by Edith Layton
“Ah. Canterbury. Well then,” Lord Hastings said, thinking furiously. “Yes, yes, well. That could be young Tilsiter. John Tilsiter, bright young lad. Old family, old-fashioned. Did he have a mole on his chin?”
Magnus frowned. “Not sure,” he said.
“Then it could be Sir Francis Raynor. His family’s been there for generations too. Did he have a lisp?”
“Ah, might have,” Magnus said, thinking deeply.
“The only other person it could possibly have been is FitzWilliams, George FitzWilliams. He’s looking for a wife again. Was he tall and thin?”
“That might be he,” Magnus said heartily, “Thank you, sir. You don’t know what a help you’ve been.”
Lord Hastings preened himself, and was about to start a really interesting conversation about the mysterious glowing girl Snow had brought to the party, but before he could open his mouth, Magnus bowed, turned, and strode off into the night again.
Once there, he chuckled and patted the buckle he’d pulled off his shoe and put in his pocket before he’d gone back to the diminishing party. Grinning, he strode home. Three names of men of Canterbury—where Cristabel’s lady mother had come from. All gotten without anyone knowing the wiser. Lord Hastings had helped him more than he knew, and certainly more than he’d ever know.
CHAPTER 10
“We have a house in Kent,” Magnus was saying, “not too far from the sea. I think you’ll like it. It’s our principal seat and my favorite house. I hope to take you there soon as the weather’s warm enough to make the trip comfortable.”
He had an estate in Kent with more rooms than a blowfish had eggs, Cristabel thought glumly, or so Sophia had said. She paced along at his side as they strolled through Green Park.
“Of course, we’ve also got a snug little place up-country, in a land of lakes and stone circles. It’s wild and magical there. Deep summer’s the best time to go, but it has its enchantments in winter too; if it weren’t such a tedious trip, I’d take you there to see it now. But the inns are as unreliable as the roads are,” Magnus said pensively. “Travel’s no easy thing in this land, especially in winter.”
He owned a mansion on a lake there, as well as half the adjoining town. And his own dairy, greenhouse, and blacksmiths, two coaches, and more horses than she’d seen together in her life. Or so Sophia said.
“Then there’s the place in Wales, beautiful and wild, with a waterfall nearby. But that’s really remote. That’s definitely for another time,” he said, grinning just thinking about himself and Cristabel on their honeymoon, alone together in the warm old house set deep in the forest.
“The finest house my father has is a seagoing one,” Cristabel told him. “It’s the size of a mountain, made from trees from the mountains of the North and fitted out with the best woods from the East besides. His cabin has mahogany floors and a window high as two men and so wide, a child can stretch out to sleep on the ledge in front of it without her feet touching either end. It shows the sea better than the eye of a whale does, far and wide and to the horizon, The sunlight sparkling off the water shows off his beautiful carpets and bed dressings—all silk and damask from every land that touches the sea. He has fine compasses and maps, spyglasses and sextants, globes, and a desk made of solid oak besides there. He won it. It used to be a Spanish ship—it’s truly a place fit for a pirate king,” she said, her voice growing soft as she traveled back to that magical place in her memory.
“But a ship’s no place for children, except for a visit,” she went on. “The finest house I ever lived in was in old Port Royale, before the quake. It had five rooms and glass at all the windows. But the best place I ever lived was the house I was in when I met Martin. It had two rooms, little green lizards running on the walls, a tin roof, and no glass for anything but holding rum and water. It was surrounded by flowers. It was by the sea, and you could hear it at night like breathing when the tide licked at the shore…
“Of course,” she said in a suddenly altered voice, “that was when there wasn’t a party going on down by the shore. Or when there wasn’t a new crop of prisoners to keep fenced in there. On those nights, all you could hear was laughing and screaming, moaning and music.”
He stopped and faced her. Her hands were deep in a fur muff she held like a lifeline in front of her. He put his hands lightly on her shoulders.
