Elizabeth stood tall, her posture naturally upright, with shoulders thrown back to show off her slender figure. Her hair was red gold, like King Henry’s had been, her brows and lashes fair, her dark gray eyes glittering.
The gown I and my assistants had created spoke of simple elegance—bodice closed at the throat, gray velvet surcoat drawn back to reveal a dress of white and silver brocade. The costume was a work of art and far more subdued than Mary’s showy finery.
I watched Mary busily compare Elizabeth to herself and draw a different conclusion than I had. Mary’s eyes gleamed with satisfactory pride as she perceived that her jewels were more numerous, more costly, and larger than Elizabeth’s. Mary’s gown rippled with velvet, her sleeves trimmed lavishly with furs, while Elizabeth’s ensemble was deceptively simple.
More importantly, Elizabeth was only a princess—an illegitimate one in Mary’s eyes—while Mary, daughter of Catherine of Aragon and granddaughter of Isabella of Spain, was now queen.
After years of being shunted aside, ignored, and disdained, Mary reigned at last.
The Catholic queen and the Protestant princess, I whispered to myself. Foreboding filled me, even as Mary turned to Elizabeth’s ladies, her smile welcoming.
Each lady was presented to Mary in turn, by rank, including myself, as a gentlewoman.
A heavy wave of perfume engulfed me as Mary raised me from my curtsy and kissed my cheek. The perfume could not quite hide the musty smell of a warm body sweltering under too many layers of clothing.
Mary pressed a gift into my hand, as she had the other ladies, a small brooch of gold with a crucifix emblazoned on it.
“Your Grace does me honor,” I murmured, hoping my voice was not too hoarse.
Mary’s indulgent smile faded as she looked me up and down. “You are the seamstress?”
I curtsied again. “I have that privilege, Your Grace.”
Mary took in my gown, which was, as usual, a humbler version of Elizabeth’s—I could copy the style, but I would never presume to wear the fabrics of a royal princess. Mary’s gaze then flicked to Elizabeth, and her mouth turned down in one corner.
She disapproved of the plainness of the gown, I realized. Simplicity was the Reformed way. Elizabeth’s religion did not favor ornamentation—not on the body and certainly not in the church. Mary’s garments spoke of her convictions that God was to be worshipped with the most glorious jewels and precious metals money could buy.
Mary likely never contemplated it in these words, but she saw the contrast, and it annoyed her.
She turned to the next lady in line with her smile fixed in place and gave her the kiss, the greeting, and the gift.
Elizabeth dined with Mary that evening, and we ladies were given the privilege of waiting on them. The topics Mary chose were safe ones—the weather, the ease of the journey, Elizabeth’s health and hers, the coming coronation.
Not one word of Northumberland, or Jane trembling in the Tower, or Edward’s duplicity in changing the succession at the last moment. Nothing that would bring anger or recriminations to this festive occasion.
Next to Mary stood a woman I’d met often when Elizabeth and I had sojourned at Edward’s court—Jane Dormer. Jane was a few years older than Elizabeth and unmarried. With delicate movements, Jane carved a slice of meat out of the haunch presented for Mary and laid it on a plate, then cut it into smaller pieces for her. Jane lifted her sleeve out of the way as she poured wine, glanced my way, gave me a nod of greeting.
I nodded back. Jane and I had become friends, of a sort. Jane’s family was very Catholic, and what’s more, her family in Buckinghamshire was close with that of Sir Philip Baldwin, my stepfather.
Mary’s gaining the throne, I had well to worry, might not simply restore the nation to the old religion, but it might make my stepfather and mother insist that I be restored to it as well.
“… for the coronation,” Mary was saying to Elizabeth. “What say you, sister, that you’ll wear as fine a cloth of gold as any ever saw? I will send you the material myself.”
“You are kind.” Elizabeth took a delicate sip of wine. “My seamstress will be pleased. She is quite the artist. Perhaps the sleeves puffed over the shoulders in the new way?”
“Have you kept up with fashion then, in the country?” Mary asked, with a hint of derision.
Elizabeth’s eyes glinted like a snake’s. “As well as can be expected, Your Grace. I have been fortunate to be instructed on the subject by the ladies of the court. They have given me much advice.”
Which she obviously had not followed. Some among the courtiers whispered that Mary depended far too much on the counsel of her ladies. Elizabeth was declaring that she, for her part, did not.
“You are a Tudor, and a princess,” Mary said, missing the reference. “You must now wear clothes as befits your station. Perhaps another seamstress can be found?”
Cold washed through me. If Mary had me dismissed, I might have to return home to that awful man for whom my mother had gladly deserted me.
“Mistress Rousell sews to my dictation,” Elizabeth said. “If I am to be more at court, then of course, my wardrobe will reflect this. She shall prepare gowns worthy of my position. I wish to do honor to the queen.”
Mary only smiled and inclined her head, while I let out a quiet sigh of relief.
