Crossing Over - Anna Kendall [24]
She was much older than Mistress Conyers, stout and wrinkled, just as clearly born a servant as the other had been born a lady. Emma Cartwright wore a plain gown of dull green, her hair in neat gray braids wound around her head. But her eyes were piercing. “Did you read this letter, boy?”
“I can’t read, mistress.”
“Ah. And Mistress Conyers thinks you should work in the court laundry.”
“Yes.”
“A boy. As a laundress.”
I said nothing, because what could I say? And was I supposed to kneel? Kit had laughed at me for trying to kneel to him—was this the same? My ignorance shamed me.
We stood in a small, cheerful chamber hung with a tapestry of noblemen on a hunt. Unlit wood was stacked neatly in the fireplace. A pretty carved table held a bottle of wine, several pewter goblets, and a bouquet of flowers. Embroidery, rather badly worked, lay tossed on a three-legged stool. A polished door led to a bedchamber beyond; I could see that in one corner someone had dropped a painted fan behind a brass water bucket.
Mistress Cartwright sighed. “Very well. I’ll ask Joan Campford, who runs the Green laundry. Although why Lettice should mix herself in your affairs—”
I was startled to hear this servant use what must be Mistress Conyers’s given name: Lettice. Then all at once I grasped the situation. Emma Cartwright must have known Mistress Conyers when she was quite small; perhaps she’d even been little Lettice’s nursemaid. That was why Mistress Conyers trusted her. And so—
The door burst open and a girl rushed in. “Emma—you must help me!”
For a long moment I stood frozen, and then I dropped to my knees. No doubt here—this was a lady. She was also the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.
She was small, with long brown hair, its color mingled cinnamon and copper and nutmeg and bronze—more gleaming shades than I could count. The hair flowed loose from beneath a little jeweled cap that framed huge eyes of bright green. The skirts of her gown, green silk with a low bodice and full sleeves, were held up in both hands; she’d been running. Her pointed little chin quivered. She ignored me.
“What is it, my lady?” Emma said.
“The prince! I—oh, here he comes! Tell him I’m ill, dead, anything!” She dashed through the door to the bedchamber and slammed it, seconds before a youth appeared in the outer doorway. Emma sank into a low curtsy.
“Mistress Cartwright, summon Cecilia, please.”
I disliked him immediately. His peremptory tone, his rich clothing, his handsome and sulky face. He looked not that many years older than I but was much more filled out. Well, why not—he ate well every day of his life, the bastard!
Then I realized I was silently cursing a prince, and the blood rushed to my face. How did I dare? I bent my head even lower, but I needn’t have worried. The prince no more noticed me than he would a piece of furniture.
Mistress Cartwright said, “Your Highness, I would summon her except that she is ill and vomiting in her chamber.”
His scowl deepened. “Vomiting? I saw her just moments ago and she was fine!”
“Yes, Your Highness. It came on quite suddenly, and she rushed away lest she disgrace herself in front of you. I’m afraid she ate too eagerly of the roast swan at dinner. Lady Cecilia has a delicate digestion.”
I peered sideways at the prince. He looked uncertain.
Mistress Cartwright said, “If Your Highness would like to wait until I get her cleaned up, her soiled gown changed, and her mouth washed with—”
“Oh, leave it! Let her rest. But tell her I shall expect her at the masque tonight!” He turned and stomped off. Mistress Cartwright closed the door softly behind him. Instantly the inner door opened and Lady Cecilia ran to her serving woman, hugging her. “Thank you, thank you!”
“What happened?” Mistress Cartwright looked grim.
Lady Cecilia laughed, a high sparkly laugh that went on a bit too long. “He tried to kiss me again. And I slapped him and ran away!”
“Did you