Six of One (12 page)

I knew that making demands of someone superior in might would certainly not have been new to Ann Boleyn; neither would acting without a full appreciation of the positive or negative outcomes of said demands. So there we were in the story, with Ann banging on the doors of heaven, demanding to be let in to stay. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall! But then again, with Bess so willing and able to tell the tale, there really was no need to shrink, shrivel, and surreptitiously metamorphose into
Musca domestica
. Bess was laughing so hard she was crying, and she took a moment to wipe her eyes and catch her breath before she continued.

“I am sorry to laugh so, Dolly, but the image of Henry’s fat arse feeding the flames of hell! Really, I cannot help it!”

As the Henry VIII she referred to and my own Harry were, cosmically speaking, one and the same, I was not at all sure that I was equally amused by the image. However, since Bess
was
“the horse’s mouth,” the source, in the place, of all the news that was fit to dish, I put my feelings aside and continued to listen—like a pre-2009 bank account—with interest.

“Tell me, Bess, what had the Almighty to say to Ann, banging away at the pearly gates for admission?”

“Oh, God let Ann in alright, but as soon as she saw that Jane Seymour was there, she turned around in a huff and headed back down to hell, at which point
Henr
y promptly vacated hell and came banging on the gates of heaven, begging for sanctuary! God was running short on patience, I can tell you! Fortunately, Jane Seymour agreed to let Henry share her cloud in heaven; she said she owed him that much. Henry, of course, was all for that, once they found a cloud large enough to accommodate that fat arse of his. Ann returned to her personal little strip of hell, content as long as she did not have to share the fiery pit with Henry.”

Leave it to Ann Boleyn
, I thought,
to find boutique accommodations in the eternal flames
.

Returning to the funereal rotation, I knew that with Henry dead, there remained on earth his relict, Katherine Parr. Katherine remarried scandalously soon after Henry’s death but died shortly thereafter, having just given birth to, in her disastrous fourth marriage, her first child. It seemed to me that Katherine Parr’s arrival must have caused quite a commotion in the already-overcrowded hereafter; Bess was rubbing her hands together and positively itching to continue the tale.

Having so recently heard the dimensions of my fiancé’s posterior bandied about with so little respect, I was concerned about what revelations would follow. Not that it mattered much. I had about as much chance of stemming Bess’s tide at that point as I had of swimming the English Channel with Harry on my back.

“You should have been there when Katherine Parr arrived!” Bess resumed, gleefully. “When she saw Henry sitting content on his generously sized cloud in heaven while most of his wives were either burning or purging in inferior accommodations, she demanded an audience with the Almighty at once! My dear, if you will credit it, she accused the Almighty of
misogyny
! She
dared
God to show it wasn’t so by sending Henry straight to hell where he belonged and accommodating all the wives in any way necessary to make satisfactory places for them all in heaven. God was not at all pleased with Katherine Parr’s attitude, and he refused to relent,” said Bess. “So Katherine devised a way to live out
her
motto, which was ‘Be useful in all I do.’ She proceeded to chain herself to the outside of the pearly gates in protest until her demands were met; but God just ignored her. She was still there when Anne of Cleves finally arrived, with nothing more to say than her own motto in life: ‘God send me well to keep.’”

“It must have been unsettling for Anne of Cleves—to say the
least
—seeing one of her successors chained to the pearly gates like that,” I said.

“Anne of Cleves wasn’t unsettled that easily,” said Bess. “After Katherine Parr apprised her of the situation to date, Anne cuffed Katherine on her ear and called her a dummkopf. Then Anne marched straight through the gates to address the Almighty. She chastised him roundly for allowing the wives to act like so many overindulged schoolgirls. She said that even though she had never been blessed with a brood of children of her own, she knew when some good, practical discipline was needed to restore order. She suggested to the Almighty that he administer some to the wives posthaste. Once he’d thought about it awhile, he decided she was right.”

“So what did the Almighty do next, Bess?” I asked. I felt like a child asking for a story, perhaps like Elizabeth of York’s Little Richard wanting to hear about the Round Table.

“The Almighty kept Anne of Cleves with him for consultation and sent the other five wives here to this place to wait out his displeasure. He complimented Anne of Cleves on her rare gift of common sense and excused her from the banishment. Anne had a soft heart as well as common sense, though, so she asked God not to be
too
hard on the other five wives. She suggested that he afford them an opportunity for penitence and rehabilitation during their banishment. God then set the conditions they had to meet in order to win their heavenly reward.”

“What were the conditions?” I asked. I had heard them before but wanted to make sure I had it straight.

“The conditions were,” replied Bess, “that they would learn to work in sufficient accord to prevent another woman from making the same mistakes that they had made and so assist that woman to find the happiness that they had all so signally missed in matrimony.”

