“Too effective. Which would mean...”
Bessie leans back against her workbench. “That you wouldn’t wake up.”
I take a nervous breath at her blunt words. As of now, I’m just trying to not put out. Not murder the king of England.
“I wouldn’t want that to happen,” I tell her. “But if I wanted you to make the draft two or three times stronger than you would probably make for me... is that something you could do?” She doesn’t say anything, and I go on, “My body is very resistant to tonics. I need more than the usual dose.”
Bessie keeps staring at me until she moves to check on the pot in the fireplace. “I could do it,” she says over her shoulder. “What’s the desired outcome?”
“Just a nice comfortable sleep for eight to ten hours.”
She turns to face me full-on then. A determination fills her gaze that I haven’t seen from her before. “You do realize that these remedies aren’t exactly allowed. And I take a great risk by making them.”
I pause a beat before asking, “Why are you?”
Her resolve falters momentarily. “I have four sisters. The oldest of us was married to a viscount twice her age. She was very scared of him. She still is. It was the king who made the match personally.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” I ask.
“Margaret,” Bessie answers. “She always loved me best.”
I take a step closer to her, starting to second-guess my plan. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“I’m comfortable,” she says firmly. “But I also want something from you in return.”
I tilt my head just off to the side. “What do you want?”
“I want... no, Ineedyou to find me a husband.”
Did not have that on my bingo card. “A husband?” I ask, making sure I heard her right.
Bessie busies herself with the dried plants hanging in the windows. “Yes. The whole purpose in my coming to court was to find a suitable match. If I don’t, my father will marry me off to my cousin Ned. Ned would pinch me as a child and now he always stares at me as he whispers Bible verses. He’s barely more than a weedy goat. I’m certain he has hooves.”
Ned can immediately fuck off.
Still, I don’t know if I can promise results in the role of a medieval matchmaker. While I have more relationship experience than a sheltered Tudor maiden, I can bring little to the table by way of success. During my trial-by-fire dating binge last year, I met several different types of men. Some good. Some bad. Some looking for love. Some looking for a very specific foot shape. The list goes on. And while I don’t regret intentionally dating for six months straight, I do regret putting a time constraint on it. Dating is stressful and overwhelming, and when my six months was up, I was so damn relieved.
All in all, I went on dates with eight different men. That’s not including the two who never showed for the meetups that they themselves arranged. The remaining statistics were as follows: One thought I looked too much like his ex. One gave friends-only vibes. One drove a van with no license plates and asked me to road-trip with him to a desert wedding in Utah. I politely declined. He called me cocktease bitch. Two agreed that there wasn’t a spark. One said I was the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen and named our three children, two boys and a girl, then ghosted me that very night. One was only looking for something casual after his long-term relationship failed, and then there was Brian.
Brian and I dated for a couple of months. He was a fireman who liked that I wore reading glasses, and I liked that both of us were both beach bums. The sweatshirts I borrowed from him smelled great, and the sex was good. But even as our conversation flowed, I realized he never asked me any questions. I asked him about it, because that’s what I do, and he said he didn’t notice. But shouldn’t he want to? I asked him. He shrugged and laughed it off, and didn’t call me the next day. I didn’t call him either. We texted back and forth for a while until it drifted into written silence. I won’t be penning a hard-hitting dating manual anytime soon.
“I can try to help you meet someone,” I end up telling Bessie, “but I don’t have the best romantic history.”
She faces me with a scoff. “Are you joking? You’re Catherine Howard. You’re desired by every man who lays eyes on you. For the longest time, I was certain your breasts somehow offered land grants.”
“I’m not sure if that’s offensive or not.”
“You know what I mean. There isn’t a gentleman at court who isn’t half in love with you. And I just need one not-evil non-goat to like me well enough to marry me. Surely you can manage it.”
Maybe Catherine could have managed it. Me? Not so much.
Bessie lifts her chin. “Those are my terms. Help me to find a decent husband within the month, and I will help you withthisfor as long as I reside at the palace.”
Screw it. If she’s in, I’m in. I hold out my hand. “I accept.”
She gives it an impressive shake. “Good. Brewing first. Boys later. We’ll have to take turns during the testing process.”
My eyebrows lift in question. “How are we going to test it?”
