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.’
‘Then you’ll do it?’
‘I think I’ll have to, Belle. But…oh, no!’
‘What?’
‘This is the one with the…oh, lord! What would Cousin Hester say?’
‘She’s not going to know unless someone tells her. It’s what Sir Nicholas will say that’s more interesting,’ she said, cheekily. ‘Think of that, mistress. This’ll show him what he’s missed better than anything could.’
‘I had thought of that, Belle.’
‘Well
