Chapter Text
You came running – if one could call the hurried motion of young ladies, legs hindered by fabric pristine and worth all the attention – running. Under your arms were big baskets filled to the brim with fruits and flowers and the smell of warmth carried across the lawn. There was a big bowl in your hands, the water sloshed around and it took you all you had not to spill any of the scented water or trip over the gown. Your eyes were fixated on the big rose petals swimming on the surface and you wondered what entertainment had been prepared for today.
The day had been kind so far, the promised rain kept away and the sun shone as merrily as it could instead, prompting the Queen, who had a particular taste for impromptu garden parties, to announce that she was a great admirer of tea parties in nature. Thus having said enough, the court had hurried to prepare all the necessary pleasures needed to entertain the Queen and all those who went with her.
Pages were busying about the place making haste to assemble furniture for the Queen and the plethora of Ladies following her every step.
Hatfield was a snug town around 30 kilometres north of London and the Hertfordshire air did great wonders for the Queen’s condition. Hatfield house, which was the esteemed estate Anne of Denmark had decided to spend a few weeks worth her time at, had been given to her and she declared to retreat thereto with a selected amount of her court, which was plenty of people still.
The house was built of the finest red bricks and you often caught yourself dreaming of owning such an estate, living there all by yourself. You could not understand the humor that lay in a grand court of one’s own, a constant buzzing of people leeching. But you dared not take for granted the opportunity of merely residing at all the places the Queen went to, you knew you would have to settle for less, knew your future was dim and would end at some husband’s home.
You had been secured a place as Queen Anne of Denmark’s Lady-In-Waiting not for the purpose of any good wit or talent, you were handsome and clothes fit you well, but you were also snarky at times and made only good company to those you liked or those you owed your good circumstances to. Your mother was Anne’s Mistress of the Robes and the liberty of her court allowed the daughters of her Ladies to take part in the joy of attending her everyday festivities.
The air was sweet with thyme and basil and all the other herbs that grew in a grand circle around the assembled party, some sitting on blankets embroidered with great care, getting stained with green grass, some sat on chairs or chaises carried outside by footmen. All of it was very expensive and made out of the finest wood that England had to offer, the cushions plush and of the finest silk.
Around ten ladies were busy with themselves, their dresses or the food stacked on etagères and plates, cakes of many sizes and spices sat between biscuits and fruits, apples and berries. There were jugs of juice and such on each table and tea was to be carried out by servants. The Queen had suffered a terribly haunting month and to milden the grievous matter of nightmares was of prime importance to all. And despite gaining so much, an entire country to one’s name, there seemed no greater pain than losing a most beloved son unborn.
You sat down on the blanket that had been reserved for you, no longer under the pavilion that had been swiftly positioned in the herb garden to shield the Ladies from the sun, however mellow it shone. The fabric of your gown shifted stiffly as you sat down and you made haste to drape it in such a manner, as your mother had taught you to drape dresses while sitting down, flaunting the expensive fabric that shone in lovely white and was doomed to be sullied by tea. You were most fond of the stomacher, which showed most lovely embroidered flowers in blues and yellows and rosés. You would have loved to dwell on the marvels that were the dresses flaunting about the party, many of even greater beauty, lace peeked from every sleeve and every collar and pearls had been braided into your hair, but there was no time for the Queen was on her way to the little party, your mother as well as the countess Lucy of Bedford, who had been assigned Lady of the Bedchamber, and countess Frances Howard of Kildare pacing behind her, dogs on a leash. A few other fellows were trotting along to entertain and such.
The party approached slowly and you could see the gaze of your mother; you had to be perfect, you had to be the most beautiful lady of them all – not for any particular reason other than securing the Queen’s favors and goodwill and the chance for a good match. Personally, you could wait a little longer, for marriage meant being ripped from your family to be placed in another’s. But for now, you only had to worry about lifting the bowl just high enough for the approaching Queen, perfectly high for her to dip her white fingertips into the rose-scented water, swirling the petals around and shaking the droplets off. The fragrance was everywhere and when the beauty lifted her head and batted her eyelids in such a calculated manner she knew to be angelic, you felt the wet fingers of your Queen on burning cheeks. Her hands were cold and they lingered for a moment too long to be just good-intended, unearned thankfulness. She was dressed in white all over and you could almost see the unbearable sadness in her eyes, but you were too young to understand the pain of losing.
“How handsome you are. Say, have you picked those roses yourself? They smell most wonderfully.”
