NOTORIOUS in the Tudor Court. Amanda McCabe
señorita, are you alone this afternoon?” she asked. As she stopped before Marguerite, her dark red velvet skirts swaying in a cloud of violet scent, Marguerite saw she was older than she first appeared. Tiny lines fanned out from her brown eyes and her lips, and grey threaded her brown hair at the temples. She was obviously quite wealthy, too, with a heavy garnet-and-pearl cross around her neck, hanging low over her fur-trimmed surcoat, and pearl drops in her ears. An important member of the Spanish party, then, Marguerite decided. But her eyes were kind.
Marguerite stood up to make a curtsy. “I am reading, señora…”
“This is the Duchess of Bernaldez,” one of her attendants said sternly.
The lady waved these words away. “Dona Elena when we are outdoors, if you please, Esperanza.” She whispered to Marguerite, “I have spent many years at a quiet convent, you see, and have yet to become accustomed to the strict etiquette my husband seems sadly to enjoy so much.”
Marguerite laughed in surprise. “I, too, prefer informality. I am Marguerite Dumas, Dona Elena.”
“I know. You are quite famous, Señorita Dumas.”
“Famous?” Oh, no. That would surely make things so much more difficult! It was hard enough to engage in subterfuge in a crowded Court without being well known.
“Of course. The men can talk of nothing but your rare beauty. I see now why that is so.”
“You are very kind.”
“I just speak as I find, and I must say I enjoy having beauty around me as much as anyone. It brightens these grey English days. Would you care to walk with us? We were going to take a turn by the river.”
Ah, an opportunity! They so rarely just fell into her lap like that. Hoping to compensate for her silly behaviour with Nicolai, Marguerite nodded and said, “I would be honoured, Dona Elena.”
She fell into step next to the duchess as they strolled around the palace to the long walkway that ran beside the Thames. The river was placid today, grey and flat as a length of sombre silk, broken only by a few boats and barges floating past on their way to London and the sea. Dona Elena’s attendants gradually went back to their conversations, their whispers like those waves that broke and ebbed along the banks.
“You have not long been married, then, Dona Elena?” Marguerite asked.
“A few months only. My first husband, a sea captain, died many years ago, señorita. I loved him a great deal, and when he was gone I sought the refuge of a convent. I thought to stay there for the rest of my life.”
“Until the duke swept you off your feet?” Marguerite teased.
Dona Elena laughed. “You certainly have it aright! His sister, you see, is abbess of the convent, and we met when he came to visit her. We spent a great many hours walking in the garden together, and before he left he asked me to marry him.”
“Such a romantic story!”
Dona Elena gave her a wink. “And an unlikely one, you are thinking. An old lady like myself—why would an exalted duke choose such a wife?”
“Not at all, Dona Elena. You can hardly be so ‘old’ and still be so beautiful.”
“You do possess the art of flattery, Señorita Dumas. I had heard that of the French.”
“Like you, I must speak as I find.”
“Are you married yourself?”
Marguerite shook her head. “I fear not.”
“I was first married when I was fifteen. My new husband was also wed when he was quite young, and his wife gave him many children before she died. We did our duty in our youth, you see; we have our families. Now we are blessed to find companionship and affection in our old age.”
“It sounds a marvellous thing indeed, Dona Elena. I can only pray to find such contentment myself one day.”
“You must surely have received many offers!” Dona Elena examined her closely, until Marguerite felt her blush returning. “I wonder you are yet unwed.”
“My duties at Court keep me very busy. And, too, I am an orphan, with no one to see to such matters.”
“Oh, pobrecito! How very, very sad.” Dona Elena took Marguerite’s hand in her plump, be-ringed fingers, patting it consolingly. “Have you been alone in the world very long?”
“My mother died when I was born, and my father died above seven years ago.”
“And you were their only child?”
“I fear so.”
Dona Elena sighed. “I have but one child myself, my son Marc. He has been the greatest blessing of my life, but I would have wished to give him brothers and sisters.” She drew a gold locket on a chain from inside her surcoat, opening the engraved oval to show Marguerite the miniature portrait inside.
Marguerite peered down at the painted image of a dark-haired young man. “He is certainly very handsome.”
“That he is. And he is soon to make me a grandmother!”
“How very gratifying. You must wish to hurry back to Spain to see the new baby.”
Dona Elena pursed her lips as she snapped the locket shut. “Alas, he makes his home near Venice now. But I hope to see him again soon after we leave England.”
Whenever that would be. Marguerite feared they would all be at Greenwich, strolling round and round the gardens for weeks to come, with nothing at all resolved. And she could not even devise how to discover what this lady knew of Nicolai.
“You must wish for children of your own one day, Señorita Dumas,” Dona Elena said.
For one flashing instant, Marguerite remembered the kicks of the horse’s hooves, the burning, searing pain in her belly. Her twelve-year-old body, barely budding into womanhood, bleeding on to the ground. “If God wills, Dona Elena,” she said, knowing full well His will for her had already been revealed. He turned from her long ago.
“If you were one of my ladies, I would have you settled with a fine husband in a trice,” Dona Elena said confidently. “Even from the convent, I arranged seven happy marriages among the children of my friends! I am known for my eye for a good match.”
Marguerite laughed. “That must be a useful gift indeed, Dona Elena.”
“It gives me great satisfaction. Some people, though, do not trust my skills. They resist what is best for them.”
“Do they? I vow I am convinced, Dona Elena! I would be happy to put my fate in your hands, if I was fortunate enough to be one of your ladies.”
Dona Elena shook her head ruefully. “If only you could help me convince poor Nicolai.”
“Nicolai?” Marguerite asked innocently, a bubble of excitement rising up in her at the mere mention of his name. She was a fool in truth.
“Nicolai Ostrovsky, who is a friend of my son. He leads such a disorganised life, señorita! Travelling up and down, no home of his own, though his fortune could surely afford one. Such a lovely gentleman.”
“Is he the handsome one, with the golden hair?” Marguerite whispered.
“Ah, you see, Señorita Dumas, even you have taken notice of him! All the ladies do. I have told him many times that any of my young attendants would be most happy to marry him, but he refuses.”
Marguerite glanced back over her shoulder at Dona Elena’s chattering ladies. They were pretty enough, she supposed, with their smooth, youthful complexions and shining dark hair. Surely too young and pious and—and Spanish for Nicolai! How could any of them possibly understand a man like him, when not even Marguerite herself could?
“Does he give a reason