“My father likes to play chess,” he said, looking down at her averted face, “interminable games, some played by post, with men from remote parts of the kingdom. It takes weeks sometimes for him to know his opponent’s next move. I never saw anything so tedious in my life, and when I was a child, I could never understand why he got so excited when he received a letter with another move in it. His hands would actually shake. I don’t play chess to this day. I can, but I don’t.”
She realized he was trying to spare her feelings, but her voice was still sad when she answered, “Yes, but I doubt he ever hurt anyone playing chess.”
“I doubt you ever hurt anyone when your father was holding his revels,” he said.
She nodded, conceding the point, and dared to look up into his concerned eyes. “Where does your father live?” she asked in a brighter voice.
He smiled a crooked half-smile and she felt her heart turn over. “Very good,” he congratulated her. “My father? Why, he lives in Kent. But when we visit, it might be hard to find him because he generally stays in his study.”
“And there are about a thousand rooms,” she said snidely.
His eyebrows rose. “Ah, Sophia’s been chatting with you,” he said, taking her arm as they began to walk again. “No, actually there are nine hundred and sixty-five rooms less than a thousand.”
She tried to imagine such a huge home and gave up. “Ah, a cottage, I see,” she finally said.
They laughed so loudly, they sent a squirrel scurrying up a nearby tree. The park was winter-locked and still, but various hardy people of fashion walked and rode by and bowed to them as they passed.
“When you have a house like that,” she said awkwardly, because she didn’t know if it was right to ask, but she was curious, “does your whole family live in it together? I mean, you said Martin has to look after his estate now. Does that mean that he and Sophia live there with you and your parents?”
“Worried about my relatives crowding you out of my house?” he asked, and grinned when she looked knives at him. “Don’t. The estate in Kent is our principal holding, so it’s my father’s and one day will be mine—one day a very long time from now, God grant. Martin has his own estate in Surrey and another that was Sophia’s portion, in the West country. Don’t worry, if you don’t care for family, our house in Kent has enough rooms to hide from them in—no lizards, though, I’m afraid. Otherwise I think you’ll like it, if you don’t feel cramped by my parents. The house in the North and the one in Wales are my own, so you won’t have to share if you decide we should live there instead. You don’t have to choose right away; we can winter in London until the children come and then make up our minds. Or we could keep traveling between houses like Queen Bess in a bad temper, if you like.”
“My lord,” she said with warning.
“No joking matter? I agree, we’ll be very serious about it. Where do you want us to live?”
He was being impossible, and she knew he knew it by his wide grin. They’d been having such a good time, discussing things that were interesting but not dangerous. Talk about books had led them to the book Robinson Crusoe, which they’d both read. That led to talking about the Islands, and then homes, and then he’d started in again about what they’d do when they were wed—as he’d done for the past week since he’d announced his intentions to her. He hadn’t kissed her since, but his talk was more and more about their future together. It was all so frightening, tempting, and puzzling. She couldn’t marry him. But neither could she leave him—just yet.
She had to change the subject, fast. “Will Sophia go to Surrey with Martin in the spring, or to her own
home, or will she stay here, do you think?” she asked.
“Why do you ask? Have you become that attached to Sophia?”
“No, it’s just that I don’t understand some of the things you noble people do. Since they don’t live together, I wondered,” she said.
“What?” he asked, stopping in his tracks. “Now you’ve lost me. How do pirate couples live together any more than Martin and Sophia do? This sounds promising.”
“No, I mean, since they don’t actually live together the way married folk do, I mean, not sleep together and… Oh, damn ’n blast, ’n curse me blasted ruddy tongue,” she muttered, running out of words as she read the look of astonishment on his face, and knew she had a lot of explaining to do.
But he didn’t say much when she was done with her halting explanation.
