by Lily Reynard
* * *
Kit was still reeling from his unexpected good fortune when Sir Edward Devere, balding and beefy, arrived a short while later.
Lady Cranbourne testified that Christopher Fitzgeorge, a gentleman in her employ, had drawn his sword in her defense after her coach had been held up by highwaymen and her servant Jeremiah Jenkins shot.
To Kit's relief, the magistrate accepted her version of events without question.
Seating himself comfortably at the table and accepting a glass of wine from the countess's hand, Sir Edward told them that the highwayman with the injured legs had been captured near the scene.
He was one Jack Starling, a criminal with a price on his head. The man that Kit had killed had been Starling's brother Rob.
Kit was startled to hear that he was to receive a reward for Jack Starling's capture, with a smaller sum for his brother's death, both sums which the magistrate promised to send to Cranbourne House in London.
Soon thereafter, the countess and her party resumed their journey, leaving the unfortunate Jeremy at the chirurgeon's house. Mall remained behind to nurse her brother.
Kit hoisted himself into his saddle, ignoring the sharp protest of his abused muscles.
Her bodyguard! Now he could choose the time and place for abducting the countess.
She has both wit and courage, he thought with a pang of regret. Too bad she'll be wasted on someone like Julian.
Trying to ignore the pricking of his conscience, he touched his heels to his horse's flank and followed her coach out of the innyard.
* * *
Long before they entered Southwark the next day, Kit could see the coal smoke that stained the London sky with a malevolent brown cloud.
As they approached the city, the open fields became scattered inns and cottages, which soon thickened into close-packed wooden buildings that crowded the highway on both sides.
The narrower the road became, the denser the unruly mass of carts, riders, and vendors on foot burdened with large packs or baskets, all jostling for the right of way.
Surrounded by a crowd of beggars and prostitutes, their solicitations counterpoint to the pungent curses of the cart drivers, Lady Cranbourne's coach made slow progress. Kit struggled to control his horse and stay with her despite the thrusting hands and impudent bodies threatening to separate them.
Finally, they reached London Bridge, which sprouted a village of its own. Below the houses that crowded the span, a dozen or more narrow arches divided the frothing torrent of the Thames like a giant stone comb plunged into dirty tresses.
On the other side of the river, London hunched up against the riverbank in a mass of church spires and chimneys. The giant square-towered Gothic cruciform of St. Paul's loomed over the city's center like a fortress. To the right of the bridge, Kit caught sight of the Tower's crenellated walls.
As they passed under the arched entrance to London Bridge, Kit glanced up.
A superstitious shiver crawled up his spine as he saw the flat roof of the gateway bristling with long poles, each pole tipped with the grotesque, soot-blackened head of an executed criminal.
I could end up there, too, if I'm not careful.
At least Margaret would be safe and her future assured, no matter what happened to him.
They fought their way across the bridge and into the city proper, the streets growing ever narrower and darker. The scents of roasting meat, baking bread, and something deliciously spicy competed with the stench of overflowing cesspits, rotting garbage, and acrid coal smog.
Men and women hurried from one place to another, dodging traffic and seemingly oblivious to the pigs and dogs that roamed everywhere.
Kit found himself blindly following the swaying, gilded Cranbourne coach as it navigated a maze of narrow streets overhung with half-timbered houses. Many of the upper stories leaned so far over the street that they touched the house opposite, forming dark tunnels.
And from every corner rose the sing-song din of competing voices, as men and women of all ages beckoned from shops and stalls:
"Buy any ink, will you buy any pens, very fine writing ink, will you buy any ink?"
"I ha' ripe peasecods, ripe. Ripe damsons, fine ripe damsons. Hard garlic, hard. Fine potatoes, fine."
"Will ye buy any starch for a clear complexion, milady?"
"Will ye buy any aqua vitae, master?"
"Oysters, oysters, three pence a peck at Bridewell dock, new Wallfleet oysters. New cockles, new great cockles!"
