new morn was an exercise in discipline as I forced myself from bed with a smile and a greeting for those who waited upon me.
I had become a reluctant Queen at my own court.
After I had dressed and broken my fast one morning several weeks into my time at Brustleigh, I stepped into my outer chamber to find my own small court gathered before me, waiting upon me for some indication of what we might do. Flustered, I cast glances about the room, looking for that which might occupy. I seized upon the idea of embroidery and started for my canvas.
Before I could take two steps, Joan stayed my arm.
“Your handiwork, my lady? I shall retrieve it for you.” If I could not respect my position, she was determined to.
My maids quickly busied themselves with their own work and we sat together, all of us on chairs, one luxury which, if truth be told, I enjoyed. A stool made hard work, after some hours, at remaining upright. But by the time dinner was announced, I had tired of handiwork and had caught my head nodding over my hands.
After dinner, there loomed nearly an entire afternoon. Aside from seeing to the household accounts, I had no idea with what to occupy myself. And my maids. In truth, I knew what I would have liked to have done. I had a new book, Rosalynde , unread in my chamber, though I could not neglect my duties for solitary pleasure. However, Joan, bless her soul, had a diversion.
“ ’Tis a fine afternoon for a walk, my lady.”
“Is it?” I had not thought upon it. I walked to a window, and indeed, the sun had gilded the hill before me. Though it was still winter, the day was mild.
And so I marched my maids around the gardens, such as they were, once, twice, before Joan reached out to touch my arm. Turning, I saw her gesture as if to stay a pony.
Slow your pace .
In turning my head, I could see that, indeed, apples had risen on my maids’ cheeks. I moderated my pace while chastising myself. I was no longer some country knight’s daughter who had to hurry about her business. I was a woman of nobility with naught but time. And if I sped through that leisure, I would only force myself to think up another. Haste was no virtue here.
I went to my sleep satisfied that night, for I had happened upon a pattern for my days: handiwork in the morn, followed by the accounts, and then a walk in the afternoon. And if I should let my assigned companions retire early to their beds, what of it?
But the rains of the next day, and the next, and the one thereafter scuttled all of my plans. By the third day, after having spent hours devoted to embroidery, my thumb and my fingers were pricking as if stuck with pins. And glances at the work of the others told me I would soon have to find other amusement, for their work was almost completed. As was my own.
In desperation, I asked Joan to retrieve the new book from my room. I commended it into the hands of one of the maids with the instruction that she commence reading.
She stared at it as she might have looked upon a serpent.
“Pray, begin.”
She looked up from it and then offered it back to Joan. “I am most sorry, Lady Lytham, but I cannot.”
I could not help but sigh. “Does your taste not run to romance?
Would you prefer The Book of Martyrs , then? I have no favorites.”
“I would prefer no book at all.”
No book at all? Such presumption! I forced my lips into a curve.
“I wished only to offer some diversion from the needle, but no matter. Perhaps one of the others will be kind enough to read for us.”
Since she, so plainly, was not.
The next maid blushed and refused the book even as Joan pressed it upon her.
“Sweet heaven! If you do not wish to acknowledge me as your mistress, then please go and be a blight upon some other house! I have never witnessed such condescension from a maid so young. I give you leave and make you free!”
“It is not that, your ladyship. It is only that I cannot.”
“Cannot what? Cannot be kind? Cannot be agreeable? Cannot
I had become a reluctant Queen at my own court.
After I had dressed and broken my fast one morning several weeks into my time at Brustleigh, I stepped into my outer chamber to find my own small court gathered before me, waiting upon me for some indication of what we might do. Flustered, I cast glances about the room, looking for that which might occupy. I seized upon the idea of embroidery and started for my canvas.
Before I could take two steps, Joan stayed my arm.
“Your handiwork, my lady? I shall retrieve it for you.” If I could not respect my position, she was determined to.
My maids quickly busied themselves with their own work and we sat together, all of us on chairs, one luxury which, if truth be told, I enjoyed. A stool made hard work, after some hours, at remaining upright. But by the time dinner was announced, I had tired of handiwork and had caught my head nodding over my hands.
After dinner, there loomed nearly an entire afternoon. Aside from seeing to the household accounts, I had no idea with what to occupy myself. And my maids. In truth, I knew what I would have liked to have done. I had a new book, Rosalynde , unread in my chamber, though I could not neglect my duties for solitary pleasure. However, Joan, bless her soul, had a diversion.
“ ’Tis a fine afternoon for a walk, my lady.”
“Is it?” I had not thought upon it. I walked to a window, and indeed, the sun had gilded the hill before me. Though it was still winter, the day was mild.
And so I marched my maids around the gardens, such as they were, once, twice, before Joan reached out to touch my arm. Turning, I saw her gesture as if to stay a pony.
Slow your pace .
In turning my head, I could see that, indeed, apples had risen on my maids’ cheeks. I moderated my pace while chastising myself. I was no longer some country knight’s daughter who had to hurry about her business. I was a woman of nobility with naught but time. And if I sped through that leisure, I would only force myself to think up another. Haste was no virtue here.
I went to my sleep satisfied that night, for I had happened upon a pattern for my days: handiwork in the morn, followed by the accounts, and then a walk in the afternoon. And if I should let my assigned companions retire early to their beds, what of it?
But the rains of the next day, and the next, and the one thereafter scuttled all of my plans. By the third day, after having spent hours devoted to embroidery, my thumb and my fingers were pricking as if stuck with pins. And glances at the work of the others told me I would soon have to find other amusement, for their work was almost completed. As was my own.
In desperation, I asked Joan to retrieve the new book from my room. I commended it into the hands of one of the maids with the instruction that she commence reading.
She stared at it as she might have looked upon a serpent.
“Pray, begin.”
She looked up from it and then offered it back to Joan. “I am most sorry, Lady Lytham, but I cannot.”
I could not help but sigh. “Does your taste not run to romance?
Would you prefer The Book of Martyrs , then? I have no favorites.”
“I would prefer no book at all.”
No book at all? Such presumption! I forced my lips into a curve.
“I wished only to offer some diversion from the needle, but no matter. Perhaps one of the others will be kind enough to read for us.”
Since she, so plainly, was not.
The next maid blushed and refused the book even as Joan pressed it upon her.
“Sweet heaven! If you do not wish to acknowledge me as your mistress, then please go and be a blight upon some other house! I have never witnessed such condescension from a maid so young. I give you leave and make you free!”
“It is not that, your ladyship. It is only that I cannot.”
“Cannot what? Cannot be kind? Cannot be agreeable? Cannot
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