bearing down upon her shoulder to shoulder. They were a grim-faced pair, sisters of the mother Phoebe could not remember. They had adored Diana. And without exception, those who adored Diana had little time for Phoebe.
Phoebe cast Olivia a desperate look. If only Olivia could be beside her at this sacrificial rite. But it was a ceremony to be conducted only by women who’d gone through it themselves.
Cato rose to his feet, took his bride’s hand, and courteously assisted her to stand. All eyes were upon her. He raisedPhoebe’s hand to his lips, then stepped aside, passing her over to her aunts. The guests were smiling; knowing little smiles, and in some cases broad anticipatory grins with a touch of lasciviousness that brought them close to a leer.
Phoebe’s face flamed anew. She hated to be the focus of attention. Usually it was because of some awkward or embarrassing faux pas, but this was worse than anything. She wanted what was about to happen, wanted it with a bewildering urgency, but she couldn’t bear to imagine the thoughts going on behind those drunken prurient grins.
Olivia took something from her pocket and laid it carefully and prominently on the white cloth above her plate. Phoebe gazed at it. It was Olivia’s friendship ring, one of the three that Portia had made all those years ago by twining their three locks of hair into a circle. Phoebe’s hand went to the tiny pocket in the skirt of her gown and closed over her own ring. The moment of panic receded. She gave Olivia a half smile and allowed herself to be swept away on the tide of her aunts.
She stood still in the middle of Cato’s bedchamber. She’d never entered this room before. Everything in it seemed dark and massive. The armchair drawn up before the blazing fire, the carved chest at the foot of the bed, the mahogany sideboard against the wall, the huge armoire with its great brass key. The curtains at the windows were of dark red velvet, hanging from massive oak rods. The floor was of almost black oak, highly polished, scattered with embroidered Elizabethan rugs.
Her gaze moved almost reluctantly to the bulk of the carved bed with its tapestry hangings. It seemed very high and she saw the little footstool that had presumably been put there for her benefit. Cato would hardly need it. The head and feet of the bed were carved in a tangle of what looked like serpents and dragons. The coverlet was of rich dark blue silk. Phoebe felt pale and dwarfed.
“Come now, child, there’s no time for gawping,” Lady Morecombe scolded, beginning to unhook Phoebe’s gown. “Your husband won’t expect to be kept waiting.”
Phoebe shivered and moved closer to the fire, while her aunt followed her flapping her hands as she tried to finish unhooking the gown.
“Keep still, do!”
Phoebe came to a halt in front of the fire and then stood, still and mute as a doll, while the two women bustled around her, handing her clothes to the maid who stood ready to receive them. When she was naked, they brought a wet washcloth from the nightstand and sponged her body from head to toe, even though she’d bathed that morning. She was dried briskly.
“Now, rinse out your mouth with this essence of cloves,” one of the aunts instructed, passing Phoebe a small cup filled with dark brown liquid. “Fresh breath is most important in the bedchamber. Make sure you remember that.”
“But don’t expect your husband to remember it himself,” Lady Morecombe declared with asperity. Her own lord was a renowned drunkard who smoked a pipe and had a passion for pickled onions.
Their words washed over Phoebe. Obediently she rinsed out her mouth and spat into the basin. Then they dropped the soft white nightrail over her head and buttoned it at the back.
“That’s very pretty,” Lady Barett said. It was the first word of approval Phoebe could remember hearing all day. “Now, let’s take down your hair.”
Phoebe sat on the chest at the foot of the bed while they
Phoebe cast Olivia a desperate look. If only Olivia could be beside her at this sacrificial rite. But it was a ceremony to be conducted only by women who’d gone through it themselves.
Cato rose to his feet, took his bride’s hand, and courteously assisted her to stand. All eyes were upon her. He raisedPhoebe’s hand to his lips, then stepped aside, passing her over to her aunts. The guests were smiling; knowing little smiles, and in some cases broad anticipatory grins with a touch of lasciviousness that brought them close to a leer.
Phoebe’s face flamed anew. She hated to be the focus of attention. Usually it was because of some awkward or embarrassing faux pas, but this was worse than anything. She wanted what was about to happen, wanted it with a bewildering urgency, but she couldn’t bear to imagine the thoughts going on behind those drunken prurient grins.
Olivia took something from her pocket and laid it carefully and prominently on the white cloth above her plate. Phoebe gazed at it. It was Olivia’s friendship ring, one of the three that Portia had made all those years ago by twining their three locks of hair into a circle. Phoebe’s hand went to the tiny pocket in the skirt of her gown and closed over her own ring. The moment of panic receded. She gave Olivia a half smile and allowed herself to be swept away on the tide of her aunts.
She stood still in the middle of Cato’s bedchamber. She’d never entered this room before. Everything in it seemed dark and massive. The armchair drawn up before the blazing fire, the carved chest at the foot of the bed, the mahogany sideboard against the wall, the huge armoire with its great brass key. The curtains at the windows were of dark red velvet, hanging from massive oak rods. The floor was of almost black oak, highly polished, scattered with embroidered Elizabethan rugs.
Her gaze moved almost reluctantly to the bulk of the carved bed with its tapestry hangings. It seemed very high and she saw the little footstool that had presumably been put there for her benefit. Cato would hardly need it. The head and feet of the bed were carved in a tangle of what looked like serpents and dragons. The coverlet was of rich dark blue silk. Phoebe felt pale and dwarfed.
“Come now, child, there’s no time for gawping,” Lady Morecombe scolded, beginning to unhook Phoebe’s gown. “Your husband won’t expect to be kept waiting.”
Phoebe shivered and moved closer to the fire, while her aunt followed her flapping her hands as she tried to finish unhooking the gown.
“Keep still, do!”
Phoebe came to a halt in front of the fire and then stood, still and mute as a doll, while the two women bustled around her, handing her clothes to the maid who stood ready to receive them. When she was naked, they brought a wet washcloth from the nightstand and sponged her body from head to toe, even though she’d bathed that morning. She was dried briskly.
“Now, rinse out your mouth with this essence of cloves,” one of the aunts instructed, passing Phoebe a small cup filled with dark brown liquid. “Fresh breath is most important in the bedchamber. Make sure you remember that.”
“But don’t expect your husband to remember it himself,” Lady Morecombe declared with asperity. Her own lord was a renowned drunkard who smoked a pipe and had a passion for pickled onions.
Their words washed over Phoebe. Obediently she rinsed out her mouth and spat into the basin. Then they dropped the soft white nightrail over her head and buttoned it at the back.
“That’s very pretty,” Lady Barett said. It was the first word of approval Phoebe could remember hearing all day. “Now, let’s take down your hair.”
Phoebe sat on the chest at the foot of the bed while they
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