After what seemed an endless journey, the coach slowed and turned into a half-timbered gatehouse set shoulder-to-shoulder with tall, narrow houses. Kit rode through the dark tunnel beneath the building, and blinked as he emerged into a large open space enclosed by high walls.
He saw a red brick mansion with a dark slate roof, set like a jewel amidst flowerbeds and carefully trimmed hedges. Behind the house, gardens sloped all the way down to the banks of the grayish-brown Thames.
The countess leaned out the window of her coach. "Welcome to Cranbourne House, Mr. Fitzgeorge."
Beneath her half-mask, she was smiling at his astonishment.
Alerted by the gatekeeper's lad, a crowd of servants assembled to greet Lady Cranbourne in the courtyard formed by the two turreted wings of the house.
As the coach drew up to the pillared marble porch of the entrance, a short middle-aged man with sandy hair stepped forward and greeted her with a low bow as she descended from the coach.
They spoke for a few seconds, and Kit guessed by the sudden gasps of the maidservants that the countess had mentioned the incident on the highway.
The sandy-haired man gave Kit a scandalized look, and Kit took this as his cue to dismount.
"Mr. Fitzgeorge, this is Harry Reeves, my butler," said the countess, as Kit staggered towards her on wobbly, aching legs. "Harry will assign someone to show you to your rooms and tell you what you need to know about Cranbourne House."
She swept away, entered the imposing, marble-framed entrance, and vanished.
After a quick explanation that included mealtimes and the location of the privies, Reeves handed Kit over to the housekeeper, a stout middle-aged woman by the name of Mrs. Clements.
She led him into the large black-and-white tiled entrance hall, then up a massive oaken staircase.
There were several doors opening from the landing. He felt like gaping when Mrs. Clements opened one of them, revealing a luxuriously furnished suite of rooms.
"Your rooms, Mr. Fitzgeorge," she said. "The Countess's suite is the next set of doors to your right."
And don't presume to take any liberties, Kit added silently, reading the stiff disapproval radiating from the set of the housekeeper's lips and her resolute gaze into the middle distance.
Kit tried for a smile, uncertain whether he ought to tip her. He reached into his pouch and fished out sixpence, hoping it would be enough.
It apparently was.
Mrs. Clements accepted the coin with a curtsey, and tucked a wisp of gray hair back under her spotless linen cap. "Thank you," she said, meeting Kit's gaze directly for the first time. "I'll have one of the housemaids fetch you candles and bed linens."
Left to his own devices, Kit dropped his saddlebags in the center of the room. They landed noiselessly on the thick red-and-blue Turkey carpet.
He surveyed his new lodgings with bemusement. Next door to the countess!
He had been expecting, at best, one of the rooms assigned to tutors and governesses.
Instead, the countess had lodged him a suite of rooms better suited to an earl. His proximity would make abducting her so much easier.
His new quarters consisted of a good-sized sitting room, the walls covered with pale blue brocade. A landscape, all cloudy skies and windswept beaches in the Dutch style, hung over a marble hearth.
Beyond the sitting room, he glimpsed a wood-paneled bedchamber through a half-shut door. Together, the two rooms were larger than many of the cottages he'd lived in during his
time on the Continent.
He pushed open the door and walked in. His bedroom faced the river, the view somewhat distorted by the thick, bubbled glass panes.
The bed, hung with green woolen curtains, was large enough for two.
Kit looked at it wistfully. He and Anna would have blessed their good fortune to find lodging in a room this grand. He thrust away the memory and continued his survey.
An old-fashioned painted chest stood at the foot of the bed, empty and waiting for his meager possessions. There was a tall wardrobe facing the bed, with pegs on which to hang his clothes.
Kit looked up and saw that the room's ceiling beams were painted with looping garlands of flowers and ivy.
The promised housemaid arrived, and Kit jumped guiltily, which elicited a giggle from the girl.
She gave Kit a flirtatious smile, eyes twinkling, and quickly made up his bed with clean sheets, filled an ewer and basin with water so that he could wash his face and hands, left a generous supply of linen towels and candles, then departed.