You told yes, just before noon when the air was still quite fresh, picked with great care. But you hadn’t at all, and your mother looked with much praise in her expression, as did the Queen, who thanked you with a smile most delicate before letting go of the excited face.
The party went on with great joy and delicious tea was served and you never wanted for anything. Tom Durie, her royal jester, had performed an enjoyable and amusing piece of music and dance, flaunting his new green suit, which he had all know was new, and green also. And the Queen asked for some of the younger ladies to perform some light dances as well before a reciter was to tell stories in a dramatic manner, which you liked better than the dancing you would have to perform. Holding the other ladies’ hands was well-nigh impossible with those dresses on and the dancing was an awkward array of steps to the left and to the right and little bows and turns; you had no amusement in this sport at all. You had little amusement in any of the womanly sports you had to endure and learn and make your own, as you had to make womanhood your own because your mother – in a frantic notion of insanity – had decided you needed to be lovelier than them all, worth of being the Mistress of the Robes’ child. But your mother seemed indifferent to the complaints and it was becoming clear quite early on in your great demise that she would have rather had a son all these years ago. Your father never talked of the topic but it was obvious he disliked the fact your mother had left him without an heir.
Well-situated girls under the age of ten, you discovered, were already dressed in the most wonderful of velvets and laces, had chemises made of finest saye, and were given finest jewelry gifted by admirers you would never have to marry due to your mother and Queen Anne deciding you were worth a better match, a higher rank, and you were destined to sire a fine heir to a fine man. This was the part of womanhood you disliked. The stitching and dancing you could all do with learned endurance, but childbirth you could not, not without great horror you felt. You had seen other women give birth; had seen its grief and had heard the screams. Retreating from court was not an option, your mother would be doomed and mocked for having neither a son nor a girl presented to the world. But not she only, you too would be deemed beyond all good sense, sinfully void of any morale despite your senses proven. As a spinster, none would have you but the madhouses. Or the King.
You would stay at Hatfield House for the following two weeks. Each day was another of amusement for the Queen and her followers, a display of wealth and a constant flow of pleasantries. Mother told you that she was most pleased with your behavior and so was Queen Anne and she had asked you to be the lovely lady carrying the water bowl from this day on. The task was mundane but a great honor after all and having the Queen so close was a rare thrill amidst a lifestyle riddled with boredom. Every time after such an outing you would take great care of the bowl and carry it to the servant’s chambers yourself and you would dip your hands into the baptized waters and wash your aching face. The pungent smell of roses made you dizzy, made you forget your future. And surrounded by the riches of the world you felt you only wanted love.
The role of a bowl-bearer proved to be just as entertaining as you had hoped it to be and the almost daily task of walking over the grounds undisturbed, in the pursuit of flowers and other herbs for the water allowed you some freedom and some air for you to enjoy. The month of August was at its height and the most peculiar bugs and beetles were swarming and crawling around and you found yourself leaving the most beautiful of flowers to their little inhabitants to enjoy and live in.
“It is not worth the water,” you thought and carried on in search of another bloom, free to pick.
The new Queen seemed pleased with this service and soon you grew accustomed to the favour she was clearly exhibiting towards you. You were asked to perform little dances more frequently than the other girls, who had much greater proficiency in the matter, and you were glad none of them made their envy obvious, sparing you the contrived mirth. But they grinned hoggishly and the glimmer in their eyes was dangerous.
You held many more daily diversions and each day presented a new sort of fruit made into a French sort of en-vogue pastry or lemonades made of berries, new styles of dress were discussed and fabrics laid out before the assembly, feeling finest work. The days seemed to flow into another and every part of the manor was explored either by promenading or by sitting dully in shadowy places and everyone was having much fun and the people of Hatfield were pleased with the liveliness that had been blown into the little town, for there was much employment to cater to all the Queens many wishes.
It was on one of the last days at the house, the assembly had just broken their fast and the sun was slowly creeping over the canvas sky. The air was sweet already and a breeze most pleasing carried the smell of ripe wheat and rye over from the fields. The ladies were distributed evenly over the grounds and while some were engaging in the amusements of hide and seek some others felt like stitching tablecloths in the attendance of a well-known artisan known for her work in the east of Scotland, whose skilled embroidery could be seen on many courtly gowns and caps.
Queen Anne herself and her closest ladies had retreated into the cool chambers to review some new furniture and such manners, and you were left in the blooming gardens, sitting on a blanket, sipping on an ornamented glass goblet filled with milk and in it swam a spongy cake of sorts. The citrusy cake was milk-soaked and you nibbled on the sweet stuff. The milk was still warm and the three other ladies that were sitting nearby complimented the weird dish as you all nibbled along.