I thought that Jane Grey’s rendition of the “mission statement” had been more compelling, but I did not mention it. Bess continued speaking.

“The Almighty asked Anne of Cleves to volunteer to keep an eye on the project, and she agreed to do so. She is quite a capable watchwoman, Dolly; she is the only one of the wives who has any sense at all, in my humble opinion, but there is no getting around the fact that she is outnumbered and outgunned. Those women just cannot seem to get out of their own collective way. We have had many visitors here over the centuries, each on the brink of some marital precipice or other. And the six wives have failed thus far in their mission to keep just
one
of those visitors from going over the brink.”

So here I am
, I thought,
the latest of a long line of test dummies in a cosmic time-out room; you just can’t make this stuff up.

“All of the ladies I have met here so far, yourself included, are not Henry’s wives,” I pointed out to Bess. “How did the rest of you come to be here? Are you test dummies, too?”

“What is a test dummy?” she asked.

“It’s a sort of mannequin used for trial and error,” I replied.

Well,” she said, “we have had our trials here, but that comes as no surprise with Ann Boleyn on board.
Errors
we have also had in abundance. We are not
mannequins
, though, Dolly; we all have minds of our own and free will. Those of us who weren’t banished here by the Almighty asked to come and stay for various reasons and were permitted to do so.”

“Why did Elizabeth of York and Margaret Beaufort choose to come here?” I asked, starting at the beginning.

“Elizabeth of York came to be with her daughters, Margaret and Mary Tudor. Margaret Beaufort came because all the men who had had crushes on her over the years were now vying for her attention at the same time in heaven, and she could not keep up with the demand—at least, that’s what she
says
.”

I learned why all the others I had met that night were staying there as well. Henry’s daughters Mary and Elizabeth came to be with the mothers they were separated from in life. Jane Grey hated her mother but came to be with her grandmother, Mary Tudor. Mary and sister, Margaret, liked to be where the action was. Bess’ granddaughter, Arabella, came to be with her idol, Mary, Queen of Scots. The Scots queen came because she wanted to get to know her cousin, Elizabeth Tudor, and where Elizabeth went, Kat Ashley followed.

“Why did
you
elect to come here, Bess? I would think you’d be the last person to spend any part of eternity in a place other than one that was your very own—lock, stock, and barrel.”

“I depend upon the law of averages and my own staying power, Dolly! It is inevitable that, sooner or later, the six wives will get it right and claim their stakes in heaven. The rest of the fools here will probably follow, leaving me a clear field and in sole possession. Squatter’s rights, my dear, squatter’s rights; someday, this place will be mine, all
mine
!”

Bess of Hardwicke, owner of the one piece of detached real estate up for grabs in the great beyond. You know, I did not for a moment redoubt it.

Chapter Twenty

The Chapter That Is All About Fashion

“But enough about
me
, Dolly.” Bess had looked at a guttering candle and been reminded that time was wasting. “It’s getting to be time for you to meet the six wives. Are you mentally prepared for your interview with them? Do you need a few moments to compose yourself? Victuals? A draft to brace your spirits?” she asked.

Actually, I did not need food, drink, or spirits; what I needed was an outfit. The nightdress I had on was an amusing little number, but it put me at a distinct disadvantage in dealing with people who were still in their work clothes. And what gorgeous work clothes they were—rich, colorful, and complexly accessorized. I did not have a single accessory to bless myself with, and, although I was prepared to enter the approaching fray unpantied, I was not about to forgo the accessories.

Since it looked like we were down to the final-interview end of this process, I needed the Renaissance equivalent of an up-to-the-minute, navy blue, designer power suit, complemented by the local equivalent of pumps and pearls. Remembering that Bess liked “direct,” I did not hesitate.

“What I really need,” I said, “is a gown and everything that goes with it, Bess. Have you some size-eight attire to spare? Accoutrements to share, if you dare? Something with flair to wear in my hair?”

“Save your poeticizing for when you speak to Mary, Jane, and Elizabeth,” Bess snapped. “In answer to your question, this place is full of women! Of
course
we have attire to spare, and so many accoutrements that we can’t
give
them away. As for the size and the flair of things, the girls are very adroit at working that out. I will send them to you.”

“Who exactly are ‘the girls,’ Bess?”

“They are the four Marys of Mary, Queen of Scots—her friends and personal attendants,” she answered.

It seemed to me that Bess had gone from direct to downright understated in one fell swoop. Mary, Queen of Scots was the most beautiful and elegant woman of her era, and the four Marys were the ones who dressed and coiffed her. I was impressed at the prospect of being dressed by the best, and admitted as much to Bess.

“If anyone can costume me to good effect, it will be them,” I gushed. “I can’t wait to see how I turn out!”

Dolly, you should be quite presentable once they have done with you.”

“Gee, thanks, Bess.”

