By Royal Command by Mary Hooper Page B

next morning.
    The housemaid – who was not the one I’d met previously – looked me up and down. ‘Trades at the back door,’ she said.
    I felt my face turn pink. ‘I am not trades ,’ I said. ‘I’ve come to speak with Miss Charity.’
    ‘Have you indeed?’
    I stood my ground. ‘Would you kindly tell her that a friend . . .’
    As I said this last word, she smirked.
    ‘A friend ,’ I said firmly, ‘wishes to speak to her.’
    ‘And who is this person? This friend?’ asked the housemaid.
    ‘My name is Mistress Mary Ditcham,’ I said, making up the name on the spot. I hoped that Miss Charity would remember me, but I’d bought her mittens along to jog her memory, just in case she didn’t.
    ‘I’ve not heard of no one of that name.’
    ‘Nevertheless, I am she. I am a friend of Miss Charity’s and bring something belonging to her,’ I said, indicating the package under my arm.
    ‘Very well,’ said the maid sullenly. ‘I’ll tell her.’ She left me standing at the door, went up the facing flight of stairs and knocked on a door. I heard her say, ‘A person has called who says she is your friend, Miss, but I think it might be someone from the market trying to sell you something.’
    After a moment Miss Charity came down the stairs on her own. She was dressed very neat and pretty in a deep red gown embroidered with gold leaves and flowers, her auburn hair caught into a gold net studded all over with tiny red stones. She looked at me hesitantly for a moment, and I brought out the package. ‘Your mittens, Miss,’ I said.
    Her face cleared. ‘Oh! What shall I call you?’ she asked in a whisper.
    ‘Mistress Mary Ditcham, if it please you, Madam,’ I whispered back.
    ‘Do come upstairs, Mary,’ she said, and she led me into a long bedchamber at the front of the building. This, I saw immediately, had not been furnished on Puritan principles like the rest of the gloomy house, but was very light and pretty, with a four-post bed hung around with light draperies and two wood benches having coloured velvet cushions. The wall hangings, too, were not improving stories from the Bible, but gaily coloured pastoral scenes on painted silk, with maidens and lambs frolicking in fields, or lovers walking together through flowery meadows.
    ‘I suppose that Mistress Ditcham isn’t your real name?’ my young lady asked.
    I shook my head.
    ‘Very sensible.’
    I hesitated. ‘I hope you’ll forgive my boldness in coming to see you, Miss, but . . .’
    ‘You must call me Charity if we’re supposed to be friends!’
    ‘Charity,’ I ventured, ‘you said that I was to approach you if ever I needed anything.’
    ‘I did indeed. And I meant it.’
    ‘I trust you have suffered no harm as a result of what happened to you?’
    ‘I can barely remember it!’
    I nodded. ‘I daresay that is because of the poppy juice.’
    ‘But do tell me more, because I’m most intrigued as to why you’re here.’
    I took a deep breath. ‘Well, here it is as plain as flour, Mi— . . . Charity. I have to go somewhere very important on Christmas Eve.’
    ‘Do you?’ she asked, and sighed. ‘Is it a dance or a ball? I wish very much that I could hold a dance, but father has banned any form of gaiety from the house this Yuletide.’
    I looked at her with sympathy.
    ‘But I’m sorry I interrupted. Do go on!’
    ‘You see, I haven’t got anything suitable to wear to this important place, only my everyday gowns, which – now that I’ve looked at them closely – are very dull and horrid.’
    ‘And you’d like me to give you something?’
    ‘Not give, Miss,’ I said, mortified that she’d presume such a thing. ‘If I could just borrow a gown from you ‘twould be more than enough.’
    ‘No, indeed you cannot.’
    ‘Oh!’ I said, saddened and worried that I had offended her by asking for too much.
    ‘But I’ll give you a gown – for heaven knows I have enough, and nowhere to wear them. Moreover, I insist that you