Taming The Tempestuous Tudor

He was close, perhaps too close for a new acquaintance, but in the dimness it was hard to be aware of space. Turning, she found that he, too, was holding the same silk behind her head, easing her towards his lips while swathing her in its warm luxury. ‘This is what you should wear,’ he whispered, bending his head to hers.

‘But it’s transparent,’ she said.

‘Yes. As I said, it’s what you should wear. But only for me.’

It was dangerous talk and she knew she ought not to allow it, for she had intended their meeting only to be an exercise in having her own way, making her own choice of friends. It would have been so easy to allow a kiss, but their friendship could never go as far as that. He was, after all, only a mercer. Unsteadily, she drew away, pushing at his chest to evade the firm bulk of his body. ‘No, sir. This must not continue,’ she said.

‘I must see you again, Mistress Raemon,’ he said.

‘Well, perhaps you will, one day. Who knows? But now we must part. Thank you for showing me round. I hope you find a good wife who will be a help to you in your trade. I must return to my parents.’

‘If that is what you wish, mistress.’

‘It is, sir. There can be no future in our friendship. My father is determined to find me a husband very soon, you see.’

‘And you are saying that he won’t be looking for one amongst the mercers? There are some very eminent gentlemen amongst that company, you know. You must have seen some at the banquet last week?’

‘Yes, I did, sir, but I think my father will be aiming rather higher than that. Thank you again, Master Nicolaus, and farewell.’

‘The pleasure was mine, mistress. Will you allow me to give you a token, to remind you of our pleasant interlude? Here...a peacock feather. Will you take it?’

‘Thank you, sir. I’ll give it to my father for his hat.’

‘Excellent.’

As it happened, Mistress Tilda was not so very eager to be found, and having been attended by two lusty young men for an hour, she did not notice her mistress’s unusual silence on the way home, her own chatter sufficing for them both. Neither her brothers nor Uncle George and his son had been at the Royal Wardrobe during her visit, so the talk at supper skipped lightly over Etta’s meeting as if she had been shown the fabrics by one of Sir George’s assistants. She had no intention of mentioning Master Nicolaus or alerting her parents to yet another admirer of whom they would be sure to disapprove. A mercer, they would say. Respectable, but not quite what we’re looking for, Etta. Which only went to show how wrong they could be, for he was by far the most interesting and exciting man she had ever spoken to.

Chapter Two (#ulink_93e47db3-d020-5b61-b0b7-b17e39f1db01)

Beginning its life as a spring on the slopes of Highgate, the River Tyburn rattled gently down to the northern banks of the Thames near Westminster, where it was straddled by the gatehouse of the large residence called after it by Lord Jon Raemon of Risinglea. Tyburn House was an imposing mansion of decorative timberwork above stone foundations and surrounded by extensive gardens that sloped down to a jetty where wherries came to release their passengers. In the warm and welcoming hall where preparations were being made for supper, Etta presented her father with a snow-flecked peacock feather. ‘For your hat,’ she said, ‘from the Royal Wardrobe.’

Lord Jon received the gift with a smile, turning it this way and that before handing it back to Etta. ‘You shall stitch it on for me,’ he said. ‘It’s a beauty. Tell me about your visit to the Wardrobe. Did you find what you were looking for?’

‘Yes, Father. Very informative it was. I learned quite a lot.’

‘Good. And was your Uncle George there?’

