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Etta had accepted this, but had still enjoyed hearing about life at court from Master Stephen Hoby, who seemed to know all about it, who he knew there, what they wore, what new fabrics he had handled at the Royal Wardrobe and what the newest Spanish fashions were. It had seemed to her then that only at court would she ever meet a more interesting and engaging type of man who did more than praise her eyes. Surely the young Queen, with her amazing intellect and reputation for scholarship, would gather around her men who could converse with her on serious subjects.
Her parents’ recent decision to find her a husband had been expected ever since the steady flow of suitors had begun to dwindle noticeably due, she was sure, to her reputation for rejecting them so quickly. So it was with some consternation that Etta realised that, this time, her parents were deadly serious and that her time of asserting her independence in this area was well and truly at an end.
Behind her step-parents’ reluctance to understand her longing to meet the new Queen, Etta caught the vibrations of another kind of fear, that Elizabeth might exercise her right to dislike her. She had not needed them to point out to her that the sovereign was under no obligation to receive her with smiles of welcome, for the recent news that she was choosing fewer maids and ladies to attend her indicated some caution in the matter. As for conducting herself at court, her only education so far had been gleaned from listening to the experiences of others and from gossip when someone had breached the complicated codes of etiquette.
* * *
The next few days seemed intended to reinforce her longing to become a part of the royal court when she accompanied Lord and Lady Raemon and her brothers to the celebration banquets held by the various guilds associated with the Royal Wardrobe where Sir George Betterton, Uncle George, was a senior officer. So with banquets, jousts and masques, visits to the Abbey of Westminster to see the decorated interior and to Lambeth Palace to dine with the Archbishop of Canterbury, there were plenty of opportunities for her to meet gorgeously dressed men and women who reflected the latest fashions and spoke at first hand of life at court. With her parents close at hand to guide her through some of the complexities of names and titles, Etta felt that this was her sphere, even more so now when it had become obvious to all who saw her that the Queen had a close relative who rivalled her in beauty and grace. But for Etta, the experience of dressing in her finest clothes every day, being seen and admired, speaking with those who interested her as much as she did them, was enough to send her to bed each night longing to become an integral part of this enchanted and glamorous world.
Towards the end of that hectic week, she was invited to visit the Royal Wardrobe as the guest of Uncle George to see the Queen’s coronation robes that had been returned for cleaning and, if it was needed, some mending. As her brothers had worked under Sir George for two years already, they took her with them by river to where the Royal Wardrobe was situated near Blackfriars, only a stone’s throw from St Paul’s Cathedral. The River Thames flowed conveniently nearby and Puddle Wharf was the landing place for cargo ships and wherries that plied the river constantly. From the jetty at Tyburn House, they were rowed downriver huddled inside fur cloaks against the biting wind and flurries of snow, Etta wearing her white fur bonnet and the matching muff she’d been given for her birthday, a little over a week ago.
On their arrival at the vast complex of buildings known as the Royal Wardrobe, Etta found that she was not the only one to have been invited to view the robes, for her Cousin Aphra was there too, and her brother Edwin who worked there under his father’s eye. Other guests had accepted the invitation, some of whom she knew were wealthy merchants who supplied the Wardrobe with costly fabrics, furs and gems, silks for the embroidery, gold beads and threads. The twins, Michael and Andrew, went off with Edwin to the department where the tailors worked, while Etta and Aphra drew close together like sisters. As a four-year-old, Aphra had taken the two-year-old Etta under her little wing, acting as a mother hen to the mischievous child, and even now could not shake off the responsibility. ‘Show me the coronation robes, Aphie. I’m longing to see what she looked like,’ said Etta.
‘Father says it’s been frantic in here for weeks since the orders were given,’ said Aphra. ‘They even had to stop the mercers from buying up the crimson silk before the Queen had taken her choice. Of course,’ she added as they walked past ledger-covered tables and the bent heads of clerks, ‘it’s not going to finish now the coronation is over. Father says the Queen is insisting on a completely new wardrobe, to be as different from the old Queen’s as possible. And naturally, when the Queen sets a fashion, everyone else will follow. Here we are, see?’
