The Lady s Guide to Petticoats and

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Mackenzi Lee
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 Dedication

For Janell, who would have loved this

 Epigraph

Don’t tell me women

are not the stuff of heroes.
—Qiu Jin

A highly dowered girl was faced by a great venture, a great quest.

The life before her was an uncharted sea. She had to find herself, to
find her way, to find her work.
—Margaret Todd, MD, The Life of Sophia Jex-Blake
Map
 Contents

Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Map

Edinburgh: 17—
Chapter 1
London
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Stuttgart
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Zurich
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Algiers
 Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Gibraltar
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Author’s Note

About the Author

Books by Mackenzi Lee
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Edinburgh
17—
 1

I have just taken an overly large bite of iced bun when Callum slices his
finger off.
We are in the middle of our usual nightly routine, after the bakery is
shut and the lamps along the Cowgate are lit, their syrupy glow creating
halos against the twilight. I wash the day’s dishes and Callum dries. Since
I am always finished first, I get to dip into whatever baked goods are left
over from the day while I wait for him to count the till. Still on the counter
are the three iced buns I have been eyeing all day, the sort Callum piles
with sticky, translucent frosting to make up for all the years his father,
who had the shop before him, skimped on it. Their domes are beginning to
collapse from a long day unpurchased, the cherries that top them slipping
down the sides. Fortunately, I have never been a girl overbothered with
aesthetics. I would have happily tucked in to buns far uglier than these.
Callum is always a bit of a hand wringer who doesn’t enjoy eye
contact, but he’s jumpier than usual tonight. He stepped on a butter mold
this morning, cracking it in half, and burned two trays of brioche. He
fumbles every dish I pass him and stares up at the ceiling as I prod the
conversation along, his already ruddy cheeks going even redder.
I do not particularly mind being the foremost conversationalist out of
the pair of us. Even on his chattiest days, I usually am. Or he lets me be.
As he finishes drying the cutlery, I am telling him about the time that has
elapsed since the last letter I sent to the Royal Infirmary about my
admission to their teaching hospital and the private physician who last
week responded to my request to sit in on one of his dissections with a
three-word missive—no, thank you.
“Maybe I need a different approach,” I say, pinching the top off an iced
bun and bringing it up to my lips, though I know full well it’s too large for
a single bite.
Callum looks up from the knife he’s wiping and cries, “Wait, don’t eat
that!” with such vehemence that I startle, and he startles, and the knife
pops through the towel and straight through the tip of his finger. There’s a
small plop as the severed tip lands in the dishwater.
The blood starts at once, dripping from his hand and into the soapy
water, where it blossoms through the suds like poppies bursting from their
buds. All the color leaves his face as he stares down at his hand, then says,
“Oh dear.”
It is, I must confess, the most excited I have ever been in Callum’s
presence. I can’t remember the last time I was so excited. Here I am with
an actual medical emergency and no male physicians to push me out of the
way to handle it. With a chunk of his finger missing, Callum is the most
interesting he has ever been to me.
I leaf through the mental compendium of medical knowledge I have
compiled over years of study, and I land, as I almost always do, on Dr.
Alexander Platt’s Treaties on Human Blood and Its Movement through the
Body. In it, he writes that hands are complex instruments: each contains
twenty-seven bones, four tendons, three main nerves, two arteries, two
major muscle groups, and a complex network of veins that I am still trying
to memorize, all wrapped up in tissue and skin and capped with
fingernails. There are sensory components and motor functions—affecting
everything from the ability to take a pinch of salt to bending at the elbow
—that begin in the hand and run all the way into the arm, any of which can
be mucked up by a misplaced knife.
Callum is staring wide-eyed at his finger, still as a rabbit dazed by the
snap of a snare and making no attempt to staunch the blood. I snatch the
towel from his hand and swaddle the tip of his finger in it, for the priority
when dealing with a wound spouting excessive blood is to remind that
blood that it will do far more good inside the body than out. It soaks
through the cloth almost immediately, leaving my palms red and sticky.
My hands are steady, I notice with a blush of pride, even after the good
jolt my heart was given when the actual severing occurred. I have read the
books. I have studied anatomical drawings. I once cut open my own foot in
a horribly misguided attempt to understand what the blue veins I can see
through my skin look like up close. And though comparing books about
medicine to the actual practice is like comparing a garden puddle to the
ocean, I am as prepared for this as I could possibly be.
This is not how I envisioned attending to my first true medical patient
in Edinburgh—in the backroom of the tiny bakeshop I’ve been toiling in to
keep myself afloat between failed petition after failed petition to the
university and a whole slew of private surgeons, begging for permission to
study. But after the year I’ve had, I’ll take whatever opportunities to put
my knowledge into practice that are presented. Gift horses and mouths and
all that.
“Here, sit down.” I guide Callum to the stool behind the counter, where
I take coins from his customers, for I can make change faster than Mr.
Brown, the second clerk. “Hand over your head,” I say, for if nothing else,
gravity will work in favor of keeping his blood inside his body. He obeys. I
then fish the wayward fingertip from the washbasin, coming up with
several chunks of slimy dough before I finally find it.
I return to Callum, who still has both hands over his head so that it
looks as though he’s surrendering. He’s pale as flour, or perhaps that is
actually flour dusting his cheeks. He’s not a clean sort. “Is it bad?” he
croaks.
“Well, it’s not good, but it certainly could have been worse. Here, let
me have a look.” He starts to unwrap the towel, and I qualify, “No, lower
your arms. I can’t look at it all the way up there.”
The bleeding has not stopped, but it has slowed enough that I can
remove the towel long enough for a look. The finger is less severed than I
expected. While he sliced off a good piece of his fingerprint and a wicked
crescent of the nail, the bone is untouched. If one must lose a part of one’s
finger, this is the best that can be hoped for.
I pull the skin on either side of the wound up over it. I have a sewing
kit in my bag, as I have three times lost the button from my cloak this
winter and grew tired of walking around with the ghastly wind of the Nor
Loch flapping its tails. All it takes is three stitches—in a style I learned
not from A General System of Surgery but rather from a hideous pillow
cover my mother pestered me into embroidering a daft-looking dog upon
—to hold the flap in place. A few drops of blood still ooze up between the
stitches, and I frown down at them. Had they truly been upon a pillowcase,
I would have ripped them out and tried again.
 But considering how little practice I’ve had with sealing an amputation
—particularly one so small and delicate—and how much it slowed the
bleeding, I allow myself a moment of pride before I move on to the second
priority of Dr. Platt’s treaty on wounds of the flesh: holding infection at
bay.
“Stay here,” I say, as though he has any inclination to move. “I’ll be
