Chapter Fourteen
“Why did you ask for an embroidery session if all you want to do is sleep?”
Bessie pulls the embroidery hoop off her face to look at me, wincing her eyes against the light of the room.
She’s sideways in her chair, half reclining with her legs dangling over one end.
Theo is biting at her shoes. “Alice Wharton was practicing the lute directly in my ear. If I stayed sitting over there, I would have emptied my stomach onto the floor. It may still happen now.”
I complete my feather stitch and give her a knowing look. “That’s what chugging ale gets you. William said he almost had to wrestle you to the ground when you tried to steal a full barrel out of the pub tent. He was drenched when he brought you back.”
“Oh, shut it,” she grumbles, putting her embroidery hoop back on her face.
I put my own embroidery hoop in my lap. “Couldn’t you go straight to jail for saying that?”
“Apologies. Kindly shut it, Your Most Regal, Royal Highness.”
Satisfied, I pick up my hoop, ready to start the next stitch, when the sitting room doors open, and a messenger enters. “The Duke of Norfolk,” he announces.
My least favorite uncle enters behind him. Lady Rochford stands from her seat in the corner and gradually moves in my direction.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty. Ladies.” He attempts a relatable smile, but the embedded insincerity of his face fights it hard.
“I am here bearing news. The Italian ambassador is to visit our court. Indeed, he will be here in the coming weeks. I will be meeting with him on political matters, but in his absence, the king wishes you to arrange an entertainment for our guest.”
The fifteen women in the room, some ladies-in-waiting and some maids of honor, look to each other in excitement as the duke goes on, his attention now entirely directed at me.
“The king bid me tell you that no one could better display the beauties of our court than his beloved, perfect Catherine. And in less than a month, he will be ever by your side.”
Oh joy.
Bessie excuses herself as the duke approaches, and the room is doused in an eager flurry of whispers as he steps forward to greet me in relative privacy. “Niece, are you well?”
“I’m well,” I answer, albeit unenthusiastically.
He steps the smallest bit closer. “How well?” He lowers his voice and makes an invisible baby bump with his hand over his belly. “Are you very well?”
His cringe level knows no bounds. “Not that well,” I tell him.
He heaves a sigh and glances absently around the room. “That’s disappointing to hear. When the king returns, you will have to increase your efforts.”
My stank face is blatant by the time Lady Rochford arrives at my side.
“Hello, uncle,” she says sternly.
“Jane,” he replies with a scowl-smile duo. We then silently simmer in our toxic family dynamic until the duke eventually steps back. “And now I must leave you. Good day.”
“Please, don’t go,” Lady Rochford says lifelessly.
He glares at her before he turns and leaves. Lady Rochford and I exchange a look until Bessie barrels into us.
“Catherine! This is wonderful news.”
“That my uncle left?” I ask, confused.
She shakes her head, moderately out of breath. “No, about the ambassador. We must have a masque.”
I give an unsure glance to Lady Rochford. “A masque?”
Bessie nods with a wild kind of fervor. “Everyone loves a masque. There is nothing more exciting to be done at court.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Lady Rochford mutters. “It’s more acceptable for me to ignore people when I’m wearing a mask.”
Bessie clasps my wrist and shakes it. “A masque is an ideal place for you to find me a husband.”
I lift a brow. “How so?”
“There will be drinking, dance rehearsals, and half my face will be obstructed . . . What better conditions could we ask for?”
She makes a solid case.
“A masque it is, then,” I agree.
“Yes!” Bessie claps her hands together and turns to face the women in the room. “Everyone, the queen has decided that there’s to be a masque! I will inform the Master of the Revels. Expect rehearsals to begin in a few days!”
An enthusiastic murmur rustles around us as Lady Rochford crosses her arms. “So,” she says, “you are to turn the masque into a husband-hunting ground for Bessie?”
I give her a noncommittal shrug. “What better purpose could it serve? I’m sure only a few men will volunteer anyway.”
When we enter the receiving room that’s being used for dance rehearsal days later, Bessie and I are met with at least twenty waiting courtiers and noblemen. They turn as we step inside, varying in age as each of them bows at my arrival.
“I like our odds,” I whisper to Lady Rochford, who is standing behind us. “Bessie was right about this being the perfect venue to find a husband.”
“And what did Bessie do for you that you agreed to such a task?” I think about answering, but before I can, she quickly walks past me, refusing, as any good defense attorney would, to listen. “On second thought, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Bessie takes my hand, nearly vibrating in excitement. “All right, Your Majesty. Where to first?”
