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“IT’S NINE O’CLOCK, my lady.” The steward bent to murmur the words in Trumpet’s ear. It must be fully dark outside. Time for the bride to leave the feast.
She looked toward Stephen, carousing in the center of his noisy group of friends. “Ask my lord to join me in half an hour — not sooner.”
“Yes, my lady.” The steward bowed and went to deliver his message.
Trumpet wouldn’t wait for an answer. She patted her father’s hand with a wistful smile. “It’s time for me to say good night, my lord.”
“Not yet, Daughter. Let me escort you.” He rose with her and tucked her hand inside his elbow to lead her off the dais. To her surprise, many people cheered and pounded their cups on the table. “Ignore them,” her father said, chuckling. “The bride must maintain her dignity.”
She nodded, not caring about the crowd. She was glad to have a few more minutes with her father. They’d spent this whole marvelous day reveling in each other’s company, practically ignoring everyone else. Stephen hadn’t seemed to mind. Perhaps he understood; he’d just lost his own father, after all. Or maybe she’d played the unwilling bride so persuasively he’d given up any thought of having a claim on her affections.
Her father had spent few days at home over the course of her childhood, especially after her mother died. And then he’d been occupied with the steward and the local justices, men of authority who required his approval or his seal or some other thing. Trumpet remembered dinners passed in silence, each seated at one end of a long table. Sometimes he would ask her questions deriving from his misguided ideas about a young lady’s life. Trumpet held that sort of life in utter contempt, which she allowed to color her answers. She volunteered nothing and he stopped asking.
But time had passed, and she had grown up. The great unexpected joy of this day, which she had been dreading, was discovering how much she liked her father. People had always told her she resembled him, in character as well as looks, but she’d never believed it. They’d been right.
They walked across the courtyard under a waxing moon. One more hour — a little less — and she’d be in Tom’s bed losing her unwanted virginity under the light of this selfsame moon.
She shivered as excitement coursed through her body like a spirituous liquor.
“Are you cold, dearest?” her father asked.
“Not really.”
He slowed his steps, patting her hand. “Are you, ah, worried? Fearful?”
She nearly laughed. What would he say to her if she said she was? “Not really.”
“Thank God.” He shot her a grin. “I suppose that clever maidservant of yours has explained things well enough.”
Trumpet nodded. Catalina had given her the essential facts, and Tom would teach her the rest. Unlike most women of her station, she got to spend her wedding night with the one she loved.
They passed through the shadows under the arched gate into the Great Court, crossing the cobbled yard. They paused outside the door leading to Stephen’s suite of rooms, not yet ready to part. Her father had warned her that he would be gone when she woke up, riding south to Portsmouth to rejoin his crew. “I’m a seafaring man, Daughter. I never feel like myself in England.”
“I know. I’m glad you came.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the whole Spanish treasure fleet.” He took both her hands in his. “He’s not good enough for you, Alice, that bottle-headed cackler, whatever his rank.”
Trumpet chuckled. “He’ll do, Father. I didn’t have much choice.”
“That’s partly my fault, I know. I suppose he could be worse. He’s not bad-looking, and he seems biddable. But I can’t see you settling down to a quiet life in Dorset after spending so much time in London and traveling with the court.”
Now she laughed out loud. “Nor can I! I’ll make a progress through my estates annually to meet with the stewards and hear grievances and so forth, as Lady Russell recommends. But my principal home will be in London. I want a house on the Strand facing the river, with gardens and an orchard. I’ve made an offer to the owners of Surdeval House. We shall see if they meet my price.”
Pride blended with amusement shone in her father’s eyes. “They won’t be able to resist you.”
“Not for long.” She grinned. “I spent a week in that house. I know its flaws.”
“You’re a pirate at heart, Daughter. Like me.” His expression grew serious as he gripped her hands more firmly. “Your mother would be so proud of you. I’m proud of you, for what that’s worth.”
Trumpet was silent for a long moment, thinking about how to respond. Until today she would have valued her father’s opinion at something less than a cracked egg. Now it made her heart ache with affection, or something like it. She decided to forgive him. “In retrospect, my lord Father, I’m grateful for the independence you allowed me as a child. It’s made me who I am.”
