Follow Your Heart

by Ruth Kaufman

  “What shall I do?” Adrian asked.

  “Remain still and sit. Try not to move.”

  “Just sit?” He shifted, as if already uncomfortable with inactivity. Or having her study him.

  “Yes. It’s harder than it sounds.” She sat in her chair. “Please turn a little more to the right.”

  Lord, he was beautiful.

  Joanna couldn’t wait to begin.

  Adrian complied, feeling ill at ease as she scrutinized him.

  “A bit more…stop! That’s perfect.”

  She had a writing desk on her lap. On the small table next to her waited a pen, ink and charcoal. She selected the pen, dipped it into the ink, then paused over her parchment as she considered him.

  This had to be the strangest thing he’d ever done with a woman. He’d slept with several, seen their naked flesh and touched them in their most private places. Yet this meeting felt more intimate, though they were fully clothed. Though they merely sat close together, not speaking. Or doing anything besides watching each other intently.

  Joanna tilted her head slightly to the side, then concentrated on the lines she sketched. As she worked, with the only sound the scratch of her pen, he had time to notice more about her than he’d ever noticed about anyone. He’d never paid much attention to what people wore or how they looked, or wanted to, until now. Everything about Joanna intrigued him.

  If he hadn’t thought to look for the cut on her cheek, he wouldn’t have known it was there. Her red-gold hair was down, the way he liked it. She’d pulled the front portions back and secured them with a ribbon. The rest tumbled down her back past her waist. As she bent forward to outline his head, a few curls fell over her shoulder. The way the sunlight made her hair shimmer enchanted him. Each curl seemed highlighted with liquid gold. God, he wanted to touch that hair.

  Clenching his fists, he looked out the window.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No, why?”

  “You tensed and changed position,” she said.

  “Oh.” He returned to his original pose. “You were right. Sitting still is more difficult than it seems.”

  She dipped her pen in the ink. “Glass-painters often reuse their drawings. My father left his book of drawings to me in his will. But I grow tired of seeing the same face in every window I make. More so than I’m bothered by the same canopy or design element. So I thought I’d try to capture some interesting faces for new designs. Like yours.” She stared at him for a moment, then returned to her drawing.

  Joanna’s hand moved swiftly over the parchment, then dipped pen into ink and returned to draw. When he’d arrived, he’d sensed nervousness in the way she glanced at him then away, how she picked up and put down her supplies for no apparent reason. Now each movement revealed confidence and faith in her skills.

  No one had ever spent so much time looking at him, or studied him so intently. He felt her gaze, could tell when she examined his eyes or his cheeks. His skin began to tingle. A hot flush raced from his face to his groin. He resisted the urge to move.

  What was wrong with him? This wasn’t meant to be an erotic experience. Two fully dressed people staring at each other, that was all.

  He concentrated on her clothing. She wore an undergown of deep red wool with an overgown of dark blue. The gown had a scooped front that clung to her full breasts. Her breasts. No, he couldn’t think on those, their sweet curves or how they would feel filling his hands. How he wanted to make her moan with pleasure—

  Move on to something else. But he couldn’t see her shoes, she wore no jewelry. Help. He was running out of safe things to look at.

  She ran her tongue over her lips. It was sweetly pink, and the way her moistened lips….

  How would he ever survive two more sittings when all he wanted to do was touch her?

  “Not a word is true. How can I make you believe me?” Joanna’s knees gave way. She dropped onto a stool in her workshop. Sweat beaded on her upper lip despite the slight chill. Her hands were fisted in her skirts.

  “Mistress Joanna, I am sorry,” said John Petty, head of York’s Glazier’s Guild. He pointed to several documents he’d placed between them. “The evidence goes against you. I have received complaints from both Edward of Wykeham and All Saints Church. And I’ve heard several tales of your drinking.”

  A tall man whose costly robes hung loosely on his frame, John Petty had supported Joanna from the beginning of her career. Which is why his doubt hurt so much now.

