The Astrologer's Daughter. Paula Marshall

that my fortune will change, too, but do not say whether for better or for worse. I want no change. I am happy as I am.’

      Adam smiled, then frowned. ‘Oh, child such a statement tempts the gods. When mortals say they are happy, they throw the dice to challenge that happiness. But, come, the wherry awaits us.’

      They walked by Essex House, Willem following, down to the Temple Stairs where a wherry had been commissioned and was waiting to take them to Whitehall Palace. The river was the easiest mode of transport in London and was busier than any street. The Thames was both a port and a highway.

      Celia had dressed herself carefully in a gown of middling blue. She wore a deep lace collar, but the neckline of her gown was modest and the pin at the throat of it was modest, too. Her shoes were her best and she had dressed her hair a little more loosely than was her wont. She had not put in curl-papers to create the elaborate ringlets of the court ladies and was sure that she would look sadly out of fashion.

      What she did not know was that the pure lines of her face, head and neck needed no ringlets. Classic simplicity had its own beauty which owed nothing to artifice.

      ‘Speak when spoken to,’ groused Adam gently. ‘That was what Master Renwick said. They told him that before he went to Court when the King commissioned a loving cup from him, which, by the by, he hath not paid for. Will the Duke pay for his elections, I wonder, or will he follow his master’s example? Yet, to have the King one’s patron would be a fine thing, money or no. It hath brought Master Renwick many commissions, just to say that the King is pleased to employ him.’

      Celia made no answer. She remained quiet as the wherry moved on its way to Whitehall. She was busy taking mental note of all that happened to her. She had seen the palace from the outside, marvelled at its size, at the coming and going of servants, courtiers and officials. Whitehall was the seat of Government as well as the King’s home. Parliament might have tamed the monarch a little but, since his restoration in 1660, they worked in tandem—each side now up, now down.

      She had never thought to find herself in it. A servant of the Duke’s had been waiting for them at the top of the Privy Steps which led from the river. My lord expected them, he said. It was good that they had come betimes: he did not care to be kept waiting. A footman was there, who took Willem’s burdens from him, and they set off in procession.

      Willem was left at a small lodge, to be given ale by some functionary. There were so many servants and lackeys about that Celia wondered how she and Adam managed to live without them. They walked along a small paved road, through an archway into a large garden, a sundial in its middle. They had thought that they were to be taken to the Duke’s apartments but, in reply to a question from Adam, it seemed not. They were to go to one of the state rooms, facing the garden, where the Duke had taken himself and his own small court—for there were courts within courts, Celia was to find.

      Finally they went through double doors, held open by more lackeys, into a large long room with many windows—some from floor to ceiling, others with seats in them. There were glass doors opening on to yet another garden. The room was full of people, but contained little in the way of furnishings. The Duke was seated in a great chair facing the glass doors. Richly dressed women stood about, sat on cushions scattered about the polished floor or reclined on long settles. Some men and women were in the window seats; all their eyes turned on Celia and her father as they entered.

      The Duke, on seeing them, rose, and conducted Adam to a high-backed armless chair placed a little to the right of his. Behind it Celia suddenly saw Sir Kit. He was seated on a long low stool of the type which stood before a fire. His guitar was on his knee. He was talking to a richly dressed woman who sat beside him. She was so superb, so proud and haughty, that Celia knew at once that she was a grand personage.

      She caught sight of Celia following Adam, watched while the Duke demanded a stool be placed for her at her father’s knee, then put a long finger on to Kit’s chin and laughed into his eyes. There was something so secretive, so confidential about her action that it was plain that he and she shared a friendship or, perhaps even something more. Celia felt a strange pang at the sight of it. Which was foolish, for what was Kit Carlyon to her but the Duke’s friend? He was not hers.

      And all the time the Duke was speaking. His voice, as beautiful in its own way as Kit’s, went up and down. She must pay attention, for the elections and horaries had been as much her work as Adam’s and at any moment he might call on her for her support.

      The Duke held the parchments which they had prepared in his long-fingered hands, studded about with rings today. He was superbly dressed as though to emphasise to them that the man who had eaten in their parlour was also a man of great affairs.

      ‘So, Mistress Celia,’ he said, turning to her. ‘Your father hath told me that you had a great hand in preparing these.’ He handed the parchments to her. ‘You might confirm his faith in you by expounding to me how I am to interpret them.’

      ‘Why, Your Grace,’ replied Celia, trying to hide how nervous she was to be so addressed before so many powerful people, ‘it depends on whether thy question is an horary or an election, for the principles determining them are subtly different. Thy first question, as to when the time will be propitious for you to make a journey out of London, is an election and, therefore, looks to the best moment in the future to make thy journey—that is, the one when the moon and planets are most propitious. And here—’ and she pointed to the horoscope ‘—is the day upon which my father advises you to leave, which you will see is in early July.

      ‘But this—’ and she lifted one of the parchments to display it to the Duke who now leaned forward, chin in hand, elbow on knee, to hear all that she had to say ‘—this one is an horary, because it asketh not of the future but is dependent on the present, and therefore the horoscope which determines the answer is drawn up showing the signs at the moment when the question was asked.’

      The Duke put up his hand, laughing a little. ‘Good mistress, I doubt me not as to your learning and, as to the use I shall make of it, why that I must ponder. You are a miracle of nature, madam, a lusus naturae, as the Ancients had it. Sir—’ And he turned to Adam who sat beaming at his daughter, lost in delight that his visit to the court was proving so propitious. And why, Adam thought, should that surprise me, or did not the stars tell me that great things would flow from it?

      ‘Sir, you will continue where thy daughter hath finished. I would not have her overborne by her learning. Kit—’ he turned towards his friend who was now tuning his guitar, head bent over it ‘—Kit, my friend, you will give the fair Mistress Antiquis a turn about the room while I speak further with her father.’

      Kit, who had been supremely aware of Celia ever since she had walked into the room, rose, put down his guitar and walked over to where she sat, bowed and offered her his hand. She took it, felt its warmth and its strength. If he had been aware of her, then she had been as aware of him. More—as they touched, some message seemed to pass between them, for first her hand thrilled and then her arm, and finally her whole body. For a moment she was fearful that the trance was on her, but she could control it when warned of its coming, which she did, to hear him reply to Buckingham.

      ‘Willingly, George, willingly. I would discourse again with the lady on matters philosophical.’ And if there were a few who smirked behind their hands at the notion of Kit Carlyon discussing philosophy with a fair maid, neither Celia nor her father saw them, both being too dazzled by the welcome which they had received.

      The welcome grew more remarkable yet. Hardly had Kit taken Celia’s hand in his to place it on his sleeve, the tawny velvet of which matched the curling locks which fell about his shoulders, than the glass doors were opened and a party of courtiers entered, led by a man whom Celia recognised at once as the King.

      She had seen him in the city streets—sometimes walking with the Lord Mayor at his side, sometimes on horseback and once in the Royal coach. She could not be mistaken and, near to, she found that his height and presence made him even more remarkable. Only Kit Carlyon rivalled him as to height; none rivalled his regality. Many bowed at his entrance, and Celia curtsied. The King waved a hand for them to rise.

      ‘Nothing