right back.”
In the kitchen, I bring water to a quick boil over the stove, still warm
and easily stoked, then add wine and vinegar before soaking a towel in the
mixture and returning to where Callum is still sitting wide-eyed behind the
counter.
“You’re not going to . . . do you have to . . . cut it off?” he asks.
“No, you already did that,” I reply. “We’re not amputating anything,
just cleaning it up.”
“Oh.” He looks at the wine bottle in my fist and swallows hard. “I
thought you were trying to douse me.”
“I thought you might want it.”
I offer him the bottle, but he doesn’t take it. “I was saving that.”
“What for? Here, give me your hand.” I blot the stitching—which is
much cleaner than I had previously thought; I am far too hard on myself—
with the soaked towel. Callum coughs with his cheeks puffed out when the
vinegar tang strikes the air. Then it’s a strip of cheesecloth around the
finger, bound and tucked.
Stitched, bandaged, and sorted. I haven’t even broken a sweat.
A year of men telling me I am incapable of this work only gives my
pride a more savage edge, and I feel, for the first time in so many long,
cold, discouraging months, that I am as clever and capable and fit for the
medical profession as any of the men who have denied me a place in it.
I wipe my hands off on my skirt and straighten, surveying the bakery.
In addition to every other task that needs doing before we close up for the
night, the dishes will need to be rewashed. There’s a long dribble of blood
along the floor that will have to be scrubbed before it dries, another on my
sleeve, and a splatter across Callum’s apron that should be soaked out
before tomorrow. There is also a fingertip to be disposed of.
Beside me, Callum takes a long, deep breath and lets it hiss out
between pursed lips as he examines his hand. “Well, this rather spoils the
night.”
 “We were just washing up.”
“Well, I had something . . . else.” He pushes his chin against his chest.
“For you.”
“Can it wait?” I ask. I’m already calculating how long this will leave
Callum useless over the ovens, whether Mr. Brown will be able to lend a
hand, how much this will cut into my time off this week, which I had
planned to use to begin a draft of a treaty in favor of educational equality.
“No, it’s not . . . I mean, I suppose . . . it could, but . . .” He’s picking at
the edges of the bandage but stops before I can reprimand him. He’s still
pale, but a bit of the ruddiness is starting to return to the apples of his
cheeks. “It’s not something that will last.”
“Is it something for eating?” I ask.
“Something of a . . . just . . . stay there.” He wobbles to his feet in spite
of my protestations and disappears into the kitchen. I hadn’t noticed
anything special when I was mixing the wine and vinegar, but I also hadn’t
been particularly looking for it. I check my fingers for blood, then swipe a
clean one over the iced bun I had previously targeted. “Don’t strain
yourself,” I call to him.
“I’m not,” he replies, immediately followed by a crash like something
tin knocked over. “I’m fine. Don’t come back here!”
He appears behind the counter again, more red-faced than before and
one sleeve sopping with what must have been the milk he so raucously
spilled. He’s also clutching a fine china plate before him in presentation,
and upon it sits a single, perfect cream puff.
My stomach drops, the sight of that pastry sending a tremble through
me that a waterfall of blood had not.
“What are you eating?” he asks at the same moment I say “What is
that?”
He sets the plate on the counter, then holds out his uninjured hand in
presentation. “It’s a cream puff.”
“I can see that.”
“It is, more specifically, because I know you love specificity—”
“I do, yes.”
“—exactly the cream puff I gave you the day we met.” His smile
falters, and he qualifies, “Well, not exactly that one. As that was months
ago. And since you ate that one, and several more—”
 “Why did you make me this?” I look down at the two choux halves
with whorls of thick cream sculpted between them—he’s never this careful
with his craftsmanship, his loaves and cakes the kind of rustic you’d
expect to be made by a big-handed baker of good Scotch stock. But this is
so deliberate and decorative and—zounds, I can’t believe I know exactly
what type of pastry this is and how important it is to let the flour mixture
cool before whisking in the egg. All this baking nonsense is taking up
important space in my head that should be filled with notations on treating
popliteal aneurisms and the different types of hernias outlined in Treaties
on Ruptures, which I took great pains to memorize.
“Maybe we should sit down,” he says. “I’m a little . . . faint.”
“Likely because you lost blood.”
“Or . . . yes. That must be it.”
“This really can’t wait?” I ask as I lead him over to one of the tables
crowded in the front of the shop. He carries the cream puff, and it wobbles
on the plate as his hand shakes. “You should go home and rest. At least
close the shop tomorrow. Or Mr. Brown can supervise the apprentices and
we can keep everything simple. They can’t muck up a bread roll too
badly.” He makes to pull the chair out for me, but I wave him away. “If
you are insistent upon moving forward with whatever this is, at least sit
down before you fall over.”
We take opposite sides, pressed up against the cold, damp window.
Down the road, the clock from Saint Giles’ is striking the hour. The
buildings along the Cowgate are gray with the twilight, and the sky is gray,
and everyone passing the bakery is wrapped in gray wool, and I swear I
haven’t seen color since I came to this godforsaken place.
Callum sets the cream puff on the table between us, then stares at me,
fiddling with his sleeve. “Oh, the wine.” He casts a glance over at the
counter, seems to decide it’s not worth going back for, then looks again to
me, his hands resting on the tabletop. His knuckles are cracked from the
dry winter air, fingernails short and chewed raw around the edges.
“Do you remember the first day we met?” he blurts.
I look down at the cream puff, dread beginning to spread in my
stomach like a drop of ink in water. “I remember quite a lot of days.”
“But that one in particular?”
“Yes, of course.” It was a humiliating day—it still stings to think of it.
Having written three letters to the university on the subject of my
admission and received not a word in reply for over two months, I went to
the office myself to investigate whether they had arrived. As soon as I
gave my name to the secretary, he informed me that my correspondence
had indeed been received, but no, it had not been passed on to the board of
governors. My petition had been denied without ever being heard, because
I was a woman, and women were not permitted to enroll in the hospital
teaching courses. I was then escorted from the building by a soldier on
patrol, which just seemed excessive, though it would be a lie to say I did
not consider sprinting past the secretary and bursting through the door into
the governors’ hall without permission. I wear practical shoes and can run
very fast.
But, having been unceremoniously deposited on the street, I had
consoled myself at the bakeshop across the road, drowning my sorrows in
a cream puff made for me by a round-faced baker with the figure of a man
to whom cakes are too available. When I had tried to pay him for it, he’d
given me my coins back. And as I was finishing it, at this very table beside
this very window (oh, Callum was truly digging in the talons of
sentimentality by sitting us here), he made a tentative approach with a
mug of warm cider and, after a good chat, an offer of employment.
He had looked then like he was trying to lure a snappish dog in from
the cold to lie beside his fire. Like he knew what was best for me, if only
my stubborn heart could be enticed there. He looks the same way now,
earnestly presenting me that same sort of cream puff, his chin tipped down
so that he’s looking up at me through the hedgerow of his eyebrows.
“Felicity,” he says, my name wobbling in his throat. “We’ve known each
