“While Françoise gets you something to eat, I can show you where you will sleep.” I’d been up to the third floor that morning to inspect the small bed, three-legged stool, and worn chest set aside to hold the witch’s belongings. “I’ll help carry your things.”
“Mistress?” Annie said, confused.
“She brought nothing,” Françoise said, casting disapproving looks at the newest member of the household.
“Never mind. She’ll have belongings soon enough.” I smiled at Annie, who looked uncertain.
Françoise and I spent the weekend making sure that Annie was clean as a whistle, clothed and shod properly, and that she knew enough basic math to make small purchases for me. To test her I sent her to the nearby apothecary for a penny’s worth of quill pens and half a pound of sealing wax (Philippe was right: Matthew went through office supplies at an alarming pace), and she came back promptly with change to spare.
“He wanted a shilling!” Annie complained. “That wax isn’t even good for candles, is it?”
Pierre took a shine to the girl and made it his business to elicit a rare, sweet smile from Annie whenever he could. He taught her how to play cat’s cradle and volunteered to walk with her on Sunday when Matthew dropped broad hints that he would like us to be alone for a few hours.
“He won’t . . . take advantage of her?” I asked Matthew as he unbuttoned my favorite item of clothing: a sleeveless boy’s jerkin made of fine black wool. I wore it with a set of skirts and a smock when we were at home.
“Pierre? Good Christ no.” Matthew looked amused.
“It’s a fair question.” Mary Sidney had not been much older when she was married off to the highest bidder.
“And I gave you a truthful answer. Pierre doesn’t bed young girls.” His hands stilled after he freed the last button. “This is a pleasant surprise. You’re not wearing a corset.”
“It’s uncomfortable, and I’m blaming it on the baby.”
He lifted the jerkin away from my body with an appreciative sound.
“And he’ll keep other men from bothering her?”
“Can this conversation possibly wait until later?” Matthew said, his exasperation showing. “Given the cold, they won’t be gone for long.”
“You’re very impatient in the bedroom,” I observed, sliding my hands into the neck of his shirt.
“Really?” Matthew arched his aristocratic brows in mock disbelief. “And here I thought the problem was my admirable restraint.”
He spent the next few hours showing me just how limitless his patience could be in an empty house on a Sunday. By the time everybody returned, we were both pleasantly exhausted and in a considerably better frame of mind.
Everything returned to normal on Monday, however. Matthew was distracted and irritable as soon as the first letters arrived at dawn, and he sent his apologies to the Countess of Pembroke when it became clear that the obligations of his many jobs wouldn’t allow him to accompany me to our midday meal.
Mary listened without surprise as I explained the reason for Matthew’s absence, blinked at Annie like a mildly curious owl, and sent her off to the kitchens in the care of Joan. We shared a delicious meal, during which Mary offered detailed accounts of the private lives of everyone within shouting distance of the Blackfriars. After lunch we withdrew to her laboratory with Joan and Annie to assist us.
“And how is your husband, Diana?” the countess asked, rolling up her sleeves, her eyes fixed on the book before her.
“In good health,” I said. This, I had learned, was the Elizabethan equivalent of “Fine.”
“That is welcome news.” Mary turned and stirred something that looked noxious and smelled worse. “Much depends on it, I fear. The queen relies on him more than on any other man in the kingdom except Lord Burghley.”
“I wish his good humor was more reliable. Matthew is mercurial these days. He’s possessive one moment and ignores me as if I were a piece of furniture the next.”
“Men treat their property that way.” She picked up a jug of water. “I am not his property,” I said flatly.
“What you and I know, what the law says, and how Matthew himself feels are three entirely separate issues.”
“They shouldn’t be,” I said quickly, ready to argue the point. Mary silenced me with a gentle, resigned smile.
“You and I have an easier time with our husbands than other women do, Diana. We have our books and the leisure to indulge our passions, thank God. Most do not.” Mary gave everything in her beaker a final stir and decanted the contents into another glass vessel.
I thought of Annie: a mother who’d died alone in a church cellar, an aunt who couldn’t take her in because of her husband’s prejudices, a life that promised little in the way of comfort or hope. “Do you teach your female servants how to read?”
“Certainly,” Mary responded promptly. “They learn to write and reckon, too. Such skills will make them more valuable to a good husband—one who likes to earn money as well as spend it.” She beckoned to Joan, who helped her move the fragile glass bubble full of chemicals to the fire.
“Then Annie shall learn as well,” I said, giving the girl a nod. She clung to the shadows, looking ghostly with her pale face and silver-blond hair. Education would increase her confidence. She’d had a definite lilt in her step ever since haggling with Monsieur de Laune over the price of sealing wax.
“She will have reason in future to thank you for it,” said Mary. Her face was serious. “We women own nothing absolutely, save what lies between our ears. Our virtue belongs first to our father and then to our husband. We dedicate our duty to our family. As soon as we share our thoughts with another, put pen to paper or thread a needle, all that we do and make belongs to someone else. So long as she has words and ideas, Annie will always possess something that is hers alone.”
“If only you were a man, Mary,” I said with a shake of my head. The Countess of Pembroke could run rings around most creatures, regardless of their sex.
“ “Were I a man, I would be on my estates now, or paying court to Her Majesty like Henry, or seeing to matters of state like Matthew. Instead I am here in my laboratory with you. Weighing it all in the balance, I believe we are the better off—even if we are sometimes put on a pedestal or mistaken for a kitchen stool.” Mary’s round eyes twinkled.
I laughed. “You may be right.”
“Had you ever been to court, you would have no doubts on this score. Come,” Mary said, turning to her experiment. “Now we wait while the prima materia is exposed to the heat. If we have done well, this is what will generate the philosopher’s stone. Let us review the next steps of the process in hopes that the experiment will succeed.”
I always lost track of time while there were alchemical manuscripts around, and I looked up, dazed, when Matthew and Henry walked in to the laboratory. Mary and I had been deep in conversation about the images in a collection of alchemical texts known as the Pretiosa Margarita Novella—the New Pearl of Great Price. Was it already late afternoon?
“It can’t be time to go. Not yet,” I protested. “Mary has this manuscript—”
“Matthew knows the book, for his brother gave it to me. Now that Matthew has a learned wife, he may regret having done so,” Mary said with a laugh. “There are refreshments waiting in the solar. I had hoped to see you both today.” At this, Henry gave Mary a conspiratorial wink.
“That is kind, Mary,” Matthew said, kissing me on the cheek in greeting. “Apparently you two haven’t reached the vinegar stage yet. You still smell of vitriol and magnesia.”
I put down the book reluctantly and washed while Mary finished making notes of the day’s work. Once we were settled in the solar, Henry could no longer curb his excitement.