Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

"Nay, nothing for me, mistress. I just...I don’t mean to impose on you."

  "You’re not imposing. I asked you to come."

  "It’s just that...my mum...I can’t talk to her. She’s gotten even worse of late."

  "I know."

  There came a pause. "Begging your pardon, mistress, but what’s that?"

  "It’s an orange. Have you never seen an orange before?"

  "Nay. Is it for eating?"

  "It’s a fruit. They grow them...well, I’m not sure where they grow them. Somewhere very far away. Smell it."

  After a moment, Olive said. "Oh. Isn’t that lovely. There’s an herb that smells a little like that."

  Graeham pinched a bit of cheese off the block and tossed it to the floor by the window. Manfrid jumped down, ate it, and looked at him expectantly.

  He tossed another piece a little closer to himself. The cat hesitated, then padded over to it and ate it, as well.

  Olive was telling Joanna how much she appreciated having her to talk to. "You’ve been so kind to me, mistress. You always have time for me. And you always know what to tell me. You always know what’s what."

  "Not always."

  "Aye, I’ve never known a woman so wise in the ways of things. I wish my mum was more like you."

  "Well..."

  "I wish I was more like you. I wish I was strong like you."

  "You’re strong, Olive."

  "Nay, I never could have gone through everything you’ve been through and kept my chin up like you have. Especially after you found out your husband was—"

  "Olive, we...we don’t need to talk about me."

  "Did I say something wrong, mistress?"

  "Nay, of course not. I just—"

  "Is it because I said that about Master Prewitt? I didn’t mean to stir up sad memories. I was that sorry when I found out what happened."

  "Olive, please..."

  The girl groaned remorsefully. "There I go, me and my mouth. I’m sorry, mistress. Sometimes I don’t know when to hold my tongue."

  Something tickled Graeham’s bare foot—Manfrid’s whiskers. Graeham broke off another crumb of cheese and held it toward the cat in the palm of his hand. Manfrid stared at it as if he could make it leap off Graeham’s hand by sheer force of will.

  "Olive," Joanna said, "why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?"

  Manfrid gazed at the cheese. Olive lapsed into silence. Graeham sighed.

  "There’s this man," Olive said, so softly Graeham could barely hear her. "I can’t tell you who he is."

  "Why not?"

  "There’d be trouble if it was found out...what’s transpired between us."

  "What has transpired between you, Olive?"

  When Olive finally spoke, her voice was damp and hoarse. "I love him, mistress. And...and he loves me."

  "That shouldn’t be cause for tears," Joanna said gently. "Here—dry your eyes."

  Olive muttered a watery thank you. "‘Twouldn’t be cause for tears, if only..." She sighed heavily. "If we could marry."

  "Why can’t you marry?"

  "We can’t." The girl broke down, her words consumed by sobs. "We can’t, we can’t."

  "There, now. Shh...It’s all right. Everything will be all right."

  "I know I should forget him. Nothing can come of my feelings for him. I try. I do try, I really do, but every time I see him, it’s as if...as if my heart’s being squeezed tight by a fist. That sounds very fanciful, I know, but I’m not clever with words. I don’t know how else to say it."

  "You said it just fine. I know exactly how you feel."

  "You do?"

  This time it was Joanna who took her time answering. Graeham looked toward the leather curtain, waiting for her to speak. "Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, I do."

  Manfrid nudged Graeham’s hand with his wet nose, and he realized his fingers had curled into a fist around the bit of cheese. He opened his hand and the cat ate the tidbit, then licked Graeham’s palm with his raspy tongue.

  Olive sniffed. "I must go. Mum doesn’t know I’m here. Thank you, mistress."

  "I’ve done nothing."

  "You listened."

  "But I didn’t help you."

  "There’s no help for me," Olive said, calmer now, "unless I can manage to put him out of my mind. But you let me talk, and that’s something. If it weren’t for you, my troubles would just fester inside me, like...like a bad tooth that never stops aching. You can’t imagine what it’s like to have no one to turn to."

  "Yes," Joanna said. "I can."

