The resulting mixture had been revolting—violently yellow with the consistency of runny cottage cheese—but Tom had slurped it down without complaint. Later, when I’d asked Charles for the proper proportion of honey to wine, he’d thrown up his hands in disgust at my ignorance and stalked away without a word.
Living in the past had always been my secret desire, but it was far more difficult than I’d ever imagined. I sighed.
“You’ll need more than that book to feel at home here.” Matthew’s eyes didn’t leave his correspondence. “You should have a room of your own, too. Why don’t you take this one? It’s bright enough to serve as a library. Or you could turn it into an alchemical laboratory—although you might want somewhere more private if you’re planning to turn lead into gold. There’s a room by the kitchen that might do.”
“The kitchen may not be ideal. Charles doesn’t approve of me,” I replied.
“He doesn’t approve of anyone. Neither does Fran?oise—except for Charles, of course, whom she venerates as a misunderstood saint despite his fondness for drink.”
Sturdy feet tromped down the hall. The disapproving Fran?oise appeared at the threshold. “There are men here for Mistress Roydon,” she announced, stepping aside to reveal a gray-haired septuagenarian with callused hands and a much younger man who shifted from one foot to the other. Neither of these men was a creature.
“Somers.” Matthew frowned. “And is that young Joseph Bidwell?”
“Aye, Master Roydon.” The younger man pulled his cap from his head.
“Mistress Roydon will allow you to take her measurements now,” Fran?oise said.
“Measurements?” The look Matthew directed to me and Fran?oise demanded an answer—quickly.
“Shoes. Gloves. For madame’s wardrobe,” Fran?oise said. Unlike petticoats, shoes were not one-size-fits-most.
“I asked Fran?oise to send for them,” I explained, hoping to gain Matthew’s cooperation. Somers’s eyes widened at my strange accent before his face returned to an expression of neutral deference.
“My wife’s journey was unexpectedly difficult,” Matthew said smoothly, coming to stand by my side, “and her belongings were lost. Regrettably, Bidwell, we have no shoes for you to copy.” He rested a warning hand on my shoulder, hoping to silence any further commentary.
“May I, Mistress Roydon?” Bidwell asked, lowering himself until his fingers hovered over the ties that secured a pair of ill-fitting shoes to my feet. The borrowed footwear was a giveaway that I wasn’t who I was pretending to be.
“Please,” Matthew replied before I could respond. Fran?oise gave me a sympathetic look. She knew what it was like to be silenced by Matthew Roydon.
The young man started when he came into contact with a warm foot and its frequent pulse. Clearly he expected a colder, less lively extremity.
“About your business,” Matthew said sharply.
“Sir. My lord. Master Roydon.” The young man blurted out most available titles except for “Your Majesty” and “Prince of Darkness.” These were implied nonetheless.
“Where’s your father, lad?” Matthew’s voice softened.
“Sick abed these four days past, Master Roydon.” Bidwell drew a piece of felt from a bag tied around his waist and placed each of my feet on it, tracing the outlines with a stick of charcoal. He made some notations on the felt and, quickly finished, lowered my foot gently to the floor. Bidwell pulled out a curious book made from squares of colored hide sewn together with leather thongs and offered it to me.
“What colors are popular, Master Bidwell?” I asked, waving the leather samples away. I needed advice, not a multiple-choice test.
“Ladies who are going to court are having white stamped with gold or silver.”
“We’re not going to court,” Matthew said swiftly.
“Black then, and a nice tawny.” Bidwell held up for approval a patch of leather the color of caramel. Matthew gave it before I could say a word.
Then it was the older man’s turn. He, too, was surprised when he took my hand and felt the calluses on my palms. Well-bred ladies who married men such as Matthew didn’t row boats. Somers took in the lump on my middle finger. Ladies didn’t have bumps from holding pens too tightly either. He slid a buttery-soft glove that was much too large onto my right hand. A needle charged with coarse thread was tucked into the hem.
“Does your father have everything he needs, Bidwell?” Matthew asked the shoemaker.