“No problem, Dolly. Best of luck to you!” Bess launched herself—that is the only possible word for it—into the hall, calling for articles of period clothing. She demanded ruffs, kirtles, pelisses, farthingales, and more, and four young women bustled around like pack mules with the requested articles of apparel and lots of the promised accoutrements. The total weight of the velvets, brocades, enameled accessories, and whalebone foundation garments must have been considerable. Nevertheless, the girls seemed light of heart and bright as buttons, laughing and gossiping and just being girls together. They made the room practically radioactive with the excitement that accompanies dressing for an occasion.

My Marias
, I thought,
will just look as light and bright tomorrow at my wedding
. No, they would look even lighter; heavy velvets, brocades, and enamel did not feature in my bridal ensemble. Neither, thank goodness, did whalebone. The Edwardian, tea-length, lawn-and-lace wedding dress, white kid-leather shoes, and cloche hat that I had chosen, along with requisite undergarments and some simple pearl jewelry, probably did not weigh more than a few pounds altogether.

While lightweight was definitely the way to go for my informal, springtime wedding-on-the-run, it was certainly not going to pass modiste muster for what lay immediately ahead. I was determined to meet the six wives on a level playing field, even if it meant wearing an outfit that weighed as much I did (at least back on earth). I figured that, for the time being, I was probably actually weightless.
Weightless
, I sighed to myself,
but not waitless
. The real world and my wedding tomorrow were beginning to look more and more distant.

I shook myself out of my mini-reverie and beheld the four Marys: Mary Beaton, Mary Seton, Mary Livingston, and Mary Fleming. When Mary, Queen of Scots went to live abroad as a child, these four budding flowers of the Scottish nobility accompanied her as companions, playmates, and reinforcers of Scottish culture and language. They were, by all accounts, a charming quartet as they grew up. Three of them eventually married away from the queen—the exception being Mary Seton, who continued to serve the queen even in the days of her mistress’s ignominy and imprisonment.

A stunning redhead was at the vanguard of the troop movement; I supposed that she was none other than Mary Fleming, known as “Flamina” to her friends, for fairly obvious reasons.

“Are you the spirits whose coming was foretold to me?” I asked them.

The plumpest member of the quartet, pleasing and pretty in a round, soft way, eyed my size-eight midsection with good-natured envy.

“We are!” she replied, and introduced herself. “I am Beaton, Dolly. Pardon our dispensing with the niceties, but we have been instructed to dress you posthaste. Most of our guests request our services much sooner in the evening than you did. Girls!” she called out to her companions, “Do you remember when Mistress Jackie Kennedy visited us? She was the guest who requested our services the soonest. She refused even to peep out from under the bedclothes until a full wardrobe was at the ready for her. It was a pleasure dressing that lady: effortless and so rewarding. As for
you
, Dolly…
hmm
…we will do our best with what we’ve got to work with, not to mention the short notice. Your bosom is good and flat, so we won’t need to corset you at all. You
will
require a bumroll, though.
Livy!
Bumroll here!”

I want to go on record right now as taking exception to that entirely unnecessary “flat bosom” remark—I have always found 34C to be perfectly adequate.
Harry
certainly never complained, and let’s face it: he’s had plenty of basis for comparison.

Livy—Mary Livingston, I presume—was on the spot with a device that looked to me like a life preserver. Eyeing it suspiciously, I insisted on an explanation before I would let her get any closer with it. All I got, though, was a smart slap on my rear end followed by gales of laughter from Livy. After the laughter had subsided, the tallest of the four girls, who was likewise the most dignified, introduced herself to me as “Mary, call me ‘Seton.’”

“The bumroll goes beneath your gown, Dolly. It will make your skirts flare out becomingly, like ours do,” Seton said. She illustrated by placing her hands on the top of her skirt, which flared out from her waist with enough flat surface at the top to rest a teacup on.

Had all my years of Jazzercise, I wondered sadly, been in vain? I winced at the thought that a million plié squats had come to this but guessed it would be best to just bumroll with the punches.

“Maestro, a drumroll for the bumroll!” I said to Livy, proffering her my rear end with a jaunty wiggle. Betty Boop might have been impressed, but Livy was not; she just slapped my butt again and proceeded to prioritize.

“First things first, Dolly; off with your nightdress, and on with a shift. You will not feel beautiful in your clothes without the proper foundation. Which shift will you choose?” asked Livy.

I could see that Flamina, the lovely redhead, was definitely someone who knew a good bit about feeling beautiful in her clothes. She stepped forward and offered, for my consideration, half a dozen snowy shifts, the historical equivalents of modern-day nylon slips. There was no nylon in that place, of course; there was fine linen instead. Some of it was pintucked, some pleated, some lace-trimmed, some ruffled, and some embroidered—and all of it was absolutely beautiful. It was difficult to choose from such an
embarras de richesse
. There was a little ruched number, though, that I thought stood out from all the rest.

