Sir George could not sit eternally on the fence. His son-in-law, the Earl of Fleet, visited in November, together with his wife, and taxed Sir George on his allegiance. Sir George intimated that he had none, but Lady Margaret, sitting at her end of the great dining table, frankly declared that Lazen Castle was for the King.

Her daughter, Anne, was shocked. “You can’t be, mother!”

“Can’t, child! Can’t! You wish me to rebel against my King? The Fleets may do that, but the Lazenders no.”

The Earl of Fleet frowned at the table. “This is unhappy. Unhappy.”

“Certainly it is unhappy, Fleet. I have no wish to see my daughter’s husband lose his head, yet I probably shall. Tower Hill is a bad place to die.

Sir George hurried to say that it was doubtful whether anyone would be executed on Tower Hill, that times had changed, that men of moderation would doubtless find a compromise to the struggle, but Lady Margaret would have none of it.

“Rebels are rebels, and rebels should be executed.”

Anne, the Countess of Fleet, stared at her mother. “I am a rebel, Mother?”

“I just hope the axe is sharp. Pass the butter, Campion. George, your sleeve is in the gravy.”

The subject had been dropped, the Fleets leaving next day with an unhappy promise to return for Christmas. The war was souring the family.

Yet war or no war, these were happy days for Campion and days of change. For the first time in her life she dressed in clothes that were intended to be pretty instead of acting as shrouds to hide the shame of being a woman. Lady Margaret had once been a passionate dressmaker, a job now sensibly left to the castle’s two seamstresses, but old chests were opened and Campion was clothed in satin, muslin, lace and silk. Her new dresses had soft, flowing lines and were tight-waisted with their skirts split to reveal the petticoats beneath. The necklines were low, trimmed with satin or lace, and even though they were worn with shawls about her shoulders, the dresses seemed so immodest that, at first, Campion was ashamed to wear them. Lady Margaret would have none of it.

“What’s the matter?”

Campion pointed to the expanse of skin revealed above the dress. “It feels strange.”

“Strange? You’ve got nothing there that’s big enough to be strange!” She twitched the diamond-shaped velvet stomacher that was tight at Campion’s waist. “You’re thin, dear. Now show me the blue.”

The blue dress was Campion’s favorite, perhaps because the powder-blue satin was the same color as the cloak Toby had bought her. She had waited impatiently as the dress was stitched, yet the waiting had been worthwhile.

The blue dress was shockingly low, the square neckline hemmed in white silk that was cold on her breasts when she first put the dress on. The sleeves, too, were of white silk, but covered in blue ribbons that were sewn at wrist and shoulder so that, when she moved, her sleeves seemed a coruscation of white and blue above the triple cuffs of lace. The skirt was split in the center, pinned back to show the full-length white satin petticoat, and even Lady Margaret, curmudgeonly with compliments, shook her head in admiration. “You look lovely, child. Quite lovely.”