Elizabeth by Evelyn Anthony

Lady Mary Sidney came from the next room where they were always on call for the Queen’s bell. She sat at her dressing table while Mary Sidney brushed and curled her hair and pinned it up in a net of silver thread sewn with pearls. She pointed to one of the armful of dresses Kate held out for her; it was a long stiff gown of black taffeta, with a velvet petticoat heavily embroidered in diamonds and silver. An eight-row collar of pearls as big as beans was fastened round her narrow neck, and shone in the hollows above her breast. She bit her lips while the two women pulled in her metal corselet until it pinched her waist to sixteen inches, and then stepped into the dress. When they had finished she looked at herself in the glass, watching her reflection, pale and aquiline, the red hair shining like fire through the silver net. She turned, and the jewels encrusting her dress flashed with a dozen lights. Robert said she was beautiful; there were moments when she was softened by flattery and believed him when he described the melting quality of her charms. But not now. The figure in the looking glass was brilliant, like an icicle, glittering, like a diamond, splendid and elegant and supremely Royal. But the rounded prettiness, the warm contours of womanly beauty were not hers. She picked up a long fan of white ostrich feathers, smoothing the plumes between her hands, imagining her meeting with Robert. He would be uneasy, prepared to be contrite or injured, whichever pose suited her mood the best; he would probably try to make love to her and she would enjoy repulsing him with scorn. She knew all about his frantic efforts to secure a favourable verdict over Amy’s death. She smiled unkindly, thinking how he must have fingered his handsome neck while the issue was undecided. He had taken her for granted; he had thought that he knew her mind and could precipitate her into doing what he wanted on the strength of her moments of weakness with him. He had not know then that no one was her master because she was completely mistress of herself. But he knew now. He had escaped with his life and come hurrying back like a dog that hears its master’s whistle. He would probably hate her for it; it would be the test of her power over him if she could hold him in spite of it, if she could reduce him and threaten him as she had done and show him that she was ready to throw him aside like a worn-down shoe and yet make him admit that he was nothing without her.
    Elizabeth was too acute not to know that there was an element of fierce unkindness in her intentions for Robert, but not even she quite realized how close to submission she had come to him, and that this subconscious knowledge was the cause of her resentment and her determination to humiliate him. She only knew that he must be humbled, humbled more deeply than on the day when she tossed his love back in his face and threatened to execute him. Her love for him, her need or whatever it was, had brought her to the edge of catastrophe; she could not forgive herself for that, though she made light of it to Cecil. And she could not forgive Robert either—for killing his stupid wife and causing her this crisis, or for being so indispensable to her happiness that she had to recall him two days after the funeral.
    â€œMary, send your brother in to me. I feel I should comfort the grieving widower.”
    Mary Sidney curtsied and then went quickly into the anteroom where Robert had been waiting for the past hour. He came to her and kissed her. He had always been fond of his sister in a selfish way, but they had become more intimate than at any time in their lives since they entered the Queen’s service.
    â€œShe’ll see you, Robert. But be careful, I beg of you.”
    â€œHow is she?” he asked. “What kind of reception will I get?”
    Mary Sidney shook her head.
    â€œA sharp one, I think. I don’t know what she feels—you know her, it’s