Kit sat on the bed, then stretched out experimentally. He sighed blissfully at the prospect of sleeping on something soft and clean tonight.
Traveling in the countess's company was a definite improvement upon sleeping under hedgerows while stalking her from village to village.
He wondered whether she had ever slept under the stars. Well, she would soon enough, though it seemed a poor return for these princely lodgings.
He was still supine on the soft coverlet, his arms folded under his head, when a soft tapping came at his door.
Lady Cranbourne entered his rooms with a soft swish of skirts, and a faint waft of orange blossom.
"I hope the rooms are to your liking...Kit," she said.
He scrambled to his feet and bowed deeply. "Yes, my lady!"
"I do not wish to keep you from your supper, but I pray you will accompany me on my calls tomorrow."
"I am at your command." He stole an admiring glance at her.
She had changed out of her tightly-laced black traveling gown into more comfortable and informal garb: a long dark gray skirt and a loose gray jacket trimmed with fur. Her hair had been released from its topknot and elaborately arranged curls, and brushed out into soft waves under a dark cap.
She looked approachable and very tired. Kit fought the urge to go to her and take her in his arms. She would be so soft and sweetly-scented…
She noticed his look, and a blush stained her pale, scarred cheeks.
"We shall leave from the Blue Parlor at ten tomorrow," she said, quickly, turning away.
"My lady—wait," Kit said, reluctant to see her go.
"Yes?" She halted, and looked back at him, her gray eyes luminous in the pale afternoon light from the windows.
"Thank you...for this. For all of this." And I'm sorry I'm going to have to betray you.
She shook her head. "No, I'm the one who ought to be grateful. I'm so glad that you've agreed to protect me."
Her gratitude left a bitter taste in Kit's mouth. "My lady, I—"
"Sleep well, Christopher Fitzgeorge. And may God keep you."
She hastened out of the room, leaving only the scent of orange blossom behind.
Chapter Seven
Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, and the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase. — William Congreve, Love for Love, 1695
To Lord Thornsby from Christopher Fitzgeorge, respectful greetings:
The first plan hath gone astray, for the Dowager Countess of Cranbourne is under siege from a Multitude of suitors, and is most prudent with her Person and possessions.
Having made the Lady's acquaintance, and she having hired me to Guard her Person from divers Rogues and Criminals, I reside now at Cranbourne House in London, there to carry out your commission as circumstance permits.
As my lady hath offered me pay, I shall not require additional monies from you; I still profess every hope of success in this venture.
Additionally, I send a kiss to my sweet Margaret from her most affectionate Father,
Kit
* * *
The next day, Kit appeared in the Blue Parlor as requested. One of the footmen closed the painted door behind him, leaving Kit alone in the room.
True to the room's name, the walls were covered with pale blue hangings, and the furniture was the massive dark oak popular before the Civil War. An Oriental carpet of mixed scarlet and blue partly covered the polished boards of the floor.
He paced around the parlor several times, pausing to look at a male portrait hanging over the fireplace.
The painted figure looked old and stern and a little gouty, Kit thought, wondering whether he was gazing on the late earl's visage, and if so, what Antonia's marriage had been like.
Then he spied a familiar book on the seat of an elbow chair. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, marveling at the smooth leather binding and unstained pages, feeling as if he had unexpectedly encountered a friend in a strange city.
He heard the countess enter, and hastily made his bow, the book still clutched in one hand.
* * *
"Ovid's Metamorphoses," she said, spying the volume he held. "Have you read it?"
"It is my favorite book." Kit traced a gilt-stamped letter on the cover with his forefinger. "I read bedtime stories to my daughter from it."
"Truly?" Kit as tender father and lover of classical poetry seemed very much at odds with her first impression of him as a ruthlessly efficient soldier.
Kit closed his eyes and quoted the beginning lines: "Of Bodies chang'd to other shapes I sing./Assist you Gods (as from you these Changes spring)/And, from the World's first fabrick to these times,/Deduce my never-discontinued Rhymes."
