Banon sat up in their bed, and glared at her sister. “If you spoil my chance at happiness I shall never forgive you, Philippa Meredith!” she cried softly.
“You like Robert Neville, Banie. I must like this gentleman as well. I shall not marry simply to facilitate your plans,” Philippa snapped.
“Ohh, you are sometimes so hateful and spiteful!” Banon said angrily.
“You had best pray for me, little sister,” Philippa teased her sibling. Then she turned away from her sister, and fell into a dreamless sleep, while beside her Banon lay fuming and angry.
Two days later Philippa made her way to her uncle’s barge which had been sent for her. She was dressed in a golden brown velvet brocade gown with a tightly fitting bodice. The neckline was low and square, and filled in with a soft natural-colored linen pleating. The sleeves were tight, with cuffs of rich brown beaver. A silk girdle embroidered in gold and copper threads hung from her trim waist. Upon her head was a matching gable hood with a golden silk gauze back veil, and about her shoulders a beaver-lined brown velvet cloak.
Lucy grinned. “Well,” she said, “he ought to be impressed with you, mistress.”
“What do you mean he?” Philippa said nervously.
“The gentleman that Lord Cambridge wants you to meet with an eye towards marriage, mistress. That is why you’re going to Bolton House, isn’t it? Mistress Banon says that’s what it’s all about.”
“ ’Tis true that Uncle Thomas would introduce me to a gentleman, but there is nothing been discussed yet. We are just to meet away from the curiosity of the court.”
“Aye,” Lucy agreed. “Too many gossips and sharp eyes here, Mistress Philippa.”
“You will say nothing, Lucy,” she said, and her tiring woman nodded in agreement.
Philippa was glad that she was wearing several heavy warm petticoats beneath her gown. The day was cold, and dreary. There was the hint of snow or an icy rain in the air. The barge was rowed up the river with the tide, and it seemed no time until she could see Bolton House coming into view. She was frozen despite the fur lap robe upon her knees and the flannel-wrapped hot bricks at her feet. And her mind was racing madly.
What would he be like, this earl of Witton? At thirty he was just about twice her age. Would he still want to come to court? Would he permit her to come to court? Or would she be expected to remain in Oxford producing heir after heir for him? She had to wed sooner than later. She was facing her sixteenth birthday. Cecily had not returned to court. She was expecting a child, she had written Philippa. They would remain at Everleigh until after the child was born, as Cecily wanted to be near her mother now. Even the obnoxious Millicent Langholme was with child. Sir Walter had arrived at court on Twelfth Night to brag on his prowess. Bessie Blount was with child, although that was hardly something spoken about. Her baby would be born in June, she had told Philippa. She would be leaving court shortly, before Lent, in fact. I shall be alone but for my sister, who will certainly marry as soon as she may. But I must wed too. Philippa sighed, and then started as the barge bumped the quay of Lord Cambridge’s house.
Immediately a footman was there to help her from the vessel. “Your cousin is awaiting you in the hall, Mistress Philippa,” he said, ushering her up through the gardens, Lucy following. Inside he took her cloak, and she hurried off, knowing the way well.
“Uncle,” Philippa called, entering the lovely room. It was warm, and welcoming, and the dreary day did not seem quite so bad now. She held her hands out to him.
“Darling girl!” Lord Cambridge greeted her, coming forward to take her hands in his and kiss her on both cheeks. “Come now. There is someone whom I should like you to meet.” He led her down the chamber to where a tall gentleman awaited them by the fireplace. “Mistress Philippa Meredith, I present to you Crispin St. Claire, the earl of Witton. My lord, this is my young cousin Philippa, of whom we have spoken.” He released his grip on the girl as he spoke.
Philippa curtseyed politely. “My lord,” she said, eyes lowered, but dying to get a look at him. There simply had not been enough time to decide if he were handsome.
Aye, she was even prettier close up, the earl thought as he raised Philippa’s hand slowly to his lips, and saluted it with a light kiss. “Mistress Meredith,” he said.
His voice was deep, and had a slightly rough edge to it. Philippa felt a small shiver race up her spine. She snuck a quick peek at the man still holding her hand, and as she did she said, “May I have my fingers back, my lord?”
“I am not certain yet if I wish to return them,” the earl said boldly.
“Well, well, my dears, I see you will get on quite famously without me, and so I will leave you to become better acquainted,” Lord Cambridge murmured, and turning about, he left them. It was going to work out! He sensed it.
As Thomas Bolton had spoken Philippa’s startled gaze had met that of the earl.
“Ah,” Crispin St. Claire said, “you have hazel eyes. I wondered when I saw you at court from a distance what color eyes you would have. Your auburn hair was visible, but I wondered if you might have brown eyes like so many with reddish hair.”
“My mother’s eyes are brown,” Philippa replied. “I have my father’s eyes.”
“They are pretty eyes,” he told her.
“Thank you,” Philippa said, blushing.
It was then he realized that while Philippa might have thought to marry the FitzHugh lad, she had never been courted. He was still holding her hand, and now he led her to one of the window seats overlooking the Thames. “So, Mistress Meredith,” he began, “here we be, in an awkward situation. Why is it that those who seek to do us kindness never realize that by doing so they place us in a difficult position?”
“You want Melville,” she said frankly.
“Indeed I do. I have pastured some of my herds on that land for several years. I need it. But not enough to wed where I would not be happy. Nor the lady either,” he told her as candidly. “Now for pity’s sake, Mistress Meredith, look at me, for you have wanted to ever since you entered the room. I am not the king who cannot bear to be perused by a direct glance. Do you know my age? I am thirty. I am sound of both limb and mind, I believe.” He released her hand, and stood up. “Look upon the earl of Witton, mistress.”
Philippa looked up. The man before her was tall and slender. He could not be called a handsome man, but neither could he be said to be ugly. His nose was too long, and narrow. His chin was pointed, and his mouth too big. But he had fine gray eyes edged in deep brown lashes. His hair was an ash brown. He was elegantly but simply dressed in a medium blue velvet knee-length pleated coat with flared and fur-lined sleeves. She could see a fine gold chain beneath lying upon his blue brocaded doublet. They were the clothes of a gentleman, but not necessarily a courtier. Still, his manner was if anything too assured. For some reason it irritated her.
