I didna mean to offend you, but I see that I have."

  Her hands, fumbling with the tiny silken ties, stilled for an instant, and she gave him a brusque nod. The bows that she had made slipped loose, and she let out a little frustrated cry, bitten back.

  He blew out a breath, reached out quickly, and closed his fingers around her elbow. "Come here, you stubborn lass," he said, and drew her back between his legs, his thighs trapping her, pressing the shape out of her skirt.

  "This thing," he said, "is called a busk or a stomacher, and 'tis two squares of cloth over a thin bit of wood. Hold it
there, and let me lace it." She pressed it against her, and he began to work at the laces. "'Twould seem a tedious thing to wear, like armor covered in silk, but ladies prefer a flattened bosom for some reason. I would rather see something of... the endless variety of Nature," he drawled, lifting his brow.

  That remark, a startling reminder of his earlier act of kindness, had a simple effect on her. She melted, somewhere inside that she could not quite define. A delicious feeling poured through her, a warm swirl of joy. She stared at him.

  He did not look up, tying and tucking the knots. Tamsin felt her breath constrict slightly beneath the firm pressure of the busk and bodice. His fingers were agile and gentle, and he tucked the last laces, his fingers warm where they pressed against the thin chemise just above the tops of her breasts.

  She caught her breath, still looking at him. He withdrew his hand. He had not looked at her at all, though she wanted that, very much, even tipped her head to coax it from him.

  "There," he said quietly, and lowered his hands. "Lovely."

  "Aye, 'tis lovely," she breathed, looking down, smoothing her skirt, belling it out around her. The black bodice was now quite snug, flattening her breasts, smoothing her waist, flared at the hips and full at the hem. The gown created an hourglass shape that was, she thought, elegant and appealing.

  But her chemise bunched awkwardly over the bodice, and her breasts were rounded and flattened beneath the busk, their upper curves globing beneath the sheer lawn. William reached out long fingers to tug at the embroidered collar of the chemise. His fingertips trailed across her collarbone as he adjusted the pleatings over her shoulders.

  What little breath the tight busk left to her was erased by those gentle strokes. She stared up at him, feeling shivers slide up and down her spine. She felt as if she melted again, deep within the beautiful gown.

  "This bit is supposed to be pulled neat, but I'm not certain how 'tis done," he said. Tamsin could feel the chemise twisting about her torso and waist. She bent over and dipped beneath the skirts to pull it down, wriggling as she did so, and then reached up to adjust her bosom. She thought she heard William growl something under his breath.

  She straightened, patting the smoothed chemise where it disappeared beneath the bodice. She stepped away to turn in a circle, skirt spinning over her bare feet, and smiled at him. "'Tis done, I think, and just perfect."

  "Not quite," he murmured. "There are undersleeves yet to be tied under those wide sleeves. Then you'll need some bit of frippery and veiling to cover your hair, and silly embroidered gear for your feet, and gewgaws and baubles strung around your neck, and dangling from your ears. When you are decorated like a marzipan confection, then, my lass, you will be considered by many to be just perfect."

  She let out a breath. "Oh," she said, her shoulders bowing a little. She balled her left hand by habit, and the long, ruffled cuff of the chemise hid the small fist she made. "There is so much to know of this. I have very simple gear of my own."

  She felt a fool again, as when she had taken too much wine. The effects of the spirits still dulled her thinking somewhat. How could she have thought that a beautiful gown would make much of her? She had not even known enough to consider her feet or her hair. Nor was she sure what she would do with the little pile of rings that glittered inside the silver casket.

  "Och," William breathed out. "I considered you perfect in naught but the chemise." His voice was so low and soft that it seemed to caress her. "The rest seems unnecessary to me. But if it pleases you, lass, then 'tis necessary." He gave her a little smile.

  She tilted her head at him. Excitement coiled in her abdomen at his remark, at his hint that he preferred her in the chemise, that he found her attractive and desirable. She wanted to smile, and pinched it back, letting the humor and the happiness shine out her eyes, as she had seen him do so often.

  "You dinna like this?" she asked, holding out the skirt of the gown, swaying a little.

  He leaned a shoulder on the bedpost and played with a necklace of amber and gold, sliding the delicate firelit beads through his long fingers. "Tamsin," he said in a hoarse voice. "This business of being your handmaiden is too great a task for me. I think you shouldna ask it of me again. I dinna have the stamina it needs."

  She lifted a brow. "You have done this for a hundred other ladies," she said, "at court."

  He half laughed. "Never a hundred, believe me," he said. He fastened his gaze on her, keen and languid in shadows and firelight. "Come here."

  Her heart pounded within the cage of her breast like the hammer of a bell. She wanted to step toward him. But she knew that if she entered the circle of his arms again, even to let him adjust her clothing, she would be lost forever.