  Graeham heard footsteps as Joanna escorted Olive to the back door and let her out. He pressed himself into the corner until the girl had passed outside both windows, then grabbed his crutch and stood.

  Manfrid mewed.

  "Help yourself to the rest of the cheese," Graeham said magnanimously, and made his way back out to the salle.

  Joanna was sitting at the table, puzzling over the orange. "I can’t remember how to get the peel off. I suppose a servant always did it."

  "Give it here." Sitting opposite her, Graeham took the fruit and pierced the skin with his teeth, then loosened a section of its rind with his thumb and peeled it away.

  Joanna closed her eyes and inhaled as the orange released its exotically sweet fragrance. Graeham was reminded of how she’d looked last night, transfixed with pleasure as she breathed in the herbal steam rising from her bath. He wondered if she looked that way when she was making love.

  Christ, man, that’s the last thing you should be wondering about. Hadn’t his unruly imaginings caused enough trouble already? He’d best keep his passions firmly tethered during his stay here. There would be plenty of time to unleash them once he was wedded to Phillipa.

  "His name is Damian," Graeham said as he methodically stripped away bits of peel and white pith, which rose in a little pile on the table in front of him.

  "Whose name is Damian?"

  "Olive’s secret lover."

  "How do you know?"

  "I heard her with a man in the alley, remember? She called him Damian."

  "Damian..." Joanna gaze became unfocused. "There’s a priest at St. Olave’s named Damian."

  "A priest!" Graeham remembered the black-cloaked man walking away from the alley after his clandestine meeting with Olive. "I suppose he could be a priest. They have their human weaknesses like anyone else."

  "And that would account for why they can’t marry. But I just can’t see a man of Father Damian’s age taking up with a sixteen-year-old girl."

  "How old is he?"

  "Of middle years. Perhaps as old as fifty."

  Graeham shook his head. "This Damian, he sounded young."

  "It’s not him, then. Ah—there’s a young man in the neighborhood, Lionel Oxwyke’s son. Master Lionel is a money changer. He’s one of the wealthiest men in West Cheap—in all of London, for that matter. He lives in that big stone house on Milk Street next to le Fever’s."

  "The one that was built from paving stones?"

  "That’s the one. No doubt you’ve heard them screaming at each other."

  "Those fights are one of my major sources of entertainment." Graeham removed the last of the peel, split a section off and handed it to Joanna.

  She held it in front of the candle’s flame, her shimmery brown eyes taking his breath away. "It looks like a jewel," she said.

  Don’t stare at her, for pity’s sake. Graeham loosened a section for himself. "I seem to recall Olive saying something about Damian’s father. I got the impression he would disapprove if he knew about them."

  "I’m quite sure he would. Who knows—perhaps that’s what they’ve been fighting about. Those spats only started up a few weeks ago." Joanna brought the orange section to her mouth and lightly licked it, her expression one of rapturous anticipation. She closed her mouth over it, juice trickling over her lips as she bit it in half.

  Jesu, don’t stare. Graeham looked down at his own orange section, only to find he’d crushed it in his h
and. He shoved it into his mouth and chewed; seeds crunched between his teeth.

  Joanna plucked a seed from between her lips and placed it daintily on the table. "Damian is Lionel Oxwyke’s only son, and his betrothal was negotiated years ago. Master Lionel contracted for him to marry the daughter of another money changer, the only one who’s even richer than he is, outside of the Jewry. The girl is only nine, though, so they have to wait another three years before the Church will permit her to marry."

  "But this Damian is formally betrothed to her?"

  "As far as I know. Damian’s father would be livid if he proposed to marry someone else. And Master Lionel is not the type of man one likes to anger. He’s of a choleric temperament, much like my own sire. They say he suffers from an excess of yellow bile, which keeps his stomach too hot, and that’s why he’s got such a foul disposition." Joanna slid the other half of the orange section between her lips.

  Don’t stare, don’t stare. "That’s it, then." Graeham pulled off another wedge and handed it to her, cursing the adolescent thrill that coursed through him when their fingers touched. "That’s why Damian and Olive can’t marry."

  He ate another section, frowning as he tried to recall the conversation he’d overheard in the alley that day. "There was something else...something she didn’t want him to know, but that he already knew. It seemed to distress her greatly."