"The Sea, the Earth, all covering Heaven unfram'd," Antonia joined in smoothly. "One face had Nature, which they Chaos nam'd..." She broke off with a self-conscious laugh.
"I understand that Mr. Sandys's translation is an excellent one, though I haven't any Latin, and never read the work in its original tongue," Kit admitted.
"Nor have I," said Antonia. "It is not customary to teach girls Latin or Greek, and my father disapproved of pagan authors. Which is your favorite tale?"
Her heart gave an odd leap as he smiled at her.
He had shaved, and yesterday's lethal swordsman had vanished behind clean clothes and a gift for quoting Ovid.
Her late husband had introduced her to The Metamorphoses, despite the sinful delights to be found in its pages.
Everyone should have at least one vice to keep them in the proper humility before God, even chaste and godly wives, he had told her, cheerfully. And reading a wicked book is better than committing wicked deeds.
"Baucis and Philemon, who were allowed to grow old together, and who were then transformed into intertwining trees."
Antonia sighed. "I wish I had been as fortunate with my husband."
"And I with my wife Anna, God rest her," Kit agreed softly.
She remembered that he had mentioned a daughter, and wondered what sort of husband Christopher Fitzgeorge had been.
"My father was a merchant here in the city," Antonia said, awkwardly, wondering why she felt compelled to confide in him. "No one expected such a good match for me, but the Civil War had damaged the earl's fortune, and I had a very generous dowry."
"Was your marriage an arranged match, then?" Kit asked.
"Yes—the earl had already outlived two wives. But he was very kind to me. Kinder than I expected." She gave a little chuckle, remembering. "I was fifteen when I wed, and I had fixed my heart upon a neighbor's son. When I arrived at Cranbourne House, I was half-hoping for a martyrdom of a cruel husband so that I could remain true in spirit to my sweetheart." Antonia shook her head, remembering how headstrong she had been. "My husband, alas, did not oblige me, and indeed, soon I quite forgot my sweetheart."
Kit grinned, remembering his own rebellious youth. "When the
y told me I couldn't marry my sweetheart because I had no prospects, I ran away to Canterbury and signed up with the first recruiter of mercenaries I could find, then begged my Katie to come away with me."
"And it was a happy marriage?" Antonia asked.
This was not the kind of conversation she ought to be having with her bodyguard, but there was something about Kit that put her at ease.
"Like you, I did not marry my first love," Kit said, looking down at the book he held, as if it were a mirror reflecting other times and places. "Katie did not wish to leave her family and friends to live as a poor soldier's wife. I vowed I would never love again."
"What happened to change your mind?" asked Antonia.
"I met Anna in the German village where I spent my first winter abroad." Kit's gaze was focused far away. "Before spring, we were married."
"Are you a widower, then?" Antonia asked.
Kit nodded. "Near unto two years now. In Erfurt...there was a fire—" He cleared his throat, and looked away for a long moment. "And you, my lady?"
"'Twas the smallpox, last summer." She raised fingers to her scarred cheek. "We fled the city because of plague, only to find Long Cranbourne infected with another evil."
* * *
"I'm sorry to hear it," Kit offered awkwardly.
I must not allow myself to like Lady Cranbourne too well, he reminded himself. "My lady, you wished to go out today?"
"Yes. I must call upon my nephew, the present Earl of Cranbourne. And after that, my mother. I wish you to accompany me."
She fiddled with her lace handkerchief for a moment, looking oddly nervous, then rang for a footman and asked him to hail a waterman.
Turning back to Kit, she explained, "We shall travel by boat as far as Buckingham's estate. Though hackney coaches are all the rage nowadays, I find that traveling on the Thames is infinitely preferable to the noise and traffic of the Strand." She hesitated, then indicated her loose morning-gown. "I must dress first. Wait for me outside, at the water-stairs."
Kit bowed, and followed the young footman outside.
From the back of the house, a graveled path led down to the riverbank through the kitchen garden and fragrant herb beds.