other for a while now.”
“We have,” I say, and the dread thickens.
“And I’ve become quite fond of you. As you know.”
“I do.”
And I did. After months of counting coins with my side pressed against
his in the cramped space behind the counter and our hands overlapping
when he passed me trays of warm rolls, it had become apparent that
Callum was fond of me in a way I couldn’t make myself be fond of him.
And though I had known of the existence of this fondness for a time, it had
not been a matter of any urgency that required addressing.
But now he’s giving me a cream puff and recollecting. Telling me how
fond he is of me.
 I jump when he takes my hand across the table—an impulsive, lunging
gesture. He pulls away just as fast, and I feel terrible for startling, so I
hold my hand out in invitation and let him try again. His palms are
sweating and my grip so unenthusiastic I imagine it must be akin to
cuddling a filleted fish.
“Felicity,” he says, and then again, “I’m very fond of you.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Very fond.”
“Yes.” I try to focus on what he’s saying and not of how to get my hand
out of his without hurting his feelings and also if there’s any possible
scenario in which I can walk away from this with that cream puff but
without having to do any more than hold his hand.
“Felicity,” he says again, and when I look up, he’s leaning across the
table toward me with his eyes closed and his lips jutting out.
And here it is. The inevitable kiss.
When Callum and I first met, I had been lonely enough to not only
accept his employment, but also the companionship that came with it,
which gave him the idea that men often get in their heads when a woman
pays some kind of attention to them: that it was a sign I want him to smash
his mouth—and possibly other body parts—against mine. Which I do not.
But I close my eyes and let him kiss me.
There is more of a lunge into the initial approach than I would prefer,
and our teeth knock in a way that makes me wonder if there’s a business in
selling Dr. John Hunter’s newly advertised live tooth transplants to women
who have been kissed by overly enthusiastic men. It’s nowhere near as
unenjoyable as my only previous experience with the act, though just as
wet and just as dispassionate a gesture, the oral equivalent of a handshake.
Best to get it over with, I think, so I stay still and let him press his lips
to mine, feeling as though I’m being stamped like a ledger. Which is
apparently the wrong thing to do, because he stops very abruptly and falls
back into his chair, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t
have done that.”
“No, it’s all right,” I say quickly. And it was. It hadn’t been hostile or
forced upon me. Had I turned away, I know he wouldn’t have chased me.
Because Callum is a good man. He walks on the outside of the pavement
so he takes the splash of the carriage wheels through the snow instead of
me. He listens to every story I tell, even when I know I’ve been taking up
more than my share of the conversation. He stopped adding almonds to the
sweet breads when I told him almonds make my throat itch.
“Felicity,” Callum says, “I’d like to marry you.” Then he drops off his
chair and lands with a hard thunk against the floor that makes me
concerned for his kneecaps. “Sorry, I got the order wrong.”
I almost drop too—though not in chivalry. I’m feeling far fainter in the
face of matrimony than I did at the sight of half a finger in the dishwater.
“What?”
“Did you . . .” He swallows so hard I see his throat travel the entire
course of his neck. “Did you not know I was going to ask you?”
In truth, I had expected nothing more than a kiss but suddenly feel
foolish for thinking that was all he wanted from me. I fumble around for
an explanation for my willful ignorance and only come up with “We
hardly know each other!”
“We’ve known each other almost a year,” he replies.
“A year is nothing!” I protest. “I’ve had dresses I wore for a year and
then woke up one morning and thought, ‘Why am I wearing this insane
dress that makes me look like a terrier mated with a lobster?’”
“You never look like a lobster,” he says.
“I do when I wear red,” I say. “And when I blush. And my hair is too
red. And I wouldn’t have time to plan a wedding right now because I’m
busy. And tired. And I have so much to read. And I’m going to London!”
“You are?” he asks.
You are? I ask myself at the same time I hear myself saying, “Yes. I’m
leaving tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow.” Another revelation to myself—I have no plans to go
to London. It sprang from me, a spontaneous and fictitious excuse crafted
entirely from panic. But he’s still on his knee, so I push on with it. “I have
to see my brother there; he has . . .” I pause too long for my next word to
be anything but a lie, then say, “Syphilis.” It’s the first thing that comes to
mind when I think of Monty.
“Oh. Oh dear.” Callum, to his credit, seems to be making a true effort
to understand my nonsensical ramblings.
“Well, no, not syphilis,” I say. “But he’s having terrible spells of . . .
boredom . . . and asked me to come and . . . read to him. And I’m going to
 As a newly monogamous man, he pretends to not understand my
emphasis on the notorious cruising grounds he once frequented. “I play
cards for a casino.”
“You play for the casino?”
“I stay sober but pretend to be drunk to play against the men who
actually are tipsy and win their money and give it to the house. They pay
me a portion.”
I let out a bark of laughter before I can stop myself. “Yes. Respectable
is the first word that comes to my mind when I hear that.”
“Better than making plum cakes with your little plum cake,” he returns
with a sly grin.
And suddenly none of it is fun or funny any longer—it’s the savage
sniping of our youth, both of us jabbing gently until someone presses a
little too hard and it draws blood. Monty might not sense the change in the
weather, but Percy does, for he says sternly to Monty, “Be nice. She’s only
been here twenty minutes.”
“Has it only been twenty minutes?” I mumble, and Percy swats his
hand at me.
“You have to be nice too. That road runs both ways.”
“Yes, mother,” I say, and Monty laughs, this time less at me than with
me, and we trade a look that is, shall we say, not hostile. Which is good
enough.
It takes Monty an excessively long time to dress. There’s the jumper,
mostly obscured by a jacket and an overly large coat, then heavy boots and
fraying gloves, all topped by an adorably misshapen cap that I like to
imagine Percy knit for him. It also takes him half a dozen false starts
before he actually manages to reach the street—first he has to come back
for his scarf, then to change into thicker socks, but most times the thing he
comes back for is one more kiss with Percy.
When Monty finally leaves in earnest—the whole building seems to
tip a bit more westward when the door slams behind him—Percy smiles at
me and pats the spot on the bed beside him. “You can sit down, if you like.
I promise I won’t try to cuddle you.”
I perch myself on the edge of the bed. I’m assuming he’s going to dive
face-first into an interrogation on the subject of why exactly I have made
my bedraggled appearance on their doorstep begging for shelter. But
instead he says, “Thank you for the paper you sent.”
Another random document with
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[I thought of these words many a time after that short and
merry life had come to its miserable close, and that fair
head, with the crown it coveted and wrought for, lay
together on the scaffold. I did never believe the shameful
charges brought against her, by which her death was
compassed, but 'tis impossible to acquit her of great
lightness of conduct, and want of womanly delicacy, or of
the worse faults of lawless ambition and treachery against
her kind mistress, than whom no one need wish a better.
Though I am and have long been of the reformed religion,
my feelings have ever been on the side of Queen
Catherine.]

