London
April 22, 1661
THE DAY AMETHYST Goldsmith was born, her king was beheaded. Now, twelve years later, his son was returning to England, and Amy wanted to see every exciting second of his triumphant procession. Without taller people blocking her view.
Unfortunately, it seemed nearly everyone was taller than she.
She shouldered her way through the crowd, her parents and aunt murmuring apologies in her wake. “Here, there’s room!” Finally reaching a few bare inches of rail, she clasped it with both hands and turned to flash them a victorious smile. “Come along, it’s starting!”
Hugh and Edith Goldsmith joined her, shaking their heads at their daughter’s tenacity. Hugh’s sister, Amy’s Aunt Elizabeth, squeezed in behind. Ignoring the grumbling of displaced spectators, Amy spread her feet wide to save more room at the front. “Robert, over here!”
Robert Stanley tugged on her long black plait as he wedged himself in beside her. She shot him a grin; he was fun. Although he’d arrived just last week to train as her father’s apprentice, Amy had known since birth that she was to marry him—or at least since she was old enough to understand such things. So far they seemed to be compatible, although he’d been surprised to find she was far more skilled as a jeweler than he. Surprised and none too pleased, Amy suspected. But he would get over those feelings.
She might be a girl, but, as her father always said, her talent was a God-given gift. She’d never give up her craft. Robert would just have to get used to it.
With a sigh of pleasure, Amy shuffled her shoes on the scrubbed cobblestones. “Look, Mama! Everything is so clean and glorious.” She breathed deep of the fresh air, blinking against the bright sun. “The rain has stopped…even the weather is welcoming the monarchy back to England! Have you ever seen so many people? All London must be here.”
“These cannot all be Londoners.” Her mother waved a hand, encompassing the crowds on the rooftops, the mobbed windows and overflowing balconies. “I think many have come in from the countryside.”
A handful of tossed rose petals drifted down, landing on Amy’s dark head like scented snowflakes. She shook them off, laughing. “Just look at all the tapestries and banners!”
“Just look at all that wasted wine,” Robert muttered, with a nod toward the fragrant red river that ran through the open conduit in the street.
Amy opened her mouth to protest, then decided he must be fooling. “Marry come up, Robert! You must be pleased King Charles will be crowned tomorrow. Our lives have been so dreary until now. But now Cromwell is gone, and we have music and dancing!” She felt like dancing, like spreading her burgundy satin skirts and twirling in a circle, but the press of the crowd made such a maneuver impossible, so she settled for bobbing a little curtsy. “We’ve beautiful clothes, and the theater—”
“And drinking and cards and dice,” Robert added.
But Amy wasn’t listening. She’d turned back to ogle the mounted queue of nobility parading their way from the Tower to Whitehall Palace. Such jewels and feathers and lace! Fingering the looped ribbons adorning her new gown, she pressed harder against the rail, wishing she too could join the procession.
“Where did they possibly find so many ostrich feathers in all of England?” she wondered aloud, then burst into giggles.
Her aunt laughed and wrapped an affectionate arm around her shoulders. “Where do you find the energy, child? You must come to Paris. Uncle William and I could use your happy smiles.”
Feeling a stab of sympathy, Amy hugged her around the waist. Aunt Elizabeth had lost her three children to smallpox last year.
“We need her artistry here,” Amy’s father protested, poking his sister good-naturedly. “Your shop will have to do without.”
“Ah, Hugh, how selfish you are!” Aunt Elizabeth chided. “Hoarding my niece’s talent for your own profit.” She aimed a teasing smile at her brother. “No wonder we moved to France to escape the competition.”
Amy grinned. Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle William had been forced to move their shop when business fell off during the Commonwealth years. But they’d flourished in Paris, becoming jewelers to the French court, and wouldn’t think of returning now.
“I’m glad you came for the coronation, Auntie. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Aunt Elizabeth declared. “Old Noll drove me out of England, so my home is elsewhere now. But heaven knows no one here is happier than I.”
“Listen!” Amy cried. A joyous roar rolled westward toward them, marking the slow passage of His Majesty in the middle of the procession. “Can you hear King Charles coming? There are his attendants!” The noise swelled as the king’s footguards marched by, their plumes of red and white feathers contrasting with those of his brother, the Duke of York, whose guard was decked out in black and white.
