The Lady of Misrule by Suzannah Dunn

Spaniards; and in came my father and it was the same, Stop snivelling, do your duty, think what happens to this country if you don’t. And then Guildford—’ The recollection brought her up sharp. ‘All lovey-dovey.’
    Amazing that he’d thought that would cut some ice.
    â€˜And then…’ A huge sigh, she’d had enough. ‘Then there was a banquet, that evening, for those who could stomach it,’ of which she clearly hadn’t been one, ‘and the next day we came here,’ she concluded, ‘and there you have it.’
    Did I, though? I wasn’t so sure that I did. This was the most – by far – that she’d ever said to me, but somehow I was none the wiser. All that barging about, and Chelsea and banqueting, the duplicitous mother-in-law and the husband who wasn’t quite a husband. Then again, what would I have said to anyone if I had to explain what had been happening, at the same time, to me? Would I have managed to make any more sense? A clock cupboard, a house like a lantern, a lady of misrule.

    It had begun the previous December. The days were no more than daubs of light, not that we at Shelley Place glimpsed much sky from behind the hefts of door, the fastened shutters and lined hangings, sore-eyed as we were in the spew from the long-smouldering fires and fatty, spitting wicks. We too were burning up: sick of preserved food, salt-addled and dry-mouthed, our headaches worsened by the interminable candlelight. How can such short days feel so very long?
    But then, as the month crawled towards its miserable end, bang came Christmas and Shelley Place shook off its torpor to put on its glad rags. We Tilneys threw a party for everyone from miles around – those mud-mired miles, scoured bywind – not because my parents were sociable but because it was a Tilney tradition, and most of Suffolk, it seemed to me, came trekking through the biting gusts to knock red-nosed at our door, all but insensible until revived with our spiced ale and pastries and a fire lavish with logs.
    It had been a good year, with a harvest at last and, for once, no war or plague, and more people than usual turned up that Christmas, many of whom I only ever saw at our annual party. Crowded into Hall were the kersey-bundled with the silk-draped, those who were lively with lice and others decked with gems, all of them side by side and then, later, hand in hand as the dancing demanded, and the volume of chatter was a physical presence of its own, strong enough to lift the roof. By early evening, we’d been fed twice and ful-somely, dinner and supper: Hall was girded with tables, the dishes breathing steam and the air zinging with cloves. And for those of us at the top table, there’d been special delights – jewel-bright sugary jellies and gilded stars of spice-bread, and a wine heavy with honey that kept coming my way.
    I’d lost track of how long I’d been there with the food and drink coming and going, the musicians sawing at their strings: it could’ve been days, judging from how tired I was. But, I knew, I’d need to be back on my feet before too long, because there was more dancing to come, and sure enough the tables were soon being cleared, dismantled and stacked against the panelling, and the musicians were manfully preparing to strike up, summoning the verve from God knows where so that it would’ve been churlish not to honour their efforts.
    And I knew I’d manage it: somehow I’d be there with everyone else and be glad of it, and not too bad at it. Light-headed, I was game, which was everything, and within minutes I was there, doing my bit, shoulder to shoulder with my fellow-dancers.
    Harry turned up opposite me in the line, as eventually everyone would: taking his place as the dance required, partnering me for that particular move. Harry, in a hallful of people I hardly knew; there he was, being so very much himself, so very