The next day we went across the moor, to see the woman,
Magdalen Jewell, of whom Dame Lee had told us. Mistress
Anne was not with us, pleading a headache as an excuse,
and I was not sorry to miss her company, but we had
Master Griffith instead, and a serving man, who led the
Queen's donkey. The rest of us walked; and oh, what joy it
was to me to feel the springy turf under foot, and smell the
fresh odors of the moorland once more! How beautiful the
world is! I can't think why God hath made it so fair, and
then set it before us as our highest duty to shut ourselves
from it between stone walls. "The earth is the Lord's and
the fulness thereof," we sing in the Venite, and all the
Psalms are full of such thoughts. But this is beside the
matter.

We had a charming walk over the high, breezy moor, and

Master Griffith entertained us with remembrances of his
own country of Wales, where he says the people speak a
language of their own, as they do in some parts of Cornwall.
The Queen riding before us, would now and then put in a
word to keep him going.
Presently the path dipped into a little hollow, and there we
saw the cottage at the foot of the Tor which had been our
landmark all the way. 'Twas to my mind more like a nest
than a cottage, so small was it, and so covered (where the
vine gave the stones leave to show themselves) with gray
and yellow lichens. A humble porch well shaded with a great
standard pear, and fragrant with honeysuckle and
sweetbriar, held the good woman's chair, wherein lay a
spindle and distaff.

Magdalen herself was at work in her garden, gathering of

herbs to dry, and attended by quite a retinue. There was a
very old dog lying blinking in the sunshine, and a motherly
cat with two or three mischievous kitlings, and also a lame
and tame goose, which attended her mistress' footsteps,
and now and then with hisses and outspread wings chased
away the kitlings, when they made too free. A more
important member of the party was the little orphan maid,
a child of some five years, who with grave and womanly
industry, was carrying away the cut herbs, and spreading
them in the shade to dry. A row of beehives reached all the
length of the garden wall, and before them a bed of sweet
flowers and herbs, such as bees love. On one side was a
field in which fed a cow and an ass, while on the other was
a small and old, but well-tended orchard, and at the bottom
of this a still, glassy pool. Behind all, rose the gray, steep
Tor, like a protecting fortress. It was a lovely picture, and
one on which I could have gazed an hour; but presently, the
woman catching sight of us, laid aside her industry, and
came forward to give us welcome, which she did I must say
somewhat stiffly at the first. But she presently thawed into
more cordiality under the charm of her Grace's manner, and
remarking that we had had a long walk, she busied herself
to provide refreshment.
"Pray do not incommode yourself, my good woman," said
the Queen: "we have come but from the convent yonder,
where I am at present abiding, and this is one of the young
pupils, whom I dare say you have seen."

