The Fifteenth day of February, the Year of our King 1565
While Josie is out of the room, I hope to jot down some things that truly intrigue me (mostly about King Henry VIII's wives; I had to bully my tutor, Sir Richard, to teach me - in secret - about the ladies), but first things first. As I study this journal that I had written for past three days, I cannot believe the amount of things that you can write about in just one day. I had used eighteen pages of this book, and I am only up to my fourth day! It is a fascinating thing, the way you can actually organise your thoughts just by writing them down on paper.
Ugh! I had accidentally spilt some ink on this dress; the inky spot on the thin, silvery-grey silk shows too easily. Ashley tutted at me as she settled on to her wooden table to write her diary, grinning as she told me,
"Why, Jay! You look like those spotted grey pigeons that feed by the kitchen-window!"
I scowled and rolled my eyes.
"Oh do be quiet and pass me your handkerchief, Ash." I sighed in dismay as I examined the inky blotches that had spread even more than I had expected. Some even got on to the blue satin sash that I got from my mother as an Easter Day present (it was embedded in a small silver egg-shaped case). The dress itself was from my mother, too. The shimmery silver-grey fabric swirls like a whiff of some magical mist when it meets a breeze, and three small but pretty silk roses (one reddish-pink and the others yellow) are pinned near the frilled, wide collar. I purposefully doubled and puffed the sleeves so that it would look nicer with a pair of identical blue satin bows just like the sash. It is a very nice tea-gown, though this particular dress reminds of my mother too much. I shall now tell you about my mother's tragic death, though I had sworn to myself that I would not tell for the fear of remembering. It was a quiet, unremarkable night, and I was only thirteen then. I was snuggled up in my bed reading some play by Mr Christopher Marlow when I heard a shriek from the Queen's chamber, followed by cluttering of heavy swords and swearing. I knew something was wrong, very wrong. Then I rose from the bed and landed lightly on my fluffy carpet, heart drumming frantically as if it was desperate to get out of my rib cage, and then I was darting stealthily and soundlessly with barefoot toward the Queen's chamber. I remember this part most clearly, and oh, curse my memory! I stopped just outside the room, for Mrs Cobblenock was standing near the door. Her grey eyes were tinged red with tears. I was just about to sneak out again (she was just as strict when I was young) when she looked straight at me and said in a grave tone,
"My child, the Queen awaits for you."
This is a very formal praise only said when a person is summoned by His or Her Majesty themselves on a very serious occasion. So, feeling rather curious and nervous, I knocked on the door timidly and stepped inside.
It was like I realised what had happened just a second before I caught the sight of the limp white rag. At first I thought it was the Queen's bed sheets. Then, to my utter astonishment and pure terror, the thing twitched and the truth dawned on me.
"Jas…Jasmine…" she rasped.
I ran to my poor mother. Her skin was chalk white and her eyes had half rolled into her head. Her body was still jerking horribly but she spoke no more. Her beautiful light brown hair was matted with dried blood. In fact, there was still a small stream of blood trickling down from her half open lips. Nevertheless, I hugged her over and over again, unable to, refusing to grasp the fact that, no matter how many drops of tears I cried, no matter how many times I kissed her pale cheeks, my mother was never going to breathe again. Then the Queen put her hand on my shoulder and helped me up. My legs shook like jelly. Queen Elizabeth explained very quietly as the Ladies-In-Waiting recovered themselves from the shock.
"My dear, your mother is a brave one, and I owe her my life. She sacrificed herself to save me. If it had not been thy mother, I may have not been here!" she said gently. "She had taken the drink with poison in it and drank it herself. The poison was deadly, and I had no time to save her. I am truly grateful and sorrowful."
For one crazy moment, I was angry at my mother for not letting the Queen drink the poison. I am horrified at myself for writing this down, for even thinking about such thing will certainly land me on the execution block. Hopefully no-one will discover this secret day-booke and babble about it.
"Why did she drink it? Why did she not pour it on to the Dumping Grounds?" I whispered, my voice barely audible, unable to understand.
"My lamb," the Queen continued tenderly. "The devil of Scotland was still in the room disguised as the wine-server, with a dagger. Countess Rosetta was a smart woman. She knew that since the other ladies were not in the room, he would kill her and myself if she sought to disrupt his plan. So she chose to drink the poisoned wine instead of me. She quickly swapped glasses by sprinkling bits of dried leaves in the poisoned one, then offering to drink it herself. She was a great actress, and luckily the wine-server did not notice our quiet exchange. How she knew about the poisoned drink I do not know. But she was a great woman."
The next part I do not know of, for I only remember the next day (I had a stiff neck and sore eyes from all the crying). I think I must have cried some more (who wouldn't?), both in my bed and in Her Highness' chamber. When one cries, it makes one feel very drowsy. Hopefully Mrs Cobblenock did not carry me (as I snored) to my room.