He drew in a long breath, as if inhaling the rare words of thanks to store them up inside his chest. Then he let it out with a shake of his head. “We never used words like ‘allow’ and ‘let’ in reference to you, Alice. From your earliest days, you have always known your own mind.”
She nodded. She’d always known that too.
“You blamed me for your mother’s death.” He shook his head. “You were probably right to do so. I was greedier back then, and I’ve always been a selfish man.”
Trumpet shrugged. She didn’t want to spoil this perfect day with sad memories and futile recriminations. “I had allies, good ones. My uncle, my aunt. I still have them.”
“Friends too, I hope.”
“Friends too.” She thought of Tom and Catalina, as well as Lady Russell. And in his own odd way, Francis Bacon. Maybe Bess Throckmorton, if she turned out not to be a murderer.
“It’s kind of you to cast my neglect in such a generous light. I’ll confess that children baffle me, and you were a most unusual child. I was — I am — a terrible father.” His face took on an indescribable expression, as if self-doubt were trying to form on features that weren’t made for it. “But I can be a good friend, if you’ll allow me. I do love you, Alice.”
She held his gaze, biting her lower lip. Then she nodded. “I believe you.”
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Be happy, my child.” He gave her hands one last squeeze and turned toward the outer gate.
She caught his sleeve before he took a full step away. “Father, I —” She licked her lips. “There will always be a room in my house for you.”
“Thank you, Daughter. I’ll make sure to stay in it sometime.”
And then he left.
Trumpet skipped all the way to Stephen’s rooms, her heart soaring. Her father loved her! Who would have guessed it? And in a matter of minutes, she’d be with Tom. This time nothing would hold them back.
She danced into the anteroom, finding it empty, as planned. Stephen’s men had been sent off with coins in their purses to do as they pleased on this night of nights. They were not to show their faces until nine the next morning.
She opened the door to Stephen’s chamber just to make sure. No one there, but Catalina had filled the pitcher by the wash basin with water so he could wash his hands and face. She’d also set out a jug of wine and a silver goblet on a small table pulled out from the wall where he’d almost trip over it when he came in.
Trumpet frowned. They didn’t want him too drunk. She’d learned from Tom, back when he thought she was a boy, that men’s ability to perform the sexual act could be impaired by too much drink. She debated the question in her mind, then pushed the table back toward the wall.
Satisfied, she crossed the anteroom to enter the lady’s bedchamber. Her chamber now, although she’d left most of her clothes in the room she shared with Bess. This room was also handsomely appointed. The rose shades of the woolen bed curtains, silk pillow covers, and tufted satin coverlet went together so well; Stephen must have chosen them himself.
Two women turned toward the door as she entered; one eerily like Trumpet in general contours.
“My lady!” Catalina reached for her arm, drawing her inside as she closed the door. “You are late.”
“Only a little. I was talking with my father.”
“Oh.” Catalina’s wide lips curved in a warm smile. “I like your father.”
“So do I, as it turns out.” Trumpet turned toward the other woman with a short nod. “You must be Jane Switt.”
“Yes, my lady.” The whore dropped a nimble curtsy.
“I must say you do look astonishingly like me.” Trumpet cocked her head and walked all the way around her, studying Catalina’s work.
The substitute wore Trumpet’s least alluring nightdress, an opaque linen shirt that hung loosely to her ankles and closed at the neck of a high ruffled collar. It was richly embroidered in white silk thread, so it would pass for a bridal garment, but it would never arouse any lusty thoughts. One could almost wear the thing out of doors without loss of modesty.
Catalina had dyed Jane’s long hair black, remembering to darken the eyebrows and the lashes. The hair had been polished with silk and shaped into loose curls with chin-length wisps drifting across the face. Trust Catalina to think of every detail!
She’d dusted a fine powder all over her face and upper chest to match
Trumpet’s color. Ladies were supposed to maintain that perfect whiteness, but she hated vizards or anything that obstructed her view. And she’d spent many hours walking abroad with a bare face during her year as a boy. She’d done her best to restore her complexion since then, but she was nothing like as pale as a whore.
A mirror hung on the wall above a wide table littered with jars of unguents, pots of paint, small brushes, and wet rags. She linked arms with Jane and stood before it. “God’s blessed breast! We’re as alike as two peas.”
