like the strings of a lyre. A maid dragged the ornamental screen from across the room, shielding her mistress from the eyes of the servants. When it was securely in place, Jeanne stood and rubbed the soap over her entire body, concentrating on her ankles and the backs of her knees. After rinsing herself with more bathwater, she picked up a towel from the floor and wrapped it around her. As if on cue, the maid appeared from behind the screen to wrap another towel around her hair.
Jeanne stepped out of the tub and slipped her arms into the sable-lined robe held out before her. Tying the sash, she sat on a low stool facing the glass while the same maid worked at her hair with a comb. It was pleasant sitting here, feeling the gentle tug of the comb, lapping up the warmth of the fire like a cat who has had more than her share of stable mice and cream. When every tangle had been combed free, her hair was brushed dry until it hung straight and thick to her knees. The entire process had taken over two hours.
She noted the time and shivered with delicious anticipation. After today she would no longer be a maid. Her hair would never again hang unbound to her knees. Thoughts of the night to come consumed her. Despite the stories she had heard, sharing the marriage bed with John Maxwell did not frighten her. In fact, she welcomed it.
Jeanne was not completely ignorant of sexual matters. She had grown up in the country, and the habits of animals were familiar to her. She had also come of age during the reign of Jamie Stewart. It was impossible to visit the royal court without acquiring a rudimentary knowledge of sex. However, the act itself had never been explained to her satisfaction, and when she stopped to consider it, it seemed physically impossible. She was anxious to see for herself how it was done. Instinct and of course the rumors told her that John would be an excellent teacher.
A soft murmur interrupted her thoughts. The maid was holding out her shift. Jeanne stood and untied the robe. It fell to her feet, and the cloth was pulled gently over her head. The material was of the finest linen, thin and so tightly woven it felt like air when she moved. Then her dress was eased over her shoulders, the tight busk adjusted across her breasts, and the soft folds were gathered around her waist with a diamond-studded girdle. A train, with a foot wide border of snowy white ermine, flowed out behind her.
Pulling the sleeves off her shoulders, Jeanne turned to the glass, and her eyes widened. Staring back at her was a woman, tall and willowy slim, with hair that glowed like black fire where the sun touched it. Her chin was up, and her cheekbones were very pronounced beneath eyes that flashed as clear as the diamonds at her throat. For the first time Jeanne realized that she was beautiful. She smiled triumphantly. John Maxwell would not be disappointed in his bride.
A hint of color was applied to her lips and perfume touched to her throat and wrists. Slipping her feet into soft-soled shoes, she turned toward the door. It opened unexpectedly, and her mother stepped into the room. Jeanne stiffened.
“Please wait outside,” Flora ordered the servants.
They were quick to obey.
Her eyes were misty as she looked at her daughter. “You are the loveliest bride Traquair has ever seen.”
Jeanne relaxed.
“I came to tell you—” Flora stopped. The tears rose in her throat. “Never mind,” she said, “’tis time.”
“Mother.” Jeanne placed her hand on Flora’s arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for everything.”
Tears welled up in Flora Maxwell’s eyes, streaking through the rouge and rice powder so artfully applied to her face. Breathing a prayer of thanks, she gathered her daughter into her arms. The soft kiss pressing against her cheek more than made up for her pain. Finally, she pulled away. “Come,” she said, “the archbishop waits.”
Moving aside, she watched Jeanne walk down the stairs. Four servants carrying the heavy train accompanied her to the landing. From there, she went on alone, down the stairs and across the wide courtyard to the chapel.
John stood at the altar, his face very serious and terribly handsome in its gravity. Jeanne’s heart nearly failed her. The distance she must walk to reach his side seemed insurmountable. Her step faltered. She couldn’t do it. Then, as