Good morrow, obedient Tudor lady of the house. Prithee, would thee sew with me?
There were some upsides to the tedium: more than an hour spent stitching the tentacles of a giant caterpillar distracted me from fears about Nick facing the Spanish Armada. I was glad for the company of the chambermaids who flittered between the rooms, changing the sheets and brushing down the outer pieces of my gowns. A French tailor turned up to take measurements for my new wardrobe, nattering to himself while making notches in a long strip of parchment. As the morning progressed, I soaked in as many tips as I could about the protocols of the Tudor court.
Nonetheless, I was ready to toss my mindless needlework into the fireplace when one of Nick’s gentlemen of the chamber arrived to request my presence for dinner with the king.
OMG, finally. Presence freaking granted.
We carefully crossed the cobblestones that were still slick with rain and headed upstairs to the heated splendor of the king’s Privy Chambers. The gentleman instructed me to wait in the Presence Chamber, so I hung out beside the stone fireplace that smoldered with chalky logs. So much for a normal relationship…things felt even more formal than before.
The king appeared within minutes, sending away a flock of councilors with a flick of his wrist. He strode toward me with his confident gait, his hypnotic eyes sending searing heat to my stomach.
“Forgive me,” he said, taking my hands. “The feast last night brought many distractions.” He wrapped himself around me like we hadn’t seen each other in months, smelling as amazing as ever. Gah.
Guards parted in smooth succession as we clung together and strolled through Nick’s withdrawing chamber, study, and library before reaching his private dining room. The walls gleamed with cloth of gold, absorbing the rich smells of the roasted meats and pies drowning in tangy sauces—every dish presented with the fanfare of trumpets. There were so many servers fussing over us that I couldn’t ask Nick if there’d been any developments with the Spanish conflict. As I forced myself to eat beef pie with my fingers, I imagined fixing him a tuna melt sandwich in my Hatfield kitchen, which inspired a pang of longing that surprised me.
Nick distracted my thoughts with our usual effortless chatter, and by the time we finished dinner, we were canoodling our way into his drawing-room. He followed my eyes that counted at least six people in the tight space; there were two pages stoking the fire, a long-haired boy blowing into a flute, guards policing each doorway, and a servant holding out a fruit platter that must’ve given him carpal tunnel syndrome. It felt like the least private living room on earth.
“Now that you are my betrothed, we should be watched when we are alone to make certain there is no question that you are pure,” Nick explained, cuddling me from behind. “There is to be no uncertainty about our son’s legitimacy.”
The thought of falling pregnant at my age tightened my stomach. A son? Yikes.
“What if we have a girl?” I couldn’t help but dangle. “We can call her Nicky.”
He spun me around with a strained smile. “If we are blessed with a daughter, we will make her a suitable match.” His knuckle stroked my cheek. “The son of a great king.”
“So now our baby is getting married? Holy smokes, I’d like to have at least met the guy first.” My gaze flashed across the room, but none of the attendants showed any signs of listening.
“Do not torment me with talk of our babies,” Nick said, relaxing into a chair. “I can imagine nothing sweeter.” He hooked his boot around the leg of an opposite seat and slid it close, cocking his finger for me to sit with him. “Besides, as much as I yearn for the day you take to your childbed, I also fear it in great measure.”
He swallowed tightly and didn’t elaborate, but I knew what he meant. Postpartum deaths were common in Tudor England, and pregnancy could steal a woman from the world at any moment—and the baby. There were no medical hospitals, antibiotics, or nurses like my mom.
With both of us happy to change the subject, we played cards and teased each other with kisses until a gentleman strode in and bowed, clutching Nick’s traveling cloak.
“Already?” the king said with dismay.
“The congregation has gathered at the royal barge, Your Majesty,” the coat holder replied, his chapped lips trembling. “Forgive me; you wished to be informed without delay. The tides are now favorable.” Another attendant fluffed the king’s feathered hat.
Nick chugged the remnants of his wine and reached for my hand. His dimpled cheeks had reddened. “Emmie, I have come to a decision to sail to Calais. I shall meet with the King of France at first light on the morrow.”
“Oh?” A chill spiraled up my neck.
“Spain is acting in a most provocative manner, and God willing, I must save the alliance, or we risk many men. You know I desire only peace and stability, but if there is to be war, we must have France side with us. We cannot allow Spain and France to unite their faith and mount an offensive.”
“Of course.” My stomach roiled at the thought of him leaving Hampton Court practically five minutes after I’d moved here. I still had so much to learn about court etiquette, and now I’d be alone. “Can I go with you?” I said.
He ran his palm over the back of my hand. “You must know I desire nothing more. I just won you back, and to part again feels intolerable. But there is no way for you to come; we have not the time to make ready your presentation ceremony. Besides, I must make peace with King Henry about what came to pass with his sister Henriette.”
Hearing Nick say his ex-girlfriend’s name scorched my chest. He tilted into my line of sight, reassuring eyes of translucent blue holding mine. “You need not feel troubled about Henriette. You know that I love you with all my heart.”
I nodded, fingering the silk ridges of his embroidered sleeve. I didn’t say it out loud, but I feared that one look at Henriette’s royal family would be all it would take to remind Nick how much more suited she was to him than me.
He stood up, cueing the men to drape the cloak over his broad shoulders.
An idea struck me with sudden clarity. “Should I go back home while you’re away?” I said, hopping to my feet. “I mean to Worthing,” I added for the benefit of all the ears in the room.
The shock in Nick’s face was startling. He knew precisely which home I was talking about: Hatfield in modern-day Massachusetts, not Worthing in sixteenth-century Sussex.
His brow pinched with visible hurt. “My palace does not please you?”
“Of course it does, it’s just…I thought it might be a good opportunity.”
Nick’s eyes clouded with the sort of anxious fear that I’d seen before—twice. It was the same expression he’d had after I’d disappeared back to my world without intending to ever return to Tudor England. A few days earlier, I’d promised Nick that I’d never do that to him again.
“Don’t worry, we can talk about it later,” I said, reaching for his fingers.
His gaze searched mine while the gentlemen fluffed up the feather in his hat. “Enough,” the king snapped, and they scurried away.
“With all this Spain business, I have been careless in reporting news of your household,” Nick said to me a little shakily. “Suitable ladies and attendants are being appointed as we speak. Construction of your apartments is already afoot. I have instructed the Master of the Revels to keep your person and your ladies merry in our absence. I pray you will come to feel at home here.”