  “Master Petty, John Twygge made all of this ‘evidence’ up. He told me as much when he…”

  “Do you have a signed confession from him?”

  Joanna shook her head.

  “Have you witnesses, as he does?”

  “No, not at this time.” Her thoughts raced, but failed to latch onto a solution. Adrian had witnessed John hitting her, but hadn’t heard their conversation. Would anyone support her, or would they too believe John’s lies?

  “I’m sorely disappointed in you, Joanna. I was warned that you might blame your mistakes on another. You know the rules.” He rose from his stool and paced the few steps to the front window: her father’s creation of a glazier at work, once a reminder of all she hoped to achieve. A sign that her father was still with her. Now the window represented all that was at stake.

  Joanna’s heart sank. Her former mentor couldn’t meet her gaze, he was that ashamed. Her father would’ve been, also, because she let the situation get so out of hand by being too trusting. A flaw she couldn’t seem to fix. But she couldn’t melt herself down like an imperfect piece of glass. She’d have to mold herself into a wiser, more capable woman.

  “What is the fine?”

  Not that she thought she should pay, or could afford to. She had few spare coins to her name. All she’d earned was invested in her supplies.

  “Payment of a mark or two won’t compensate for your behavior.” He turned toward her, his face full of disdain. The number of times he’d looked at her with warmth made his coldness all the more painful. “I regret to inform you that I must revoke your guild membership. Effective immediately. As the rules say, ‘Whomsoever is found untrue of his tongue is to be avoided from the said craft unto the time that he find sufficient surety of his truth and good bearing.’”

  Joanna jumped to her feet. “Master Petty, finding proof of my innocence in the face of these lies will take time. If I’m no longer part of the guild, I can’t sell to my clients. I’ll be forced to let them down and make matters worse.” She couldn’t bear doing so.

  “It seems you already have.” He walked to her table and examined her work in progress, a window for a musician that incorporated his viol and lines of notes. He shook his head. “Your talents will be sorely missed.”

  “I have outstanding obligations to fulfill. You were my father’s friend, you know how hard we’ve worked to make this workshop thrive,” Joanna said, failing to keep a pleading tone from her voice.

  Master Petty frowned.

  If personal reasons wouldn’t sway him, perhaps her experience would.

  “I completed my apprenticeship years ago and submitted my master-piece to prove my skills. I’ve paid my admission fees. My work has passed the searchers’ inspections time and time again,” she said. “And I’m in the Freeman’s Register.”

  “Despite your skill, your experience, your achievements, we have standards to uphold. You’ve violated guild rules,” Master Petty replied. He pushed a piece of glass into its place on her design, then looked at Joanna. “Your father would be most disheartened to see his hard-earned reputation destroyed by a fickle woman.”

  Joanna gasped. “Is that it? You’re building a case to reject me because I’m a woman?”

  “We don’t want members who fail to meet their deadlines, nor do we want those who produce inferior work. Such behavior reflects poorly on us all.” Master Petty closed his eyes briefly and folded his hands. “I’ve had no reason to distrust you before. So I’ll give
you the benefit of the doubt. If you can disprove these claims within a week, I’ll see what I can do to reinstate you.”

  Her nails bit into her palms but she needed the pressure to keep from crying. “I appreciate your kindness, but one week…”

  “…is more than I should allow,” he said. “You had best get to work, Mistress Joanna. Farewell.”

  Two visits in two days from two men who were destroying her. Joanna rubbed at the small line of stinging marks her nails had made. The frying pan or the fire, that’s what her life had come to. Only a week to defend herself from carefully and deeply plotted false accusations.

  Would she have to marry John just to stop him from ruining her career?

  She couldn’t keep back tears that threatened. They dripped down her cheeks, draining her like a squeezed sponge.