“What a fool. Still, Martin acts much younger than he is,” Magnus sighed. And Sophia—I might have guessed.” He stared down at Cristabel and smiled. “This, my dear, is not what’s customarily done in England, I promise you. If it were, we’d have very few Englishmen, and if you’ll take a look around, you’ll see we have no scarcity. Only a young idiot like Martin, married to a shrew like Sophia, would come to that kind of arrangement. Most men and women find a shared bed a shared joy, Cristabel; it’s said to be one of the greatest delights in marriage.”
“Well, I don’t see what’s the matter with what they’re doing,” Cristabel argued. She’d say anything to wipe that tender, amused, intimate expression from his face. It was too unsettling. “I mean, why should a female have to bear children just to make her husband happy?”
“It doesn’t always result in babies,” he reminded her. “If it does, it makes her happy too. Or should, if there’s love in it. But you know that.”
“I know that men use the word love to get women into bed,” she snapped, “and I know they find that bed right uncomfortable, since so many are so happy to bounce right out of it again to try for a more comfortable berth in some other woman’s bed.”
“Cristabel,” he said with absolute sobriety, taking her muff in his two hands and sliding his hands inside to hold hers tight there; his hands swallowed hers up. His voice was low enough to chill her, warm enough to make her blush. “This much, at least, I can promise. I’ll never deceive you, Cristabel. There’ll be no other woman for me after we are wed. It’s not my way. You have my word.”
His expression made her want to look away so she could hold on to her composure. But his wide shoulders blocked out the scene behind him. His face was the only thing she really wanted to see anyway, and so she closed her eyes, and hardened her heart. “I won’t wed you,” she said.
“Ah, the pirate’s daughter and the sultan’s son thing again,” he sighed.
“Earl’s son,” she corrected him, slipping her hands out of his warm clasp.
“Same thing.” He shrugged, and they started laughing again, in spite of how hard Cristabel tried not to.
When the wind picked up, they returned to Martin’s house. Cristabel wasn’t used to an English winter, and though she said she found the cold invigorating, Magnus noticed she said it through chattering teeth. Sophia was out shopping, so Magnus delivered Cristabel to Martin.
“It’s too cold for a troll out there, much less a tropical flower,” he told Martin, and then warned Cristabel, “so warm yourself thoroughly this afternoon, and then bundle up again and be ready, because I’m coming back to take everyone out to dine tonight at that new French restaurant in the Strand.”
She wanted to say she’d prefer not to, but there was nothing she’d rather do instead. It was dangerous and unsettling for her to continue to stay here and keep seeing him, but the thought of leaving the only house and the only people she knew in London was terrifying. Especially since she knew it wasn’t the house or the people she’d miss, but only one man. She could leave, of course, she told herself: She was brave enough to do anything. But she didn’t know if she was more afraid of knowing him better or of never knowing anything more about him. The only way to find out was to continue staying until she did know. Somehow that decision, which was no decision at all, pleased her. She nodded.
“Fine. Until then,” she said lightly, and turned from him and went to her room.
“Some flower, with steel petals,” Martin remarked when she’d gone.
“Yes, but that seems to be the only kind of female we Snows appreciate,” Magnus said in a troubled voice.
“Speak for yourself, brother,” Martin laughed. “Cristabel looks like an orchid, but she’s surrounded by thorns. My Sophia looks like an English rose, but she’s more of a tender clinging vine.”
“If she has no thorns, then why are you so afraid to get close to her?” Magnus asked.
Martin stared at him.
Magnus thrust his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “Pay me no mind, brother,” he said gruffly. “I spoke out of turn.”
“Out of your mind, not out of turn. What are you talking about?” Martin said, but his fair skin betrayed a growing flush on his neck.
Magnus jerked his head in the direction of the study, and without a word, both brothers went into the room and closed the door behind them.
“It’s not my business,” Magnus said immediately, turning to stare out the window so he could avoid his brother’s eye.
“Since when has that stopped you from saying anything to me?” Martin asked, but there was more tension in his voice than merriment.