Not really, but perhaps as like as a large pea and a small brussels sprout. The hair was the same thanks to Catalina’s alchemy, and Jane’s eyes were almost as green. But their noses were quite different. Trumpet’s was straight, if a trifle long, while Jane’s had a noticeable bump and wider nostrils. Worse, Trumpet’s eyes tilted up at the corners, giving her an elvish look, while Jane’s were round and sat closer to the nose.
But the overall effect was really quite good.
“Close enough, my lady,” Jane said. “With the veil and one small candle, and me gritting my teeth with my eyes squeezed shut, he won’t know the difference.”
“Are you sure he won’t insist on nakedness? He won’t demand the right to explore or inspect —”
Both experienced women shook their heads. Jane answered, “Trust us, my lady, once he understands that you don’t want it, he’ll aim to get it over with as quick as he can.”
“He will want to leave as soon as he may, my lady,” Catalina said. “To meet the Lady Anne. Your Tom, he told me he heard them say it during the acrobats.”
Stephen had gotten up after the sweet course to wander down the dais to sit with his friends. They’d been passing some little bottle around, Trumpet had noticed, waving it at her once or twice. Maybe it was a sleeping potion, meant to put her to sleep so he could do his duty without conflict. Or a love potion. She’d heard dark tales about those too, back when she’d been a boy.
“Don’t drink anything he gives you,” she warned her substitute. “I saw his friends passing an odd little bottle around.”
“I’ll be careful. And I’ll make sure it doesn’t take long.”
“Good. The quicker, the better.” Trumpet turned to Catalina. “Let’s try the veil.”
The maidservant drew out a length of white gauze and draped it over Jane’s head. Trumpet helped to straighten the folds, then stood back to admire the effect.
“I might think it was you myself, my lady,” Catalina said.
Trumpet nodded. She reviewed the scenario in her mind, imagining Stephen’s point of view as he came through the door, half-drunk, to find this muffled creature waiting reluctantly to receive him. She felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t done anything to deserve this deception other than not be Tom. He could scarcely be blamed for that.
“Don’t help him any more than you must,” she said. “Whimper a little — but not too much. Don’t overplay it. No need to make him feel like a brute.”
“Perhaps a little sigh at the end, like this.” Catalina acted out her suggestion. “So he does not feel so bad.”
Jane lifted the veil to glare at them, offended. “I think I know my business, my lady! I’ve played the virgin a hundred times. I’ve got my phial of pig’s blood under the pillow, ready for the right moment.”
“I’ll leave it in your hands, then,” Trumpet said. “Help me change, and I’ll be gone.”
Three pairs of hands made quick work of getting her out of her bridal garb and into her working woman’s costume. Catalina draped a cloak over her shoulders and drew the hood down to her nose. Trumpet cracked open the chamber door to peek out. All clear. She turned back toward her co-conspirators with an excited grin. “Good luck!”
Catalina said, “Have fun, my lady!”
How not? After two long years of planning, she would finally get to spend a night with Tom. Trumpet had to drag her heels against the cobbles to keep from sprinting across the courtyard. She mustn’t attract attention at this late stage. She kept her eyes on the ground and her lips pressed together to keep from singing along with the heavenly choir chanting, “Tom! Tom! Tom!” inside her mind to the rhythm of her racing heart.
She found the small door leading up to the rooms built above the kennels. Tom’s was the third one, over Lancelot and Guinevere’s den. Those names had never seemed more fitting. She knocked once. “It’s me.”
He opened the door and stood back so she could enter. The room was barely ten feet on either side, with a narrow bed, a small table, and a single chair. Tom’s two large chests provided more surfaces but left little space for moving around. He’d lit several candles, setting them on the high shelf that served as mantelpiece for the mean little grate — just a brazier set into a stone hollow. He’d also scavenged some food and drink from the feast, leaving jugs, cups, and things wrapped in coarse linen jumbled on the table.
She remembered the elaborate preparations she’d made for her last wedding night — the one that had ended so badly. She’d scattered rose petals around a silk-lined chamber twice this size with windows overlooking the Thames. Tom had turned her down that night. But that was then, and everything was different now.
The look in his eyes as he took her cloak cast her into a sort of waking swoon. The words she’d planned caught in her throat. She untied the bow at the top of her bodice lacing and in the next moment found herself pressed full-length along Tom’s tall frame with his strong arms around her, lifting her right off the floor.
