3

3

Aimee checked her appearance one more time in her glass, turning full on and then to the side. She wished she were not so plump, or that she could grow a few inches taller to gain some stature. Her figure was short and sadly dumpy, she thought with a sigh. There was nothing she could do about it now, but mayhap Golda was right, and she should fast for one day a week for religious observance. She had surely grown as tall as ever she would by the age of two and twenty.

Hurrying from her own room into her sister’s, which was across the corridor, she came to an abrupt halt as she beheld its sole occupant. As she had suspected, Ursula was sat braiding her hair into its usual neat arrangement.

“Sister, why is Golda not preparing your hair?” Aimee demanded. “Father employed her for that very purpose.”

Ursula glanced up at Aimee’s elaborate arrangement of beribboned braids looped about a gold circlet. “Golda has done yours very nicely, sister. As for myself, I look much better with plainer arraignment.”

“Nonsense!”

“I should feel foolish,” Ursula said, pressing her lips together. “Done up with ribbons and presented as some marriageable maiden at the feast!”

“You are not wearing this tonight,” Aimee said, whisking a heavy linen veil off Ursula’s lap. “You are an unmarried lady and will not cover your crowning glory.”

Ursula set down her comb, but even as she opened her mouth to protest, Aimee called loudly for Golda. “You have very nice hair, Ursa, and you are to let Golda dress it.” When her sister looked set to argue the point, Aimee fixed a stern gaze on her. “Do you wish to make me look ridiculous? A nice sister I should look with you sat there like a poor relation! What would our guests think to see your younger sister finely arraigned while you sit plain and unadorned?”

Ursula flushed. “I’m sure they would not think anything of the sort!” But Aimee could see the fight had gone out of her sister. She had clearly not considered the contrast they would present.

Golda came in with her heavy tread, and Ursula meekly handed over her comb.

“Which gown were you planning to wear?” She walked about the bed and saw the pale blue garment Ursula had set on the bed. “Not this one, Ursula!” she rolled her eyes. “Why, you’ve owned it above a twelvemonth, and it never displayed you to advantage!”

Ursula threw up her hands. “Oh, very well, Aimee!” she cried. “Dress me however you will.”

“The royal blue houppelande,” Golda suggested. “Miss Ursula has never even worn it, and it’s a very fine gown.”

“The very thing!” Aimee flung open a trunk in the corner and drew the gown from the trunk. “And underneath the gold robe, I think.”

Ursula half turned on her chair. “Oh no, Aimee! That one is for very best. I was saving it in case Father should ever have the opportunity to take us to court.”

“He would buy us new dresses for that,” Aimee answered blithely. She carried the gown reverently to the bed. There was so much fabric in the skirts and long scalloped sleeves that she had to walk slowly so she did not trip over it. “This is truly beautiful, Ursa. You will look like a duchess in this.”

Ursula started to shake her head, but Golda exclaimed and yanked on her hair. “Don’t you disturb my handiwork, Miss Ursula. You keep your head still, now do!”

Aimee sighed with relief as the capable servant wove a gold ribbon through Ursula’s brown locks. With Ursula seen to, she smoothed down her own over-gown of rose damask, decorated with silver thread. A deep V shape descended from her shoulders to her waist, revealing her under-robe of finest green silk. It was the fanciest outfit she had ever possessed, and she felt a thrill of excitement every time she caught sight of herself in a looking glass.

If their father were a nobleman, their gowns would be trimmed with ermine or fur of softest white and they would wear ropes of pearls and diamonds at their throats and waists. Among their class, however, such a thing was not permitted. Not in public anyway. One was supposed to observe the distinctions of rank and keep to the sumptuary laws.

Still, Aimee did not see anything amiss with their appearance as the two sisters stood before the tall mirror at the top of the stairs. She wound her arm about Ursula’s slender waist. “You look lovely, sister,” she said, placing a kiss on her sister’s cheek.

Ursula flushed. “You look lovely, Aimee,” she sighed, her eyes veering away from their reflection.

“We both do,” Aimee insisted. “Father will be very proud.”

