Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(110)

“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.

“Is it time now, Mary?” he asked the countess, shifting in his chair.

“You have the same enthusiasm for giving presents as young William does,” she replied with a laugh. “Henry and I have a gift in honor of the New Year and your marriage.”

But we had nothing to give them in return. I looked at Matthew, uncomfortable with this one-way exchange.

“I wish you luck, Diana, if you hope to stay ahead of Mary and Henry when it comes to gifts,” he said ruefully.

“Nonsense,” Mary replied. “Matthew saved my brother Philip’s life and Henry’s estates. No gifts can repay such debts. Do not ruin our pleasure with such talk. It is a tradition to give gifts to those newly wed, and it is New Year. What did you give the queen, Matthew?”

“After she sent poor King James another clock to remind him to bide his time quietly, I considered giving her a crystal hourglass. I thought it might be a useful reminder of her relative mortality,” he said drily. Henry looked at him with horror. “No. Not really.”

“It was an idle thought in a moment of frustration,” Matthew reassured him. “I gave her a covered cup, of course, like everyone else.”

“Don’t forget our gift, Henry,” said Mary, now equally impatient.

Henry drew out a velvet pouch and presented it to me. I fumbled with the strings and finally drew out a heavy gold locket on an equally weighty chain. Its face was golden filigree studded with rubies and diamonds, Matthew’s moon and star in its center. I flipped the locket over, gasping at the brilliant enamelwork with its flowers and scrolling vines. Carefully I opened the clasp at the bottom, and a miniature rendering of Matthew looked up at me.

“Master Hilliard made the preliminary sketches when he was here. With the holidays he was so busy that his assistant, Isaac, had to help with the painting,” Mary explained.

I cupped the miniature in my hand, tilting it this way and that. Matthew was painted as he looked at home when he was working late at night in his study off the bedroom. His shirt open at the neck and trimmed with lace, he met the viewer’s gaze with a lift of his right eyebrow in a familiar combination of seriousness and mocking humor. Black hair was swept back from his forehead in its typically disordered fashion, and the long fingers of his left hand held a locket. It was a surprisingly frank and erotic image for the time.

“Is it to your liking?” Henry asked.

“I love it,” I said, unable to stop staring at my new treasure.

“Isaac is rather more . . . daring in his composition than his master is, but when I told him it was a wedding gift, he convinced me that such a locket would remain a wife’s special secret and could reveal the private man rather than the public.” Mary looked over my shoulder. “It is a good likeness, but I do wish Master Hilliard would learn how to better capture a person’s chin.”