Page 201 of Feathers in the Wind
‘I think it a foolish notion, to dress up and pretend you are in times long past. It would be as idiotic as me pretending to be a bowman of Crecy.’
‘Oh, there are re-enactment groups who do that too.’ I smiled. ‘And Romans.’
Nat rolled his eyes and stowed the bag with his clothes in the boot of my car.
A large crowd had gathered at the Hall. The lady in the pink cardigan, flushed by the exertion of dealing with the number of visitors, greeted us like old friends.
‘Back again?’ she said. ‘We’ve got the Civil War Association here, you know.’
‘Yes, my brother is one of them.’
‘And what about you, dear?’ she addressed Nat, her eyes on the sword and boots he carried. ‘‘Are you getting dressed up too?’
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Isn’t that the point?’
‘Oh...but you’ve cut your lovely hair.’ The woman looked quite distraught.
Nat ran a hand through his shorn locks and gave her the benefit of his most disarming smile. ‘I am sure the likeness is still there.’
A faint color stained her cheeks and she giggled like a teenager. ‘I will be sure to look out for you,’ she said.
We identified Alan by the standard flying above his tent. He looked rather fine in his green jacket and sleeveless buff coat.
Nat shook his head. ‘This is some dream from which I will wake,’ he said.
‘Did you bring your clothes?’ Alan’s eyes gleamed.
‘Of course,’ Nat said as he set the bag down on the table. ‘And did you find something for Mistress Shepherd?’
‘Oh, I’m not getting dressed up. I don’t—’ But the protests died on my lips as Nat kissed me.
‘I would like to see you dressed as a proper woman,’ he whispered, cupping my face in his hand.
I batted it away. ‘You chauvinist. Do you think long skirts and corsets make me a proper woman?’
‘A lady suitable for my arm on this fine day of battle?’ Nat wheedled.
I relented, and with some help from a couple of the female camp followers, I entered into the spirit of the day, emerging in a heavy blue wool frock and neat lawn collar trimmed with lace. They could find no shoes to fit me, so I kept my sneakers on.
Nat held out his arm. ‘Now we look the part. Like a pair of strolling players.’
‘Except they didn’t have women actors in your day.’
‘True,’ he said.
‘You look stunning, Jess, although I’m not sure about the handbag,’ Alan observed, pointing to my large leather bag, slung over my shoulder.
‘I’m not leaving it in a tent.’
Alan shrugged. ‘We’ve got a little time before we kick off. I thought we should go and visit Nat’s sword,’ he said.
Unlike our previous visit, the great hall was full of tourists. Standing beneath his portrait, even with his hair cut short, there could be no denying Nathaniel Preston was the subject of Van Dyck’s portrait. My heart beat a little harder beneath the constricting bodice. Nat unsheathed the shining sword and held it up to the glass case. It was incredible to think it was the same weapon.
‘Well, well. That is a superb copy. Do you mind if I have a look?’
We turned to find ourselves face to face with the elderly gentleman dressed in the same tweed jacket we had passed in the woods the first day we had come to Heatherhill.
His gaze was fixed on Nat, who, without a word, presented the sword to him. The gentleman turned it over in his hands. ‘A perfect replica, right down to the nick just below the hilt. I commend you, sir. Where did you have it made?’