Through a wide archway, the room ahead was filled with shimmering gold satin and rich velvets of purple and crimson, piles of white ermine, tissues of silver with pearls by the thousand, gemstones and gold lace overlaying the twenty-three yards of cloth-of-gold. Not one gown but four, for the coronation, then more for the banquet and several changes for every day since then, though some had still not arrived from Westminster and the nearby Palace of Whitehall. The cost was phenomenal at a time when funds were low, but the Queen’s insistence on a rich show was as much a statement of serious intent as vanity. Now Etta could see in detail what had passed her by on that morning when all her attention had centred on the Queen’s recognition, the gold fabric worked with Tudor roses, the gold-edged ruffles, the heavily encrusted tassels of the ermine-caped mantle.
‘These must weigh a ton,’ Etta said, letting her fingertips brush along the fur. ‘She must be strong to look her best through so many days.’
‘Apparently,’ said Aphra, ‘she had to take to her bed after the coronation with a heavy cold. Some of the events had to be cancelled.’
‘And no one to chastise her when she’s late. Lucky lady. I wonder how much she paid for her velvet. Is it more expensive than the...?’
Aphra had moved out of earshot, her place taken by a tall gentleman who answered Etta’s question without hesitation. ‘Twenty-two shillings the yard, Mistress Raemon,’ he said. ‘And, yes, it is considerably more expensive than the satin, which can vary depending on colour and country of origin.’
Etta was taken aback. It was not usual for a stranger to speak before being introduced. She decided to dispense with formalities, however, for this man was interesting on several levels: for one thing, he knew about fabrics and, for another, he was perhaps one of the best-looking men she had ever met and well-spoken in a soft deep voice. Well dressed, too. Fashionable, but not excessively so, in a suit of good quality fabric, a beautifully tailored doublet that fitted perfectly across a deep chest and broad shoulders. ‘Why should the price depend on the colour, sir? Are you telling me that some dyes cost more than others?’
‘That is exactly what I am telling you, mistress. Dyes such as blue and brown are easy to come by, but dyes like purple, for instance, come from distant lands and are difficult to source and obtain. Some are got by a complex dyeing process, which is why the Queen reserves them for royal purposes.’
‘Are you in the dyeing trade, then?’
‘I am a mercer,’ he said. ‘It’s my business to know about such things.’
‘And how did you know my name?’
He smiled, revealing perfect teeth and showing a pair of laughing brown eyes that sparked with admiration. ‘I could not help but know your name, mistress, when it’s upon everyone’s lips. Now we’ve had a chance to compare you, the sight of another woman with the Queen’s looks cannot help but be the cause of some comment. I was present at the Guild of Mercers’ banquet a few days ago, which you also attended with your parents, but you left before I could be introduced. Did your ears not burn?’
She looked away, laughing in embarrassment, though secretly she was excited to find herself the object of such interest. ‘No, sir. I think you are teasing. Perhaps you could tell me more about the Queen’s robes?’
So while the deep-voiced mercer told her of the Queen’s artificers who made up her gloves, purses, hose, shoes and hats, showing her the heavily embroidered velvet bags specially made to keep them in, Etta constantly cast her eyes over his handsome head and masculine figure and wondered how she might develop this budding friendship without suffering the investigations her parents were set on imposing. He was probably of no particular importance, she thought, for her parents to have overlooked an introduction, and yet, to her, his knowledge of fashion and fabrics, his charming manner and obvious good breeding was of more importance to her than any titled good-for-nothing with more wealth than intelligence. But, of course, he would be married. How could he not be?
They had moved into an adjoining room where liveried men carried rolls of fabric on their shoulders between ceiling-high racks piled with bales of fabric, their labels dangling like tassels, the soft thud of cloth-rolls hitting the shelves, the faint perfume of lavender and spices. ‘Did you not bring your wife with you, sir?’ she asked, looking towards the open door.
His eyes lingered over her face as if deliberating how to answer the simple question, making her fear that it might not be to her liking, after all. When he replied, it was as if he knew exactly the purpose of her query, exposing her thoughts and linking them to his own. ‘I have not yet taken a wife, Mistress Raemon,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could help me to find one?’
She tried to search his eyes, but they were searching hers and she could not maintain her quest for a meaning. Long-lashed lids flickered like shutters to prevent him from seeing any sign that might expose her interest and, with an effort at the brand of nonchalance she used on such occasions, she moved away from him, speaking over her shoulder. ‘I doubt it, sir. Perhaps you should look amongst the mercers’ daughters. There are sure to be some available. Now, I must return to my cousin. She’ll be wondering where I am. Through here, is it?’
