But she also didn’t like lazy young women.
The long and moody afternoon passed into evening. Most of Diara’s trunks were packed, and her mother was doing inventory on her collection of combs, scarves, and products like cream for the skin and perfume that she felt would be alluring enough for a new husband. Iris had joined them near sunset, when her chores were mostly done and before the evening meal commenced, and she mercifully sat in silence once the situation had been explained to her. None of the usual questions or pestering, probably because she could see the expression on Diara’s face and realized this was not the time for her usual interrogation. Therefore, they sat quietly while Ananda virtually ignored them so she could finish her tasks.
Then came a knock on the door.
“Who comes?” Ananda called.
“Eddard, my lady.”
Ananda waved her hand at one of the servants, who went to open the panel. Eddard stood there, the knight Diara often accused of never bathing, a hairy young knight who seemed to wear the same clothing for weeks at a time and sometimes looked, and smelled, as if he lived in a hole in the ground. He focused on Ananda.
“A contingent is approaching, Lady Cheltenham,” he said. “It is Lord Cheltenham, accompanied by a rather large escort of de Lohr soldiers. Mathis and Pryce have ridden out to meet them.”
Ananda clapped her hands together. “Excellent,” she said, swishing her hand in his direction. “Go, now. Prepare for my husband’s return, and he has a very special guest with him. You will show Sir Richard de Lohr all proper respect.”
Eddard hadn’t known who was approaching with Lord Cheltenham, but considering he’d gone off to Lioncross Abbey todiscuss the death of de Lohr’s son, the fact that Richard de Lohr was coming to Cicadia made some sense. With a swift bow, he rushed back down the stairs, leaving Ananda in a state.
“Pack up these trunks,” she snapped to the servants. “Leave the blue silk hanging on the peg. That is what my daughter shall wear for her wedding day. Diara! Come here, quickly!”
Diara sighed heavily and, with a long look at Iris, begrudgingly stood up and went to her mother. She’d barely reached the woman when Ananda was reaching out to pull the clothing from her body.
“You shall wear the pink brocade,” she said, spinning her daughter around so she could get to the ties on her back. “Pink is such an alluring color on you.”
Diara was being buffeted back and forth by her mother’s hurried attentions. “It is an ingenuous color,” she said. “I do not like it. I would rather wear the sapphire wool or even the red silk.”
Ananda glared at her. “Iwill tell you what to wear for your betrothed,” she said. “He must see you as fragile and beautiful. Show a man a delicate flower, and I will show you a woman he wishes to protect. Let him be glad for this betrothal.”
“Dress me in pink and I will look like a child.”
“Shut your lips and do as I say.”
Diara rolled her eyes as Ananda continued to strip her down, calling for rosewater to wash with. Diara simply stood there, shaking her head at her mother’s eagerness, until a servant came from the hall to ask about housing the incoming soldiers. That divided Ananda’s attention until she could no longer handle both—dealing with the de Lohr soldiers as well as dressing her daughter. Leaving her daughter to the servants, she headed for the chamber door.
“Finish dressing and I shall see you down in Papa’s solar,” she said. “You and your betrothed should be introduced inprivate, not in the hall for all to see. Be demure and obedient when you meet him, Deedee. Do not chatter at him as you usually do.”
Diara didn’t have a chance to reply. Her mother had already flown from the chamber, slamming the door shut behind her.
“God’s Bones,” Iris muttered as she came over to stand with her cousin. “Aunt Ananda is in quite a state.”
Diara’s gaze lingered on the closed panel. “Aye, she is,” she said. Then she turned around in time to put her hand out to stop the servant who was preparing the pink garment. “Not that one. Bring me the red silk. The one with the angel sleeves.”
The servant hesitated fearfully for a moment, but quickly put the pink down and ran off to the wardrobe. What she returned with was an exquisite red dress that Diara had made last year without her mother’s knowledge. She’d been given permission to engage the seamstress in town with the garment of her choice and fabric of her own choosing, and she chose a red silk that had been made into a body-hugging garment that was as obscene as it was gorgeous.
Ananda had forbidden her from wearing it.
Unfortunately, it had cost a small fortune to produce, so Ananda wouldn’t dispose of it or give it away, either. It was a dress made for a queen, and Diara fingered it as Iris giggled in support of the rebellion. One servant put a featherweight linen shift over Diara’s head while the other servant lifted the red dress. Diara shimmied her way into it as it fell gracefully down her body.
Standing in front of the polished bronze mirror, Diara watched the servants smooth out the dress. It had a modest neckline that was high on the chest, but open enough that it hung slightly off her shoulders. The sleeves were what was known as angel’s sleeves, meaning they were long past her hands, belled out at the bottom. The bodice was cinched up justbeneath her breasts, with crisscrossed red silk ribbons that the servants tightened up to give her a daringly small waist.
Meanwhile, Iris had picked up a comb and set about combing out Diara’s blonde locks, which went to her buttocks. It had a natural curl to it, wavy and thick. She braided the front of her hair, pulling it back and securing it with a gold ribbon, while a circlet of gold and rubies went on her brow. The last item to go on was a big, heavy gold cross on a golden chain that had belonged to Diara’s grandmother. It was a spectacular piece against the backdrop of the red silk. Truth be told, nothing could compare with Diara in that red dress, for she outshone any woman in England when she wore it. The trouble was that her mother would never let her wear it.
But perhaps her new husband would.
She wanted to look like a bride fit for the son of the greatest warlord in England.
“Well?” she said when everyone was finished fussing over her. “Do I look like a bride that a man might be proud of?”
Iris nodded with approval. “Aunt Ananda will be furious, but you look like a goddess,” she said. “If Aunt Ananda becomes angry and makes you give the dress away, can I have it?”
