The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(5)
But first, this visit to Yorkshire. Amidst her voluminous business correspondents was the household treasurer for Her Royal Highness Anne Isabella, Princess of Wales. Maisie’s small but successful business interests had profited the princess in her investments, and the treasurer had issued an invitation to meet with him in person in the cathedral city of York. Maisie had considered for ten seconds—six seconds longer than it usually took her to make a decision—before sailing to Hull and riding the remainder of the way north.
She had not anticipated feeling nervous. We are Sinclairs, her grandfather had often drummed into her. Sinclairs do not grovel before anyone. But when Maisie approached the Treasurer’s House in the shadow of York Minster and saw the royal banner of the Princess of Wales flying from the roofline, she very nearly turned on her heel and ran away. She had not been told that the princess herself would be here.
But her training held—all of her training, from her grandfather’s hardheaded business principles to the nuns’ strict codes of conduct—and probably no one noted the slight stutter in her step. One advantage of enormous skirts. She had with her a Flemish secretary she had hired in Bruges on the recommendation of one of her bankers and who had proven himself a dozen times over to be both astute and loyal. His name was Pieter Andries, and though she thought of him as a boy, he was a good ten years older than her. But where Maisie viewed the world without illusions and with the cynicism of a Scots banker, Pieter had a boundless faith in humanity. His wide-eyed joy in the world made Maisie watch out for him as though he were a na?ve spaniel.
Pieter looked up at the banner and grinned. “This should be interesting.”
So maybe he had learned her trick of cynical understatement during their time together.
They were met by pages and a soft-spoken, black-haired woman who introduced herself as Madalena Arias. She had the faintest of Spanish accents. “Mistress Sinclair,” she said, for Maisie had insisted on returning to her maiden name after her brief marriage, “if you will follow me, Matthew Harrington is waiting for you in the reception hall. I hope you do not mind if Her Highness joins the meeting?”
It was a disingenuous question, but Maisie thought it well-mannered of the woman to pretend to ask. “It will be an honour,” she replied truthfully.
Pieter trailed behind her, looking suitably clerkly, and Maisie was glad she had dressed with care. The shimmery mauve of her gown was a unique dye done in the Low Countries, trimmed in lace as fine as a spider’s web at the collar and cuffs. Her hair was coiled in a pearled snood attached to a small velvet cap, and her earrings were tiny matching pearls. Perfectly correct and suitable for a wealthy merchant’s granddaughter.
When they entered the two-story hall with its black and white checkered floor, Maisie’s eyes went directly to the red-haired princess. She was unmistakable, not only from her well-known colouring and elaborate gown, but from the indefinable air of power draped around her. She was taller than Maisie—most everyone was—and beautiful beyond merely the trappings of her dress and position. If she had been a maid, she would still have been ravishing. But combined with her position, Anne Tudor would always command the breathless attention of all who met her.
And she was as charming as she was gorgeous. “Maisie—may I call you Maisie?—I hope you don’t mind me sitting in. Matthew sings your praises to such a degree that I simply had to meet you myself.”
Maisie made a serviceable curtsey. “It is a great pleasure, Your Highness.”
An exceptionally tall man took a step forward. “Matthew Harrington,” he said unnecessarily. “It is good of you to go out of your way to come to York.”
He spoke as he wrote, with economy and quiet strength. He had the build to support his height, with dark brown eyes that assessed her steadily.
“And this,” Princess Anne said, drawing forward the other woman present, “is someone most eager to meet you for herself. Philippa—”
“Courtenay,” Maisie interrupted, then flushed. “I apologize, Your Highness. But she is very like her brother.”
“Stephen?” Philippa Courtenay asked quizzically.
“I meant your twin, Christopher. I met him once in Ireland, on the way to my wedding. But yes, you do have something of Stephen about you as well.”
The allure, she meant, but would never say. The trick of looking at me with such focus that the rest of the world fades around the edges. Anne Tudor might be the center of her world, but the Courtenays took self-possession to an entirely new level.
“I had hoped,” Philippa Courtenay continued, “to have some talk with you of Stephen later. When you are finished with the business of high finance. He writes to you, I understand.”
“He does.”
“Why?”
This was not a woman to be parried with a soft answer. “Why me and not you, do you mean?” Maisie replied. “Because I was in Ireland. Those who have passed through trials together can understand one another in a manner others cannot.”
To her surprise, Philippa smiled, genuine and open. “You will not mind if I ask you how to better understand my brother?”
“No, my lady.”
Princess Anne had managed to subtly hold herself in the background, a skill Maisie imagined she didn’t often employ, but now firmly took back the authority. “Let us sit and discuss my money. And when we are finished, I shall turn my dear Pippa loose on you. If you are as wise with words as you are with finance, that should be quite the conversation.”