Their lips parted as they gasped for breath. “Clothes,” she said, wanting to be rid at last of the layers separating her skin from his.
He set her down, and she started unhooking his doublet while he loosened the lacings of her bodice and skirt enough to slide the whole works off her shoulders and over her hips. She reached around his waist to untie the laces holding up his trunk hose, and down they fell. Tom kicked his feet free, bending sideways to pull the bows of his garters loose, and used his toes to push off his shoes and stockings.
They stood face-to-face in their shirts. He smiled into her eyes, and she smiled back. A sort of quietness spread through her, balancing her excitement, tempering it. All her plans and preparations ended here. Now it was up to Tom to take them the rest of the way.
He nodded as if he heard her thoughts. He untied the lace at her collar in one slow pull, then touched the hollow of her throat with one finger, tenderly, as if making a prayer. Then he took her face in both hands and gazed deep into her eyes. Candlelight cast a golden glow across the planes of his cheeks.
“I love you, Alice. I think I have since that moment when I fished you out of the duck pond and first knew you for a girl. You might not believe me, but it’s been years since I even thought about another woman — seriously thought, I mean. You’re always with me, always in my head, always in my heart. It’s only you. It’s always you. And now —”
Trumpet put a finger on his lips. “Tom, please shut up and make love to me. We only have till sunrise.”
“As you wish, my lady.” He reached behind his head and pulled his shirt off in one swift motion. Without giving her time to do more than gawk at the naked chest before her eyes, he pulled her smock up and over her head as well.
She shivered as her backside was exposed to the cool air, but forgot the chill when she placed her whole palm on Tom’s bare chest for the first time. She spread her fingers and moved her hand slowly across the flat muscles over his stomach, through the coarse curls over his heart, and up the smooth expanse of his collarbone and shoulder, wondering at the sheer solidity of him. So this was a man. This was Tom.
She knew his voice as well as her own, that beloved tenor with its Dorset burr. She’d heard him sing, shout, pray, lecture, and tell rambling, stupid, unfunny jokes while three sheets to the wind.
She knew the features of his face better than her own; better than anyone’s. His eyes seemed a darker blue when he wore a green velvet cap and his nostrils quivered when he was trying not to laugh. She could write a whole book about that spine-melting dimple.
She knew how he smelled too, every way that he smelled: perfumed for court, sweaty after a hard bout of fencing, or drenched in slimy pond scum.
She’d even seen him stripped to his breeches, back when he’d thought she was a boy. But he’d been a youth then. His body had hardened in the past five years, crafted into this sculpted figure, as perfect as a marble statue, but warm, golden-hued, and covered in fine blond hairs that glinted in the candlelight.
She stroked a questing hand across his lower belly and smiled at the rippling tension her touch provoked. She molded the curve of his waist and smoothed both hands up his broad back, pulling her own exquisitely sensitive body toward him inch by deliberate inch.
He chuckled, a throaty sound. “That’s enough, Alice.” He tilted her chin up and kissed her on the mouth, thoroughly, deeply, until everything fell away except his warm skin, his weighty mass, and his strong, knowing hands. He loved her with skill and purpose, tenderly but comprehensively. She finally learned what rapture meant. Catalina hadn’t described it properly at all. She even reveled in the pang when he took her maidenhead. She’d finally left her girlhood behind.
A while later, they got up and stripped the stained sheet from the bed, bundling it carefully into a ball. Trumpet would take it back with her to replace the one with the pig’s blood. She didn’t know who might inspect the proof of consummation and feared an experienced midwife could tell the difference. They shook out a clean sheet, though neither of them was much good at bed-making.
Tom poured wine and unwrapped the collection of oddments he’d stolen from the banquet table. Trumpet drank thirstily, but had no appetite for food.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like a whole new person. Like every inch of me has been stripped off, refashioned, and put back again.”
He nodded. “Me too. Everything’s different now. Which I have to say surprises me a little.”
She squealed in mock outrage and launched herself at him, knocking his cup into the rushes. This time there was no pang. She knew what went where and how it got there. This time she took her natural role as the instigator.
Trumpet felt as if she were throwing herself off a high cliff purely to enjoy the sensation of flying, secure in the knowledge that her best friend in all the world would be there to catch her.