Ursula made no response. Aimee seized her hand, and they descended the staircase together. Only by the greatest exertion of self-discipline did Aimee prevent herself from mentioning Sir Renlow to her sister. She could feel Ursula’s cold fingers trembling beneath her own and squeezed them hard. Where she was filled with excitement at the prospect of meeting with their prospective suitors, Ursula was struck with terror.

Getting to this point had taken so much persuasion on Aimee’s behalf that she was still giddy with triumph that she had finally reached it. Not only had she had to bring her sister around, but their incredulous father also. Gerold Ankatel had found it hard to believe that his eldest daughter should want a husband of her own. Not when she had so resolutely refused Willard Hemming’s proposal six years previously.

Aimee had by turn cajoled, flattered, flounced, and even bullied until their resistance had finally caved. Her father had never been able to deny for her long, but Aimee felt unaccountably jittery with nerves as they descended the steps down to where their father awaited them.

Her father had already met once with Lord Kentigern in the king’s presence at a formal banquet. He had returned home filled with the conviction the wrong nobleman had been summoned. “For I am persuaded you cannot mean the man the king presented to me, daughter!” he had said looking shaken. “I make no mention of his disfigurement, though his face is alarming enough, but his age and his brusque manner! Both make him highly unsuitable for you, my child.”

“His age?” Aimee repeated. “I do not understand. There can be no more than some ten or so years between us. Was there not some fifteen between yourself and my mother?”

Gerold Ankatel stifled an exclamation. “He is that young?” he burst out incredulously. “I had thought him older than that, I confess.” He lapsed into thoughtful silence a moment. “Perhaps it was the beard misled me.”

“In any case, Father. I am two and twenty and fully old enough for marriage. Why, your friend Master Walter’s daughters were both married at seventeen! And you said Anne Masterson was lucky to marry a man quite twenty years her senior!”

Her father waved this away impatiently. “Yes, yes, but they were not my daughters.”

“Ursula and I both know we are treasured in your house, Father, and consider ourselves most fortunate that you were in no hurry to rid yourself of us.”

Aimee had spent the next week persuading her father that, no, she did not find Lord Kentigern’s manner off-putting and, no, the excessive scarring down the one side of his face did not trouble her in the slightest, nor the unruly beard, nor the blind eye. By degrees, she had managed to bring her father around to the idea. “Only think, Papa, how Lord Kentigern’s manner must have been soured by the cruelty of what he endured during the late war and how I can make reparation for that, by being a kind and attentive wife to him now.”

Her father had never been able to withstand Aimee’s wheedling, and her words worked on him like a charm. He looked forward to tonight’s meeting under his own roof with a good deal more equanimity than even she had dared hoped for in her sunniest mood.

“I am filled with pride at the sight of my two girls,” he said, beaming as they reached the bottom step. “Aimee, my Aimee,” he held out his arms to her, and she embraced him warmly. “My little beauty, so like your mother. And, Ursula,” he said with surprise turning to his oldest daughter. “You look very well also, daughter, though you could do with a little more color in your cheeks.”

Aimee was opening her mouth to make up for this faint praise when a knock at the door had them all freezing. Ursula turned so pale, Aimee feared for a moment her sister might faint. “Quick, let us repair to the front chamber!” Aimee blurted, gathering up her skirts. “Burchard must bring them in to us.”

Burchard, who had served their father ever since he had taken this fine big house, nodded and drew himself up very tall before starting a ponderous walk to the door. Aimee, Ursula, and their father hastened into the large timbered room at the front, set about with benches and cushions and elaborate wall hangings. A fire blazed in the large hearth, and their father stood before it, clearing his throat and adopting a wide-legged stance as he adjusted the brooch that fastened his purple tunic.

Aimee snatched up her new symphonia and fiddled with the strings as though fully absorbed in her instrument. Ursula sank down onto a seat beside her and made a half-hearted grab for her lute. They would be expected to play to entertain their guests, and Aimee hoped devoutly that their singing voices could mask the fact that both sisters were mere beginners in the art.

There was a discreet knock on the door before Burchard flung it open. “Lord Kentigern and Sir Renlow d’Avenant!” he announced loudly and stepped to the side. Two figures entered the room, and Aimee drew in a deep breath, feeling her color heighten. Finally, the opportunity had arrived for her to secure Lord Kentigern’s admiration! Her heart was beating so hard, she almost felt it would burst out of her chest and take flight.