She remembered. ‘And that’s another thing,’ she said, dropping her napkin and reluctantly allowing herself to be tugged to her feet. ‘I was – I was just a little the worse for wine that evening – which you kept making me drink, so it wasn’t my fault, anyway – and you took advantage of me.’
Andrew chuckled as he marched her into the adjoining room. ‘Think whatever you like, my dear,’ he said. ‘But now you are going to rest. You are going to take off every single item of clothing, and put it all on the floor where I can collect it later and arrange for its immediate destruction. You will then climb, quite alone, into the bed that has been specifically aired and warmed for you, and you will sleep until I give permission for you to wake.’
She managed a smile. ‘I suppose you think me lying between your nice clean sheets will ruin them forever.’
‘Indubitably. But they can be washed later, as you can. Now,’ he pointed, ‘there is the bed. I shall come back in about half an hour, and expect to find you within it. A fact that,’ he added with a slow grin, ‘will not, I assure you, tempt me into – how did you put it? – taking advantage of you. Strangely enough I prefer my women sober and conscious.’
He closed the bedchamber door behind him and Tyballis stood in the semi dark and gazed in wonder. She had greatly admired the dishevelled beauty of Andrew Cobham’s bedchamber at the Portsoken Ward, but this was not only grander, it was also remarkably clean. The bed rose beneath a tapestried tester, swathes of scarlet velvet disguising each post with swirls and tassels. The mattress was high, the linen sweet-smelling and the pillows soft. The small hearth had been laid with a blaze that neither coughed smoke nor spat sparks into the draught. The lumps of charcoal sat smugly in their crimson ashes and the chamber was positively cosy.
Within a few minutes Tyballis had scrambled out of her clothes and heaped them in the middle of the floor as ordered. She crawled quickly between the sheets and discovered that hot bricks had indeed warmed the bed. Collapsing beneath the plumped quilt was like being swallowed by feathers. In less than a blink, she was asleep.
Chapter Eighteen
She woke alone, as promised. Having no idea what time it might be after a thoroughly confusing day, she saw only that the little pile of the clothes she had worn in prison was no longer on her floor, and the fire had been built up considerably higher. She had heard none of this. Now she lay in the satisfying warmth, and wondered whether she should make an attempt to get up, or whether it might be the middle of the night. The one long window was heavily shuttered, with no boards missing or gaps showing light between the slats. There was therefore no indication of either daylight, or stars. If it was night indeed, then Andrew Cobham had not slept in his own bedchamber. No pallet or truckle was in evidence, and clearly no one had climbed into bed with her.
A small table was tucked beside the bed and on it stood a jug of light ale and a small cup. Tyballis drank, took a deep breath, hopped out of bed and scurried to the garderobe. There she gazed carefully around.
The garderobe held its usual row of pegs either side of the privy, and beneath the pegs were large wooden trunks, their lids open. Tyballis stared. Each peg held gowns, cloaks, hoods and cotes. The trunks were packed. There were shifts as transparent as gauze veils and as prettily trimmed as a kerchief. There were stiffened stomachers in every colour, narrow leather belts, a variety of folded headdresses, stockings in fine knitted silk and frilled satin garters. On the ground were shoes in many fabrics as dainty as flowers, and on a shelf was a tiny unlocked casket of jewellery, the amethyst ring she had worn before amongst a tangle of glitter.
Retreating to the bed, she sat for some time in puzzled indecision before finally choosing the plainest clothes she could find. She was at first frightened of ruining the stockings, but, since her nails were all worn to the quick, she was able to pull the thin silky wool up to her thighs and tie them in place with satin garters, all without snagging the delicate knit. She then chose a bleached linen undergown which fitted her body so closely above the waist that she wondered if she might have trouble breathing. The over-gown made this danger more likely, since it was just as tight. She pulled it carefully over her head and attempted to attach the little hooks beneath her arm. By twisting and turning, she managed to hook two into place but the rest she had to leave open. The over-gown was pale summer green, soft and flowing below the hips. The neckline, however, was cut so low in front that it formed a deep V almost to her waist, and the chemise beneath covered this intimate space in the merest suggestion of white gossamer. Nor could she attach the stomacher, though she thought she had chosen the widest, so she slipped her feet into a pair of pretty white leather shoes, sat on the bed, stared at her little pointed toes and sighed.
Andrew Cobham had an awkward habit of entering the rooms of his own quarters without knocking. He laughed at her from the doorway. ‘Stand up, child,’ he said, ‘and I will help.’
Tyballis whirled around. ‘What if I’d been naked?’ she complained.
‘Then I should have been even more delighted to see you than I am,’ he replied. ‘Now, do as you’re told and breathe in while I lace you up.’
His closeness and the efficiency of his hands against her body made her uncomfortable. Within the bleak stench of gaol, she had craved the comfort of his embrace. But now herself again, his fingers within the folds of her gown seemed intrusive. She stared resolutely at the ceiling and said faintly, ‘I may never breathe again.’
He shook his head. ‘The silk will stretch very quickly to your body warmth,’ he told her, ‘and mould to your shape, as it should. Now – the stomacher.’ He looked her over with approval. ‘You’ve chosen well,’ he said, ‘and once your hair is tidied, you’ll look as you should for the part.’
Tyballis squinted down at her uncovered cleavage. ‘I’m half-undressed,’ she decided.
Drew led her to the silvered mirror beside the garderobe door. ‘Fashion demands it. I personally have no objections.’
Tyballis gazed at her reflection in the mirror with only a vague glimmer of recognition. ‘Gracious,’ she gasped.
‘Graceful might be a better description,’ Andrew said. ‘But your hair is appallingly tousled and I have no particular skills at combing or braiding. You will find the necessary tools in the garderobe, and I suggest you choose the easiest hairpiece you can find. A simple mesh would do. I can at least help you pin it.’ He had turned to go and was striding back to the doorway, when he turned once, smiling. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I have just employed a new manservant. You’ll see him directly. Come into the adjoining chamber when you’re ready.’
‘Is it still day, then?’ she asked.
‘Day? It’s already late morning,’ he replied, ‘and we’re about to eat an early dinner. I’ve been up since five this morning, and am hungry. You, on the other hand, have managed to sleep undisturbed for nearly eighteen hours.’
Tyballis screwed up her nose. ‘I couldn’t have.’
He smiled. ‘As you please, I won’t argue. But don’t take too long, since we are going visiting this afternoon, and I believe it’s an appointment you may enjoy.’
She thought it unlikely. ‘You don’t think I still smell, then?’
‘Ah. That. The bath will come this evening, I think, and I hope you will enjoy that, too. I certainly shall.’ He left with a grin, and she hurried into the garderobe to find a comb.
Once again the parlour was lit by the force of a huge fire roaring up the chimney. Tyballis sat obediently at the little table, put her napkin over her shoulder and smiled at her host. She was bubbling with a hundred questions, but when Casper Wallop, smartly dressed in a brown livery that did not entirely fit him, began to spread the dinner platters across the tablecloth, she stared in speechless amazement. Casper offered her a roll of manchet and blinked his one eye. ‘Washed my hands, I have,’ he pointed out, ‘and a few other bits, too. Now dinner’s coming, and plenty good stuff it is. Be sure you leave enough, mistress, for I’m looking forward to what’s leftover.’