"Not I, madam!" she answered, somewhat bluntly. "I have

no errand to take me to the convent since I desire no alms
at the hands of the ladies, and I have naught to sell but
that which their own gardens supply."

"You might go thither for purposes of devotion," said the

Queen: "'tis a great privilege to worship in a church
possessed of so many holy relics."

A strange look, methought, passed over the woman's face,

as her Grace spoke, but she made no answer to the Queen,
only to press us to eat and drink.

"And you live here quite alone, save this child?" said the
Queen, after she had asked and heard an account of the
little maiden.

"Aye, madam, ever since my old father died, some ten

years since, till this child was sent me, as it were."

"But had you no brother, or other relative?" Again the

strange look crossed Magdalen's face, as she answered: "I
had a brother once, and for aught I know he may be living
now; but 'tis long since I have seen or heard from him. Our
paths went different ways."

"How so?" asked the Queen.

"Because I chose to maintain my old father in his

helplessness, and he chose to bestow himself in yonder
abbey of Glastonbury, with his portion of my gaffer's
goods."
"Doubtless he chose wisely!" she added, with a scorn which
I cannot describe. "'Twas an easier life than tilling barren
land, and bearing with the many humors of a childish, testy
old man."

"You should not speak so of your brother," said the Queen,

somewhat severely.

"You are right, Madam;" answered Magdalen, softening.

"Scorn becomes not any sinner, whose own transgressions
have been many. Nevertheless, under your favor, I believe
my brother did mistake his duty in this thing."

"Yet you yourself have chosen a single life, it seems!" said

the Queen. "Why was that?"

"I did not choose it," she said quietly, but yet her face was
moved. "'Twas so ordered for me, and I make the best of it.
I doubt not many married women are happier than I; but
yourself must see, Madam, that no single woman, so she be
good and virtuous, can possibly be as miserable as is many
a good and virtuous wife, through no fault of her own; aye
—and while she hath nothing of which she may complain
before the world."

"'Tis even so!" said her Grace; and again saw the cloud
upon her brow. I wonder if she is unhappy with her
husband? After a little silence, the Queen fell to talking of
the child, and after some discourse, she offered to leave
with the parish priest such a sum of money as should be a
dower for the girl, whether she should marry or enter a
convent. Magdalen colored and hesitated.

"I thank you much for your kindness," said she, at last. "I
have never yet received an alms, but the child is an orphan,
and hath no earthly protection but myself; and should I die
before my brother, he, or the men with whom he has placed
himself, would take that small portion of goods which
belongs to me, and little Catherine would be left wholly
destitute. I believe Sir John, the village priest, to be a good
man, so far as his lights go, and anything you may be
pleased to place in his hands will be safe. I therefore accept
your offer and thank you with all my heart; and may the
blessing of the God of the fatherless abide upon you."

"That seems like a good woman," remarked Master Griffith

to Mistress Patience, after we had left the cottage.

"Yet I liked not her saying about the priest," returned Mrs.
Patience, austerely. "What did she mean by her limitation
—'A good man, so far as his lights go,' forsooth! What is
she, to judge of his lights? Methinks the saying savored
somewhat too much of Lollardie, or Lutheranism."

"Then, if I thought so, I would not say so," said Master

Griffith, in a low tone. "You would not like to cast a
suspicion on the poor creature, which might bring her to the
stake at last."

Whereat Mistress Patience murmured something under her

breath about soft-heartedness toward heretics being
treason to the Church; but she added no more. I think
Master Griffith hath great influence over her, and if I may
venture to say so, over his mistress as well; and I wonder
not at it, for he hath a calm, wise way with him, and a
considerate manner of speaking, which seems to carry
much weight. It was odd, certainly, what Magdalen Jewell
said about the priest, and also about her brother. It does
seem hard that he should have gone away and left her to
bear the whole burden of nursing and maintaining her
father, and yet, as we are taught to believe, it is he who
hath chosen the better part. Another thing which struck me
about this same Magdalen was, that she was so wonderful
well spoken, for a woman in her state of life. Even her
accent was purer than that of the women about here, and
she used marvellous good phrases, as though she were
conversant with well-educated people.

This was the last of our walks. To-morrow the Queen goes,
and then I shall fall back into my old way of life again, I
suppose—writing, and working, and walking in the garden
for recreation. Well, I must needs be content, since there is
no other prospect before me for my whole life. It will not be
quite so monotonous as that of the poor lady who lived for
twenty years in the Queen's room, and never looked out.

I ought to say, that when we returned from visiting

Magdalen Jewell, we found that a post had arrived with
letters for the Queen, and also a packet for Mistress Anne,
who seemed wonderful pleased with her news, and with a
fine ring which she said her brother had sent her.

"Your brother is very generous," said her Grace, (and I saw

her face flush and her eyes flash.) "Methinks I have seen
that same ring before. 'Tis not very becoming for your
brother to make so light of his Majesty's gifts, as to bestow
them, even on his sister."