She heard the soft laugh behind her, as if he were amused by her attempt at a dismissal, and it was no accident that she abstained from asking his name, if only to reinforce her uninterest. Except that she was far from being uninterested, for the sound of his laugh, his voice and the presence of him beside her stayed in her mind all the way home and for the rest of that day. Nor would she ask her brothers if they knew him, as indeed they must have done, as perhaps Aphra did, too. It looked to Etta as if, in that crowd of guests, not one of them was willing to admit that they had noticed either the meeting or the unceremonious parting.
* * *
Partly to cling to her independence for as long as possible and partly, she had to admit, to take another look at the handsome mercer, she asked to pay another visit to see the fine fabrics at The Royal Wardrobe, for there were one or two she had forgotten the name of, and perhaps Uncle George would sell her some.
‘No, he won’t,’ said her mother, closing the lid of the virginal and removing the music from the stand. ‘It’s all for the royal use, my dear. I thought you knew that. It’s bought in from the mercers and merchants, and it’s for her and the officers to say what’s to be done with it. But there’s no reason why you should not take another look, if you take Tilda with you and be home in time for supper.’
* * *
There was a heightened sense of anticipation in the river journey this time, though flakes of snow made her blink and hold the fur more tightly across her chin. Tilda’s eagerness to see the robes was reason enough for Etta’s visit so soon after the first, but added to that was the delicious feeling that she was still finding her own friends in defiance of her parents who, although having her happiness and safety at heart, could have no perception of how much she valued her independence. If the sneaking thought entered her head that her defiance was very close to deceit, then she pushed it away along with the knowledge that they might well find out for themselves, as they had done before. She supposed Uncle George would see to that.
But Sir George Betterton was not there, though it was staffed as before by the liveried men far too intent on their onerous duties to pay Etta and her maid much heed. Over by the window, a group of men turned over some bolts of cloth, angling them to the light, and it was one of these who came to her immediately with a word of excuse to his colleagues. ‘Mistress Raemon,’ he said, lifting off his velvet hat with a graceful bow. Smiling, he replaced it. ‘You hoped to find Sir George?’
She felt the breathless lurch of her heart betraying the nonchalance of her bearing, taking her quite unawares. He was every bit as handsome as she had remembered, giving her another chance to see the thick dark hair and the laughter in his eyes as they caught the small light from the window. It was at times like this, she thought, that staring ought not to be rated as bad manners, for if ever a man should be stared at, this fine creature was he. Suited in deep moss-green velvet, he proclaimed the gentleman down to the last discreet detail but, more than that, he had some indefinable presence that made women’s hearts race. Etta realised that she was very glad they’d met again, quite by chance, of course.
‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘My maid wishes to see the Queen’s robes. Mistress Tilda, this is... Master...er... I’m sorry, I don’t think you told me your name.’
‘My friends know me as Nicolaus,’ he said. ‘I would like to think you were both amongst them.’
‘Master Nicolaus,’ the two women whispered, dipping a curtsy.
Snapping his fingers towards two young men, he beckoned them over. ‘Escort Mistress Tilda round the display,’ he said. ‘She wishes to see the Queen’s robes. Tell her about them.’
Tilda went with them, happily leaving her mistress to look enquiringly at the man on whom her eyes had lighted as soon as they’d entered. He dipped his head as if to catch her thoughts. ‘That is what you had in mind I hope, mistress?’ he said.
‘If that’s what you wish to think, sir, then I have no objection.’ Her slow, heavy-lidded blink delighted him.
‘Your bonnet is wet with snow. Shall you remove it and lay it before the fire? And your cloak, too? Here, allow me to help.’ On this day, she wore a one-piece gown of expensive London russet that showed no more than the high frill of her embroidered smock at the neck and wrists, though now her hair fell loosely about her shoulders until she caught it up with her hands and threw it behind her with a grace that appeared to fascinate him. She had done it before to great effect, this time allowing it to brush over his hands before they could move away.
‘I came, Master Nicolaus, to remind myself of two or three fabrics I saw yesterday so I can order some, once I know how to call them. May I show you?’
‘Certainly, mistress. This would be for yourself, would it? One must be careful, you see, not to overstep the sumptuary laws. I imagine the new Queen will be quite firm about observing them. Baudekin, for instance, has a distinct gold thread running with the silk, and although she wears it, very few others are allowed to.’
‘I doubt if the Queen will ever see me, sir. It was not the baudekin I saw, but this one, I think. Is this what they call popinjay?’