Later this day
There is an elegant lady in a meeting with Her Highness now. Everyone, even Ash and Fran, was surprised at her grand entrance. Ethan kindly whispered to me that she was merely very poor countess just years ago, until recently when she was suddenly showered with jewels. Some say she had found the treasure of Captain Crooked Cutlass, but the most likely theory is that she had caught the eyes of the Archduke of Venissieux, a very powerful man who has an iron grip on a great big chunk of drool-worthy southern fields. True enough, she had today appeared at the Court in the finest jewels, silk, velvet and furs; on her auburn shoulder-length locks was a fancy grey beaver hat, shaded with ostrich plumes as were the fashion nowadays, her narrow shoulders were enveloped in a costly deep-blue velvet shawl heavily embroidered with gold, and she wore a false front of French curls. She was a tall, young lady of twenty-three or two, and from the way she looked at the Duke of Venissieux – simpered, more like – it was obvious how she got hold of that expensive attire of hers. Some of the other gentlemen glared at her – or the Duke – in distaste, but she took no notice. There were a lot of rather rude comments of which I had no choice but to eavesdrop, for I simply had to know more of this mysterious woman. Some language they used! So much for gentlemen and gentlewomen! I looked around for Ethan but he was nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, the whole of James' (I still have trouble not saying Duke Casander) family was nowhere to be seen. Though a lot of people were leaving now, I could not help but find this very disturbing. Melancholy was me, I now feel irrepressibly depressed when he was not near. I find this fact, in some ways, irritating, but mostly fascinating. Fran likes to express her opinions about this detail, too, and by the looks of her angry cat-like hisses, she does not approve at all. Not that I should give her a hoot of course; she had bullied many of my dear friends and soiled my days. Are male beings blind? I do not see why they see an illusion of the perfect (and putrid) damsel instead of the spoilt, piggish brat drenched with vanity she is.
I had been indeed sidetracked from the new lady so I shall now continue;
The Queen appeared and the endless streams of whispered but nonetheless rude comments stopped altogether. The court bowed to Her Majesty in the courtliest manner possible (I did too, a little awkward due to my attempt to peek and the stiff leather corset, hitching up my itchy heavily embroidered sarcenet underskirt and the crimson velvet overskirt).
"T'is an early morning gathering, but not less joyful than the others; for today Countess Isadora Sethgail joins us today in the Court of England." the Queen announced graciously. To be frank, she was the only one looking grander than this Countess Isadora. Fran came a close third, her low necked dress shimmering Tinselled satin and blond ruffles swaying fetchingly around her wrists. Oh, I remember a text in the booke on Lady Helen's dressing gown when I went sneaking in…but that's another story.
"There Gownes be no lesse famous also; for some are of silk, some of velvet, some of grogram, some of taffatie, some of scarlet, and some of fine cloth, of ten, twentie, or fortie shillings a yard. But if the whole gowne be not silke or velvet, then the same shall be laid with lace, two or three fingers broade, all over the gowne, or else the moste parte. Or, if not so (as lace is not fine enough sometimes), then it must be garded with great gards of velvet, every gard foure or six fingers broad at the least, and edged with costly lace; and as these gownes be of divers and sundrie colours, so are they of divers fashions, changing with the Moon, for some be of the new fashion, some of the olde, some of this fashion, and some of that, some with sleeves hanging down to their skirts, trayling on the ground, and cast over their shoulders, like Cow-tayles. Some have sleeves much shorter, cut up the arme, drawne out with divers and sundry colours and pointed with silk-ribbons very gallantly, tyed with true-loovesknottes (for so they call them)."
Well, that is the best way to describe the Court of England, with some additional ruffle collars and occasional trains of taffeta.
Another extract from the booke about capes or cloaks;
"Some have Capes reaching downe to the middest of their backs, faced with Velvet, or els with some fine wroght silk Taffatie at the least, and fringed aboutvery brauvely; & (to shut up all in a word) some are pleated & crested down the back wonderfully, with more knacks than I can declare."
My hands are indeed aching from all this jotting-downs; I shalst go to my tea now and get ready to attend the Embroidery Class at noon; my sewing-scissors, spans of crimson, yellow, green and rich blue threads, needles, white cloths for embroidering and scraps of velvet, silk and taffatie.
Even later this day
The nerve of that woman! During our embroidery lesson with Countess de Senilla, just as she was starting to demonstrate with the intricate silver star-and-moon embroidery of the outskirt of Miss Rosebud's (she is the small doll that Countess de Senilla displays her demonstrations on) outskirt, Countess Isadora barged into the Chamber of Ladies' Academy where we are educated, without knocking or anything. She haughtily swept the room once with those beady eyes, and having decided that we were apparently worthless (Heavens, forbid that woman!) turned to the outraged Countess de Senilla and declared grandiosely,
"I see that this is not the best time to interrupt, but I believe this is urgent," she said in a very sleazy tone, pronouncing the s like a z,slightly French. Then she beckoned the livid Countess toward her like one flick of her bony finger, an amused and arrogant look on her face. Flicking her elaborate hairdo out of the way, the woman swept out of the chamber with poor Countess de Senilla hobbling behind her with a wooden cane. How I wish I used that cane to whack her one in the bum! But alas, we must keep our standards, and not swoop to their level. I toyed with Annabelle's pinafore; Annabelle is my display doll that I use for embroidery lessons. I named her Annabelle after my favourite middle name, Annabeth. Annabelle looks like me, in a way, with honey ringlets tumbling teasingly around her waist and greenish-grey eyes. She is still in her miniature version of my rose velvet ball gown with her golden locks in a ruby-rose clasp that I got from the Queen last year. Her pearly porcelain complexion causes her to look like a Winter Pixie. Anna has a tattered nightgown that used to belong to my mother's doll, transparent white lace, and also two formal gowns with uneven and rather lumpy hems (I do not care the least for embroidery) with proper farthingales and elaborate underskirts encrusted with Fool's Jewels (fake jewels, that is).
When the Countess was back, we (literally) bombarded her with questions that really weren't necessary, and (never before had I seen this strict woman so meek) the old lady before us adjusted her gloves and waited silently for the class to calm down. When all the voice faltered, she rose and gave a hurried and whispered lesson to us dumbstruck girls. Noun of us, not even chatty Fran or tactless Adelaide.
It makes me wonder, who really is that woman? Is she a threat?
If not, where is Ethan?