have to talk with the gentleman while she ate.
‘Your father was particular,’ her mother continued: ‘“Be sure Ellyn joins us after the last dish”, he said. I fancy they may have something of significance to put to you.’
Ellyn’s heart sank. What could be
of significance
? She stiffened as one obvious possibility loomed large in her mind. She might have pulled away without realising. Her mother patted her head.
‘Do not be concerned.’
Ellyn was even more alarmed. Had she betrayed how she truly felt? If her mother once suspected that she was determined to resist marrying Master Gilbert, then she would probably alert her father who would only attempt to coerce her. Better to appear dutiful and play along with their plans. She let her mother take her hand.
‘Nan knows precisely what to prepare,’ her mother said softly, while kneading Ellyn’s fingers as if she was trying to smooth them. ‘Venison pastry with honeyed mustard, turbot with Dutch sauce, marchpane dainties, maced cider and sack . . . It will be quite singular. But you must take your portion later,’ her mother added. ‘While they are dining, you should be making yourself ready. I shall have Lettie bring you your dress – perhaps the lily partlet and green sleeves? I must think upon’t.’
Ellyn considered suggesting that she might make her own choice with a mind to colours that were much more drab, but acquiescence was wiser. She kept quiet.
‘Be sure to whiten thoroughly and line your eyes,’ her mother advised. ‘Your father will expect you to be looking your best.’
Ellyn bowed her head, foreseeing a trying morning and, beyond it, nothing pleasant.
‘Will you come, too?’
The response was predictable. Her mother put a hand to her mouth and her voice became hoarse.
‘No, no. I would only be a hindrance, and my cough a trial.’
‘I am sorry.’ Ellyn meant what she said. She pitied her mother and felt guilty for considering, in private, that perhaps she could fight whatever disabilities confined her. Though her mother was little use as an ally, Ellyn sensed her kindness. She looked up and caught her mother’s eye, discerning a depth of sadness that gave her the impulse to confide in her fully – she yearned to do it. But then her mother turned to her sewing and peered at the stitches, and Ellyn bit her tongue.
‘The occasion is for
your
enjoyment,’ her mother said, as she matched a new thread to the design. She was emphatic, though no louder; Ellyn strained to hear her. ‘Have no concern for me, rather be mindful of your father. The gout is but a symptom of a greater malady.’
‘What?’ Ellyn frowned, astounded.
Her mother slowly shook her head.
‘The physician has said he must stay calm. He must not be agitated or vexed.’
Was her father truly sick? Suddenly Ellyn was thrown into a spiral of worry. It had never occurred to her that, as between her parents, her father might have the more serious affliction. She had never really accepted that her parents were not immortal. Her father could be insufferable but she wished him no ill.
‘So, my sweet,’ her mother continued in a fading whisper, ‘I trust you will ensure that nothing
in you
will give him cause to be distressed.’
‘Of course not!’ How could her mother even think it? But Ellyn realised that assurance was what her mother needed; strong emotions only disturbed her. With an effort, Ellyn softened her tone. ‘Be at ease. I promise I shall give him no offence.’
Her mother’s trust was confirmed with a kiss.
The box was very fine. Its lid was inlaid with a chequered veneer, and around its sides was a pattern of tooled ropes with roses. If she could have been sure the box was empty, Ellyn might have happily admired it. But she knew that inside would be a present from Godfrey Gilbert, and about that she was miserably ill at ease.
She prayed the gift would not be too precious or personal, nothing that might be used to seal a betrothal –
‘Your father was particular,’ her mother continued: ‘“Be sure Ellyn joins us after the last dish”, he said. I fancy they may have something of significance to put to you.’
Ellyn’s heart sank. What could be
of significance
? She stiffened as one obvious possibility loomed large in her mind. She might have pulled away without realising. Her mother patted her head.
‘Do not be concerned.’
Ellyn was even more alarmed. Had she betrayed how she truly felt? If her mother once suspected that she was determined to resist marrying Master Gilbert, then she would probably alert her father who would only attempt to coerce her. Better to appear dutiful and play along with their plans. She let her mother take her hand.
‘Nan knows precisely what to prepare,’ her mother said softly, while kneading Ellyn’s fingers as if she was trying to smooth them. ‘Venison pastry with honeyed mustard, turbot with Dutch sauce, marchpane dainties, maced cider and sack . . . It will be quite singular. But you must take your portion later,’ her mother added. ‘While they are dining, you should be making yourself ready. I shall have Lettie bring you your dress – perhaps the lily partlet and green sleeves? I must think upon’t.’
Ellyn considered suggesting that she might make her own choice with a mind to colours that were much more drab, but acquiescence was wiser. She kept quiet.
‘Be sure to whiten thoroughly and line your eyes,’ her mother advised. ‘Your father will expect you to be looking your best.’
Ellyn bowed her head, foreseeing a trying morning and, beyond it, nothing pleasant.
‘Will you come, too?’
The response was predictable. Her mother put a hand to her mouth and her voice became hoarse.
‘No, no. I would only be a hindrance, and my cough a trial.’
‘I am sorry.’ Ellyn meant what she said. She pitied her mother and felt guilty for considering, in private, that perhaps she could fight whatever disabilities confined her. Though her mother was little use as an ally, Ellyn sensed her kindness. She looked up and caught her mother’s eye, discerning a depth of sadness that gave her the impulse to confide in her fully – she yearned to do it. But then her mother turned to her sewing and peered at the stitches, and Ellyn bit her tongue.
‘The occasion is for
your
enjoyment,’ her mother said, as she matched a new thread to the design. She was emphatic, though no louder; Ellyn strained to hear her. ‘Have no concern for me, rather be mindful of your father. The gout is but a symptom of a greater malady.’
‘What?’ Ellyn frowned, astounded.
Her mother slowly shook her head.
‘The physician has said he must stay calm. He must not be agitated or vexed.’
Was her father truly sick? Suddenly Ellyn was thrown into a spiral of worry. It had never occurred to her that, as between her parents, her father might have the more serious affliction. She had never really accepted that her parents were not immortal. Her father could be insufferable but she wished him no ill.
‘So, my sweet,’ her mother continued in a fading whisper, ‘I trust you will ensure that nothing
in you
will give him cause to be distressed.’
‘Of course not!’ How could her mother even think it? But Ellyn realised that assurance was what her mother needed; strong emotions only disturbed her. With an effort, Ellyn softened her tone. ‘Be at ease. I promise I shall give him no offence.’
Her mother’s trust was confirmed with a kiss.
The box was very fine. Its lid was inlaid with a chequered veneer, and around its sides was a pattern of tooled ropes with roses. If she could have been sure the box was empty, Ellyn might have happily admired it. But she knew that inside would be a present from Godfrey Gilbert, and about that she was miserably ill at ease.
She prayed the gift would not be too precious or personal, nothing that might be used to seal a betrothal –
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