Her cousin Aphra, with whom she had visited the Royal Wardrobe, was invited to stay with them that week. Greeting her, Etta quipped, ‘I think I need some moral support.’
‘Do you, Ettie? Why?’ Aphra held a special place in everyone’s hearts as the sweetest and kindest of women, fair and slender, graceful in thought and deed, serene and as steadfast a friend as anyone could wish for. Everyone knew that, one day, she would find a wonderful husband and Etta looked upon her as an elder sister. ‘They’ve found a husband for you, haven’t they?’ Aphra said. ‘Don’t look so surprised. Your expression gave it away. Come on, it may not be as bad as all that.’
‘I think it may be worse, Affie.’ It was nothing new to Aphra to be the recipient of Etta’s woes, but this time the only help she could offer was in her calming influence and companionship, and the advice to speak with her parents about her concerns. Predictably, the conversation was brief.
* * *
Knocking on the door of her parents’ bedchamber, Etta entered at her mother’s call, taking in the sweet aroma of last year’s lavender and burning applewood. Half-dressed, they were both being pinned and laced into the various items of clothing, looking oddly lopsided. ‘May I speak with you a while?’ she said, sitting on the oak chest at the end of their bed.
Discreetly, the servants left the room. Her father’s demeanour had not changed all morning from the determined expression he now wore and she knew that this time they would insist. ‘Father,’ she said, catching the anxious glance her mother sent in his direction, ‘this time you’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘We’ve made our choice, Etta,’ he said, tying the last of his points. ‘You cannot expect us to change our minds. You must trust us to know what’s best.’
‘But if you thought love was the best reason for you and Mother to marry, then why not me, too?’
‘Love?’ Both parents’ eyebrows lifted as they stared at her. ‘Love?’ her mother repeated. ‘Etta, have you done something foolish?’
The temptation to pursue this line was almost overwhelming. ‘No, Mother, I haven’t. I just want some say in who I spend the rest of my life with. As you did.’
‘As it happens, Etta,’ said her father, ‘that’s what we want, too. You may not have given it much thought, but fathers don’t usually give dowries along with their daughters to any man who declares his love for them. There’s a lot of money at stake here and any father who throws that away on a young man’s declaration of love is a fool. Your mother and I had got beyond that stage when we agreed to marry. I’m sorry if that sounds mercenary, my dear, but these are important considerations that parents must take very seriously. We’ve found a man with enough wealth to make that unlikely. The love will develop as you get to know each other. I expect.’
‘Now go and finish your dressing,’ her mother said, ‘and try to take this with a good grace. We expect you to make yourself agreeable to our guest.’
There was no more she could say to them. All her personal preparations had been accomplished, hair washed and braided, skin scrubbed and perfumed, dresses chosen, pressed and mended, frills starched and gathered to perfection. She had chosen to wear a high-necked gown of deep-pink satin over a Spanish bell-shaped farthingale, the bodice making a deep vee at the front, stiffened by whalebone. Sitting down was only achieved with care, so now she stood with Aphra at the mullioned window of her room that gave them a view of the gardens with the great river beyond and the jetty where a small barge was coming in, its four oarsmen steering it skilfully against the tide.
‘He’s got his own barge,’ said Etta, ‘and his boatmen have liveries. That’s serious wealth, Aphie. That’ll be him, climbing out.’ The small diamond-shaped panes of thick glass made it difficult to see any details, only that the manly figure leaping out of the barge did not quite fit Etta’s mental image of a middle-aged aristocrat.
‘He’s tall,’ Aphra said. ‘Can’t see any more. Shall we go down?’
Purposely, they took their time, lingering to catch sounds of greetings and laughter, Etta readying herself to show a confidence she was far from feeling. Her mind slipped back to her meeting in that dim storeroom with the man who had made her feel womanly and desirable, when there had been no talk of wealth, dowries, bargains or filial obedience. Those had been moments she had kept safe in her heart, not even sharing them with Aphra. Now, she might as well forget them and face her real future.
He was standing with his back to the door as Etta and Aphra entered, accepting a glass of wine from his hostess, his tall frame matching Lord Jon’s as only a few other men did. He had obviously taken great care to make a good impression, for his deep-green sleeveless gown was edged with marten fur worn over a doublet and breeches of gold-edged green velvet, slashed to show a creamy white satin beneath. As he turned to greet them, they saw gold cords and aiglets studded with seed pearls, and in his hat was a drooping peacock feather like her father’s. He smiled, creasing his handsome face, making his eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Mistress Raemon,’ he said, softly, ‘your prediction was correct. We have met again, you see?’
A hard uncomfortable thudding in her chest made words difficult. ‘Father, there’s been a mistake. This man is not who you think he is. He was at the Royal Wardrobe when Aphra and I went there. His name is Master Nicolaus.’
Why were they all smiling?
Looking slightly sheepish through her smiles, her mother came forward to lead Etta by the hand. ‘Yes, dear. He is also Baron Somerville of Mortlake. We know you have already met. That was intentional. Shall you make your courtesies?’
‘No, Mother. I shall not. There is some deception here. Why did he introduce himself to me as Master Nicolaus? What is it that he’s not told me that he should have? Be honest, if you please.’ Her voice was brittle with anger and humiliation, and anything but welcoming. She had tried to make him understand that he was not the kind of man with whom she would form a relationship. She thought he had accepted that.
The smile remained in his eyes, though now tinged with concern. ‘I have been honest with you at all times, mistress,’ said Baron Somerville, reminding her of his deep voice and seductive tone, the reassuring words. ‘My name is Nicolaus Benninck, from Antwerp. Recently, the Queen honoured me with the title of baron. I am one and the same person, you see. I believe you were kindly disposed to the one, so it stands to reason that you will feel the same about the other. How could it be otherwise?’
But the colour had now blanched from Etta’s face as she made it plain what she thought of such reasoning. ‘It may have escaped your notice, sir, that I am a grown woman, not a child of six to join in this kind of game. What is it you wished to gain from this deceit, exactly? Do you try the same nonsense with everyone you meet? Does your new title embarrass you so that you could not have spoken of it?’
‘Henrietta!’ her father barked. ‘That’s going too far. You are being discourteous to our guest. You should apologise at once.’
‘The discourtesy is to me, Father. Tell Baron Somerville his journey is wasted. If a man is not honest enough to tell a woman of his status, on two separate occasions, then one must wonder what else he will keep from her. If I did the same, Father, you would have me locked in my room on nothing but bread and water.’
‘You’re taking this quite the wrong way,’ said Lord Jon, crossly.
‘On the contrary, Father. I find it patronising in the extreme to be fed misleading information as if I could not manage the truth. But that’s not all, is it, my lord? Didn’t you also tell me you were a mercer?’ She turned to her mother, her eyes blazing with scorn. ‘A mercer! I ask you, Mama, is it in the least likely you and Father would expect me