‘My lords, shall we have a game?’ I say. ‘A game of hide-and-seek, for all those who yet have strength in their legs?’
My husband laughs. Straight away, the atmosphere changes. It bristles and sharpens. The young men think of what mischief might be hidden in the shadows, the young women dream of who might come to find them. The old men and matrons shake their heads, look indulgently on their excitement and remember their own youth.
‘We shall,’ says Lovell, clapping his hands. ‘A splendid suggestion. Only if, though, my beautiful wife will honour me with a kiss beneath the mistletoe before the game begins.’
I feel no aversion to the thought of his lips upon mine, though I would rather it not be a sport to be observed by the assembled company. But I oblige and I smile, tilt my face to his. A servant holds a bough over our heads.
The bargain is struck.
The watchers at the table applaud and roar their approval.
‘Now, let the game begin,’ I say. For this moment, I am la fille coquette. Charming and gay and entrancing. I can play this role. I can see Lovell’s eyes upon me and know he means to be the one who discovers my hiding place. There is part of me that shrinks at the thought of it, but he is a gentle man.
My husband claps his hands again and all fall silent.
‘The ladies shall hide first,’ he commands. ‘The gentlemen shall seek. We will give you to the count of . . .’
But I do not hear what he says because we are already running, lightly, from the hall. Laughing and glancing back over our shoulders. Silk and brocade, our pretty gowns painting the long corridors and cavernous spaces of Bramshill House the colours of the rainbow.
I hear the chorus of male voices counting.
‘Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven . . .’
My companions, girls who have not been told how unladylike it is to show such excitement, are in high spirits. Like me, they are grateful to be released from the table and the eyes, hands, of the old men. We chatter, each of us choosing a room, though we keep it secret. Young girls imagining the beau who might love them.
I think of my husband. That I am now a wife.
I take the main staircase. I do not yet know Bramshill House well – there are sixty rooms or more – and I do not want to lose my way.
‘Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.’
On the landing, I hesitate, unsure of where to go. I need to be well hidden, the game loses its charm else, but not so well concealed that Lovell loses patience in the search.
‘Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine.’
We are scattering in all directions, in our game of hide-and-seek, and it is Christmas. The heels of our slippers tap on the wooden floors and the pearls on the hem of my dress, hand stitched over the weeks leading up to my wedding, knock against the wainscot.
I take the next flight of stairs, up to the second floor where the smaller bedrooms are to be found. Pearl on wood, silk on dust, my bridal gown is heavy and ornate, but it fits me well and I am not hampered by its weight. Along the upper gallery and into a bare room, clearly little used, with a pretty fleur-de-lis wallpaper.
Perhaps I have brought the scent of lilies with me, but I fancy there is the slightest perfume in this room too.
‘Ninety-nine and one hundred.’
Their voices are faint this far up, but immediately men’s heels echo in the old oak hall and there is laughter. Some call out, paying suit to their favourite – all the Annes and the Marys and the Janes.
I hesitate again, then step inside the room. There is no furniture here save a substantial old oak chest set below the window. I walk closer. The wooden coffer is deep and long, the length of a man, and bound fast by four wide metal bands. I wonder if it once held the trousseau of another bride brought to Bramshill House? Or do its proportions suggest it was made for a lord of the manor for a voyage? Strong and sturdy to protect its owner’s possessions from the roll and swell and jilt of the sea?
Then I hear footsteps and remember the game.
I unbuckle the ornate metal fastening and lift the lid. It is heavy, cumbersome and the clasp is loose and rattles, though I pay little heed to that. Rather, I am wondering if it might serve as my hiding place and, indeed, the chest is empty, save for a bolt of pale blue cotton, which lines the bottom like a cradle blanket. I think of how pleasant it would be to lie down and rest. Then I imagine Lovell’s face as he opens the chest and sees me looking up at him, framed in lace and tulle, and my mind is made up.
I lift my bridal gown and, careful not to slip, I climb over and into the chest. I arrange my skirts around me and fold my veil to serve as a pillow, then lie back. I feel like a child again, not somebody’s wife.
I hesitate for a third time. The chest is visible from the corridor, even in the weak light from the candles, and I do not want my hiding place to be too immediately evident. I reach up and, with both hands, I lower the lid shut. I hear the sigh of the wood as it drops, firm, back into place. The heavy click of the clasp.