“Mistress Banon says you ain’t been sleeping well,” Lucy replied. “I expects this has been weighing on you.” She arose and tucked the coverlet about Philippa’s shoulders. “Now there’s nothing to be frightened of, mistress. You just close your eyes and go to sleep. You’re safe in your uncle Thomas’s house.”
After Lucy had tiptoed away to her own cot in her little chamber next door, Philippa thought she would again be awake the night, or most of it. Her mind raced with her concerns. She had never been to Brierewode. What kind of a house was it? Would it be easy to manage? Would the servants resent her, or would they be happy for a new mistress? Would she be a good wife, a good countess of Witton? How could she balance her duties as Crispin’s wife with her duties at court? But then to her surprise Philippa felt herself growing sleepier. Why was she torturing herself with questions? Everything was going to work itself out perfectly. It always did. And she wouldn’t see Brierewode until sometime in the autumn anyway. Her eyes grew heavier. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. She slept.
When Lucy gently shook her awake Philippa could hear the sound of rain outside of her window. Well, it was April. She lay quietly hidden behind the curtains in her bed while her tub was set up, and the male servants, each carrying two buckets apiece, trekked in and out of the chamber with hot water for her bath. Finally they finished, and Lucy closed the door firmly. Philippa heard her pouring oil into the water, setting the towel rack by the fire, and then her bed curtains were opened.
“Come along, mistress,” Lucy said. “ ’Tis all ready for you, and piping hot just as you like it.” She helped Philippa from her bed and quickly drew off the girl’s chemise.
Philippa climbed into her tub, sighing as the heat penetrated her body. “Ohh, that feels good,” she said. “Let’s do my hair first, Lucy.” Then she sat quietly as the tiring woman washed and rinsed her hair with the scented water. When Lucy had finished she wrapped her mistress’s head in a towel, as Philippa took the soap from her and began to wash herself. She was quick, for the morning was chilly, and she wanted to mop herself off so she would not catch an ague while she brushed her hair dry. Wrapping herself in a bath sheet, she sat by the hearth and began to ply her hairbrush.
Lucy hurried to the kitchens to fetch her mistress’s breakfast. She returned with a tray with a slice of ham, a hard-boiled egg, a small cottage loaf, and a Spanish orange that had been peeled and sectioned and placed in a little bowl, along with butter and jam. “Cook apologizes for the meal, but he is busy preparing for your betrothal feast, mistress.” She set the tray down on the oak table. “Come and eat now. I must do your hair before you dress. What a lovely gown it is too!”
Philippa felt her mouth turn up in a small smile. It was a lovely gown. Pinning her almost-dry hair up, she put her brush down and came from the fireplace to sit down. “The meal is suitable to the occasion, for I am not that hungry,” she told Lucy.
“Well, eat it anyway. There’s no romance in a rumbling belly,” Lucy replied. “And cook sent up some of that nice cherry jam you like too,” she coaxed.
To her surprise Philippa ate everything on her plate and downed a small goblet of breakfast ale. She remembered how her mother would not let her have ale at breakfast until she was twelve. Until then she was only allowed watered wine. Her favorite cherry jam was most tasty on her tongue. She finished most of the cottage loaf and the butter with it. Clean, rested, and well-fed now, Philippa felt she could face this important day in her life. She rinsed her mouth with minted water. “Let us begin my toilette,” she said to Lucy.
Lucy brought forth a clean chemise of pale ivory silk. It had full sleeves, and the cuffs were edged with delicate lace. The neckline was round and sat upon the collarbone. The tiring woman slipped the gown on over her mistress’s head, guiding her arms into the sleeves.
“I love the feel of silk against my skin,” Philippa purred. She drew on the stockings that were handed to her. They were plain creamy silk. She attached simple ribbon garters to them.
Lucy smiled, and setting a shake fold with two silk petticoats layered over it upon the floor, she helped her mistress to step into them. Then she drew up the undergarments, tying them neatly. Next she drew the skirt of the gown over Philippa, settling it atop the petticoats and the shake fold. Philippa smoothed her palms over the rich violet brocade. Lucy offered her mistress the gown’s bodice, drawing it on and carefully lacing it up the back. The squared neck was banded with gold embroidery. The upper sleeve of the bodice was fitted, but the lower part of the sleeve had a wide turned-back cuff of violet satin and velvet brocade. The chemise sleeve with its lace-ruffled cuff shone. Lucy fastened a gold and violet embroidered girdle about Philippa’s waist.
