Later

Madame de Parois has been in a most foul humour ever since we have arrived at Chambord. At first I thought it was just our wildness, the way the four Marys and I were tearing about in our Scottish costumes and babbling away in Gaelic, which does sound rough in the throat compared with French. But this afternoon she became absolutely nasty – a scowl etched on her face, snapping at everyone. She even tried to kick little Thimble out of the way. I scooped up Thimble, who was quivering with fear, and I just burst out, “Madame, what is it in you that delights in kicking a dog that weighs no more than a cabbage?”

Madame de Parois then looked over at the dress that I plan to give to the abbess. “I see,” she said, “that you are afraid of my enriching myself in your service. It is plain you intend to keep me poor.”

“That is not my intention at all, Madame. But why should the church not benefit from this brocade, and Mary Fleming is the perfect size for this other gown of mine. I am sorry this inconveniences you.”