Thankfully, I did not have to shift for myself: Beaton and Livy helped me out of my nightdress and into my snazzy new shift. Its neckline was gently gathered and lined with a soft, subdued lace ruffle; there were similar ruffles at the cuffs of the long sleeves. Mary Seton and Mary Fleming watched the proceedings with interest and provided some running commentary.

“Well, it will save time if she wears that one; we will not have to fuss about selecting a separate ruff, and the high neckline will cover up her bosom. That will circumvent any trouble with…Ann Boleyn,” said Mary Seton, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You know how catty she gets when our guests try to outshine her with overt displays of their charms. You remember what happened when Mistress Marilyn Monroe visited us, don’t you, Flamina?”

“I do, indeed!” Flamina whispered back. “Mistress Marilyn was the one who chose the shift with the very low neckline, and then had us lower it even farther. We tried to warn her! The poor thing, she left here bleeding from all the scratches when Ann Boleyn was finished with her!”

I am proud of my cleavage but am above using it as leverage. Therefore, I was not terribly worried that my wardrobe selections would prove inflammatory to Ann Boleyn or to anyone else. I was even less worried about that when I saw the layer of clothing that was to follow. The lower-body cages they were holding out for my delectation could only be farthingales. They looked like something that Arabella would find useful for penning one of her recalcitrant pets. I had to be frank with the four Marys, and I broke the news to them that I really could not see myself actually being able to
wear
one of those things.

I learned right then and there that the combined glower power of the four Marys was considerable. It turned out that farthingales, unlike bumrolls, were not optional. I motioned toward the one made with rope, which Mary Beaton brought over to me. It is amazing how comfortable a garment made of rope can look next to garments made of wicker and whalebone.

Once I’d made my farthingale preference known, Livy and I proceeded to tie one on. Once it was secured, Livy gave me another slap on the bottom. While I set about selecting a petticoat, Flamina dispatched Beaton on a stocking run.

“We mustn’t forget about the stockings!” said Flamina. “Anne of Cleves gets
terribly
cross with us if we send a guest to the wives unstockinged!”

“A fetish of some kind?” I inquired.

“No, she just considers it her responsibility to see to it that each of our guests is kept warm, cozy, and comfy during her stay.”

Although the fashion train was getting closer to Petticoat Junction every minute, I was unable to forget about my cares and relax at the junction quite yet; an issue had arisen that had to be resolved before we pulled into the station.

“About the stockings…” I began.

“What about them?” Beaton asked. “Have you a preference, dear? We have either wool or silk.”

“Well…do I have to wear any at all?”

The Marys glowered at me even more sourly than they had before. I did my best to explain.

“Nowadays, back in the
real
world,” I said, “stockings are passé. The women who persist in wearing them endure a great deal of stigma. They become social outcasts. You should hear the insults hurled at them: ‘uptight,’ ‘masochist,’ ‘matronly,’ and ‘prude,’ to name just a few.”

“Well, have it your own way,” said Beaton doubtfully. “Won’t you feel terribly exposed, though?”

“What about the drafts under your farthingale?” asked Seton.

“The rope in the farthingale can be very chafing on the legs,” added Livy.

Flamina took a different approach altogether. “We have stockings in some lovely colors; are you sure you won’t reconsider, Dolly?”

I almost caved, but then I remembered that I was speaking to women who were not wearing any panties and did not have a problem with that. I stuck to my guns on the stocking issue and hoped not to be stuck to my own thighs before the night was out. With that particular cow off the track, the fashion train moved forward.

I could have spent a whole day picking out a petticoat from among the beautiful skirts that festooned the room. Silk, velvet, or taffeta; brocaded, embroidered, or barred; pleated, ruffled, or gathered—I simply could not decide. Figuring that it would be the last time I would ever have the benefit of free fashion advice from someone with a name like Flamina, I took advantage of the opportunity and asked the lovely redhead for a recommendation. She responded graciously.

“Since you’ve chosen the lace-trimmed shift, Dolly, I suggest a lace petticoat to go with it. There is nothing like repetition of a successful theme, and I think that one of the lace petticoats is the only right choice.”

“Why are you so eager to encase me in lace, Flamina?” I asked slyly. “Is it because of lace’s intricacy, which is suggestive of my complex nature?”

“No,” she replied.

“Is it because of the delicacy and purity of lace, so reflective of the relatively sheltered life I lived before Harry?”

“Don’t make me laugh, Dolly. Jane Seymour always wore a lot of lace for that reason, though, so she will appreciate the allusion when she sees you.”

“Is it because lace is lavish and elegant, giving a seductive peek into the less obvious aspects of my nature?” I inquired.