He reached up and pulled it down from the shelf. ‘The green-blue mix? Now, that would look well with your colouring. This one is silk. Feel the quality.’
‘Will the Queen be wearing this?’ she said, letting the silk flow over her skin like warm water.
‘My understanding is that the Queen will be wearing only black and white, Mistress Raemon. She knows it becomes her, you see, and those mercers who supply the Great Wardrobe are already sourcing suitable fabrics to please her.’
‘Only black and white? No colour at all?’
‘Oh, I believe she will allow colours to creep in with the embroidery and accessories, of course. But her maids will all wear white and nothing else, it seems. It lessens our scope enormously. I hope you won’t be following her lead in that.’
‘You must have good contacts at court, sir, to have discovered so much so soon.’
‘Indeed, mistress. Mercers must keep their ears to the ground if they want to have the fashionable fabrics in store as soon as they’re needed.’ He led her down the rows of shelving, obligingly pulling out rolls and bales, some of which had covers to protect them. And while they chatted about fabrics and fashion, both of them realised that this was not the sole purpose of her visit and that what they said to each other about the texture and pattern and softness had secondary meanings to do with hair and skin, beauty and availability, desire and attraction, strength and rarity. For Etta this was a new way to conduct a flirtation, and as she watched his strong elegant hands fondle the materials, she could almost feel the effect upon herself, warm and sensuous, silky smooth.
The January light was already fading, and Etta had found what she was looking for. ‘I should return home,’ she said, lifting a handful of sheer silk to her face. She could almost taste its beauty.
He was close, perhaps too close for a new acquaintance, but in the dimness it was hard to be aware of space. Turning, she found that he, too, was holding the same silk behind her head, easing her towards his lips while swathing her in its warm luxury. ‘This is what you should wear,’ he whispered, bending his head to hers.
‘But it’s transparent,’ she said.
‘Yes. As I said, it’s what you should wear. But only for me.’
It was dangerous talk and she knew she ought not to allow it, for she had intended their meeting only to be an exercise in having her own way, making her own choice of friends. It would have been so easy to allow a kiss, but their friendship could never go as far as that. He was, after all, only a mercer. Unsteadily, she drew away, pushing at his chest to evade the firm bulk of his body. ‘No, sir. This must not continue,’ she said.
‘I must see you again, Mistress Raemon,’ he said.
‘Well, perhaps you will, one day. Who knows? But now we must part. Thank you for showing me round. I hope you find a good wife who will be a help to you in your trade. I must return to my parents.’
‘If that is what you wish, mistress.’
‘It is, sir. There can be no future in our friendship. My father is determined to find me a husband very soon, you see.’
‘And you are saying that he won’t be looking for one amongst the mercers? There are some very eminent gentlemen amongst that company, you know. You must have seen some at the banquet last week?’
‘Yes, I did, sir, but I think my father will be aiming rather higher than that. Thank you again, Master Nicolaus, and farewell.’
‘The pleasure was mine, mistress. Will you allow me to give you a token, to remind you of our pleasant interlude? Here...a peacock feather. Will you take it?’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll give it to my father for his hat.’
‘Excellent.’
As it happened, Mistress Tilda was not so very eager to be found, and having been attended by two lusty young men for an hour, she did not notice her mistress’s unusual silence on the way home, her own chatter sufficing for them both. Neither her brothers nor Uncle George and his son had been at the Royal Wardrobe during her visit, so the talk at supper skipped lightly over Etta’s meeting as if she had been shown the fabrics by one of Sir George’s assistants. She had no intention of mentioning Master Nicolaus or alerting her parents to yet another admirer of whom they would be sure to disapprove. A mercer, they would say. Respectable, but not quite what we’re looking for, Etta. Which only went to show how wrong they could be, for he was by far the most interesting and exciting man she had ever spoken to.
Chapter Two (#ulink_93e47db3-d020-5b61-b0b7-b17e39f1db01)
Beginning its life as a spring on the slopes of Highgate, the River Tyburn rattled gently down to the northern banks of the Thames near Westminster, where it was straddled by the gatehouse of the large residence called after it by Lord Jon Raemon of Risinglea. Tyburn House was an imposing mansion of decorative timberwork above stone foundations and surrounded by extensive gardens that sloped down to a jetty where wherries came to release their passengers. In the warm and welcoming hall where preparations were being made for supper, Etta presented her father with a snow-flecked peacock feather. ‘For your hat,’ she said, ‘from the Royal Wardrobe.’
