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The conversation had rested there, with just enough of an idea to keep Adorna’s thoughts occupied all that day while employing herself in her father’s Revels Office with Hester who, they discovered, was more than content to assist with the embroidery. Before supper, they rode together across Richmond Park with friends, Hester surprising them once again by her excellent horsemanship.
Like words that turn up on a daily basis after an absence of years, Sir Nicholas and some of the men from the Royal Mews were seen in the distance studying the paces of some large greys. Although her party watched them awhile, Adorna trotted off smartly in the opposite direction as soon as Sir Nicholas approached. It was, she told herself, too soon for unrehearsed pleasantries.
She was still unrehearsed when she was presented with another chance on the following day while keeping her promise to Master Burbage, principal actor with Leicester’s Men, the ones who had caused such merriment at the dinner party.
For almost a year, Adorna’s brother Seton had been one of their members, chiefly as a writer of plays, at which he excelled, and more recently as an actor, at which he did not. It was one thing to cavort about at home when all of them were equally inept, but it was quite another to perform professionally when all of them except him were very good.
At seventeen, Seton Pickering was so remarkably like his elder sister that some said, in private, that he ought to have been born a girl. They had the same colouring, the same classic features, the same willowy grace, but Seton’s ability to write plays had brought him, through family friendships, to the attention of James Burbage, who instantly recruited young Seton to write for his company under the patronage of the great Earl of Leicester, no less.
Unfortunately for Seton, the unknown side-effects of his acceptance concerned the company’s constant shortage of suitable young men to play the female roles, a tradition that for reasons of modesty were never allowed to women themselves. So, as one who knew the whole cast’s lines by heart and who had a head start when it came to disguising as a woman, poor Seton was exploited in a direction he would have preferred not to go, having no wish to perform the way his younger brother did. At thirteen-and-a-half, Adrian was rarely not performing.
Adorna’s decision to visit the specially built playhouse at the sign of the Red Lion at Whitechapel did not meet with Seton’s immediate approval, in spite of her promise to Master Burbage. ‘You won’t like it,’ he told her, pettishly. ‘It’s noisy. Hester won’t like it, either.’
‘But it’s you we want to see,’ Adorna said. ‘And Master Fowler will be there to see to our safety. I know you’ll be good.’
‘I won’t,’ he grumbled. ‘I never am.’ All the same, he gave her a hug and a watery smile.
They made the journey on horseback from Richmond to the city, and it was two hours after noon when they were eventually allowed into the building with the eager crowds paying their shillings for seats in an upper gallery supported by scaffolding. Hester, already uncomfortable, was unsure about the wisdom of the whole venture, but Peter’s protective instincts were already alert, for this kind of place was well known to swarm with pickpockets. He shepherded them into a shady corner and did his best to divert Hester’s attention from the press of bodies.
‘Look down there,’ he shouted, pointing to the stage. ‘If we’d paid more we’d have been allowed to sit on the stage itself, as those gallants are doing. I hope they don’t stop the performance.’ The clamour made any attempt at conversation quite impossible, and it was Hester’s nudge that made Adorna turn to where she was looking, not at the stage but to the gallery at one side of it.
A group of fashionably dressed people had just entered and were arranging themselves along the benches, laughing and chattering with excitement, one of whom Hester had already recognised. The sunlight fell on him as he waited to be seated, dressed elegantly in dark green and red, his small white ruff open at the neck to accentuate the strong angle of his jaw. Sir Nicholas Rayne.
Holding her breath, Adorna pulled herself back from the edge of the gallery wondering why, of all times and places, they would be obliged to sit within sight of each other to remind her of a moment she was trying to forget. The trumpets sounded for the start of the play, the audience turned to face the stage, but Adorna was sure that, if she could hear the beating of her heart, then surely everyone else could. She would not, could not look at him.
‘He waved,’ Hester said as the din settled.
‘Did he?’ said Adorna. Indirectly, she had scrutinised every one of his companions, two other men and three young, pretty and vivacious women whose chatter was unaffected by the arrival of the first actor. But then, nor were others until at least five minutes had passed by which time the words could be heard. All the way through, there was a continuous upstaging from the rowdy group of young gallants who had paid well to sit on stools within reach of the actors, and when Seton made his entrance as a lovely young woman, their loud comments would have made a sailor blush.
Adorna’s glance across at Sir Nicholas’s group showed that some of them thought it was hilarious while she squirmed for her brother’s predicament, having to suffer that kind of thing each day in a different role. Though his acting was not quite as bad as he had told her it was, it became clear to her, knowing him as she did, that this sensitive young man was enjoying the performance even less than she was. She applauded loudly and enthusiastically at each of his speeches, ceasing to care whether Sir Nicholas was watching her or not, determined to make Seton aware of her support.