  "Her mother’s madness?"

  "Is her mother mad?"

  "Not mad, perhaps, but...in the grip of a powerful melancholia. Sometimes even...bereft of her senses, it seems."

  "Has she always been this way?"

  "Nay, only in the past year or so. Olive thinks her mother had been involved in an unhappy love affair, which I suppose is possible. Elswyth is a handsome woman for her years—or she was, before she let herself go to pot."

  "And you think that’s what Olive wants to keep hidden? That her mother is unbalanced?"

  "I know she wants to keep it hidden. When she first confided in me about Elswyth, she begged me not to tell anyone—and not just because of the shame of madness. As an apprentice, Olive is only supposed to assist her mother in preparing the tonics and elixirs and so forth, but for months she’s been doing it all herself—her mother’s unfit to do it, and she’s long since lost interest. She sleeps till midday, then scratches about in the medicinal garden out back—even in the middle of winter, when nothing’s growing. If that came to light, they could lose the shop. Naturally it would upset her for Damian to know about her mother. She’d have to wonder who else knew."

  Graeham pondered this as he ate another orange slice. "I suppose..."

  "But..." she prompted, eyeing him astutely.

  He shook his head. "That’s not quite what it sounded like to me."

  "What did it sound like?"

  "As if...as if Olive’s secret had to do with her."

  "If her mother’s gone mad and she’s left running the shop, I think that has very much to do with her."

  "Yes...I’m sure you’re right." He handed her another slice of orange.

  "No, you’re not." She smiled at him as she ate the fruit.

  ***

  LATER THAT EVENING, as Graeham was readying himself for bed, he heard a tapping on the closed shutter of the alley window. "Serjant?" came the feminine whisper.

  He unlatched the shutters and opened them. "Good evening, Leoda," he said softly; Joanna was still awake, working on her embroidery in the shop.

  The whore smiled; she was prettier at night, younger-looking. "I missed you today. I was at the Friday fair."

  "So I gathered. Did you do well?"

  "Made sixpence, but I’ll never get my kirtle clean. I hate doing it in the woods." She smiled seductively. "How about a bit of company again tonight?"

  He shook his head. "I’m afraid not, Leoda. That won’t happen again."

  "I’ll be quieter coming in. She’ll never know."

  He took her hand in his. "It’s really not wise for you to keep coming around, Leoda."

  "Even during the day?" she asked forlornly. "Just to talk?"

  "Even during the day. I’m sorry about it, too. I’ve enjoyed our talks."

  "You don’t want her to see me about."

  "Before last night, it wouldn’t have much mattered if she had. But now, I’d feel..." He shook his head.

  "You’re worried she’ll toss you out on your ear if she sees me."

  Oddly, that hadn’t even occurred to him, although she probably would. "I’m worried about her feelings, mostly."

  "Her feelings." Leoda smiled knowingly. "Ah, it’s about feelings, is it?"

  Absurdly, Graeham felt a rush of heat in his cheeks. "Nay, it’s...not that way between us. She’s a wedded woman."

  For a long moment Leoda contemplated her hand in his, her conflicted expression gradually giving way to one of determination. Looking up, she said, "Joanna Chapman’s no wedded woman, serjant."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "She’s a widow."

  "Nay, you just think that because her husband’s never about. He spends most of his time abroad."

  "He was stabbed to death last summer by some Italian whose wife he’d been diddling. Sir Hugh told me himself, just the other day." She smiled a little sadly. "He asked me not to mention it to you."

  Graeham stared at her blankly, recalling hints and implications, things he’d heard and dismissed... I was that sorry when I found out what happened.

  Of course. Of course.

  Leoda squeezed his hand. "I thought you had a right to know."

  "Thank you."

  "I’m sure she has her reasons for keeping it from you. You shouldn’t be cross with her over it."

  "I’m not," he said honestly—for how could he fault her for her prevarications when he was guilty of the same sin himself? He’d fabricated his reasons for being in London and wanting to stay in her home. He’d lied to her outright dozens of times in an effort to conceal the secret of Ada le Fever’s parentage. Joanna’s one simple deception was relatively benign by comparison.

