By the time of the dress fitting that evening, Martha was so exhausted she could barely stand, but she teetered in front of the mirror in the tower room where she was to be incarcerated all the same. She looked at herself from the side, and then from the front. Then from behind, peering over her shoulder, and then from the front again. It was undeniable: she looked terrible.
‘Perhaps with more corsetry?’ suggested Deborah. ‘And some padding? Around the tits area, Your Majesty?’
‘I’m already so corseted that I can’t sit down, or breathe, or eat, and we’re having an eighteen-course wedding banquet.’
‘Maybe if I shorten the sleeves,’ said Deborah. ‘Make a feature of your forearms.’
‘Or maybe if my wedding dress wasn’t black, or I actually wanted to get married, or my father hadn’t just died.’
‘I’ll try the sleeves,’ said Deborah.
Martha held her arms out as Deborah jabbed her with pins.
‘Thank you, Deborah.’
There was silence as Deborah considered the results.
‘The shorter sleeves aren’t working. That was a terrible idea,’ she said. ‘I’ll take them down again. But I’ll put some more frills on the bodice, bulk up the bust, that should help a bit. And the veil will cover your freckles.’
‘Perfect.’
‘By the time he finds out what you actually look like, it’ll be too late.’
Encouraged by this, Deborah began stuffing handfuls of itchy lace into Martha’s cleavage.
At that moment there was a knock at the door. Although she knew it would only be a temporary reprieve, Martha was relieved. ‘Who is it?’ she said.
‘It’s … Mistress … Smedley …’ came the reply. Martha could barely make out the words, as the woman in question was panting so hard from the effort of climbing the stairs.
‘Mistress Smedley?’ she said. ‘Why on earth? Deborah, let her in.’
Deborah opened the door. Mistress Smedley, Martha’s former governess, half stood, half knelt on the stone threshold, scarlet-faced and bent double. She was not built for speed. Under one arm was a large, leather-bound book.
‘Your … Majesty …’ she gasped.
‘It is always a pleasure to see you, but what are you doing here?’ said Martha.
‘The King … is dead …’ wheezed Mistress Smedley.
‘Yes, I know. That’s not what you came here to tell me, is it?’
Mistress Smedley shook her head and tried to continue.
‘Long … live …’
‘Glass of wine?’ suggested Martha.
‘… The … don’t mind if I do … Queen …’
Deborah hooked an arm around the erstwhile governess and dragged her over to a damask-covered chair by the fireside. Mistress Smedley managed two glasses of wine in the time it took to get her breath back.
‘I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,’ she said at last. ‘Is that your wedding dress? I think it could do with some padding at the top.’
‘That’s what I told her,’ said Deborah.
‘My bodice is so full of stuffing I’m beginning to know how the duckottapin feels,’ said Martha.
‘Speaking of stuffing,’ said Mistress Smedley. ‘Oh, my dear. I have allowed a terrible, terrible lacuna in your education. An ellipsis. You know what an ellipsis is, don’t you, dear?’
‘Of course.’
‘A little absence. Nothing important. Or so I thought. You were always so sweet and so innocent. I didn’t want to … Well. And then this morning I realised that if I didn’t tell you now … Oh my poor, sweet, motherless child.’
Mistress Smedley loosened her grip on the leather-bound book she had been clutching to her ample bosom. She slid it along her knees towards Martha.
‘I think you’d better take a look,’ she said.
‘An Illustrated Guide to Married Life?’ read Martha from the gold lettering on the cover.
‘Oh Lordy,’ said Deborah.
‘Open it, dear,’ said Mistress Smedley.
‘Very well,’ said Martha. ‘Deborah, are we done?’
‘I think I should loosen you up,’ said Deborah. ‘We don’t want you fainting.’
‘Fainting?’ said Martha, but she allowed Deborah to unlace her corset. Then she took the book from Mistress Smedley’s lap and opened it on her dressing table.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well. That’s fine. I already know what I look like, in the state of nature.’ She went to close the book.
‘Turn the page,’ said Mistress Smedley.
Martha did.
‘Ah. I see that, beneath his britches, the human male is no different from the animals of the field. Very interesting, thank you, Mistress Smedley.’
She was about to close the book once more, when Mistress Smedley again said, ‘Turn the page.’
Martha sighed and turned the page. There was another silence. Martha went so pale that even her freckles began to fade.
‘On reflection, maybe waiting until the night before the wedding to tell her was a mistake,’ whispered Mistress Smedley to Deborah.
‘You can’t … you can’t possibly … think that I … would … with a complete stranger?’ Martha managed to say.
‘I think you’d best give the Queen a glass of wine,’ Mistress Smedley told Deborah.
‘I don’t need wine. I need for this not to be happening.’ Martha turned another page. ‘Oh, saints alive, no.’
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ said Deborah, peering over her shoulder.
‘You know about this, Deborah?’ said Martha. ‘Who else knows?’
‘It is an essential part of married life,’ said Mistress Smedley.
‘Essential? You mean everybody does this?’
‘If you want to have children, it is required.’
‘If I want to have children? I have to have children, because I’m the Queen. My wishes on the matter do not come into it.’
‘It is your duty.’
Martha straightened, eyes narrowing. ‘Don’t talk to me about my duty. I know my duty. I do nothing except my duty. I spent half an hour this morning discussing hazelnut production with the deputy head kitchen gardener. That was my duty, as I understood it. Nobody said that this –’ Martha jabbed a finger at the book ‘– was part of my duty too.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mistress Smedley, ‘but it is the burden of womanhood.’
‘It’s really not that much of a burden,’ said Deborah.
Martha turned another page.
‘Jesus Lord of all, he puts that there as well? Is there no end to this?’
Mistress Smedley craned her neck to look at the drawing.
‘That one is not strictly necessary for the procurement of children.’
‘Then why do it?’
‘And women?’
There was a pause. ‘It can be quite pleasurable,’ said Deborah at last.
‘You’re not even married!’ said Martha.
Deborah looked off to the side. ‘I mean, I’ve heard it can be,’ she mumbled.
‘I’m sure the Prince will be gentle with you,’ said Mistress Smedley.
‘Gentle? Gentle like breaking a horse? Gentle like when we force-feed the geese to make pâté? This –’ Martha pointed at the latest elaborately wrought illustration ‘– doesn’t look very gentle.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with giving it a bit of oomph,’ said Deborah.
Martha went to turn the page.
‘I’d advise that you skip the next one,’ said Mistress Smedley.
‘How much worse can it get?’
Martha turned the page.
‘Oh, that’s a good one,’ said Deborah.
‘I won’t do it,’ said Martha.
‘Sweetheart, you must,’ said Mistress Smedley.
‘I refuse. I’m the Queen.’
‘All the more reason that you must. There are some responsibilities that are greater even than that of a queen to her country, and those include the duty of a wife to her husband.’
‘Well then, I’m not getting married.’ Martha slammed the book shut with a triumphant expression.
But outside, the bugles were already heralding the arrival of Prince Edwin.