As the actors took their bows, Adorna shouted to Peter that she was going backstage to find her brother. ‘I know where the horses are,’ she called to him in the pandemonium. ‘You take Hester and wait for me. I’ll be all right. I can look after myself.’
‘No, don’t go!’ Peter yelled back. ‘You’ll be trampled to death.’
‘Don’t be dramatic.’ She smiled, squeezing Hester’s arm. ‘I must have a word with Seton. See you outside.’ Slipping past them, she climbed over the bench and found her way at last into the dark shaky stairway that led her in the direction of the stage, elbowing her way against the crowds. To her consternation, she came face to face with those in Sir Nicholas’s group who, although not known to her personally, had been aware of her presence in the gallery. She smiled and squeezed past, seeing Sir Nicholas’s concerned expression over their heads, fortunately too far away to make contact.
His eyes followed her, disapproving. ‘Mistress Pickering,’ he called.
But Adorna pressed forward, ignoring him, finding herself in a shabby wooden passageway where actors, their faces grotesque with thick sweating paint, squeezed past her on their way to curtained cubicles. She peeped into two before she found Seton.
Beneath the pale pink face-paint, the ridiculously red cheeks and painted lips, Seton was beaded with sweat. His eyes were wide and sad, his fair lashes blackened, his head still covered by a massive blonde wig that fell in luxurious curls over his lace ruff. From a distance he had looked convincing; now, he looked absurd. His sweat had made dark stains under each arm and the two bulges on his chest had been trussed until they almost met his chin. The jug of ale in his hand shook uncontrollably.
Miserably, he placed it on the small littered table. ‘Dorna!’ he said, croaking. ‘I saw you.’
They fell into each other’s arms, swaying in mutual comfort, Adorna as pained to see her brother in this state as he was to be seen. He had not wanted it. His malformed shape reeked of sheep’s wool, and she could not tell whether his shaking was for relief, distress, or laughter. ‘Shh!’ she crooned. ‘You were very good.’ Then, hearing the inadequate words, she added, ‘Well done, love. Even Master Burbage didn’t know his lines as well as you.’
‘I should do,’ he said. ‘I wrote them.’
‘By far the best play I’ve ever seen. Wonderful story.’
‘Thank you…thank you, love.’ He turned them both to the sheet of polished brass on the wall that served as a mirror. ‘Look, Dorna. Look at us both.’
Still clinging, they saw two sisters, identical in so many respects that they might have been twins.
‘Well!’ Adorna smiled at his reflection. ‘Shall I call you sister now?’
Seton broke away, eager to be rid of the stifling disguise. ‘Not for the world,’ he said. ‘As soon as my voice breaks, I’ll do this no more. I’m counting the days.’
‘It won’t be long, love. It’s going already.’
‘You heard the squeaks?’ He gave a rasp of laughter. ‘Yes, I know. I shan’t be able to keep it up in that register much longer, thank heaven. It hurts with the strain.’ Seton’s voice had been late to change, though there had been those, Master Burbage, for instance, who hoped it never would. Such things were by no means unusual. ‘Here, help me off with this thing.’ He put a hand to his forehead to peel away the wig.
But before Adorna could comply, the curtain rattled to one side to reveal an unknown figure who stood swaying on the threshold, his face bloated and purple with drink, his eyes swivelling from one female figure to the other. ‘Eh?’ he said, thickly. ‘Two…two of you?’ He swept a hand over his face. ‘Can’t be. I’m seeing things again.’ He kept hold of the curtain for support while he fell into the cubicle with an outstretched hand ready to grab at Adorna’s bodice.
She lashed out, yanking at the man’s hair as he came within range while Seton, in the confined space, picked up the jug of ale to hit him over the head. The curtain and its flimsy pole came down with a splintering crash as the intruder was yanked firmly backwards by a dark green arm across his throat and, above the mesh of curtain and limbs, Adorna identified the green-and-red-paned breeches of Sir Nicholas. Standing astride the prostrate drunkard, his eyes switched from brother to sister and back again, his expression less than sympathetic.
‘Congratulations on your performance, Master Pickering. Are you hurt, mistress?’ he said to Adorna.
There had not been time for any injury except to her composure, which had suffered even before her meeting with Seton. ‘No, I’m not hurt, I thank you,’ she said. Curious faces had appeared behind Sir Nicholas, and a pair of stage-hands came to drag the man away by his feet, still parcelled. The curtain rail lay smashed across the passageway. ‘Who was he, Seton?’ she asked.
