Dragon's Court. Joanna Makepeace
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I don’t mean he’s oafish in behaviour,” Anne said, somewhat chastened, “but he’s wild and woolly in appearance, like a great shaggy dog—or a wolf,” she amended. “There’s nothing elegant about his clothes or his style of address, is there?”
Mary allowed a little secretive smile to linger round her mouth.
“His father was known as ‘Wolf Allard’, from his personal device, you know, but there was many a maid who thought his rugged looks appealing. I’ve heard many a tale about Master Richard, too. He’s had many admirers.”
“But never married,” Anne pressed. “Why not, do you think, Mary? He’s quite old, isn’t he?”
“He’s no great age for an eligible man,” Mary retorted. “He’s twenty-six or -seven, I think, a good age for deciding to settle down into matrimony, and, Mistress Anne, I’ll have you remember that the Allard lands have suffered the same deprivations of those here at Rushton. Master Allard needs to find a good wench who is worthy of him and isn’t looking for some fine, elegant young gentleman of means not to be compared to him, and not good enough to tie his points, in my opinion.”
Anne laughed. “You cannot be said to be impartial, Mary. Can I surmise you’ve admired him yourself from afar?”
“Indeed I have not,” Mary replied stoutly, “and even if I did I know my place and wouldn’t dare look so high.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Anne conceded slowly. “I am foolish to look for handsome looks and fine clothes. Oh,” she said irritably, “I am so tired of being told how necessary it is to economise. Am I pretty, Mary? Do you think some gentleman of court will find me attractive and offer for me even without a large dowry? Would not that be splendid?”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Mary said darkly with downright Yorkshire common sense which made Anne laugh again as she held her skirts high and tripped daintily around the chamber as she imagined those grand ladies at Court did.
Anne was very concerned about the contents of the travelling chest she would carry with her to Westminster; over the next few days she watched, wrinkling her brow in doubt as her mother and Mary began to prepare those Court gowns she would need. In the end she thought she would have less need for concern for her mother’s heavy brocades and velvets were cut and restyled for her in those fashions Lady Jarvis had seen on wealthier ladies encountered in Northampton and Leicester.
She doubted the gowns were in the very latest designs but they would not disgrace Anne either in fit or quality and Anne was delighted when dressed in them and caught glimpses of herself in her mother’s travelling Venetian glass mirror. As she had inherited her mother’s dark luxuriant locks the colours suited Anne, with the rich hues of gold brocade, crimson velvet and blue samite bringing out the vivid shade of her eyes.
One gown charmed her most with its subtle draping of the overgown to the back, which Dionysia had told her was the very latest fashion. The new dark blue velvet hood trimmed with seed pearls sat well back from her glossy locks and would complement the other colours.
The day before her departure, as her sense of mingled excitement and apprehension rose, her mother sat alone with her within the solar after sending Mary on some small errand. Margaret Jarvis frowned slightly as she observed her daughter’s flushed countenance. She bit her underlip and wondered how best to broach the matter in hand.
“Anne,” she said at last, “I hope you will not pin too much hopes on future happiness at Court. I have been there and I can tell you it can be very lonely and frightening, even surrounded as one is by a veritable press of people.”
Anne eyed her thoughtfully. “But you were happy there. You loved Queen Anne for you named me after her and—and you met my father and…”
“I did not surrender to my love for your father from the first moment we met,” Lady Jarvis said tartly. “It took some time for me to learn to trust his motives and to love him truly. I do not want you to fall for the first popinjay who offers you flattery.”
“Do you judge me so foolish?” Anne demanded hotly.
“No, but your head is turned by your longing for this venture and I worry about you. You must learn to be decorous in behaviour, to keep your opinions to yourself, to accept without complaint any demand put upon you. I must also ask you to be particularly kind and protective of Lady Philippa, who is considerably younger than you. Doubtless she will feel very lost at Westminster for she was born in Burgundy and, to my knowledge, has never been to England before. Indeed, her English may not be good and it will be for you to be patient with her.”
“Perhaps she will not like me,” Anne considered, “or she may be haughty mannered. She is the daughter of an Earl.”
“Both Lord Wroxeter and his Countess are sensible, considerate people. I shall be very surprised indeed if you find their daughter lacking in either of those qualities yet she is little more than a child and you have been chosen to be her friend for specific reasons. Do not lead her into foolishness, Anne, as I know you are prone to do on occasions.”
Anne regarded her mother gravely and read very real anxiety in her eyes.
“I promise I will behave so as never to disgrace you,” she said quietly.
Margaret Jarvis hesitated and Anne turned to her sharply as if she had thought the homily was over, but, no, her mother had something else upon her mind and Anne waited in suspense for what was to come.
“Your father and I are particularly anxious that you should also behave well while under Master Allard’s care,” Lady Jarvis said with what Anne considered unusual vehemence.
That would be it, she thought sourly. They have already noted my distaste for the idea of his escort.
“I will give him no trouble, though,” she added tartly, “to hear Mary sing his praises, he is capable of dealing with any emergency which arises, a veritable paragon, Master Allard.”
“Your father thinks a great deal of Dickon Allard,” her mother said sharply. “See that you do heed him, for…” She hesitated and Anne pounced on that slight hesitation instantly.
“For?” she questioned. “What were you about to say, Mother?”
Lady Jarvis’s troubled eyes met her daughter’s challenging ones squarely.
“You might as well be told now. We have high hopes that when he has completed his business in London town Richard Allard will offer for your hand.” There, it was out and she compressed her lips as she saw first bewilderment and then pure fury dawn in her daughter’s expression.
“Marry Richard Allard?” she echoed in a high shrill tone. “You cannot mean it, Mother.”
“Why not? Despite the fines imposed after Redmoor the Allard lands are quite extensive and it would be a fair match.”
“But he is far too old for me.”
“Nonsense. Your father was almost that age when we were wed. Richard has reached the age of experience and will know how to deal with a high-strung young woman like yourself.”
“I will never consent to marry him,” Anne said through gritted teeth. “Do you hear me, never.”
Margaret Jarvis looked perplexed, then she gave way to anger.
“You will do as your father wishes, as every girl of your age must do. I cannot for the life of me understand why you are so much against the notion. Some time ago you were complaining that no one would ask for you since you are without dowry and that you wished to settle down soon, marry, have a household of your own and children.
“Richard Allard is an honourable young man. He has not been discourteous to you, at least, not in my hearing. He is tolerably good looking and still young. Neither I nor your father have heard anything to his discredit in the matter of his dealings with women, which is saying a great deal, I can tell you. Many men neglect their wives and some are prone to treat them badly,