"I trust your Grace will be so good as not to betray my poor

brother's carelessness to his Majesty," answered Mrs.
Bullen, with an air and tone of meekness, which seemed to
me to have much of mocking therein. "It might prove the
ruin of us both."

To my great terror and amazement, the Queen turned

absolutely pale as ashes, and put out her hand for support.
Both Mrs. Anne and myself sprang forward, but she
recovered herself in a moment, and her color came back
again.
"'Tis nothing," said she, quietly. "I think the heat was too
much for me. Patience, your arm; I will lie down awhile."

The glance which Patience cast on Mrs. Bullen in passing,

was such as one might give to a viper or other loathsome
reptile. Mrs. Bullen, on her part, returned it, with a mocking
smile. Presently I saw her in the garden in close conference
with Amice, as indeed I have done several times before. I
cannot guess what they should have in common, and it is
all the more odd that I know Amice does not like her.

CHAPTER XIV.

August 14.
HER Grace left us yesterday, and to-day Amice and I have
been helping Mother Gertrude to put her rooms to rights,
and close them once more.

"How lonely they look," said I, as we were going round

closing the shutters. "I suppose they will always be called,
'The Queen's Chambers,' after this; and will be looked on as
a kind of hallowed ground."

"They will always be hallowed ground to me, I am sure,"

said Amice, so warmly, that I looked at her in surprise.

"Well, well, I am not sorry they are empty once more," said
Mother Gertrude. "I trust now we shall go back to our old
quiet ways, and at least we shall have no more singing of
love songs and receiving of love tokens, within these holy
walls. Yonder fair Bullen is no inmate for such a place as
this."

"Why should you think of love tokens, dear Mother?" I

asked, feeling my checks burn, and wondering whether she
referred to me, though indeed I might have known she did
not. 'Tis not her way to hint at anything.

"Because Mistress Anne must needs show me her fine

diamond ring, and tell me in a whisper how it was a token
from a gallant gentleman, as great as any in this realm."

"She said it came from her brother," said I, unguardedly,

and then I all at once remembered what she had said in the
presence, and the Queen's answer. Can it be that her Grace
was jealous, and that she had cause for jealousy? However,
that is no business for me.

Mrs. Bullen must needs watch her chance and ask me

whether I had no message or token for my cousin? I told
her no—that in my position, it did not become me to be
sending messages or tokens: but I did not add what I
thought—that if I had any such message, she would be the
last person I should trust therewith.

"Well, well, I meant you naught but kindness," said she. "I
dare say our squire wont break his heart."

To which I made no answer.

Mother Superior gave me leave to write to my father by

Master Griffith, who kindly offered to carry a letter. When I
had finished, I carried it to her, as in duty bound. She just
glanced at it, and then opening a drawer, she took
therefrom poor Richard's packet and enclosed all together,
sealing them securely, and said she would give the parcel
into Master Griffith's hands, together with certain letters of
her own. My heart gave a great leap at sight of the packet,
and I must confess a great ache when I saw it sealed up
again, because I knew how sadly Richard would feel at
having his poor little letter and token returned on his
hands; and I am quite sure he meant no harm in sending
them, though it was ill considered.

The Queen gave magnificently to the Church and house on

leaving, and also bestowed presents on those members of
the family who have waited on her, mostly books of
devotion, beads, and sacred pictures. She hath also
provided for an annual dole of bread and clothing on her
birthday to all the poor of the village.
 CHAPTER XV.

August 25.

WE have begun the general reformation which Mother

Superior promised us. I suppose, like other storms, it will
clear the air when all is done, but at present it raises a good
deal of dust, and makes every body uncomfortable.

Mother Gabrielle and Mother Gertrude still keep their old

places, the one as sacristine, the other as mistress of the
novices and pupils. But Sister Catherine is discharged of the
care of the wardrobe, and Sister Bridget, of all people, set
in her place. Sister Bonaventure takes Sister Bridget's place
in the laundry, and Sister Mary Paula is in charge of the
kitchen, which I fancy she does not like over well, though
she says nothing. Sister Mary Agnes has the accounts, and
Sister Placida the alms. As to Sister Catherine, she is
nowhere and nobody, which I suppose will give her all the
more time to meddle with everybody. She has been in
retreat for a week, and is still very mum and keeps quiet. I
have still charge of the library, to my great joy, and Amice is
by special favor appointed to help Mother Gabrielle in the
sacristy.

Our rules are to be more strictly enforced in future. No

more exclusive friendships are to be permitted. Silence is to
be rigidly enforced, and in short we are to turn over a new
leaf entirely. A great deal of needlework is to be put in hand
directly, including new altar covers for the shrine of Saint
Ethelburga in the garden, for which her Grace hath given
very rich materials. Besides we are to make many garments
for the poor against winter.

A good many wry faces have been made over all these
changes. For my own part I like them well enough. I think
people are always more comfortable when each one knows
his own place and his own work. Perhaps I should feel
differently if I had been put out of office, like Sister
Catherine, or set to work I did not like, as was Sister Mary
Paula. Poor Sister Catherine! She little thought how it was
to end when she used to talk about the enforcement of
discipline. I must say, that as far as the wardrobe goes, she
had no right to complain, for she did keep everything at
sixes and sevens, so that two whole pieces of nice black
serge were spoiled by her negligence, and many of the
spare napkins were moulded through and through. I
ventured to ask Mother Gertrude how she thought Sister
Bridget would succeed.

"Why, well enough, child," she answered. "Sister Bridget's

mind is not very bright, but she always gives the whole of it
to whatever she does."

"I have noticed that," said I. "If she is folding a napkin, or

ironing an apron, you may ask her as many questions as
you will, and you will get no answer from her till she has
done folding or ironing, as the case may be."