‘The usual kind of backstage caller with his congratulations. It’s quite a common occurrence, love.’
‘You mean they come here to…?’
Seton smiled and pulled off his wig, making himself look, in one swift movement, utterly bizarre. ‘Yes, all part of the business. You have to get the wig off first. That usually stops ’em.’ He took Adorna’s hand. ‘Now you must go. Let Sir Nicholas take you home. He appears to be more security-conscious than your Master Fowler. Sir…’ he turned to Sir Nicholas ‘…we were glad to have your assistance. I thank you. Could you see my sister safely home, please? She should never have been allowed to come backstage on her own.’ His voice wavered over an octave.
‘Your sister didn’t come here alone, Master Pickering. I was waiting at the other end of the passage for her. And you may rest assured, I intend to see that she gets home safely.’
On that issue, there seemed no more for Adorna to say except to hug Seton once again and assure him that she would give good reports of the play to their parents. Outside, however, in the emptying space of the shadowy theatre, she began her objections, suddenly realising how impossible it would be to follow Maybelle’s advice at a time like this. ‘Sir Nicholas,’ she said, slowing down, ‘I came with Master Fowler and Cousin Hester and our servants. We shall be quite safe enough, I assure you. I thank you, but—’
‘No need to thank me, mistress,’ he said, coldly formal with his use of her title. ‘You will be going home with Master Fowler, as you came. But I told your brother I would give you my personal protection, and that is what you’ll get, whether you want it or not.’
She stopped in her tracks. ‘You came here, sir, with your own friends and I came with mine. I prefer not to join you.’
Unmoved, he stopped ahead of her with a loud sigh, only half-turning to explain as if to a difficult child. ‘You are not joining me,’ he said, wearily. ‘I’m joining you. My friends have gone home. They are Londoners. Now, can we proceed? The horses will be getting restive and your cousin Hester will be worrying, I expect.’ Whether about Adorna or the horses he did not specify.
She could not explain why she preferred Peter’s company to his, nor why she felt embarrassed that he had seen her brother at less than his best and unable to shield her from harm, the way he had done. The afternoon had not lived up to her expectations, and her heart bled for Seton, whose discomforts had been far more acute than any of theirs.
Rather like the play itself, the journey home was long, uncomfortably hot, and tense with an act which, as far as some of the characters were concerned, made them relieved to reach the end. Whether she would admit it to herself or not, she had been further nettled by this latest display of Sir Nicholas in the company of women, though the thought no more than skirted the labyrinth of her mind that there was no good reason why he should not be at a playhouse with friends of either sex. New to jealousy, she still did not recognise its insidious tentacles.
Just as bad was the small howling voice of reason that reminded her, at every glance, of the prejudice he had pleaded with her not to hold. A dozen times on that journey from London to Richmond, she watched him and listened to his deep voice as he talked easily with both Peter and Hester, and she wondered whether this unpredictable return to his original abruptness signalled an end to his efforts to win her interest and, if it did, then why had he followed her when she went to see Seton? She recalled her father’s persistence, his four times of asking, and wondered how her mother’s nerves had stood up to the uncertainty.
On reflection, it could only have been by design that, as they entered the courtyard of Sheen House in the early evening, Sir Nicholas manoeuvred his horse near enough to hers for him to be the one to lift her down from the saddle, leaving Peter to assist Hester. As her feet touched the ground, she would have removed her hands from his shoulders as quickly as she could, but he caught them tightly and held her back, unsmiling.
After miles of contemplation, Adorna would have pulled away, angrily, her hurts being multiple and confused and not to be easily soothed. Certainly not in the temporary shelter of her horse in a crowded courtyard. But she was surprised enough to wait as he touched both her knuckles with his lips, sending her at the same time the quickest whispered message she had ever heard. ‘At bedtime. In the banqueting house.’ Then he released her, turning away so fast that she might even have imagined it.
Her first reaction was of an overwhelming relief that, like her father, he had not given up too soon. Hard on its heels came the heady thrill of fear and promise; already she could feel his arms, his mouth on hers. Then, what if she refused to meet him, to show him once and for all that she had no intention of being added to his list, whether at the bottom or the top? How that would teach him a lesson more swiftly than Maybelle’s version, though it would leave her longing for something she had tasted and would never taste again? Was she experienced enough to deal with that?
