Brandy Purdy (16 page)

Above the waist, the sea maiden was quite dark-skinned and had the appearance of a shaven monkey, obviously a female one as its breasts sagged like a pair of empty leather purses, and it was wearing such a hideous grimace, revealing a fearsome set of fangs, beneath the coarse blond wig glued crookedly to its scalp, that it had obviously perished in the utmost agony. The lower portion was a scaly, dried, brown fishtail ineptly slathered with green paint and a few daubs of silver for good measure, and the coral necklace and comb were clearly pebbles that had been dipped in red paint and strung together with wire.

With a cry of disgust, our lady-mother flung it out the window, and the man from the fair scurried off in a high panic to reclaim his prize exhibit lest he have to find a more strenuous form of employment.

Crestfallen, Father stood before the fire, sweating in his new marigold velvet doublet, tugging nervously at his beard, and balancing first on one foot and then the other. At last, he sighed. “I had such hopes! A
genuine
mermaid, just think of it!” Then he turned to our lady-mother and said, “I . . . I’m s-sorry, Frances. But it seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time.”

Our lady-mother folded her arms across her chest and glared hard at him. “Please, Hal, for all our sakes, tell me that you haven’t any more of these
brilliant
ideas in store for us—I don’t think I, or the girls, can stand it if you do.”

Father opened and closed his mouth several times, nervously bit his bottom lip, and shuffled in place like a child sorely in need of the privy, then he hurriedly made his excuses and left, murmuring something about a pair of real unicorns garlanded in flowers for the girls to ride to the altar upon. I could not help but smile, but our lady-mother merely shook her head and rolled her eyes, while Jane tucked her feet up in the window seat, bit loudly into an apple, and bent her head back over her book.

T
hat Whitsunday morning of May 25, 1553, I was up with the sun, already dressed in my new silver-shot plum damask and blue gray satin gown trimmed with seed pearls and soft gray rabbit fur, standing at the window, nervously twisting my amethyst and sapphire beads, and watching the dawn break like a great purple and orange egg, spilling its sunny yellow yolk out to seep over the sleeping city. As my sisters lay deep in their last sleep as maidens, silent tears coursed down my cheeks. Everything was changing when all I wanted was for it to stay the same. In but a few short hours, they would be wives off on their way to new lives, leaving me behind. Kate would be going not very far as it turned out; she wouldn’t even be leaving London, just sailing down the Thames to Baynard’s Castle, the Earl of Pembroke’s ancestral seat, a stark medieval stone fortress, named for the Norman who had built it. And Jane and Guildford would be bundled off to the pastoral solitude of Sheen, a former Carthusian monastery in Surrey, where it was hoped that, in this bucolic setting, love, or at least friendship, would flower between them. I knew better than to expect an invitation to visit either of them anytime soon, and our lady-mother had already warned me not to pester and fish for one; both couples would surely want privacy and time alone together, and I would only be in the way; instead of a beloved sister, I would be the houseguest one forces a smile and endures while secretly wishing they would leave.

An hour later, wrapped in cloaks over their new embroidered lawn shifts, with their hair still up in curling rags hidden beneath their hoods, my yawning, sleepy-eyed sisters and an exhausted Mrs. Ellen, who had passed the entire night sitting beside Jane’s bed to keep her from removing the hated curl rags, boarded a barge amidst a flurry of maids, including Kate’s Henny and my Hetty, several seamstresses, supervised by Mrs. Leslie, and trunks filled with their wedding finery.

At Durham House, while the maids and sewing women flocked around my sisters, layering on the petticoats, lacing them breathlessly tight into their stays, and strapping on the padded bum rolls to lend an added fullness to their hips and a bell-like sway to their skirts, their hands fluttering with busy haste over their bodies from head to toe, making sure each lace was tied and each layer fell smooth, nipping and tucking, pinning and primping, snipping away stray threads, and making a quick new stitch where necessary, I sat alone by the window, my head resting against the cool, smooth glass, gazing down at the river. With my short stature I knew I would only be in the way if I tried to help, trampled underfoot and the scapegoat for nervous and frayed tempers. Thus, I alone saw Lord Herbert arriving with his handsome father, the Earl of Pembroke. But I kept silent. I didn’t tell Kate. I knew that if I did she would shake off the maids and come rushing to the window, and I would always remember the look on her face as all her heavenly dreams came crashing down to earth.

