I went to the kitchens to find Harry teasing his sisters. “It’s him,” he was telling them. “The prince who’s giving the party is the man who came riding by the other day. He’s the prince.”
Gloriana said, “Oh, Harry, it’s not. It couldn’t be.”
“I tell you it is. The boy with the yellow hair.” Harry seized Griselda in one oversized arm and paraded her around the kitchen, stepping on her feet. His hands were the same size as Gloriana’s, and even on him they bulked large. He had jowls already, blue as steel, and a bit of a belly sticking out. Not an altogether prepossessing partner for the dance. “The prince was the one with the yellow hair,” he bellowed raucously.
“His hair wasn’t yellow,” said Elly. “It was gold.” She was sitting in the chimney corner as she often did, and she said it so quietly that no one heard her. If they had heard her, they wouldn’t have paid attention. I had noticed that. No one paid much attention to Elly. Except me, of course. I kept looking for something of Edward in her. His patience. His devotion. Surprising myself, each time, by remembering that he wasn’t her real father. And yet he had given her so much. All to be wiped away like this, lost when he was lost.
“You saw the prince, too?” I asked her in a murmur.
She nodded, pressing her teeth together, making a tight-lipped frown. She has yet to smile at me, except at my embarrassments, and at those she laughs.
“Was he handsome?” I asked.
She took a deep breath. She did not need to answer. Her eyes were answer enough. She looked at me hatefully, detesting this self-betrayal.
“Are we going to the ball?” Harold asked his mother. “We’ll need new clothes.”
“All of you?” Lydia asked doubtfully. “Why, Harry, I don’t know. I’m not sure we can even find anyone to make clothes.”
“Have to go,” he replied, significantly. “Have to show the girls off. You know what he’s doing, don’t you? He’s looking for a wife. That’s why all the young ones are invited.”
“He invited men, too,” Griselda commented.
“Who would the girls dance with, otherwise?”
“Mother, do you suppose he is?” asked Gloriana, face suddenly red as a boiled lobster, eyes hot with hope. Oh, poor child, I said to myself. Don’t hope for it, no. It isn’t fated. It isn’t willed. Poor ugly thing. Her skin was rough as her hands, her hair was a jungle, and she smelled like vintage dirt. My heart swelled with pity for her, and for Griselda, and for all other barnyard geese who long to fly.
“Perhaps I can find a seamstress,” I suggested. “I used to know the neighborhood rather well.”
“Not only a seamstress,” Lydia fussed, “but fabric. Since the second Death, there haven’t been the merchants there used to be.”
“I’ll try,” I said. Edward had set a store of fabrics by, bought for me, bought in anticipation of Elladine needing dresses. He had ordered them from London or purchased them from travelers. He loved to see me in silk from the Far East, in damask and velvet from Florence. There were boxes of folded materials in the attic, set away in linen sheets, dosed against the mice with hellebore, against the moths with wormwood and southernwood, lavender and rosemary. Boys mix the ashes of southernwood with oil and use it to make their beards grow. Lad’s Love and Maid’s Ruin, it is called. When I unfolded the linen, I remembered that, remembered Janet telling me. She was full of herbary, Janet. Fuller than the aunts, despite having an ordinary person-name.
There is a great length of mustard-colored silk, enough to make a gown for Gloriana, and enough greeny-blue damask for Griselda. Edward bought both pieces from a merchant who had brought them from Italy. There are other Italian damasks, too, to make cote-hardies for the boys, and velvet for overmantles. There are silks from the Far East for underbodices, and spools of finer silk for the knitting of stockings, if we had time to knit stockings. It seems there will be no time for that, or for embroidered sleeves, but the fabrics are rich enough. There is nothing in any of the boxes that I like for Elladine. She needs something light, something bright with her dark hair. White. It will have to be white, with short, full sleeves and a slash at the hem to show a bright full-length underskirt. There will be flowers embroidered on the sleeves, if I have to bribe one of Puck’s people to do it.
ST. OMER’S DAY, SEPTEMBER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1367
The seven-league boots made it an easy trip to London. I went there late at night, stayed half a day, and returned with white satin and with pairs of silken hose from Spain. So far as everyone was concerned, I had found them all in the attics.
“Mama, keep Elly home or she’ll spoil everything,” I had heard Gloriana saying.
“I don’t think Elly should go,” Lydia said.
“Oh, I agree,” I said to Lydia. “She’s far too young.”
“I’m not too young,” Elly later screamed into my face.
“Of course not, child. But you don’t want Gloriana pinching you black and blue between now and then. And she will, if she thinks you’re going. She might even break an arm or leg for you, or pull all your hair out, so sulk and be still. All will come right.”
She sulked and was still. I suggested to Lydia that it might be wise to start bathing her daughters a