Lord Jon received the gift with a smile, turning it this way and that before handing it back to Etta. ‘You shall stitch it on for me,’ he said. ‘It’s a beauty. Tell me about your visit to the Wardrobe. Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Yes, Father. Very informative it was. I learned quite a lot.’
‘Good. And was your Uncle George there?’
‘No. Some buyers. Merchants, I think. That’s all.’ Somehow, she felt that to speak Master Nicolaus’s name might break the spell of intrigue that had just begun to surround him. And for the next three days, that experience had to suffice as heavy snow covered London, when no travel except the most urgent business was undertaken. At Tyburn House there was plenty to occupy her in the preparation of scented water for finger bowls and creams for chapped faces and hands. There were household accounts to be checked, lists to be made, visits to the nearby poor folk, shirts and smocks to be stitched by the white reflected light of the snow. But none of this could prevent Etta’s thoughts from revolving around the events at the Royal Wardrobe, the dim warmth of the storeroom, the scents and shimmer of cloth, and a man’s proximity that was quite unlike the innocent familiarity she had been used to. Asking herself why or how he was any different, a host of answers came to mind: his authority, his amazing good looks, his knowledge and intelligence—all of which placed him on a higher level than anyone else of her acquaintance. And, of course, his manner of conducting a flirtation by analogy to that exotic merchandise. Had he practised that on other women? Was she about to fall for his velvet words? Was it his years that had given him the audacity to speak to her that way? Well, she thought, nothing will come of it. A man in trade would never be her father’s choice.
After four days and nights of white-blanketed lawns and rooftops, the overnight rain washed away the snow and filled the River Tyburn up to its banks to roar away into its powerful sister and to lift the boats almost to the level of the jetty. ‘Just what we needed,’ said Lord Jon. ‘Now we can receive dry guests instead of damp ones.’
‘Guests, Father?’ Etta said. There was something in the way he said the word that had an ominous ring, making her look sharply at him. A shiver ran along her arms as, in a sudden flash of awareness, she feared the worst. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘Not unless you know Baron Somerville,’ he said, nonchalantly, walking away.
‘When?’ she asked her mother, later.
‘The end of the week, dear. He’ll be staying over one night, I suppose, now the days are so short. You’ll like him.’ Like. In the sense of like to marry.
‘How do you know I will, Mama?’
‘Why, love? Because your father and I do. Now, I have to go and speak to Cook.’
Their strategy of silence on the matter was hardly surprising, Etta thought, after her constant refusals to discuss the merits, or otherwise, of previous suitors. Obviously, they now believed that there was little point in supplying her with any details other than his name and title, when she would automatically resist. So, other than offering her the information that the guest was ‘quite a few’ years older than her and had not been married before, they remained annoyingly tight-lipped, which appeared to indicate that Baron Somerville’s need to father heirs had so far lay dormant. Too busy hunting, Etta supposed. Or too shy of women. Or both.
Her cousin Aphra, with whom she had visited the Royal Wardrobe, was invited to stay with them that week. Greeting her, Etta quipped, ‘I think I need some moral support.’
‘Do you, Ettie? Why?’ Aphra held a special place in everyone’s hearts as the sweetest and kindest of women, fair and slender, graceful in thought and deed, serene and as steadfast a friend as anyone could wish for. Everyone knew that, one day, she would find a wonderful husband and Etta looked upon her as an elder sister. ‘They’ve found a husband for you, haven’t they?’ Aphra said. ‘Don’t look so surprised. Your expression gave it away. Come on, it may not be as bad as all that.’
‘I think it may be worse, Affie.’ It was nothing new to Aphra to be the recipient of Etta’s woes, but this time the only help she could offer was in her calming influence and companionship, and the advice to speak with her parents about her concerns. Predictably, the conversation was brief.
* * *
Knocking on the door of her parents’ bedchamber, Etta entered at her mother’s call, taking in the sweet aroma of last year’s lavender and burning applewood. Half-dressed, they were both being pinned and laced into the various items of clothing, looking oddly lopsided. ‘May I speak with you a while?’ she said, sitting on the oak chest at the end of their bed.
Discreetly, the servants left the room. Her father’s demeanour had not changed all morning from the determined expression he now wore and she knew that this time they would insist. ‘Father,’ she said, catching the anxious glance her mother sent in his direction, ‘this time you’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘We’ve made our choice, Etta,’ he said, tying the last of his points. ‘You cannot expect us to change our minds. You must trust us to know what’s best.’