"Just so; and she hath another good quality, in that she will
take advice. When she does not know what to do she will
ask, which is to my mind a greater argument of humility
than any kissings of the floor, or such like performances."

Amice and I do not see as much of each other as we used,

but she is always loving when we meet. She appears to me,
somehow, very greatly changed. At times she seems to
have an almost heavenly calmness and serenity in her face;
at others she seems sad and anxious, but she is always kind
and gentle. She is much in prayer, and reads diligently in
the Psalter, which the Queen gave her. Sister Gabrielle has
grown very fond of her, though she was vexed at first that
Amice was assigned to her instead of myself; but she says
Amice is so gentle and humble, so anxious to please, and to
improve herself in those points wherein she is deficient, that
she cannot but love the child. I have, at Amice's own
request, taught her all the lace and darning stitches I know,
and she practises them diligently, though she used to
despise them. I am teaching her to knit stockings, an art I
learned of Mistress Patience, and we mean to have a pair
made for the Bishop against his next visit.
 CHAPTER XVI.

St. Michael's Eve, Sept. 28.

IT is a long time since I have touched this book, and many

things have happened. Ours is now a sad household. Out of
the twenty-three professed Sisters and novices who used to
meet in the choir, but fifteen remain. The rest lie under the
turf in our cemetery. Mother Gabrielle is gone, and poor
Sister Bridget, and of the novices, Sisters Mary Frances and
Agatha. Mother Gertrude had the disease, but was spared.
Three others recovered. The rest were not attacked. The
disease was the dreadful Sweating sickness. It began first in
the village, in the household of that same Roger Smith, but
broke out in three or four other cottages the same day. The
news was brought to the convent gates the next morning by
some who came for alms, as they use to do on Wednesdays
and Fridays, and produced great consternation.

"What are we to do now?" said Sister Catherine, while the

elders were in conference by themselves.

"We shall do as we are told, I suppose," answered Sister

Bridget, with her wonted simplicity.
"But don't you suppose Mother Superior will order the gates
to be shut, and no communication held with the villagers?"
said Sister Mary Paula.

"I should certainly suppose not;" answered Sister Placida.

"Think what you are saying, dear Sister! Would you deprive
the poor souls of their alms, just when they are most
wanted? Methinks it would ill become religious women to
show such cowardly fears."

"Beside that I don't believe it would make any difference,"

said I. "Master Ellenwood, who has studied medicine, told
my father the disease was not so much infectious, as in the
air. I wish we might go out among the poor folk, to see
what they need, and help to nurse the sick, as my mother
and her women used to do."

"Rosamond is always ready for any chance to break her

enclosure," said Sister Catherine, charitable as usual. "She
would even welcome the pestilence, if it gave her a pretext
to get outside her convent walls."

"Sister Catherine," said Sister Placida, reprovingly, "you are

wrong to speak so to the child. Why should you be so ready
to put a wrong construction on her words? I am sure the
wish is natural enough. I had thought of the same thing
myself."

"O yes, I dare say," retorted Sister Catherine. And then,

with one of her sudden changes, "but I am wrong to answer
you so, Sister. It is my part to accept even undeserved
reproof with humility, and be thankful that I am despised."

"Nonsense," returned Sister Placida, who is by no means so

placid as her name, "I think you would show more humility
by considering whether the reproof was not deserved. As to
being thankful for being despised, that is to my mind a little
too much like being thankful for another's sin."

"How so?" I asked.

"Why, in order to being despised, there must needs be

some one to despise you, child, and is not contempt a sin?"

I do like Sister Placida, though she is just as often sharp

with me as Sister Catherine, but it is in such a different
way.

"Anyhow, I hope they wont shut out the poor folk," said
Sister Bridget.

"Who is talking about shutting out the poor folk?" asked

Mother Gertrude's voice, coming in sharp and clear as
usual, (by the way I ought to call her Mother Assistant now,
but I never can remember to do so.) "Children, why are you
all loitering here, instead of being about your business in
the house? Let every one set about her duty just as usual,
and at obedience, you will hear what has been decided."

[Obedience is that hour in a convent when the nuns

assemble with the Superior to give an account of their
labors, to receive special charges, and not seldom special
reproofs as well. In our house this gathering took place just
after morning recreation. Amice and I, not being even
regular postulants, had no business there, and since the
reformation in the house, we have never attended, but we
were called in to-day, and took our places at the lower end
of the line, and therefore next the Superior, who addressed
us in few but weighty words, which I will set down as well
as I can remember them.]

There was no doubt, she said, that the pestilence known as

the sweating sickness had broken out in the village, and we
might with reason expect its appearance among ourselves,
at any time. She said she had heard with sorrow that some
of her children had desired to have the gates closed against
the poor folk who used to come for alms. Such cowardliness
as this was unbecoming to any well-born lady, and above all
to religious, who were doubly bound to set a good example
of courage and resignation: but she was willing to think this
only a momentary failing, which a second thought would
correct; and she bade us consider that there would be no
use in shutting the gates now, since they were opened
yesterday, as usual.

Then she told us what she, with the advice of our confessor
and the other elders, had decided upon. The doles were to
be given out at the outer gate, by the proper officers, only
they were to be given every day, instead of Wednesdays
and Fridays. The two distributing Sisters were to be helped
by two others, taken in turn from the professed, to hand
the things as they were wanted. All embroidery, with other
unnecessary work of every kind, was to be laid aside, and
all were to employ themselves under the direction of the
Mother Assistant and herself in making linen and in
preparing food, cordials, and drinks for the poor. If any
Sister felt herself ill in any way, she was at once to repair to
the infirmary, and report herself to Sister Placida. Finally,
we were all to have good courage, to give ourselves as
much as possible to prayer, and such religious meditation as
should keep us in a calm, cheerful, and recollected frame of
mind, observing our hours of recreation as usual; and she
added that nobody was to presume to take on herself any
extra penances or exercises without express permission
from her superior or confessor.