The slight, sickly, whey-faced boy down below who stumbled and almost fell into the Thames while disembarking from the barge was no romantic hero. Indeed, his dashing, dark-haired father, so tall and slender in his black and silver brocade and velvet, with striking sleek silver wings at his ebony temples, was more likely to make a maiden’s heart flutter. Poor Lord Herbert, even his hair seemed colorless! His clothes hung loose upon him, and even his hat seemed too large for his head, and the ostrich feather pinned to the sapphire blue velvet just seemed silly, not the graceful curling pure white plume on Lancelot’s sparkling silver helm. No, this was not a strong, virile hero who had stepped out of a story to overwhelm his bride with bold embraces and kisses that burned like fire. This was another ailing animal to be added to Kate’s menagerie, to be petted and pitied and nursed back to health. I could more readily picture Kate holding a cup of warm milk to his lips, stroking his hair, tucking him into bed, and telling him a story, more like a mother than a wife. I vowed then and there that I would close my eyes when the fatal moment came, when Kate approached her bridegroom at the altar; I just could not bear to see the disappointment upon her face.

“Look at me!”
At Jane’s despairing wail, I turned to see her shoving her way out from amidst the crush of maids and sewing women.
“Look at me!”
She flapped her hands futilely against the luxuriant richness of her gown as she stood, frowning, before the big silver looking glass even as Mrs. Leslie stepped forward to adjust the fall of green and yellow silk ribbons that floated down Jane’s back from her crown of gilded rosemary and yellow gillyflowers. “I look as brazen as a bawd!” Jane cried, miserable and on the threshold of tears, as her hands twitched against the rich stuff of her skirts, itching to rip them away. She reached up and began to tug at the ruby necklace encircling her throat, insisting it was too tight. But our lady-mother slapped her hands away, hissing at her to stop lest she break it. How Jane
hated
that necklace! It was the one she called “Cousin Mary’s bloody necklace” because the thin gold chain fit so snugly that the dark red rubies, shaped like tiny teardrops, created the illusion that her throat had been cut and blood was seeping from it, and the looser second and third chains, lined with the same rubies, made it appear as though drops of blood were dripping down to stain her breast. Since our Tudor cousins had, most strangely I thought, not been invited to the wedding, something which no one would explain to me, our lady-mother had sat Jane at her desk last night and made her pen a letter saying that though her dear cousin could not be with her on this most joyous day she would be wearing the necklace she had given her and thus would feel her dear presence hovering around her—“like a pair of loving arms,” our lady-mother dictated—and Jane wrote obediently.

Seeing Jane’s distress, I tried to suggest that the gold and jeweled gillyflower necklace that had been specially made would be far better on its own, that the bloodred seemed so jarring, like blood splashed upon the shimmering golden pallor of Jane’s gown, but I was overruled. Our lady-mother insisted that Jane must wear the rubies so as not to offend our royal cousin, though I personally thought she would be far more offended by not having been invited. And besides, our lady-mother continued, with Kate standing beside her, glowing with the green fire of emeralds, Jane must have gems of a contrasting color but similar richness to adorn her.

“Stop it, Jane!” Kate, radiant as the sun itself in her cloth-of-gold and cream gown with her unbound hair blazing and bouncing down her back like ringlets of red gold fire, stuck out her lips in a pout and stamped her foot down hard in its dainty golden slipper, rattling her grass green emeralds, diamonds, and pearls. “Why must you try to spoil it? You’re not the only one who matters! This isn’t just
your
day. In case you’ve forgotten, there are two other brides, and I happen to be one of them, and while I cannot speak for Catherine Dudley,
I
want today to be happy, a
grand
and
glorious
day that will live forever in my memory so that when I’m an old lady I can tell my grandchildren about it, and I would like to spare them a description of my sister’s glum and sour countenance sulking and brooding throughout the ceremony and feast. You look beautiful, as every maid has a right to on her wedding day, and I am sure the learned Protestants of Europe will understand and forgive you for forsaking those glum, dowdy weeds you favor for just
one
day, since it
is
your wedding day, and I’m sure God will as well; He is said to be most forgiving.”

“Well said, Katherine.” Our lady-mother nodded as she moved to straighten the crown of gilded rosemary and jeweled flowers that Kate’s impetuous tirade had knocked awry and gently turned her around to untangle and smooth the vibrant rainbow of silken ribbons trailing down her back. “A tad peppery perhaps, but you show promising signs of practicality and reason. If Lord Herbert is ever given a diplomatic post, I trust you shall prove yourself a great credit to him, and not merely as an ornament he will be proud to display.”

I wormed my way between my two sisters, standing glaring at each other, and reached out to take their hands.

“
Please,
don’t quarrel,” I pleaded, my voice trembling with the tears I was trying so hard not to shed. “This is the last day we shall all be together for what may be a very long time. We are sisters, despite our differences, and even if we cannot agree about things like dresses, we can at least agree to love each other and not let our differences divide us.
Please,
Jane, forget the dress, it doesn’t
really
matter. It’s just material to cover your body, and, for your own sake, as well as ours—we who love you and like not to see you sad and sulking—
please
smile and try to make the best of it. Like Father always says, ‘If Life gives you lemons, slice them and sprinkle them with sugar; if the hand of Fate hurls almonds down on you, mash them and make marzipan.’ And I
know
you can, Jane;
you’re so clever!
And you are
so
beautiful. I wish you could see that, and that it is truly not a bad or sinful thing. How could it be when it was God Himself that gave you your beauty? And you do not have to choose. You can be beautiful
and
brilliant too! Verily I should think most men would account it even more of a marvel to see a beautiful woman display such a sharp intellect when most care only for primping and pretty clothes. And I’m sure, if you are kind and make friends with him, once Guildford sees how much your studies mean to you, he will not make you forsake them. They say he studies singing; so you could be at your books while he is at his lessons, you could both set aside time for your private studies, I’m sure of it!”

