this scrutiny?”
“You must present yourself to Lady Betty, the Mother of the Maids. It is hard to guess where that poor beleaguered lady is, but one of my men can escort you to the Maids’ Lodgings and you may begin your search for her there.”
“I thank you for your help, Sergeant Porter.”
“I will accept your thanks now, Mistress, because later, you may see me as villain. The women you will serve with may look sweet as cream, but they deal nasty scorch marks if left to their own devices. Keep your wits about you when you are in their company, Mistress de Lacey,” he said with sudden gentleness. “And give the maids of honor my warmest greetings and good wishes.”
I wondered which lady had scorched him, and to whom he sent greeting. Intrigue already and I had not even crossed the palace’s threshold. I gigged my horse forward, remembering my mother’s warnings. A shadow fell across me as we passed under the arch, then I gobbled up the palace grounds with my eyes. Beautiful gardens spilled before me, grander than any I had ever seen. Courtyards unfolded, one after another. I had entered a world as different from my own as that of the Minotaur that had once thrilled my child heart with delicious fear. But this was no story to escape into, then wake in my own cozy bed. This was real, I told myself. In these grand chambers my future might still be a riddle, yet one I would solve with my own hands.
This was to be my world. Mine.
The world of the Elinor de Lacey I wanted to be.
Chapter Eight
Whitehall Palace
W HEN MY GUIDE FLUNG OPEN THE DOOR OF THE Maids’ Lodgings the chamber with its clusters of beds and chests and women might have been a Roman bacchanal, it was so different from anything I had seen before. I was not used to crowds of women. Perfumes wrestled each other in the stuffy space. Cloth of every color and pattern swam before my dust-irritated eyes. Quilts and cushions, petticoats and embroidered shifts drooped over every surface. Small chestnut and white spaniels fought over confits some lady had abandoned within their reach, while women in various states of undress squabbled trying to be heard above the din.
I could not help but mark the contrast between this room and my own tidy bedchamber at Calverley with its sun-drenched windows, well-ordered chests, and the fresh-scented rosemary Mother insisted be strewn about the rushes.
I hesitated outside the door as the usher announced me. “Mistress Elinor de Lacey of Calverley.” Silence fell in an instant.
A thin-faced blonde froze in the midst of boxing her maid’s ear; a handsome dark-haired woman stopped trying on a ruby necklace before a polished metal mirror. A dwarf, her back twisted and her head too large for her tiny body, pushed aside the skirt of a vain-looking redhead to pierce me with a hostile glare. I felt as outlandish as the butterflies pinned upon a bit of cork one of Father’s friends had sent from Brazil. I curtseyed, aware the travel dust had turned my gown to the dull muck green of Calverley’s cow pond.
“So this is the mysterious Mistress de Lacey.” The red-haired beauty twitched her skirts out of the dwarf’s grasp as if the tiny woman had spit upon the precious damask folds. “Someone had best order our newest maid a bath and comb her hair for lice or Her Majesty will send her back to Lincolnshire before the sun sets.”
My cheeks burned. “It is a long journey from Lincolnshire. I would be grateful for a chance to scrub the dirt of the road away.”
A woman with honey-colored curls and a face round as an overblown rose bustled over to me. “You had best beware lest Lettice toss you out with the bathwater. She does not tolerate anyone save the queen having hair more glorious than hers. I swear yours is more fiery gold than any I have ever seen. My name is Isabella Markham.”
“You were at the Tower with the princess.” My father had told me how loyally Markham had served Elizabeth even in the darkest
“You must present yourself to Lady Betty, the Mother of the Maids. It is hard to guess where that poor beleaguered lady is, but one of my men can escort you to the Maids’ Lodgings and you may begin your search for her there.”
“I thank you for your help, Sergeant Porter.”
“I will accept your thanks now, Mistress, because later, you may see me as villain. The women you will serve with may look sweet as cream, but they deal nasty scorch marks if left to their own devices. Keep your wits about you when you are in their company, Mistress de Lacey,” he said with sudden gentleness. “And give the maids of honor my warmest greetings and good wishes.”
I wondered which lady had scorched him, and to whom he sent greeting. Intrigue already and I had not even crossed the palace’s threshold. I gigged my horse forward, remembering my mother’s warnings. A shadow fell across me as we passed under the arch, then I gobbled up the palace grounds with my eyes. Beautiful gardens spilled before me, grander than any I had ever seen. Courtyards unfolded, one after another. I had entered a world as different from my own as that of the Minotaur that had once thrilled my child heart with delicious fear. But this was no story to escape into, then wake in my own cozy bed. This was real, I told myself. In these grand chambers my future might still be a riddle, yet one I would solve with my own hands.
This was to be my world. Mine.
The world of the Elinor de Lacey I wanted to be.
Chapter Eight
Whitehall Palace
W HEN MY GUIDE FLUNG OPEN THE DOOR OF THE Maids’ Lodgings the chamber with its clusters of beds and chests and women might have been a Roman bacchanal, it was so different from anything I had seen before. I was not used to crowds of women. Perfumes wrestled each other in the stuffy space. Cloth of every color and pattern swam before my dust-irritated eyes. Quilts and cushions, petticoats and embroidered shifts drooped over every surface. Small chestnut and white spaniels fought over confits some lady had abandoned within their reach, while women in various states of undress squabbled trying to be heard above the din.
I could not help but mark the contrast between this room and my own tidy bedchamber at Calverley with its sun-drenched windows, well-ordered chests, and the fresh-scented rosemary Mother insisted be strewn about the rushes.
I hesitated outside the door as the usher announced me. “Mistress Elinor de Lacey of Calverley.” Silence fell in an instant.
A thin-faced blonde froze in the midst of boxing her maid’s ear; a handsome dark-haired woman stopped trying on a ruby necklace before a polished metal mirror. A dwarf, her back twisted and her head too large for her tiny body, pushed aside the skirt of a vain-looking redhead to pierce me with a hostile glare. I felt as outlandish as the butterflies pinned upon a bit of cork one of Father’s friends had sent from Brazil. I curtseyed, aware the travel dust had turned my gown to the dull muck green of Calverley’s cow pond.
“So this is the mysterious Mistress de Lacey.” The red-haired beauty twitched her skirts out of the dwarf’s grasp as if the tiny woman had spit upon the precious damask folds. “Someone had best order our newest maid a bath and comb her hair for lice or Her Majesty will send her back to Lincolnshire before the sun sets.”
My cheeks burned. “It is a long journey from Lincolnshire. I would be grateful for a chance to scrub the dirt of the road away.”
A woman with honey-colored curls and a face round as an overblown rose bustled over to me. “You had best beware lest Lettice toss you out with the bathwater. She does not tolerate anyone save the queen having hair more glorious than hers. I swear yours is more fiery gold than any I have ever seen. My name is Isabella Markham.”
“You were at the Tower with the princess.” My father had told me how loyally Markham had served Elizabeth even in the darkest
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