‘But if you thought love was the best reason for you and Mother to marry, then why not me, too?’
‘Love?’ Both parents’ eyebrows lifted as they stared at her. ‘Love?’ her mother repeated. ‘Etta, have you done something foolish?’
The temptation to pursue this line was almost overwhelming. ‘No, Mother, I haven’t. I just want some say in who I spend the rest of my life with. As you did.’
‘As it happens, Etta,’ said her father, ‘that’s what we want, too. You may not have given it much thought, but fathers don’t usually give dowries along with their daughters to any man who declares his love for them. There’s a lot of money at stake here and any father who throws that away on a young man’s declaration of love is a fool. Your mother and I had got beyond that stage when we agreed to marry. I’m sorry if that sounds mercenary, my dear, but these are important considerations that parents must take very seriously. We’ve found a man with enough wealth to make that unlikely. The love will develop as you get to know each other. I expect.’
‘Now go and finish your dressing,’ her mother said, ‘and try to take this with a good grace. We expect you to make yourself agreeable to our guest.’
There was no more she could say to them. All her personal preparations had been accomplished, hair washed and braided, skin scrubbed and perfumed, dresses chosen, pressed and mended, frills starched and gathered to perfection. She had chosen to wear a high-necked gown of deep-pink satin over a Spanish bell-shaped farthingale, the bodice making a deep vee at the front, stiffened by whalebone. Sitting down was only achieved with care, so now she stood with Aphra at the mullioned window of her room that gave them a view of the gardens with the great river beyond and the jetty where a small barge was coming in, its four oarsmen steering it skilfully against the tide.
‘He’s got his own barge,’ said Etta, ‘and his boatmen have liveries. That’s serious wealth, Aphie. That’ll be him, climbing out.’ The small diamond-shaped panes of thick glass made it difficult to see any details, only that the manly figure leaping out of the barge did not quite fit Etta’s mental image of a middle-aged aristocrat.
‘He’s tall,’ Aphra said. ‘Can’t see any more. Shall we go down?’
Purposely, they took their time, lingering to catch sounds of greetings and laughter, Etta readying herself to show a confidence she was far from feeling. Her mind slipped back to her meeting in that dim storeroom with the man who had made her feel womanly and desirable, when there had been no talk of wealth, dowries, bargains or filial obedience. Those had been moments she had kept safe in her heart, not even sharing them with Aphra. Now, she might as well forget them and face her real future.
He was standing with his back to the door as Etta and Aphra entered, accepting a glass of wine from his hostess, his tall frame matching Lord Jon’s as only a few other men did. He had obviously taken great care to make a good impression, for his deep-green sleeveless gown was edged with marten fur worn over a doublet and breeches of gold-edged green velvet, slashed to show a creamy white satin beneath. As he turned to greet them, they saw gold cords and aiglets studded with seed pearls, and in his hat was a drooping peacock feather like her father’s. He smiled, creasing his handsome face, making his eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Mistress Raemon,’ he said, softly, ‘your prediction was correct. We have met again, you see?’
A hard uncomfortable thudding in her chest made words difficult. ‘Father, there’s been a mistake. This man is not who you think he is. He was at the Royal Wardrobe when Aphra and I went there. His name is Master Nicolaus.’
Why were they all smiling?
Looking slightly sheepish through her smiles, her mother came forward to lead Etta by the hand. ‘Yes, dear. He is also Baron Somerville of Mortlake. We know you have already met. That was intentional. Shall you make your courtesies?’
‘No, Mother. I shall not. There is some deception here. Why did he introduce himself to me as Master Nicolaus? What is it that he’s not told me that he should have? Be honest, if you please.’ Her voice was brittle with anger and humiliation, and anything but welcoming. She had tried to make him understand that he was not the kind of man with whom she would form a relationship. She thought he had accepted that.
The smile remained in his eyes, though now tinged with concern. ‘I have been honest with you at all times, mistress,’ said Baron Somerville, reminding her of his deep voice and seductive tone, the reassuring words. ‘My name is Nicolaus Benninck, from Antwerp. Recently, the Queen honoured me with the title of baron. I am one and the same person, you see. I believe you were kindly disposed to the one, so it stands to reason that you will feel the same about the other. How could it be otherwise?’