  The familiar stacks of white and colored glass, pots of paint, dozens of tools and brushes, her design table and her small furnace for firing the pigment onto the glass pieces. The implements of her success, now useless to her. If they could speak, they’d laugh, mocking her weaknesses. Her failures. She swiped the tears away.

  Margery rushed in, closing the door against the crisp air. “Have you been crying?”

  Joanna ran her hands through her hair, working her way through the tangles. If only she could unsnarl her life as easily. “What was I thinking, trying to make my way in a world that men control? Shouldn’t I be happy, as so many other women seem to be, running my household with a husband and children?”

  She shouldn’t want more. What was she trying to prove?

  “But Joanna, you’re not like other women. I mean that as a compliment,” Margery said as she removed her cloak.

  Before Master Petty arrived, Joanna had been using the tip of her brush handle to pick out an inscription. She couldn’t concentrate on fine details just now. And why bother? She couldn’t legally deliver the piece even if she finished it. “Maybe you were right. It would be easier to give William all responsibility so I could paint for pleasure alone. If his views on the way the studio should be run differ from mine, so be it.”

  “Joanna, what’s happened? This isn’t like you. William would never have the discipline to manage the myriad details you deal with every day. And worse, he’d gamble away any profits,” Margery warned. She moved to Joanna’s table and looked over her shoulder. “That’s coming along nicely. Martin’s fingers on the viol strings look so real.”

  “My thanks.” But what did her skills matter now? “All I’ve ever wanted was to work with Father. I promised him again and again that I’d carry on in his stead.”

  She’d begun her apprenticeship at the age of seven, needing even at that early age to create, to perpetuate beauty. Back then, she’d spent hours staring at the vast, elaborately detailed stained glass windows in York Minster. She knew she was the luckiest girl alive because her father made windows and soon she would, too. To fulfill the promise she made to her father on his deathbed, she couldn’t give up. No matter the obstacles she faced.

  “Did I pass Master Petty on my way here?” Margery asked.

  Joanna filled Margery in on the details of Master Petty’s visit.

  “Oh, Joanna. I’m so sorry.” Margery gave her a quick hug, which brought fresh tears to Joanna’s eyes. “I’ve never been fond of John, but didn’t know he could be so cruel.”

  “Before my world collapsed, I spent most of the afternoon drawing a model.” The thought of Adrian warmed her. “I’ll use his face in some future projects, but I shouldn’t have dallied. I have important deadlines. Now, one even more important: a mere week to find proof of my innocence to salvage my guild membership.”

  “A model? How did you find one? Is he handsome? Unwed?”

  “I first saw him at Lady Anne’s. And he is handsome. And unwed.” The memory of her impetuous proposal stung. She’d allowed her fascination with Sir Adrian and his physical perfection to distract her. Capturing his likeness on parchment hadn’t satisfied her interest the way she’d hoped. He hadn’t spoken much, which heightened her need to learn more. A couple of times his intense gaze made her think he saw her as a woman, not merely a means to an end. She couldn’t stop herself from wishing he was attracted to her. Unsettling, because this was the first time she’d had such thoughts about a man.

  As much as she wanted to spend more time with him, she’d have to postpone, maybe even cancel, their remaining sittings. How could she afford to enjoy herself when she was forbidden to sell her wares? When she stood to lose everything she’d worked so hard for?

  “What are you going to do?” Margery asked.

  “If I fail, move away from York, somewhere the guild lacks jurisdiction. No, I don’t mean that.” Joanna needed the prestige and security of guild membership to secure clients. “The only solution I can think of is to visit clients John hasn’t swayed and garner their support. And call upon the clients who have complained to convince them John has been lying. Perhaps then they will retract their complaints. Will you come with me?”

  Unfortunately, her chance of success would be much greater with a husband standing beside her. A man to champion her would impress clients far more than another woman. A nobleman would impress even more. If only Sir Adrian had accepted her offer of marriage.

  Her brother and John had put her in an untenable position. The additional consequence of their slander was that instead of making progress on promised windows, she’d have to spend the majority of her time defending her position, thus putting her farther behind.

