Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [25]
“They say he is accomplished in the art of camouflage,” she says. “He will have to be, in my case.”
It takes me a moment to realize whom she is referring to. The painter arrived late the previous evening, and is due to start work almost immediately. He will paint two miniatures of her, and a larger portrait for the great hall, and another of my master, if he will allow it. My mistress has not had her portrait done since her marriage, more than thirty years ago. It is customary for ladies to have their portraits painted with their children when they are still young, but it is said my master’s father would not allow it, owing to his son’s disfigurement.
I place the tray on the small round table by the window. Indeed we will have a task transforming her, but what makeup and fine garments cannot conceal, no doubt a paintbrush can. I stand behind her at the mirror and place my hands on her shoulders, concentrating on the look I should like to achieve before morning is out. She bites her lip and eyes me nervously: she is entirely in my hands, a feeling I must admit to liking. I smile a little to reassure her. “We had better get to work,” I say. “We have much to do.”
I begin with her hair and makeup. The gown she has chosen is heavily embroidered, and no doubt it will overtire her if she is forced to wear it long. And the lace ruff she has chosen is so absurdly tall as to be almost unwearable. She has seen a similar one upon a portrait of the queen, and had it copied by her tailor especially for this occasion. I begin to coat her cheeks with ceruse, mixing it with white of egg and applying it in layers until it entirely conceals the true color of her skin. The process takes some time, as each layer must dry before the next is applied, and she passes the time in between by nibbling gingerly at a roll. When the base has been laid, I use henna and a fine brush to do her eyes, giving her eyebrows a slightly higher arch than usual, which pleases her enormously. I also paint a small discreet mole on one cheek, the fashion at court these days, and with a blue crayon I trace a vein snaking down her neck toward her bosom, which will be partially but discreetly exposed by the squared neck of her bodice. Finally I rouge her cheeks ever so slightly with cochineal, as she is not overly fond of color, and paint her lips a bright crimson. The entire process takes me nearly an hour, and when I am finished she is still uneasy, as her hair and garments remain undone, and the success of one without the other is limited at best.
“Trust me,” I say, patting her hand in reassurance. She gives a small embarrassed wave of her hand in response.
“I feel like a bride,” she says a little sheepishly.
“And you shall look like one before I’m through,” I respond.
We both know that I am lying.
The hair and headdress come next. First her own hair must be oiled so that it will lie flat upon her skull, then the wig must be applied and dressed. She has several and today has chosen her favorite, a very pale shade of auburn that, it must be said, becomes her. Once the wig is on she begins to relax a little, as it is now possible to foresee the final outcome. I tease and comb the curls into place, then carefully pin the headdress, a delicate tiara festooned with jewels that she has borrowed for the occasion, as her own failed to please her. She can barely move her head once it is on, as it sits rather precariously atop her curls, but her movements will be further hampered by the lace ruff.
We pause when I am through with her hair. It is past mid-morning and the sun is shining, which will no doubt please the painter, who is scheduled to arrive in her chamber at noon. She rings for some refreshment, which Alice brings on a tray, and the girl is nearly struck dumb by the sight of her mistress in jeweled headdress. I pour out ale for us both and when she takes a sip of hers she leaves faint marks of red upon the