Philippa by Bertrice Small Page A

us. The boy’s name is Hans Steen. He is learning the business of wool from the sheep onward. And he teaches your sister the languages she will need to deal with northern Europe. I don’t think Bessie will ever want to go to court, Philippa.”
    Philippa looked absolutely scandalized. “Bessie would prefer to act like a man of business, mama? Oh, how can you permit it? We are not common merchants. I should be totally ruined socially if anyone knew my sister behaved in such an unladylike fashion. You cannot really want her to do this. I know we are not old nobility, mama, but we have certainly climbed the social ladder a short ways since your birth.”
    “Your youngest sister is landless, Philippa. While she will have a good dower portion thanks to my cousin, Tom, she would not make a good farmer’s wife. But she will one day be a valuable spouse for a successful merchant’s heir. Besides, she is intelligent, and would be unhappy being an ornament for some man.”
    “I cannot believe that you would allow my father’s child to fall so low,” Philippa replied disapprovingly.
    “Philippa!” Rosamund exclaimed. “Where do you think your own wealth comes from, you foolish lass?”
    “Uncle Thomas is rich,” Philippa said naively.
    Rosamund laughed. “And where do you think his wealth came from? Trade. Tom’s great-grandfather and mine were twins. Martin Bolton was sent to London to wed the daughter of the merchant to whom he was apprenticed. They married, and she bore a son, but she was a pretty girl, and King Edward IV saw her, and seduced her. She killed herself in shame. King Edward felt guilt over the matter, especially as Martin Bolton and his father-in-law were staunch adherents of this king, and had been generous financially to him. So the king gave Martin Bolton a peerage, and that is how it came into the family, Philippa. But trade of one kind or another has always kept this family prosperous. I am sorry you do not understand that, and think it shameful to earn one’s bread. You have lost your sense of morality and ethic while you have been at court. I think you will not go back until you have regained these virtues, my daughter. And do not scowl at me, Philippa. My mind is made up, and you will only change it when I see a change for the better in your attitude.”
    “You do not understand, mama!” Philippa cried. “You have never been young!”
    “Only in years, Philippa, but then I was never allowed to be young. The burden of Friarsgate was on my shoulders from the tender age of three. There was little time to be young as you know it. Perhaps, my daughter, I have been too generous to you. You have come to believe it is your right to be spoiled and selfish, but it is not! Now go to your chamber. I am disappointed in you.”
    “I will go back to court at Christmas if not before!” Philippa cried. “Even if I have to ride all the way to Greenwich myself! I will not stay here. I hate Friarsgate, and I am near to hating you, for all you can see is this damned estate. You do not understand me, and you never have!” Then Philippa ran from the hall, and up the stairs.
    Rosamund sighed deeply, and taking up the queen’s letter read it a third time. She had known from the first time she had taken Philippa to court that her daughter was lost to her. That was why she had kept Philippa from going until the summer she was twelve. And in that time before her daughter’s first visit and departure Philippa had practiced her French and Greek and Latin. She had struggled with her embroidery until it was perfect. She had learned every dance that anyone could teach her. She sang, and she played upon her lute and small Irish harp until her music was almost angelic. She bathed far more often than either of Rosamund’s other daughters, and tended to her complexion as if it were the rarest of flower gardens. Each morning and each night she had Lucy brush her long auburn tresses one hundred strokes. Everything she did