In High Places by Bonny G Smith

Author:Bonny G Smith [Smith, Bonny G]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781729696484
Published: 2018-11-19T05:00:00+00:00

Richmond Palace, June 1571

Elizabeth reclined in a chair made for the express purpose of applying her daily court face. It was more of a cushioned seat with a slanting backboard, but there was nothing plain about it; it was carved with Tudor roses and gilt. It was a most unusual piece of furniture; it placed the queen at exactly the correct angle for Mrs. Frankwell, Elizabeth’s Mistress of the Still Room, to apply the mixture of beaten egg whites, crushed white egg shells, white poppy seeds and white lead with which she painted the queen’s face each morning.

This cosmetic was Mrs. Frankwell’s own special concoction and was, in Elizabeth’s opinion, far superior to the costly Venetian Ceruse and Spirits of Saturn that she had begun ordering from the Continent after she recovered from her deadly attack of Small Pox in 1562. Thanks to the ungracious and difficult Dr. Burkhardt, who had employed the use of red flannel during her illness, she was not as scarred as some; poor Mary Sidney, Robert’s sister, had a face so ravaged that she rarely left Penshurst Place anymore.

Elizabeth had not escaped the scourge unmarked, but the pits she had were very small, and if the precious white paste was applied just so, hardly showed at all. Mrs. Frankwell had just lifted the brush made of a blend of badger, squirrel and stoat hair, its bristles delicately fanned, when an urgent knocking at the door disturbed Elizabeth’s train of thought; she used the time each morning when her makeup was being applied and her hair dressed to think, and usually lapsed into a trance-like state as she did so until Mrs. Frankwell ended the session with her usual comment of, “Well, then, Your Grace.” They were the only words Mrs. Frankwell ever uttered besides, “Good morrow, Your Grace.” After the morning application of makeup, Mrs. Frankwell, a small bird-like woman, repaired back to her stillroom to see to her concoctions and decoctions, and would not be seen for the remainder of the day. She was paid £40 per annum for her pains.

Without opening her eyes, Elizabeth said, “Lady Sandes, see what is to do.” With a slight movement of her hand, she indicated that Mrs. Frankwell was to resume her ministrations. The feather light touch of the brush told Elizabeth that the smooth paste was being applied.

Her ladies knew who was permitted to enter the queen’s presence whilst she was in dishabille, and those who were not. There were two sorts of men at court, those who courted the queen and those who did not. And then there was Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester,who was in a class by himself. Elizabeth was a vain woman. She would not allow the men who courted her to see her otherwise than perfect; her skin painted, her body washed, perfumed, begowned and bejeweled, and her hair coifed.

And there was another rub besides her pitted skin; the pox had had a most distressing effect upon her hair. Gone were the abundant, red-gold locks that still appeared thick and lustrous in her coronation portrait.

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