‘Are you in the dyeing trade, then?’
‘I am a mercer,’ he said. ‘It’s my business to know about such things.’
‘And how did you know my name?’
He smiled, revealing perfect teeth and showing a pair of laughing brown eyes that sparked with admiration. ‘I could not help but know your name, mistress, when it’s upon everyone’s lips. Now we’ve had a chance to compare you, the sight of another woman with the Queen’s looks cannot help but be the cause of some comment. I was present at the Guild of Mercers’ banquet a few days ago, which you also attended with your parents, but you left before I could be introduced. Did your ears not burn?’
She looked away, laughing in embarrassment, though secretly she was excited to find herself the object of such interest. ‘No, sir. I think you are teasing. Perhaps you could tell me more about the Queen’s robes?’
So while the deep-voiced mercer told her of the Queen’s artificers who made up her gloves, purses, hose, shoes and hats, showing her the heavily embroidered velvet bags specially made to keep them in, Etta constantly cast her eyes over his handsome head and masculine figure and wondered how she might develop this budding friendship without suffering the investigations her parents were set on imposing. He was probably of no particular importance, she thought, for her parents to have overlooked an introduction, and yet, to her, his knowledge of fashion and fabrics, his charming manner and obvious good breeding was of more importance to her than any titled good-for-nothing with more wealth than intelligence. But, of course, he would be married. How could he not be?
They had moved into an adjoining room where liveried men carried rolls of fabric on their shoulders between ceiling-high racks piled with bales of fabric, their labels dangling like tassels, the soft thud of cloth-rolls hitting the shelves, the faint perfume of lavender and spices. ‘Did you not bring your wife with you, sir?’ she asked, looking towards the open door.
His eyes lingered over her face as if deliberating how to answer the simple question, making her fear that it might not be to her liking, after all. When he replied, it was as if he knew exactly the purpose of her query, exposing her thoughts and linking them to his own. ‘I have not yet taken a wife, Mistress Raemon,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could help me to find one?’
She tried to search his eyes, but they were searching hers and she could not maintain her quest for a meaning. Long-lashed lids flickered like shutters to prevent him from seeing any sign that might expose her interest and, with an effort at the brand of nonchalance she used on such occasions, she moved away from him, speaking over her shoulder. ‘I doubt it, sir. Perhaps you should look amongst the mercers’ daughters. There are sure to be some available. Now, I must return to my cousin. She’ll be wondering where I am. Through here, is it?’
She heard the soft laugh behind her, as if he were amused by her attempt at a dismissal, and it was no accident that she abstained from asking his name, if only to reinforce her uninterest. Except that she was far from being uninterested, for the sound of his laugh, his voice and the presence of him beside her stayed in her mind all the way home and for the rest of that day. Nor would she ask her brothers if they knew him, as indeed they must have done, as perhaps Aphra did, too. It looked to Etta as if, in that crowd of guests, not one of them was willing to admit that they had noticed either the meeting or the unceremonious parting.
* * *
Partly to cling to her independence for as long as possible and partly, she had to admit, to take another look at the handsome mercer, she asked to pay another visit to see the fine fabrics at The Royal Wardrobe, for there were one or two she had forgotten the name of, and perhaps Uncle George would sell her some.
‘No, he won’t,’ said her mother, closing the lid of the virginal and removing the music from the stand. ‘It’s all for the royal use, my dear. I thought you knew that. It’s bought in from the mercers and merchants, and it’s for her and the officers to say what’s to be done with it. But there’s no reason why you should not take another look, if you take Tilda with you and be home in time for supper.’
* * *
There was a heightened sense of anticipation in the river journey this time, though flakes of snow made her blink and hold the fur more tightly across her chin. Tilda’s eagerness to see the robes was reason enough for Etta’s visit so soon after the first, but added to that was the delicious feeling that she was still finding her own friends in defiance of her parents who, although having her happiness and safety at heart, could have no perception of how much she valued her independence. If the sneaking thought entered her head that her defiance was very close to deceit, then she pushed it away along with the knowledge that they might well find out for themselves, as they had done before. She supposed Uncle George would see to that.
But Sir George Betterton was not there, though it was staffed as before by the liveried men far too intent on their onerous duties to pay Etta and her maid much heed. Over by the window, a group of men turned over some bolts of cloth, angling them to the light, and it was one of these who came to her immediately with a word of excuse to his colleagues. ‘Mistress Raemon,’ he said, lifting off his velvet hat with a graceful bow. Smiling, he replaced it. ‘You hoped to find Sir George?’
She felt the breathless lurch of her heart betraying the nonchalance of her bearing, taking her quite unawares. He was every bit as handsome as she had remembered, giving her another chance to see the thick dark hair and the laughter in his eyes as they caught the small light from the window. It was at times like this, she thought, that staring ought not to be rated as bad manners, for if ever a man should be stared at, this fine creature was he. Suited in deep moss-green velvet, he proclaimed the gentleman down to the last discreet detail but, more than that, he had some indefinable presence that made women’s hearts race. Etta realised that she was very glad they’d met again, quite by chance, of course.
‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘My maid wishes to see the Queen’s robes. Mistress Tilda, this is... Master...er... I’m sorry, I don’t think you told me your name.’
‘My friends know me as Nicolaus,’ he said. ‘I would like to think you were both amongst them.’
‘Master Nicolaus,’ the two women whispered, dipping a curtsy.
Snapping his fingers towards two young men, he beckoned them over. ‘Escort Mistress Tilda round the display,’ he said. ‘She wishes to see the Queen’s robes. Tell her about them.’
Tilda went with them, happily leaving her mistress to look enquiringly at the man on whom her eyes had lighted as soon as they’d entered. He dipped his head as if to catch her thoughts. ‘That is what you had in mind I hope, mistress?’ he said.
‘If that’s what you wish to think, sir, then I have no objection.’ Her slow, heavy-lidded blink delighted him.
‘Your bonnet is wet with snow. Shall you remove it and lay it before the fire? And your cloak, too? Here, allow me to help.’ On this day, she wore a one-piece gown of expensive London russet that showed no more than the high frill of her embroidered smock at the neck and wrists, though now her hair fell loosely about her shoulders until she caught it up with her hands and threw it behind her with a grace that appeared to fascinate him. She had done it before to great effect, this time allowing it to brush over his hands before they could move away.
‘I came, Master Nicolaus, to remind myself of two or three fabrics I saw yesterday so I can order some, once I know how to call them. May I show you?’
‘Certainly, mistress. This would be for yourself, would it? One must be careful, you see, not to overstep the sumptuary laws. I imagine the new Queen will be quite firm about observing them. Baudekin, for instance, has a distinct gold thread running with the silk, and although she wears it, very few others are allowed to.’
‘I doubt if the Queen will ever see me, sir. It was not the baudekin I saw, but this one, I