Free Elizabeth: The Golden Age by TASHA ALEXANDER Page A

with his entourage. When he was gone, Elizabeth motioned for Walsingham.
    “He’s a sweet boy,” she said. “I don’t want him hurt by your schemes. You’re to send him home.”
    “Majesty—”
    She did not let Walsingham interrupt. “Find another way to annoy Philip.”
    
    Elizabeth’s private rooms in Whitehall surrounded an elegant atrium, a space into which only those closest to her were allowed. Here she had a small measure of privacy to pursue her passions. Her love of books stretched back to her youth, when they offered solace to a girl whose fortunes changed as often as her father’s wives. As an adult, even in the face of the demands of government duties, she tried to spend three hours every day reading and kept a ready stock of books in her library. Across the atrium was the music room, where she could play her lute or virginals, sing, and write music.
    There was a small room in which the queen could pray, and a large room to store her enormous wardrobe, rumored to consist of no fewer than two thousand dresses, many of which were New Year’s gifts from her admiring—and wealthy—subjects. She had exacting taste and insisted on being the most spectacularly dressed woman in any room, a feat not difficult when fortune provided no obstacle. The finest fabrics, laces, and embroidery were at her disposal, and she insisted on silk stockings rather than cloth. Her selection of jewelry—from ropes of pearls to strings of diamonds—was unmatched.
    To enhance her complexion, scarred, though not badly, by a bout of smallpox, Elizabeth turned to ceruse, a foundation made from lead and vinegar, which brightened her skin. A wash of egg white across the cheeks would give a smooth finish and a hint of vermilion on the lips would complete her toilette with stunning results that were mimicked by her courtiers, always eager to imitate the queen.
    It pleased her to see them copy her, although lately she’d begun to notice a disparity between herself and her ladies. They were so much younger, and no matter how spectacular she was, she could only hide her increasingly fragile skin and dulling complexion for so long. It was impossible to compete with youth.
    This angered her. On occasion she’d considered having only ladies older than herself around her. But she found them too dull. She had no doubt she could bewitch any man—who could resist her, the virgin queen? No mortal man. Not when an alliance with her could bring him the world.
    Which was precisely the problem. Who could love her and not want her to bring him the world? She considered Raleigh. He was a man who already had the world, or at least parts of it—and she had begun to wonder, tentatively, cautiously, if he might have something worth offering to her.
    “I suspect him of being a professional charmer,” she said to Bess, who was seated next to her in her bedchamber, closing the book she’d been reading to the queen. “Am I right?”
    “He certainly is charming, my lady,” Bess replied, a delicate hand flying to her cheek. Elizabeth felt like a girl, sharing whispered confidences with a friend.
    “There are duller professions,” Elizabeth said. “And what is it that he hopes to gain by his charms?”
    “He hopes for glory in his New World. He dreams of building a shining city.” There was a revealing eagerness in Bess’s voice, an eagerness shared by the queen, though she would not admit it to her lady-in-waiting.
    “You’d think it would be enough for a man to discover the place, but already he wants more. That’s the drawback of America. There’s so much of it.” She stopped, watched Bess, saw the hint of color creeping up her face, the way she bit her lip. “You like him, don’t you?”
    “If it pleases you.”
    “Ah, well. It’s refreshing to meet a man who looks to a world beyond the court. Let him come again.” And she knew, as she said the words, that she would be looking for him every time the door opened, every time