‘No. Some buyers. Merchants, I think. That’s all.’ Somehow, she felt that to speak Master Nicolaus’s name might break the spell of intrigue that had just begun to surround him. And for the next three days, that experience had to suffice as heavy snow covered London, when no travel except the most urgent business was undertaken. At Tyburn House there was plenty to occupy her in the preparation of scented water for finger bowls and creams for chapped faces and hands. There were household accounts to be checked, lists to be made, visits to the nearby poor folk, shirts and smocks to be stitched by the white reflected light of the snow. But none of this could prevent Etta’s thoughts from revolving around the events at the Royal Wardrobe, the dim warmth of the storeroom, the scents and shimmer of cloth, and a man’s proximity that was quite unlike the innocent familiarity she had been used to. Asking herself why or how he was any different, a host of answers came to mind: his authority, his amazing good looks, his knowledge and intelligence—all of which placed him on a higher level than anyone else of her acquaintance. And, of course, his manner of conducting a flirtation by analogy to that exotic merchandise. Had he practised that on other women? Was she about to fall for his velvet words? Was it his years that had given him the audacity to speak to her that way? Well, she thought, nothing will come of it. A man in trade would never be her father’s choice.

After four days and nights of white-blanketed lawns and rooftops, the overnight rain washed away the snow and filled the River Tyburn up to its banks to roar away into its powerful sister and to lift the boats almost to the level of the jetty. ‘Just what we needed,’ said Lord Jon. ‘Now we can receive dry guests instead of damp ones.’

‘Guests, Father?’ Etta said. There was something in the way he said the word that had an ominous ring, making her look sharply at him. A shiver ran along her arms as, in a sudden flash of awareness, she feared the worst. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘Not unless you know Baron Somerville,’ he said, nonchalantly, walking away.

‘When?’ she asked her mother, later.

‘The end of the week, dear. He’ll be staying over one night, I suppose, now the days are so short. You’ll like him.’ Like. In the sense of like to marry.

‘How do you know I will, Mama?’

‘Why, love? Because your father and I do. Now, I have to go and speak to Cook.’

Their strategy of silence on the matter was hardly surprising, Etta thought, after her constant refusals to discuss the merits, or otherwise, of previous suitors. Obviously, they now believed that there was little point in supplying her with any details other than his name and title, when she would automatically resist. So, other than offering her the information that the guest was ‘quite a few’ years older than her and had not been married before, they remained annoyingly tight-lipped, which appeared to indicate that Baron Somerville’s need to father heirs had so far lay dormant. Too busy hunting, Etta supposed. Or too shy of women. Or both.

Her cousin Aphra, with whom she had visited the Royal Wardrobe, was invited to stay with them that week. Greeting her, Etta quipped, ‘I think I need some moral support.’

‘Do you, Ettie? Why?’ Aphra held a special place in everyone’s hearts as the sweetest and kindest of women, fair and slender, graceful in thought and deed, serene and as steadfast a friend as anyone could wish for. Everyone knew that, one day, she would find a wonderful husband and Etta looked upon her as an elder sister. ‘They’ve found a husband for you, haven’t they?’ Aphra said. ‘Don’t look so surprised. Your expression gave it away. Come on, it may not be as bad as all that.’

‘I think it may be worse, Affie.’ It was nothing new to Aphra to be the recipient of Etta’s woes, but this time the only help she could offer was in her calming influence and companionship, and the advice to speak with her parents about her concerns. Predictably, the conversation was brief.

* * *

Knocking on the door of her parents’ bedchamber, Etta entered at her mother’s call, taking in the sweet aroma of last year’s lavender and burning applewood. Half-dressed, they were both being pinned and laced into the various items of clothing, looking oddly lopsided. ‘May I speak with you a while?’ she said, sitting on the oak chest at the end of their bed.

Discreetly, the servants left the room. Her father’s demeanour had not changed all morning from the determined expression he now wore and she knew that this time they would insist. ‘Father,’ she said, catching the anxious glance her mother sent in his direction, ‘this time you’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘We’ve made our choice, Etta,’ he said, tying the last of his points. ‘You cannot expect us to change our minds. You must trust us to know what’s best.’

‘But if you thought love was the best reason for you and Mother to marry, then why not me, too?’

‘Love?’ Both parents’ eyebrows lifted as they stared at her. ‘Love?’ her mother repeated. ‘Etta, have you done something foolish?’

The temptation to pursue this line was almost overwhelming. ‘No, Mother, I haven’t. I just want some say in who I spend the rest of my life with. As you did.’

