Page 19 of A Murder on London Bridge
I swallowed hard. Well, at least that was a logical explanation. But thequeenpart was not. “Anne … forgive me, but which queen is it who asks for me?”
Anne blinked in surprise. “Why, Her Majesty Queen Catherine, of course—Catherine of Braganza. She waits in her withdrawing chamber even now.”
The name struck me like a blow. Catherine of Braganza—the Portuguese queen, Charles II’s consort. That meant … London, the plague years, the Restoration court. If this was a charade, it was quite an elaborate one
My heart seized on a single thought: Robert. Surely my husband would be here, ready to laugh with me over this strange pageant. “And Robert?” I asked quickly, almost tripping over the words. “My husband. Where is he?”
Anne’s expression softened into sorrow. She lowered her gaze. “Ah, my lady… Captain Robert Halloran is not with us. God rest him. He was taken by the flux last winter.” She hesitated, then added more gently, “The king himself spoke well of his service. You bear his memory in high honor.”
The world tilted beneath me. Robert dead? The words rang false, yet Anne’s eyes held no jest. My breath caught, and I clutched the bedpost once more.
If this was a charade … no, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Robert would never have allowed it—certainly not one in which he had died. But if it wasn’t a charade, what was it? A ruse to keep me from investigating Merton’s murder? A hallucination? Whateverthis was, I would need to go along with it. It was the only way to discover its meaning and purpose.
Anne’s grey eyes softened. “Don’t worry, my lady. If you falter, I shall say the fever left you uncertain. None will think it strange.”
“The fever?” I echoed faintly.
“Aye. You took poorly not three weeks past. His Majesty himself bade you rest. If your thoughts wander, or if you appear pale, no one will question it. They will think you still weak in body, nothing more.” She moved briskly, already reaching for the crimson gown. “We’ve no time to waste. Her Majesty does not brook delay.”
I slipped from the bed, feeling the chill of stone beneath my feet. The bedgown slithered from my shoulders as Anne pressed a linen shift into my hands. It was finer than any chemise I’d ever worn, cool against my skin. Next came the stays, which she laced firmly, muttering apologies at each tug.
“Breathe deeply, my lady—there. You’ll stand all the straighter for it.”
Before I could protest, she had guided me into petticoats, the rustle of silk whispering in my ears. Then came the gown itself—crimson satin heavy with embroidery, its slashed sleeves revealing glimmers of white beneath. Anne’s fingers flew as she fastened hooks and arranged ribbons, stepping back now and again to assess her handiwork.
Once she was done, I glanced down at myself, half-expecting to see me standing in my own room. Instead, I saw a lady of the seventeenth century staring back at me, every inch arrayed for court. Anne knelt to fasten satin shoes upon my feet, their pointed toes peeking from beneath the hem of my gown as though to assure me the transformation was complete.
Having properly shod me, Anne rose and turned her attention to my hair, dragging a comb through the dark waveswith brisk efficiency. She coaxed a few loose curls to frame my face, then bound the rest back with a ribbon of crimson satin to match the gown. A scattering of pearls was pinned among the locks, enough to lend dignity without the elaborate fuss of a banquet coiffure. Finally, she set a narrow strip of lace at the crown so lightly it seemed scarcely to touch.
When she was finished, Anne guided me to a carved walnut table where a tall mirror gleamed within a gilt frame, the glass faintly rippled but clear enough to startle me with its reflection. I hardly recognized the pale woman gazing back. Gone was my 1920s sleekness—the cropped hair tucked beneath a cloche hat, the boyish ease of a straight-cut dress, silk stockings, and simple pumps. In their place stood a seventeenth-century lady swathed in crimson satin, curls adorned with pearls, her narrow waist cinched by stays, her shoes pointed delicately beneath the hem. The stranger in the mirror was elegant, dignified, even prepared for court—yet her eyes betrayed the confusion beneath.
Anne caught my bewildered look and lowered her voice. “Say nothing of it, my lady. You have only to remember you are still recovering from your fever. That will be excuse enough.”
I nodded slowly, though my mind reeled. The fever. Yes, best cling to that excuse, for it explained what nothing else could.
Anne set a pearl necklace at my throat and smoothed the satin one last time. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “Now come, my lady. We must not keep Queen Catherine waiting.”
I followed her toward the door, my steps unsteady, my mind thick with fog. “Anne,” I whispered urgently, “forgive me—my thoughts are clouded still. Tell me … what am I to the queen? What is it I am supposed to do?”
She glanced back, her eyes softening with sympathy. “You are one of Her Majesty’s ladies. You attend her, fetch what she requires, and keep her company when she wills it. Naught more demanding than that.”
“And if I falter?”
Anne lowered her voice further. “Then I’ll say the fever took your memory with it. No one will think it strange, my lady. You are not the first to be struck low and rise again uncertain.”
Her words calmed me only a little, yet I clung to them as a drowning woman might a rope. Whatever game this was—dream or madness—I must play my part, and pray my wits held long enough to see me through.
CHAPTER 10
THE QUEEN’S COMPANION
Anne led me from the bedchamber into a corridor lined with paneling so dark it drank the candlelight. We passed through a sequence of passages and galleries, each more bewildering than the last. The ceilings soared above me, painted with mythological scenes that seemed to shift and watch as I walked beneath them. Windows stretched high and narrow, their diamond panes casting fractured light upon the polished floors.
Everywhere, there was movement—pages darting with messages, ladies sweeping past in silks, guards in livery standing rigid at doorways. Voices echoed in a dozen tongues, mingling with the steady creak of boards and the distant notes of a violin drifting from some unseen chamber. I could scarcely take it in. The scale of the place was overwhelming. It felt less like a house and more like a city contained within walls, a maze of chambers and staircases where one could be lost forever.
Anne, brisk and unflustered, guided me down a long gallery hung with tapestries depicting battles I did not recognize. At its end stood a carved doorway draped in heavy velvet, guarded by two men-at-arms with halberds that gleamed in the torchlight. Here, at last, she paused, smoothing her apron and giving me a steadying look.
“Her Majesty waits within,” she whispered.