All at once, the roar was deafening. Amy grasped her mother’s hand. “It’s him, Mama,” she whispered. “King Charles II.” Glittering in the sunshine, the Horse of State caught and held her gaze. “Oh, look at the embroidered saddle, the pearls and rubies—look at our diamonds!”
Amy didn’t care for horses—she was terrified of them, truth be told—so she paid no attention to the magnificent beast himself. But three hundred of her family’s diamonds sparkled on the gold stirrups and bosses, among the twelve thousand lent for the occasion.
“Oh, Papa,” she breathed, “I wish we could have designed that saddle.”
Aunt Elizabeth’s hand suddenly tightened on Amy’s shoulder. “Charles is looking at me,” she declared loudly.
Amy’s father snorted. “Always the flirt, sister mine.”
Amy’s gaze flew from the dazzling horse to its rider. Smiling broadly beneath his thin mustache, the tall king waved to the crowd. His cloth-of-silver suit peeked from beneath ermine-lined crimson robes. Rubies and sapphires winked from gold shoe buckles and matching gold garters, festooned with great poufs of silver ribbon. Long, shining black curls draped over his chest, framing a weathered face; the result, Amy supposed, of having suffered through exile and the execution of his beloved father.
But his black eyes were quick and sparkling. Some women around Amy swooned, but she just stared, willing the king to look at her.
When he did, she flashed him a radiant smile. “No, Auntie, he’s looking at me.”
Before her family even stopped laughing, the king was gone, as suddenly as he had arrived. But the spectacle wasn’t over. Behind him came a camel with brocaded panniers and an East Indian boy flinging pearls and spices into the crowd. And then more lords and ladies, more glittering costumes, more decorated stallions, more men-at-arms, all bedecked in gold and silver and the costliest of gems.
Yet none of it mattered to Amy, for there was a young nobleman riding her way.
He looked to be maybe sixteen, a bit older than Robert—but she thought he looked much more mature. It wasn’t the richness of his clothing that caught Amy’s eye, for in truth his garb was rather plain. His black velvet suit was trimmed with naught but gold braid; his wide-brimmed hat boasted only a single white plume. He wore no fancy crimped periwig; instead his own raven-black hair fell in gleaming waves past his chin.
Eyes the color of emeralds bore into Amy’s as he set his horse in her direction. His glossy black gelding breathed close, but she felt no fear, for the young man held her safe with his piercing green gaze. It seemed as though he could see through her eyes right into her soul. Her cheeks flamed; never in her life had a boy looked at her like that.
He tipped his plumed hat. Flustered, she turned and glanced about, certain he must be saluting someone else. But everyone was laughing and talking or watching the procession; no one focused their attention his way. She looked back, and he grinned as he passed, a beautiful flash of white that made Amy melt inside.
Long after he rode out of sight around the bend, she stared to where he had disappeared.
“Amy?” Robert tugged on her hand.
She turned and gazed into his eyes: pale blue, not green. They didn’t see into her soul, didn’t make her feel anything.
Robert smiled, revealing teeth that overlapped a bit. She hadn’t really noticed that before. “It’s over,” he said.
“Oh.”
The sun set as they walked home to Cheapside, skirting merrymakers in the streets. Her father paused to unlock their door. Overhead, a wooden sign swung gently in the breeze. A nearby bonfire illuminated the image of a falcon and the gilt letters that proclaimed their shop GOLDSMITH & SONS, JEWELLERS.
There came a sudden brilliant flash and a stunned “Ooooh” from the crowd, as fireworks lit the sky. Amy dashed through the shop and up the stairs to their balcony.
Gazing toward the River Thames, she watched the great fiery streaks of light, heard the soaring rockets, smelled the sulfur in the air. It was the most spectacular display England had ever seen, and the sights and sounds filled her with a wondrous feeling.
If only life could be as exhilarating as a fireworks show.
When the last glittering tendril faded away, she listened to the fragments of song and rowdy laughter that filled the night air. Couples strolled by, arm in arm. Robert stepped onto the balcony and moved close.
His voice was quiet beside her. “This is a day I’ll never forget.”
“I’ll never forget it, either,” she said, thinking of the boy on the black steed, the young nobleman with the emerald eyes.
Robert reached out to tilt her face up. Was he going to kiss her? She’d never been kissed—what a day this was turning out to be! Her heart pounded as he bent his head and brushed his lips softly, chastely against hers.
Her heart stopped pounding.
It was her first kiss; she was supposed to feel fireworks.
But she felt nothing.