“There!” she said in satisfied tones. “Now you have but to step into your slippers, and I will do your hair. The master says it must be brushed and loose. He has given me this to sprinkle in it.” She held out a small box to show Philippa.
Philippa chuckled. “It is gold dust,” she said, “and most rare. How extravagant of him. Use but a little. I will want some on my wedding day as well.” She slipped her feet into her soft violet leather slippers, which had been embroidered in pearls.
“Stand still now,” Lucy instructed as she climbed up on a small footstool, hairbrush in hand. She brushed her young mistress’s clean hair until it shone with its auburn lights. When she was at last satisfied she sprinkled some of the gold dust upon the brush, and worked it into Philippa’s hair. “Well, if that don’t beat all,” she said. “That gold dust adds just enough sparkle. We should save it, and use it again at the Christmas revels this year,” Lucy opined. “You would create a sensation, mistress.”
“I do not know if married women are supposed to create a sensation,” Philippa laughed. Then she turned about and stepped back. “How do I look, Lucy?”
“You are even more beautiful than your mother,” Lucy replied admiringly.
There was a knock upon the door, and before they might answer it Lord Cambridge entered the bedchamber, his face wreathed in a smile. Reaching into his doublet he drew out a long rope of perfectly matched ivory-colored pearls and matching earbobs. “For you, darling girl,” he said, and dropped the pearls over her head with one hand as he handed her the earbobs with the other. “And wear the gold and pearl chain with the gold and pearl crucifix,” he advised as Philippa fastened the two fat pearls into her ears. “I obtained these pearls specifically to go with it.”
“Has the king arrived?” Philippa asked.
“Gracious no, darling girl. You and I must personally greet him as he steps across the threshold. I do not believe he has ever been to Bolton House. Thank God it is small and simple, lest I be classed with the cardinal and find myself giving Bolton House to the monarch to keep his jealousy at bay.”
“Uncle Thomas,” Philippa giggled. “What a wicked tongue you have, and so early in the morning as well. Have the chatterboxes been fed yet?”
“Your tongue is as sharp as mine, darling girl,” he chuckled. “Aye, they have filled their bellies from my bounteous board, and are already in the hall. Both are atwitter with the thought of meeting the king. Neither ever has. And I cannot seem to stop bragging about the Bolton family’s long association with the Tudors.” He grinned. “The more I gossip with them the more suitable this match becomes to them.”
Philippa shook her head, and then she said, “As if they really have anything to do with it. Crispin will have Melville, and were I one-eyed and snaggle-toothed we would still be wed. I refuse to allow myself any illusions about this marriage. I shall not be disappointed then.”
“I think you do your earl an injustice, darling girl. I know he is a man of honor. Aye, it was Melville that brought you to his attention, but I firmly believe he would never marry you just to have the land. Have you not noticed how he stares at you when he thinks no one is looking?”
“You are imagining it,” Philippa said.
Lucy hurried to answer a new knock on the door. Outside of the portal William Smythe stood, soberly garbed in his usual black.
“My lord, the king’s barge is approaching the quay,” the secretary said with a bow.
“Thank you, Will. Come along, darling girl,” Lord Cambridge said, and he took his young cousin’s arm. “Is the hall ready, Will? Are the sisters close to swooning?”
“Indeed, my lord, they are,” the secretary said with a small smile. “I believe only the arrival of the young mistress and you will calm them down. The earl is looking most uncomfortable and nervous.”
Philippa and her cousin hurried downstairs and through the corridor leading to the door that opened onto the gardens. They watched from the open door as the royal barge was docked, and the king stepped out. He turned to help his wife and, sheltered from the rain beneath a canopy held by Lord Cambridge’s servants, the royal couple made their way through the gardens to where Lord Cambridge and his cousin waited to welcome them. The royal couple were followed by one of the queen’s priests.
