The Tutor by Andrea Chapin

nodded her head in his direction, she caught sight of his attire. His doublet boasted a sheen so bright it seemed to reflect the candlelight on the tables and the torches on the walls. Will’s fine weave was the color of herbs, while the hue of a spring garden—damask rose—peeked through the slashes on his arms. He was overdressed for someone of his station, as though he were at court in London rather than dinner in the country. His velvet hose were the color of goldenrod, a weed that in the sunlight ignited fallow fields. She would not have placed those colors together, but they were beautiful, and there was genius in their pairing. Was this outfit from a masque or play? What had his role been—a prince? The duke had gone back to his seat next to Ursula, and Will was now talking to Sophie. His arm was on the back of her chair. In this great house, Master Shakespeare with his striking plumage had assimilated well.
    The eel, pike, brill and turbot arrived from the kitchens, followed bypigeons, larks and quail. Then came the marrow on toast. Will was no longer gazing at Katharine. He was eating. He had no doubt grown up shoveling food with stale bread from a wooden trencher, but he used a spoon well, as though he had been using one his whole life. He was a player, after all, trained to mimic. He said something to the duke, who now sat next to him with Sophie on his lap, and the duke threw his head back and laughed. Was it Will’s wit or his impudence that tickled the duke so?
    As the guests ate their way through Ursula’s carefully planned menu, the carcasses from the meal were tossed on the rush-strewn floor for the hounds. Katharine leaned toward the young man from the duke’s party and asked him in French how he had passed his time in England.
    “I try,” he said, placing a hand on her blue and black brocade sleeve. “I try to English speak.”
    He had no beard. His face was smooth and he had a cleft chin. Katharine had the urge to put her finger in the indent—or her tongue. He was maybe twenty.
    She laughed. “You try to speak English.”
    He nodded happily. “Yes, yes. You teach me?”
    “Oh, I’m not a good teacher, but Joan is.” She pointed across the table to Ursula’s daughter.
    “But I like your noses,” he said.
    “My noses?”
    He gently touched the side of her eye.
    “My eyes.” She smiled and pointed to her eyes. “Eyes.”
    “Eyes . . . de couleur . . .” He touched the blue of the brocade on her bodice.
    “Blue.” She laughed again and removed his hand. “Coventry blue.”
    “And that I like.”
    “What?”
    “The ha-ha.”
    “My laugh?”
    “Yes, laugh. You is a tutor good.”
    “You are a good tutor.”
    “You are a good tutor.” He smiled.
    “But Joan is better.” Katharine called across the table, “Joan, this young man needs assistance ,” she said in a French accent, “with his English words. Help him. You go to her,” she said to the young Frenchman, and then pointed at Joan. “Your tutor.”
    The wine had made the blush on Joan’s cheeks deepen. Her dark curly hair was pulled up with several silver satin ribbons that fell to her shoulders. The young Frenchman rose, walked around the long table and sat next to Joan.
    As the natural light slipped from the windows, wafers and currant, plum and apple jellies were brought out. Then came quince, cheeses and more wine, followed by cheesecakes and custards. With the delivery of each new delicacy, Katharine’s eyes kept wandering back to Will, who was laughing and talking with those next to him.
    Ursula stood and, once upright, made a show of pulling the pearls from her hair and throwing them at the guests, who oh-la-la ’ed and dove for them. Ursula’s blond locks fell to her shoulders. But she did not stop. She dragged her hands through her hair several times so that the strands, once smooth and obedient, became chaotic and unruly. Then she started to clap her hands. “We are so honored,” she shouted,