  She hesitated. His silence, his gaze, pulled at her, and she resisted. Her heart urged her forward, and fear held her back.

  "I thank you," she said, looking away, settling the folds of her gown around her. "I am sure you are eager to be free of this frippery and foolishness. I will finish myself and come down to supper soon. I must comb my hair, and decide which wee cap I like best, and which of those bonny necklaces, and find stockings and shoes—" She stopped, aware that she was chattering, aware that he stood now, staring down at her.

  "Aye. You can do the rest without difficulty."

  "I can," she said, and snatched a pair of stockings and garters from the bed. She sat on the floor in a wide jumble of black brocade, and stuck out one bare foot and ankle to slide on the white silk stocking.

  "Grant mercy," William muttered, and walked to the door.

  She watched him leave the room, his body long and hard and lean in the black breeches and pierced leather doublet and shirt. He was right, she thought. She felt a little foolish in such fancy gear. She was accustomed to simple clothing, which he, too, seemed to favor. But the brocaded gown, despite its fastenings and constraints, felt pleasing as it surrounded her in a shining pool of elegance. She felt almost beautiful in it. And she liked too the look she had seen in William's eyes when she had spun before him.

  She yanked on the silk stockings, and clumsily tied ribbon garters just below her knees to secure them. Then she stood and rummaged in Helen's generous pile, choosing the amber and gold necklace that William had fingered, and looped it around her neck. She tried to cap her head in a black crescent-shaped hood edged in pearls, from which a black velvet veil cascaded, but she could not make it stay. And the black shoes, when she found them, were strange, tiny slippers with no backs, just a shell for the toes, elaborately embroidered.

  She was nearing complete frustration with the cap and hood, unable to fit them over her hair, when she heard voices in the library. William's low drone and Helen's lighter voice murmured together.

  "Tamsin," William said. The door opened a bit, and he looked inside. "Come out here, if you will."

  Curious, but feeling shy, she padded to the doorway in stockinged feet and wildly curling hair, the gown swinging around her. She went through the doorway into the candlelit library.

  William stood there with Helen, who smiled past William's shoulder and gasped with delight when she saw Tamsin.

  "Oh! I did wonder if the black was too somber for you," Helen said. "But I vow, you glow like a jewel in that gown! 'Tis bonny on you! Will, what do you think?"

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Bonny," he murmured.

  Tamsin smiled and put a hand to her bare head. "I thank you for your generosity, Helen," she said, and stepped forward.

  William stepped aside then, and Tamsin saw that Helen carried a small child in her arms, an infant, swathed in creamy silken garments. The child sucked a fist and stared at her as she came forward, round blue eyes and dark curls glittering in the warm light, cheeks blooming pink, a fat hand waving.

  "Tamsin," William said, "this is my daughter Katharine."

  Tamsin smiled. "Katharine," she said, making her eyes wide at the child, coaxing a drooling smile in return that made William and Helen chuckle. "Oh, Will, she is bonn
y."

  "Aye," he said. She glanced up at him and saw him grin.

  Helen shifted the child in her arms. "Would you like to hold her? After all, she is your daughter too, now that you have wed William."

  Tamsin froze. She had not considered this when she and William had made their marriage arrangement. He had hardly mentioned the child, except to explain how imperative it was that he take a wife to keep his daughter safe in his custody. She glanced up at him again, a frown forming. He only nodded.

  Helen leaned Katharine toward Tamsin. The baby came into her embrace in a wave of warmth and softness, a scant weight in her arms, delightful and comforting. She adjusted her hold on the child and swayed as if by instinct, patting the little back, savoring the sweet warmth in her arms.

  Katharine stared at her, unblinking and calm. Then, without warning, her face crumpled and she began to wail. Tamsin jiggled her and shifted her to her right arm, patting the tiny chest with her left hand, unsure what to do. With a fast lunge, Katharine grabbed Tamsin's left hand, which was buried in the silk folds, pulled it up to her mouth, and began to suck.

  Mortified that her hand was exposed—even worse, in the infant's mouth—Tamsin tried to pull away, sure that Helen would feel revulsion. Katharine's grip was intense, her mouth hot and earnest on the tip of the wedged hand. Tamsin looked up at William, almost pleading. He lifted his brows and shrugged.

  Helen stood beside her and stared at Tamsin's hand, its odd shape fully exposed, but for the tip captured inside the baby's mouth. Tamsin wanted to cringe, wanted to run, but stood, and held the child, and helplessly let her devour her hand.

  "She does love to suck on all our hands," Helen said. "She is teething fierce." She smiled, her cheeks dimpling, hazel eyes sparkling. "I hope you dinna mind."