The Lost Duchess by Jenny Barden Page B

alarmed her and left her confused. When he saw her again he would try to make amends: give her the ribbons as a token against the day when he left, and perhaps, after he was gone, pretty Mistress Fifield would wear them in her hair before the memory of him faded and she forgot him altogether.
    Without paying much attention he walked out of the city, down to Fleet Street and along the Strand. He only noticed what was around him when he saw the footmen outside Durham Place with the badge of the royal household on their doublets and cloaks.
    He turned to Rob, busy examining his new knife. ‘Better put that away; the Queen is here.’ He strode up the steps and pushed the ribbons into the pocket on his belt.
    At the doors of the hall he handed his pistol to the steward and strode inside while his name was announced. He looked for the Queen, ready to kneel before her; instead he saw Mistress Fifield and stopped in his tracks. His eyes met hers and he could not bring himself to look away. It was as if he’d stumbled upon a deer in a glade, one looking straight back at him, uncertain and wary. He was enthralled by her face, the graceful arch of her brows and her liquid, questioning eyes. He took in the sweet dimples in her cheeks, her fragile, nascent smile, and the sensitivity of her mouth with its slightly protruding upper lip that made her seem both vulnerable and striking. He caught his breath; she was even more beautiful than he remembered.
    The voice of the Queen brought him to his senses.
    ‘Mistress Fifield, are you with me?’
    He saw the Queen at the far end of the chamber, resplendent in pearl-studded satin and a stiff lace ruff that framed her impassive face.
    Mistress Emme turned and hurried towards her. ‘Yes, Your Majesty. I am here.’
    ‘Good,’ the Queen replied. ‘I had begun to fear you were lost in another country.’
    A wave of muted laughter followed.
    Kit tightened his jaw, and watched Emme curtsey low and bow her head until fine wisps of hair became visible at the nape of her slender neck. He glanced down feeling that he should not have noticed, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and felt the weightless change in shape caused by the ribbons in his pocket.
    *
    All the way down from the tower on the hill at Greenwich Palace the slope was blanketed white. The Queen and her party had ridden upfrom the east so the snow was untouched: a soft sparkling coverlet that reflected all the tints of winter light from quartz-pink to gold, while deep blue shadows set off the oaks in lapis filigree and transformed the deer trails to tiny opal-studded chains. The prospect was so inviting Emme wanted to give her mare a kick, gallop down ahead of everyone and be the first to mark the drifts. But she kept the reins tight and sat motionless on her side-saddle. The Queen and Sir Walter Raleigh were together in front, the hawk was still hovering and the other ladies had not caught up.
    The Queen smiled as she glanced from Sir Walter to the hawk which suddenly plummeted from the sky. With a whoop she raced ahead, and Sir Walter spurred his stallion until they charged neck and neck, hurtling down the hill to the place where the hawk had caught a crow. Let them enjoy the sport together, Emme would not intrude; only when the other ladies trotted near did she give her mount her head and relish a moment of freedom, flying downhill through the freezing air with snowflakes stinging her cheeks and nose. She opened her mouth to the snow, let it melt on her tongue – this was the taste of release, the kind of sensation that Emme Murimuth would enjoy, the woman she would become if she ever left for Virginia. She would be brave and bold, free of shame or restriction. She was a Murimuth in blood, she could call herself one truly. The family had settled in her village over two hundred years ago; as a Murimuth she would be fearless and sail across the ocean. In a flurry of white she galloped into the panorama that unfolded before her, with the