“True,” Magnus said gloomily. “’Od’s blood! Is it this way with one’s children? I treat you like the child you were, but I know you’re not one anymore. Yet if I don’t, I think I’ve failed you… In truth, Martin, this thing is not my business and yet it is because you’re always my business.”
“What thing?” Martin said, growing very still.
“If you have a houseguest, you should be sure your house is in order,” Magnus growled, “especially if she’s always watching everything around her, wanting to learn the ways of a new land and copy them.” He ran his hand through his hair, turned around, and glowered at Martin. “I had to tell Cristabel that it is not the way of the land. That a man beds his wife in this land…if he can. Or else he becomes a monk, or stays a rake. But a wife is not an ornament or a male friend. She’s more than that, or should be.”
“And if a man wants to spare his wife children?” Martin said through white lips.
“Then he spares her his name, damn it!” Magnus said. “Why marry if you don’t want children anyway?”
“I do want children,” Martin said, his face reddening.
“And she does not?”
“She does, but not just yet—I don’t know why I have to justify this to you,” Martin said angrily.
“You don’t,” Magnus began, but Martin interrupted him.
“It’s just that she’s so young, she wants some fun before she’s encumbered with a baby,” he said defensively, “that’s all.”
“That’s a great deal,” Magnus said soberly. “Life is very short and uncertain, as we both know too well. We had two sisters and a brother whose children we’ll never see. And you and Sophia are no longer children. It worries me. I thought you were too young to marry, but you said you must have her. Now you do, and you don’t. You could have remained a friend, but you chose to become a husband. It’s just an empty title. Since you’re her husband now, I think you’d better start becoming one, or else—ah, Martin, I only tell you this because I worry about you and the bargain you’ve made. There’s a time and a tide in the affairs between men and women, just as the Bard said. There’s a danger too. If you play the monk too long, you’ll become one in her eyes. Love is in the heart, but desire is born in the eyes. It dies there too. If you treat her like a sister, you may become a brother to her in time.”
“Really? That’s good then,” Martin said stiffly. “It might be for the best. Because I think I need one myself now. A different one.”
Magnus raised his eyebrows. “I see,” he
said. “So be it.” He bowed curtly, and left the room, and then the house.
Magnus was very glad he had important errands to do, because he refused to think about what he’d just done. He didn’t want to think that once again his love had failed to save someone, and worse—might have actually lost him someone dear.
He strode through the streets of London, his mind focused on his errand. His first stop was at a particular coffeehouse in Pall Mall. A waiter told him that the young man he was looking for was sitting near a window with a paper. He introduced himself and then joined young John Tilsiter, of Canterbury, and had to listen to an hour of foolish opinions on the new king and his consort. But in the course of that hour, by carefully placed, innocent-seeming questions, he learned something that made him spill his coffee across the tabletop. He made profuse apologies for his clumsiness, saying it was because of the size of his hands; and was glad no one he knew was there to see it because they’d know he was never clumsy, hands, feet, or body. But he couldn’t afford to let the boy know it was due to his shock.
When Magnus left, he was his usual calm self again, sure that young Tilsiter had gotten the story wrong. It had all taken place before his time, after all, and so surely he had to be wrong.
Then Magnus dropped in for a bite to eat in a tavern in St. James Street, where, as he’d been told he would, he found Sir Francis Raynor with a group of friends. Again he had to make idle chat for another hour, and had given up hope of getting the man alone, when Sir Francis announced he had to go home to change for dinner. Magnus swiftly offered to accompany him. The willowy Sir Francis was delighted to have someone Magnus’s size with him as dusk began to fall. They chatted as they strolled, and didn’t stop until Magnus stumbled. He regained his balance, and joked about his ridiculous size and gracelessness until he was sure Sir Francis had forgotten what he’d been talking about when he’d missed his step. But he still couldn’t believe it. After all, Sir Francis had been gone from Canterbury for ten years, and what a man doesn’t forget in that time, he can muddle.