‘As it happens, Etta,’ said her father, ‘that’s what we want, too. You may not have given it much thought, but fathers don’t usually give dowries along with their daughters to any man who declares his love for them. There’s a lot of money at stake here and any father who throws that away on a young man’s declaration of love is a fool. Your mother and I had got beyond that stage when we agreed to marry. I’m sorry if that sounds mercenary, my dear, but these are important considerations that parents must take very seriously. We’ve found a man with enough wealth to make that unlikely. The love will develop as you get to know each other. I expect.’

‘Now go and finish your dressing,’ her mother said, ‘and try to take this with a good grace. We expect you to make yourself agreeable to our guest.’

There was no more she could say to them. All her personal preparations had been accomplished, hair washed and braided, skin scrubbed and perfumed, dresses chosen, pressed and mended, frills starched and gathered to perfection. She had chosen to wear a high-necked gown of deep-pink satin over a Spanish bell-shaped farthingale, the bodice making a deep vee at the front, stiffened by whalebone. Sitting down was only achieved with care, so now she stood with Aphra at the mullioned window of her room that gave them a view of the gardens with the great river beyond and the jetty where a small barge was coming in, its four oarsmen steering it skilfully against the tide.

‘He’s got his own barge,’ said Etta, ‘and his boatmen have liveries. That’s serious wealth, Aphie. That’ll be him, climbing out.’ The small diamond-shaped panes of thick glass made it difficult to see any details, only that the manly figure leaping out of the barge did not quite fit Etta’s mental image of a middle-aged aristocrat.

‘He’s tall,’ Aphra said. ‘Can’t see any more. Shall we go down?’

Purposely, they took their time, lingering to catch sounds of greetings and laughter, Etta readying herself to show a confidence she was far from feeling. Her mind slipped back to her meeting in that dim storeroom with the man who had made her feel womanly and desirable, when there had been no talk of wealth, dowries, bargains or filial obedience. Those had been moments she had kept safe in her heart, not even sharing them with Aphra. Now, she might as well forget them and face her real future.

He was standing with his back to the door as Etta and Aphra entered, accepting a glass of wine from his hostess, his tall frame matching Lord Jon’s as only a few other men did. He had obviously taken great care to make a good impression, for his deep-green sleeveless gown was edged with marten fur worn over a doublet and breeches of gold-edged green velvet, slashed to show a creamy white satin beneath. As he turned to greet them, they saw gold cords and aiglets studded with seed pearls, and in his hat was a drooping peacock feather like her father’s. He smiled, creasing his handsome face, making his eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Mistress Raemon,’ he said, softly, ‘your prediction was correct. We have met again, you see?’

A hard uncomfortable thudding in her chest made words difficult. ‘Father, there’s been a mistake. This man is not who you think he is. He was at the Royal Wardrobe when Aphra and I went there. His name is Master Nicolaus.’

Why were they all smiling?

Looking slightly sheepish through her smiles, her mother came forward to lead Etta by the hand. ‘Yes, dear. He is also Baron Somerville of Mortlake. We know you have already met. That was intentional. Shall you make your courtesies?’

‘No, Mother. I shall not. There is some deception here. Why did he introduce himself to me as Master Nicolaus? What is it that he’s not told me that he should have? Be honest, if you please.’ Her voice was brittle with anger and humiliation, and anything but welcoming. She had tried to make him understand that he was not the kind of man with whom she would form a relationship. She thought he had accepted that.

The smile remained in his eyes, though now tinged with concern. ‘I have been honest with you at all times, mistress,’ said Baron Somerville, reminding her of his deep voice and seductive tone, the reassuring words. ‘My name is Nicolaus Benninck, from Antwerp. Recently, the Queen honoured me with the title of baron. I am one and the same person, you see. I believe you were kindly disposed to the one, so it stands to reason that you will feel the same about the other. How could it be otherwise?’