As she had half-expected, Peter and Sir Nicholas were both invited to supper and, since it was already an hour later than suppertime, they readily accepted. Hester, exhausted by the three-day effort of being sociable, left the conversation to the others and retired to her bed soon after the meal. Adorna, however, was compelled by the circumstances and by her own confusion to maintain a pretence of indifference towards Sir Nicholas, which, she believed, would give him no hope that she would accept his invitation. At times she came close to being sure that she would never do so, for that would be to walk into his trap like a drugged hare. Her resolution veered by the hour.
Peter and Sir Nicholas took their leave of the Pickerings together, the duties of Her Majesty’s Chamber coming before pleasure and, whether for friendship or to make sure of the competition, Sir Nicholas rode with him back to the palace, presumably to return later, unseen.
‘I do wish you would try to unbend to Sir Nicholas a little, Adorna,’ Sir Thomas said as they watched the guests depart. ‘He’s a most pleasing and competent chap. Knows his job, too, by all accounts.’
‘You’ve been making enquiries, Father?’
‘Yes,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Of course I have. He’s Lord Elyot’s son and he’s gleaned most of his horse skills from Samuel Manning, Hester’s uncle. Good connections.’
‘And what about his connections with Lord Traverson, Father? Do you know anything of those?’
‘Traverson? No, nothing at all. All I know about Traverson, the old fool, is that he’s sent his eldest daughter off to Spain to marry some duke or other. That’s as near to being a royal as he’ll ever get, for all his efforts. What do you know about him, then?’
‘Nothing at all, except that he’s one of the Roman Catholics that Her Majesty objects to.’
‘So that’s why he’s sent his wife and daughters off to Spain, I expect, to get them to safety. No Protestant would risk the Queen’s anger by taking the daughters on, her views being what they are, and nor would Traverson allow it, either. So much for religious tolerance. Come on in, love. Time for bed. You’ve had a busy day.’
‘Yes, Father. I’ll go and lock up the banqueting house.’
‘Eh?’ he frowned. ‘Lock up the—?’
His arm was caught, quite firmly, by his wife’s hand; she pulled him back and closed his mouth at the same time.
Chapter Five
R eciting her opening lines, Adorna opened the door and went inside, sure in the pit of her stomach that this was not a sensible thing to do, and certainly not the way to show a man how consistently unaffected she could be. It was not so much that a well-bred young woman would not have done this kind of thing; she would, there being few enough places where one could be private, let alone with a lover. Every nook and cranny had to be made use of. But having acted the hard-to-get with such force, this would seem to him like a remarkably sudden capitulation after so little effort on his part. Even her mother had put up more resistance than this, apparently.
On the other hand, the invitation may have been no more than a cruel jest. The thought sent shivers of fear across her like an icy draught.
The place had been swept and tidied with the sun’s warmth still locked inside, the first deep shadows of night clothing the painted walls and blackening the windows. She waited, straining her ears towards every sound, picking up the distant hoot of an owl and wondering vaguely how she could be at such odds with herself that she could do the exact opposite of what she had planned to do. Could she be in love against her will? Was that what love did?
From the palace courtyard a clock chimed the hour, then the half-hour. She sat, stood, and sat again, starting at every sound, watching the lights go down in the house, one by one. Another hour chimed. Numb with anger and cold, she closed the doors behind her, quietly, this time. One last look towards the wall where the door led from the paradise into the palace garden, then she picked up her skirts and went into the house with a painful knot burning in her throat, knowing that this must be the snub she had predicted, though not quite so soon. That, and the coolness since his appearance at the theatre, would be his way of teaching her that it was he who had the upper hand.
There was one thing, however, that this fiasco had taught her; that she would never be caught like this again, that it had mercifully prevented her from continuing from where they left off and that, in effect, she had had a narrow escape. She should be thankful. This time, she would not weep or admit that her pride had taken a fall. She could act, as Maybelle had reminded her. Let them see how well she could perform.
Yet in her dark bed, the act was abandoned and the mask of nonchalance removed, and she gave way to the surge of uncontrollable longing that his kisses had awakened in her. After that, she fumed with anger at the man’s arrogance, his sureness that she would come willingly to his hand. Never again. Never! She would die rather than become one of his discarded lovers.
The timing of it could not have been better even if Dr John Dee, the Queen’s astrologer, had looked into his scrying-glass and forecast the best day for forgetting, this being the day of the masque in the royal palace for which she and her father’s men had put in weeks of preparation. To have every prop ready on time, they would have to work nonstop.
Hester went with Adorna to the Revels Office, insisting that, although neither of them would be taking part in the masque, she could assist with the embroidery. ‘Is this the bodice?’ she whispered to Adorna, her eyes widening at a mere handful of tissue. ‘This bit here?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’ Adorna smiled. ‘Many of the Court ladies show their breasts nowadays at this kind of event. This is modest compared to some.’