I remind myself of just how much she risked in making the sleeping draft for the king. For what she saved me from, she deserves the best reverse-harem speed-dating experience this palace can offer. I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck.
“Let’s do this, Bessie.”
When we approach bachelor number one, I’m fairly optimistic. Between being Zoe’s loyal wingwoman and then having my own date-a-palooza last year, I’m more or less indestructible at intros. There is no ice I can’t break. No awkward silence I can’t overcome.
“Hello there,” I say, approaching the first twenty-something Bessie steers me toward. He has dusty blond hair and a non-homicidal face. “So, this is exciting, right? Have you ever danced in a masque before?”
He looks back at me with a wide smile and offers an extravagant bow. “With people, Your Majesty? No, this is my first. And I am so keen I can barely stand still!”
I tilt my head a drop. “What do you mean it’s your first with people?”
He chortles. “Silly me. I just meant that this is my first masque with a partner. At home, I frequently arrange my dolls in dances of delight. We are quite an energetic crowd.”
“That sounds so fun,” I reply, keeping my voice friendly. I turn and give Bessie a protective shove in the opposite direction.
Bachelor number two could be promising. He may be the youngest man here, in his early twenties, though his eyes appear older. He sort of reminds me of a basset hound. But who doesn’t love a basset hound?
“Lovely weather we’re having lately,” I comment.
He glances over at me, seeming tired as he stiffly bows. “Indeed.” Okay. Maybe he needs some time to warm up.
“Out of curiosity, are you married?”
He shakes his head. “I am yet to marry, though my father is keen that I find a bride within the month.”
“How interesting,” I say, my voice rising a note or two.
“My mother, however, insists that I take my time in selecting a wife. She will miss me quite dearly when I wed.”
“That’s nice.” I give Bessie a nudge with my shoulder. “It’s always a positive attribute when a man is close with his mother.”
Bachelor number two sighs. “Yes, I fear the bed will be quite cold without her.”
“Pardon?” I ask, hoping I heard misheard him.
“We still share a chamber, you see, but that will obviously have to end once I marry. As will the breastfeeding.”
I’m losing steam when we reach bachelor number three, a skinny man in his early thirties with a very eager countenance.
“And what are you mainly looking for in a wife?” I ask.
“Your Majesty,” he says, bowing down low. “I would love to find one who has all her teeth.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
He seems perplexed. “Not particularly, no.”
Bessie smiles a big toothy grin to show off the goods, and I quickly take her hand. “Don’t do that.”
Five minutes later, I’m wondering if convent life is the safest choice for my friend when we approach bachelor number four.
“What do you like to do in your spare time?” I ask, speaking to him without so much as a hello.
His eyes startle to find us standing beside him, but he clears his throat and straightens out the front of his gray doublet. He bows politely before standing up straight. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty. I like to read. And I go out riding when the weather is fine.”
“Really?” I ask with cautious interest. “That sounds very pleasant. And are you close with your family?”
He shrugs. “As much as the next person is, I suppose. My father, Baron Dorford, is quite scholarly and prefers to stay away from court. My mother spends her days caring for my sisters.”
Bessie locks my hand in a hopeful death grip. Bachelor number four—do not break our hearts.
“And everyone has . . . their own rooms?”
“Of course,” he says, noticeably confused. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“No reason at all! Forget what I said. What’s your name?”
“Richard Lumley,” he replies with another bow.
“That is a great name. Richard, may I present my dearest friend, Bessie Stanley.”
I pull Bessie forward. Richard bows once more, and she curtsies. They shyly gaze at each other, and as they do, I’m pretty sure Taylor Swift flies past us on a unicorn, strumming the intro of “Love Story.”
Several minutes later, a man in a very stylish doublet and cape claps his hands in the center of the room. “Attention, please, we are ready to begin pairing up the dancers!”
After deciding on a masque as our chosen mode of entertainment, Bessie explained that the most important aspect of the masque is when there’s a big, choreographed dance performed by some of the highest-ranking nobility.
I grow a little queasy at the performance part of it, but with my Catherine-muscle-memories firmly intact, I know that I’ll survive.
The dance portion—I know that I’ll survive the dance portion.
The man I assume is the choreographer claps his hands again. “Please fan out so I can see you. Then I can begin my selections.”