With a great rustling of stiffened petticoats and embroidered and shimmering skirts and sleeves, my sisters knelt down and put their arms around me and leaned their cheeks against mine, and I tasted their tears as well as my own.

“I’m sorry, Kate,” Jane said softly, reaching around me to squeeze her hand. “I shall endeavor not to spoil your day. You are right, as is Mary. I have been selfish, and I am sorry.”

“Thank you, Jane,” Kate said in a tremulous, tearful little voice. “I’m sorry too. I should not have lost my temper. I know you are unhappy, and I am sorry for it, so very sorry; I wish there were some way, some magic words or a wand I could wave, that would make you as happy about your marriage as I am about mine.”

“The heart in those words is magic to me,” Jane answered, and I was nigh crushed between them as they embraced, but I was so happy they had made their peace that I didn’t mind at all. “And I shall try,” Jane promised, “as Mary with Father’s deliciously sage words advises, to make sugared lemons and marzipan out of what Life has given me.”

“With Guildford you already have the lemons and gilt for the marzipan, so all you really need is sugar and almonds.” Kate giggled, and I opened my eyes and saw both my sisters smiling through their tears and laughing. And it felt good; I felt warmed by love, sunshine, and hope.

“Everything will be all right now,” I whispered, but it was more a prayer rather than an assertion.

I took each of my sisters by the hand and led them to stand before the mirror. We smiled at each other. We knew what to do; the ritual was dear and familiar.

“The brilliant one!” Jane stepped forward and declared herself to the looking glass.

“The beautiful one!” Kate followed with a saucy smile and sashaying hips.

And then came I. “The beastly little one!” I piped.

And then our lady-mother announced that it was time for the brides to go downstairs. As we clung together, I felt my sisters’ bodies, and the hearts within them, jolt and start at those world-changing words. Silently, they each pressed their lips against my cheeks, then stood and let the maids straighten the ribbons and cascading hair flowing down their backs and smooth down their skirts and sleeves one last time. Then, their hands still holding mine, trembling beneath the great, gracefully flowing fur-cuffed bells of their over-sleeves, we three sisters walked out to the top of the stairs. I stood and watched them descend, and then I turned and made my way higher upstairs to the musicians’ gallery where I would stand and watch, “like a little angel from her cloud,” Kate said. “Our angel,” Jane added. And then they left me and went downstairs to meet their destiny, to become wives and leave maidenhood behind, just as they had to leave me.

Standing on my tiptoes, despite the protesting pains it caused to cry out in my back, hips, and knees, I folded my arms atop the rail and gazed down upon the scene transpiring in the Great Hall below. The musicians, costumed in silver, to make yet another of Kate’s dreams come true, were playing a short distance from where I stood, and they smiled and nodded kindly to me. Being players, who had spent their lives roving, entertaining others to fill their purses, playing at both fairs and the private parties of the nobility, I was not the first dwarf they had seen, and they did not regard me with the same repulsion and superstitious dread as most did, and between songs one of them laid down his lute and brought me a small stool to stand upon, to take the strain off my toes and ease my aching joints.

The wedding passed in a gold and silver blur, through the shimmering wet veil of my tears and the blare of the music filling my ears, and then the feasting and dancing began and the musicians changed to a livelier tune. Though I could not see his face from my perch so high above, Father was, I could tell, as proud as a goose who had laid a golden egg as he presided over the long tables groaning beneath the weight of gilt platters heaped high with all kinds of dainties and delicacies he had chosen. There were towering pyramids of fruit and nuts, cheeses and sweetmeats, even little roast birds, and crayfish boiled to an angry red. There were so many, piled so high, that I feared they would collapse in an avalanche upon some unsuspecting guest who dared pluck a sugarplum from below. And in the center of it all an immense and awesome wonderland of a salad with every kind of salad greens, vegetables, roots, and sugared flowers that human imagination could possibly think of tossed and mixed into a great gilded basin shaped like a scallop shell, presided over by a large marzipan sculpture rising out of its midst, depicting a trio of mermaids made in the brides’ likenesses, with carrots and turnips and all the vegetables that could be carved like fishes, sharks, whales, dolphins, and turtles swimming upon the leafy sea of salad greens. I could just imagine Father boasting that one way or another he was determined to have a mermaid for his daughters, and that though he had lost one he had gained three more and these even better as they were made of candy.