You would have never thought that daily entertainment could leave one so exhausted and you observed you were not the only one who felt drained of the riches. You were listening to a bard recite a light poem of a poet you had forgotten the name of and Historia, a girl you knew to be an excellent stitcher, was disappearing in the large poof of her gown, sinking into a slumber on Yvonne’s shoulder, who seemed not to mind. Yvonne was the tallest of them, and the oldest also, gowns fit her very well but she always had a controlled displeasure in her air, which did not make her less amiable, but more dignified at her ripe age of six and twenty. The other girl, Sahra, nibbled happily on her milk and the plums and apples and juice that were arrayed around them, paying no attention to the bard’s verses but even the greater caution as not to stain her clothes.
“Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.”
Sing-songed the bard, behind him a man with a harp, stringing lightly. It was a lovely piece and you decided to listen for a bit.
“And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.”
You were glad the sun was still in the early stages of shining and even though your garments were made of the finest fabrics you felt heavy, heavy with it all. Your partlet was itching a bit and you could feel every whalebone in the new stays. Nonetheless, you listened on. But not for long, because the bard stopped when the poem seemed over and there were no more of them to declare and the ladies were left to entertain themselves, only the harp player continuing his tunes.
“Say, friends, what do ye think of marriage?”, asked Historia, who had woken from her slumber when Yvonne had shifted to get hold of the plums, after a while.
None of you said a word for you were not friends. And answering honestly seemed in no way proper, you could hardly tell the truth, dared not even think about it.
Yvonne had finished her thoughts first and with a contemplative glimmer in her eyes she embarked on her convoluted presentation.
“Methinks that there is an advantage and a disadvantage in the matter of matrimony. I must plead my case, it has been on my mind and I think this is the time to declare it, for I am the oldest and have not been married yet, to my family’s displeasure. Do not misunderstand me, I too wish to be situated well within a home and have no inclinations to end broodingly as an old maid, these follies of false freedom get you nowhere and midst of our best days of youth and beauty we shall choose a husband we can wholly agree, to ourselves and the world, that he is agreeable.”
The girls were listening and Historia seemed lost in her friend’s speech. Sahra had stopped nibbling and toyed with a fruit’s core she had sucked clean of flesh. You hummed, and even though how she talked was so pompous, you thought; an agreeable man sounded most pleasing to young ears and you joined the support with a nod and a thought of your own about what a fine man ought to be.
“Here comes the part I ask to not be misunderstood, but I think that every woman has pondered upon similar a subject, perhaps you too.” The eldest cleared her throat and put away the empty goblet to have her hands free for an animated gesture.
“I have worried that if I shan’t find a man who is most agreeable and just and good to me, which I have hoped all my life would be God’s gift upon me,”
Amen, they said.
“What if the man I will be bound to for life will have me solely for anything to do with me, but not myself? There is too much I fear to lose when a man I am expected to admire has no inclination of returning the very thing that justifies marriage principally, after all; love is the stuff these unions are made of, they say.”
Once more they sank into silence and Yvonne’s face turned red around the ears but you told her the silence was one of new thoughts and ideas and thanked her for her words.
“I think that as long as the man treats me friendly enough and has money for a cook and clothes I shall be happy to live with him,” said Sahra after blowing a raspberry at the thought. “I seem to understand why you’re unmarried at such an age.”
Historia had an unreadable expression on her face, a gasp came from Yvonne at such offense. “But that is horrible,” you declared and so you spilled your thoughts.
“I do agree that food and clothes and friendliness on both sides are essential, but it is not what feeds but what sustains a marriage for many years to come. Some needs desire to be met but ladies of our status and prospects shan’t fear to marry so beneath themselves that there shall be no bread on the table and no stockings on our feet. I think there is much more to the wedded life than friendliness, there should be understanding and a buoyant desire for talk and activities enjoyed by both. I wish to meet someone who respects me, that is my verdict on matrimony.”
You stumbled over your unformed thoughts and hurried sentences and you discussed some more in a somewhat friendly manner and seemed to enjoy the debate and clasped every thought in their soft hands, polishing it and taking it to bed. Yvonne still seemed offended by Sarah’s assault, but she knew it to be true. You were glad not to be the only one who doubted marriage, feared the future, and hoped only the best of men and the longest of lives to the girls whose fate seemed so homely and ethical and who would rethink of this August morning in many years to come and laugh at their own ideals and hopes and who would maybe shed a tear for you and think of their unsullied, naive days at Hatfield House.