“All good, Lord Warwick?” I said.
He ignored the question and threw open a cupboard, checking over the pewter plates and cups. “You should have ample provisions. The chambers are regularly made ready for the Princess Catherine.”
“How is Kit?” I said, a flicker of fear in my gut. The last time I’d seen Nick’s eight-year-old sister, the traitor Mathew Fox had nearly murdered both of us.
“By all accounts, the princess is well. Lodged at Kenilworth Castle and quite safe, grace be to God.” Francis stood watching me for several moments while rubbing his trimmed goatee. When he spoke again, his tone was brusque.
“It may be the king’s pleasure to seek holy matrimony with your person, Mistress Grace, and I yield myself to the will of our good and gracious king. However, I speak for the Privy Council, and indeed all the peers of the realm, when I say that this union does not come without surprise.”
Heat flooded my face. “I think we’re all a bit surprised,” I said in a small voice.
I instantly regretted the missed opportunity to sound more confident, but Francis was already making his escape.
He offered a small bow before he passed through the oaken doors. “I shall have a lady’s maid sent in haste to prepare your person for the feast. We cannot delay in announcing to the noblemen that their new queen is to be the daughter of a departed physician whom they have not had the pleasure of meeting.”
His suspicious eyes didn’t break from mine as he backed away, leaving my palms sweaty. I was getting the impression that my old mate Francis would’ve preferred Nick to marry the frosty French princess, Henriette.
But thinking about Nick’s loving words kept me from falling into panic as I explored the drawing-room, warmed by the signs of Kit’s previous stay here. A collection of carved horses, lions, crocodiles, and a spiky porcupine was piled inside a toy cart. A play castle stood guard beside it, dressed with wooden figurines of knights and ladies. I made a mental note to ask Nick if his sister could come to Hampton Court Palace so we could hang out again and she could read me poems that she’d translated from Latin.
Smiling at the thought, I meandered through the series of chambers, finding a dining chamber, another drawing-room with pallet beds for servants, a small garderobe with a medieval-style toilet, a dressing room, and a bedchamber with a hand-painted map of England on the wall. It was all a serious step up from my pokey old room at the Palace of Whitehall.
After placing the blue-diamond ring safely inside a jewelry coffer, I stripped to my smock and climbed into the four-poster bed hung with embroidered textiles. The silk bed sheets smelled like orange blossom.
My heavy eyelids closed without effort, sparking an image of Mom watching me. She stood smiling with her back against the laminate kitchen counter, a mug of milky tea in her hand. I’d never have moved so far away from her had it not literally come down to her or the boy I loved. My chest pinched, and I turned over, sinking my cheek into the feather pillow. I refocused my mind on Nick, remembering the way he’d flirtatiously kissed my palm on the rocky sand beside the river…the way his mouth had moved to my fingers, his soft lips skimming them one by one. The memory of his mouth near the blue-diamond ring sent my stomach into free fall. Through all the anxiety about being back in Tudor England, I’d forgotten that the enchanted ring was acting super weird last night! It had never taken more than one try to carry us through time like that before.
I rolled onto my back and gazed at the wooden beams intersecting above the bed. What if something was wrong with the ring? I still knew hardly anything about it, and why it even traveled to my time. What if its magic had finally conked out and I was here for good?
You are here for good, Emmie. You agreed to marry a Tudor king and become a sixteenth-century queen, even though you’re an eighteen-year-old from the twenty-first century who has no idea how to do those things. And you’ve been here for what feels like three minutes, and he’s already left you alone.
The thoughts kept coming, and it was a miracle I fell asleep at all.
Firm fingers jiggled my arm, stirring me from a restless sleep. My eyes opened to meet a ruddy-faced girl with a tangle of red curls escaping her lopsided hood. She curtsied, silky beige skirts fluffing around her.
“My lady, I am Mistress Bridget Nightingale, here to assist you. With your permission, it will honor me to serve you as a true and faithful subject.” Her squeaky voice was cute. She could’ve been a cartoon voice-over artist.
“Oh, hi, good morning,” I mumbled through sticky lips.
“Forgive the correction, but is afternoon, my lady. It is time to make ready for the feast where His Majesty will present you to his most favored noblemen.” She heaved me out of bed with the grip of a gorilla before handing me a silk robe.
“Thanks,” I said, throwing the robe over my shoulders and trailing her through to the drawing-room, even though the idea of being presented to the aristocrats made me want to hightail it back into the bed.
“I am still to make ready your chambers,” said Bridget. “Forgive me; there was no forewarning of your arrival.” Her cherry lips offered a nervous smile.
“Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry.” It’s not like you knew a time traveler from the New World was heading your way. It’s cool, Bridge.
She brushed her hands on her skirts and shoved open the oak doors, nearly toppling over. I hurried to help her, and together we struggled to hoist a wooden pushcart strapped with a humungous chest down the stone steps and roll it inside. Bridget didn’t want me to trouble myself, but I insisted. Anything to feel like less of a queen-to-be and more of a normal person.
“Would you care for some water?” she said, sounding breathless. “Lord Warwick said that you favor it.” She grimaced, accenting the peach rouge on her round cheeks.
“Water sounds perfect, thank you.”
Sweeping a ginger curl off her neck, Bridget reached into a shelf at the base of the pushcart to retrieve a pewter jug. After pouring me some water, she guided me into a fringed chair. Next to appear from her bottomless pushcart was a cheese tart, a bowl of sugared strawberries, and a plate of freshly baked macarons. The sight sent butterflies to my stomach. Nick had remembered my weakness for macarons. My skin flushed hot at the thought of seeing him. How many hours had it been?
I sat and chewed the crisp meringues, feeling utterly useless as Bridget guided the pushcart into the dressing room. She soon reappeared, clutching a shimmering silver-colored gown embroidered with falling feathers. Artful slashes in the silver satin revealed blush-pink silk fabric underneath.
“You may choose any cloth you desire for the feast, but I much prefer this one,” she said, grinning through crooked teeth. All at once, I loved Bridget and could tell she would be a great help to me in navigating this court.
“It’s stunning,” I said, jumping to my feet. The perks of becoming a queen were beginning to show themselves.
I ate three macarons in a row while she dressed me piece-by-piece, beginning with several petticoats and one of those ridiculous hoop skirts. The fabric had been warmed by the fire and smelled faintly of lavender.
“How long have you been at court?” I said a little timidly. My instinct to make conversation with Bridget was matched by my fear that she’d ask questions about my life that I wouldn’t know how to answer.