  Could she salvage her ruined reputation in a week?

  Chapter 5

  Adrian’s nerves were on edge as he entered the meager quarters he shared with his twin. He’d left Joanna’s workshop with a promise to return later in the week to sit for her again. Though they hadn’t mentioned their peculiar conversation about marriage, it felt unresolved. He wanted to help her, yet how could he?

  Though he wanted her.

  He girded himself for another confrontation with his sanctimonious twin. Andrew awaited with the dour expression that reflected how he’d changed over the years from the laughing child everyone once doted on to a judge always ready to pronounce a dire sentence. As a boy, Adrian had often been jealous of the attention his outgoing twin received. Especially every time he had to hide when he suspected a vision was forthcoming while Andrew remained in pleasant company.

  Andrew sat in his high-backed chair facing the door, slowly tapping each of his long fingers on the carved arms. The detailed carvings of birds made the chair quite uncomfortable, yet Andrew sat in it for hours.

  A chair. All they possessed from their once-vast estate. A chair and two pieces of jewelry: their father’s gold signet ring and a ring of braided gold with a dark amethyst in the center. Adrian wore the signet ring on his right hand as his father had done; Andrew had placed their mother’s ring on a thin strip of leather he wore around his neck.

  Deprivation and fear had diverse effects on people. Adrian knew his childhood suffering made him even more ambitious. More determined to prove to the world and himself that he could accomplish whatever goals he set. Then his worth would be obvious to all.

  Andrew had become increasingly morose, with religion his consolation. If not for his brother’s seemingly incessant need for pleasures of the flesh, Adrian was certain Andrew would’ve become a monk or a priest. The kind who wore hair shirts and believed self-flagellation proved penitence and faith. When Andrew wasn’t in his chair, he was on his knees, praying.

  But he was the only family Adrian had left.

  Adrian’s greyhounds, Beowulf and Chaucer, bounded over to him. He bent to greet them, smiling at their boisterous play.

  “Where were you? Why did you miss morning Mass?” Andrew demanded.

  Andrew’s need to know his whereabouts was just one quirk Adrian found annoying. “I’m sitting as a model for a glass-painter in exchange for some rare windows.”

  “How enterprising. We need so many windows here,
” Andrew said, a wave of his hand indicating their plaster walls.

  Andrew’s way of offering a compliment and a criticism at the same time grated on Adrian’s nerves. “The windows are for Bedford Castle.”

  “Do you know something you haven’t shared? You act as though it will be ours again any day now.” Andrew leaned forward. “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because I will make it so.” Adrian bit his tongue to prevent himself from telling Andrew about his relations with Lady Anne. Even though the end result was what they both wanted, his behavior would never justify the means to Andrew.

  “God sees to our needs. You of all people should know that and pray for your soul as I do. For the burden of concealing your true nature continues to weigh on mine.”

  Adrian gritted his teeth. Would he ever get used to Andrew’s babble? He’d learned to keep his mouth shut. A verbal battle with Andrew inevitably left him the loser.

  Though his patience was short, Adrian tried to be understanding with the one person who really knew him and accepted him as he was. He owed his brother much for keeping the secret that could mean his death should anyone else learn of it.

  “How much coin was dispensed on the fine garments you wear?”

  Self-consciously, Adrian smoothed the front of his new tunic, the only one he owned that wasn’t frayed or out of fashion.

  “It’s plain, lacking embroidery or jewels.” Adrian couldn’t stop himself from sounding defensive. “I need to look the part when I go to court. A downtrodden appearance won’t aid our cause.”

  Andrew’s criticism was getting out of hand. But at present, he had no solution to curb it.

  Andrew sneered as he watched his brother romp with his mangy dogs. Adrian rarely listened to him anymore. Had he ever really been in charge of Adrian, or had Adrian’s silence oft made it seem as though Andrew had some control?