"We are all under sentence of death, dear children, as you

know!" concluded Mother, "And it matters little how our
dismissal comes, so we are ready. Let us all confess
ourselves, so that the weight, at least, of mortal sin may
not rest on our consciences here, or go with us into the
other world. If we are called to suffer, let us accept those
sufferings as an atonement for our sins, considering that
the more we have to endure here, the less we may believe
will be the pains of purgatory hereafter. As for these
children," she added, turning to Amice and myself, who
stood next her, "what shall I say to them?"

"Say, dear Mother, that we may take our full share of work
and risk with the Sisters!" exclaimed Amice, kneeling before
her. "I am sure I speak for Rosamond as well as myself,
when I say that is what we desire most of all, is it not,
Rosamond?"

"Surely," I answered, as I knelt by her side: "I ask nothing

more than that."

"And what becomes of the Latin and Music lessons, and the
embroidery, and our learned librarian's translations?" asked
Mother Superior, smiling on us.

"They can wait," I answered.

"And surely, dearest Mother, the lessons we shall learn will

be far more valuable than any Latin or music," added
Amice.

"Well, well, be it as you will!" said dear Mother, laying her

hands on our heads as we knelt before her. "Surely, dear
children, none of us will show any fear or reluctance, since
these babes set us such a good example. Well, hold
yourselves ready, my little ones, and wherever you are
wanted, there shall you be sent."

That afternoon there was a great bustle in the wardrobe;

taking down of linen, and cutting out of shifts and bed-
gowns, and the like, and in the still-room and kitchen as
well, with preparing of medicines, chiefly cordial and
restoratives, and mild drinks, such as barley and apple
waters, and the infusion of lime blossoms, balm and mint.
This was by the advice of Mother Mary Monica, who has
seen the disease before, and understands its right
treatment. She says that those who on the first sign of the
disorder took to their beds and remained there for twenty-
four hours, moderately covered, and perfectly quiet, and
drinking of mild drinks, neither very hot, nor stimulating,
nor yet cold, almost all recovered; but that purges,
exercise, hot or cold drinks and stimulants, were equally
fatal. The dear old Mother has seemed failing of late, but
this alarm has roused her up and made her like a young
woman again.

Thus things went on for more than a week. We heard of

great suffering among the villagers for lack of nurses who
knew how to treat the disease, and also because from
selfish fear of taking the pestilence, people refused to go
near the sick and dying. One day Mother Superior was
called to the grate, and presently sent for me to the parlor,
where I found her talking through the grate to a woman
whom I at once knew as Magdalen Jewell of Torfoot. Hers is
not a face to be forgotten.

"This good woman says she believes you were at her house
with her Grace," says Mother.

I answered that I was so, and added that her Grace did
much commend the neatness of the place and the kindness
of Magdalen in taking the little one. I saw Magdalen's face
work.

"The babe hath been taken home!" said she, almost sternly.
"God's will be done! I have been telling these ladies that
there are divers orphan maids in the village (left so by this
sickness), who are running wild, and are like either to die
for lack of care, or worse, to fall into the hands of gypsies
and other lawless persons, whom this pestilence seems to
have let loose to roam about this wretched land."

"Are there so many dead in the village?" asked Mother

Gertrude.

"There is not a house where there is or hath not been one

dead!" answered Magdalen; "And the terror is worse than
the pestilence; children are deserted by parents, and they
in their turn by children, and 'tis the same with all other
relations. 'Tis a woeful spectacle!"

"Could not you yourself take these poor babes to your

home, since you have one?" asked Mother Gertrude.

"I cannot be spared, madam," answered Magdalen: "I must

nurse the sick."

"That is very good in you, and you must take comfort in the
thought that you are thereby laying up merit for yourself!"
said Mother Superior.

I saw an odd expression pass over Magdalen's face, but she

made no reply.

"And you think we might take these babes and care for
them, at least till the present emergency is passed?" said
Mother.

"Nay, madam, I did but state the case to you," answered

Magdalen; "'tis not for me to presume to offer advice."

"But what to do with them, if we took them?" said Mother

Superior, in a musing tone. Then catching my eye, which I
suppose ought to have been on the floor instead of on her
face: "Here is Rosamond, with a ready-made plan, as usual.
Well, child, you have permission to speak. What is brewing
under that eager face?"

"I was thinking, dear Mother, that I am used to young

children," said I. "Why could I not take these little maids
into one of the rooms called the Queen's room, and tend
them there? I suppose there are not many of them."

"I know of but five utterly friendless maids," answered

Magdalen.

"Then I am sure I could care for them, with some help and
advice," said I. "They would be away from the rest of the
family, and would disturb no one; and if we were kept in
health, I might teach them as well."

"'Tis a good thought, but we must do nothing hastily," said

Mother Superior. "We ought to have the permission of our
visitor, the Bishop, but he is now in Bristol, and some days
must elapse before we could hear from him, and this seems
a case for instant action."

"I am sure you would say so, madam, could you see the
state of these poor babes!" returned Magdalen.

"Well, well, come to-morrow, and we will see," said Mother.

"Meantime the holy relics are exposed in the church for the
comfort of the faithful in this trying time. You had better
visit them, and then go to the buttery and obtain some
refreshment."

However, she did neither—I suppose from want of time. The

next day she came again, and to my great joy, Mother
consented, the need being so great, to receive the five little
maidens, who were placed under my care in the Queen's