  "I promised Sir Hugh I wouldn’t tell you," Leoda said, adding despondently, "He’ll not be payin’ me any more of his afternoon visits—he’ll be that vexed at me."

  "I won’t tell him you told me. I won’t even tell him I know."

  Her eyes lit up. "Truly?"

  "‘Twould ill repay you for confiding in me."

  "You are a good man. I knew it from the first." She stroked his cheek with her free hand. "I’ve been pleased to know you, serjant."

  "And I you." He kissed her hand and released it.

  She sauntered away, blowing him a kiss over her shoulder.

  Chapter 12

  * * *

  "MIND IF I join you?" Graeham limped into the shopfront, where Joanna had repaired, as usual, after supper.

  "No...no, of course not." She hung a lantern on the chain dangling over her linen-draped embroidery frame and took a seat on the little folding stool in front of it. "There’s no place for you to sit, though."

  "This will do." He sat on a large chest tucked beneath the shuttered front window, stretching his splinted leg out to the side so he could lean back against the wall.

  In the three weeks he’d been living here, he’d rarely set foot in this part of the house. During the day he was wary of being seen, especially by Olive, whose apothecary shop was directly across the street. At night he generally retired to the storeroom to read by candlelight before turning in, while Joanna worked on her embroidery.

  He’d always felt a little hesitant about imposing himself on her while she was occupied with such a solitary, creative pursuit. And, too, he’d never been one to depend on the company of others, a trait he’d grown smug about over the years. But that smugness evaporated when it came to Joanna Chapman. He savored her company, reveled in it, craved it. Tonight he fell damned near starved for it.

  She lifted the linen dust cover from her embroidery frame, revealing an untouched length of white silk twi
ll waxed around the edges and lashed tight to the wooden struts. A basket sat on the little work table next to her. Pulling it closer, she sorted through its neatly packed supplies—needles on a parchment card, various fringes and braids, brushes, a measuring rod, clay jars, quills, a number of short sticks wound with colorful silken threads, and for some reason, a feather duster.

  Joanna chose a goose quill and a piece of willow charcoal from the basket. She broke off about an inch of the charcoal, pared down one end with a penknife, and inserted it in the tip of the quill.

  "Clever," Graeham said.

  "One of Lady Fayette’s little tricks." With this ingenious charcoal pen, Joanna began sketching a design of curved lines and circles onto the silk. He watched her in profile, her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked.

  She had removed her veil before coming in here to work, not realizing Graeham would follow her. The amber lamplight ignited the gold in her hair, tendrils of which had sprung loose from her single braid to curl around her cheeks and nape. She wore her violet linen kirtle tonight, which was as plain and patched as her two woollen gowns, but a bit more pleasingly snug around her breasts and waist and hips. Graeham contemplated the elegantly sensuous curve of her back as she leaned over her work.

  Two weeks had passed since the Friday fair and the revelation about Joanna’s widowhood—a fortnight of interminable days and long, lonely nights on his solitary little cot. Sometimes, after Joanna climbed the ladder to the solar at night, he would lie very still in the dark, listening for the groan of certain floorboards as she trod upon them, the faint squeak of the bedropes—apparently directly above him—as she lay down and shifted to get comfortable.

  After giving it some thought, he’d decided not to tell her that he knew about Prewitt’s death, not just for Leoda’s sake, but because he understood and sympathized with her determination to pass herself off as a wedded woman. Undoubtedly the pretense made her feel better about his staying here; insulated by her presumed matrimony, she could keep him at a respectable—and safe—distance.

  Curious as to what pains she’d taken to maintain her deception, Graeham had several times casually mentioned Mistress Joanna’s husband to Thomas Harper, whereupon the leper had swiftly changed the subject, clearly discomfited; no doubt she’d asked Thomas not to reveal her widowhood to Graeham, just as Hugh had asked Leoda. Suspicious of everyone now, Graeham had even broached the subject of Prewitt Chapman with young Adam, who’d taken to coming around from time to time, but the boy had clearly never even heard of the man, nor met Joanna.