‘You designed it?’
‘Yes, four like this and four with a silk lining. This one’s for Lady Mary Allsop. She likes to be seen.’
‘But you can see through it!’ Hester didn’t know whether to laugh or to appear shocked. ‘What does Her Majesty say to this?’
‘Her Majesty is very careful not to let anyone outshine her,’ Adorna whispered, laughing. ‘She bares almost as much herself, occasionally.’
Only a few days ago, the idea of Cousin Hester sewing spangles on semi-transparent masque-costumes for ladies of the Court would have been unthinkable. But there she was, beavering away with her shining brown head bent over a heap of sparkling sea-green sarcenet at five shillings the yard, actually enjoying the experience. Even the apparent contradiction of women taking part in a masque while not being allowed to act on stage had been accepted by Hester without question. Adorna had also noticed how the men made any small excuse to attract Hester’s attention and how she was now able to speak to an occasional stranger without blushing. Cousin Hester was taking them all by surprise.
Sir Thomas smiled at his daughter, lifting an eyebrow knowingly.
By evening his smiles had become strained as he supervised the magnificent costumes being packed into crates for their short journey across several courtyards to the Royal Apartments at the front of the palace, along corridors, up stairs, through antechambers and into a far-too-small tiring-chamber. As the one who knew how the costumes were to be fitted, Adorna went with them to assist the tiring-women amidst a jostle of bodies, clothes, maids, yapping pets, crates and wig-stands.
‘Here’s the wig-box, Belle,’ Adorna called above the din. ‘Keep that safe, for heaven’s sake.’ The wigs were precious golden affairs of long silken tresses weighing over two pounds each, obligatory for female masquers.
She checked her lists, ticking off each item as it was passed to the wearer’s maid, waiting with suppressed impatience for the inevitable late arrival. ‘Where’s Lady Mary?’ she asked one of the ladies.
The woman wriggled out of her whalebone bodice with some regret. ‘Don’t know how I’ll stay together now,’ she giggled, happy with her pun. ‘Lady Mary? She wasn’t feeling well earlier, mistress. Anne!’ she called to the back of the room. ‘Anne! Where’s Mary?’
‘Which Mary?’ came the muffled reply.
‘Mary Allsop!’
‘Not coming. Indisposed.’
Adorna’s heart sank. ‘What?’ she said. ‘She can’t—’
‘Indisposed my foot,’ the courtier simpered. ‘I expect she’s chickened out at the last minute.’ She glanced at the costume Adorna held.
‘As usual,’ someone else chimed in.
‘But we can’t have seven,’ Adorna said. ‘There have to be eight Water Maidens in four pairs. There are eight men expecting to partner you.’
The courtier held her breasts while her maid pulled a silky kirtle upwards to cover her nakedness, fastening it at the waist. ‘This is like wearing a cobweb,’ she grinned. ‘Well then, Mistress Pickering, you’ll have to take her part. You’ll fit that thing better than anyone, I imagine.’
Adorna was not going to imagine any such thing. ‘Er…no. Look, one of your maids can do it. Now, who is the nearest in height to…?’
There was a sudden surge of protest as Adorna’s suggestion was rejected out of hand. ‘Oh, no! Not a maid. No, mistress.’
‘The masquers must be from noble families.’
‘Or Her Majesty would be insulted, in her own Court.’
‘Adorna, come on, you can do it.’
‘Yes, you’re the obvious stand-in, and you won’t need to wear the wig, either. Come on, mistress.’
‘I cannot. I’ve never worn…well…no, I can’t!’ Even as she refused she knew the battle to be lost, that there had to be eight and that she would have to take the place of the inconsiderate absconder. At the same time, she could still remember what pleasure she had derived from designing each costume which, although slightly different in colour, style and decoration, had made up the eight Water Maidens. She had imagined herself wearing each costume, floating in a semi-transparent froth that swirled like water a few daring inches above the ankle. She had tried some of them on when only herself and Maybelle had seen, sure that no one would ever see as much of her as they would of the Queen’s ladies.
The masks had been adjusted to hide the wearers’ identities from all but the most astute observer. No one would know it was her except, perhaps, by her hair.
‘Wear the wig,’ said Maybelle, ‘then they’ll not know till later that you’re not Lady Mary.’
But Adorna knew how unbearably hot the wigs were. ‘Not if I can avoid it,’ she said. ‘I’ll risk my own hair. I’m only one of eight, after all.’
