by C. J. Archer
What about me?
It was selfish and childish but she didn't care. Not anymore. Not now that she was so close to seeing her dream come to fruition. She would not give up on it. Even if Style didn't like this play, she would write another and another. Because she couldn't not write them. Stories flowed in her blood and they would not stop until every drop had drained from her body.
Her father must have seen the defiance in her face. With a sudden violence so out of character, Sir George threw the pages onto the desk and brought a fist down on top of them. "My work—science—is vital, Minerva. You of all people should know that."
The words spewed forth in a torrent, aimed to wound. And wound they did. Min had never seen him so angry. So angry with her.
But she was her father's daughter, and her own anger could burn just as brightly. It burst before her eyes, a fierce ball of fire that spread quickly through her, heating her skin, prickling her scalp and burning her insides.
"I do know it," she said above the pounding of her heartbeat. "How can I not, when you remind me daily? But my writing is also important. It is important to me."
Sir George opened his mouth but shut it again and blinked at her. Something passed over his face, perhaps shock at his otherwise dutiful daughter's outburst. For she had never spoken her mind to him so vehemently, never disagreed with him before. Never been anything other than the even-tempered child he'd believed he'd raised.
But that child had grown up while he'd been buried in his books. She'd developed her own passions. She had thoughts independent of his and she wasn't afraid to voice them. That was the daughter he'd raised.
It seemed he was only just beginning to understand that now. "You will give up this poetical nonsense and do your duty," he said with calm authority. "Your place is here with me, writing out my work. Given time and reflection, you will come to realize this and thank me for directing you towards a more industrious activity than poetry."
Railing at him would not work. His mind was not capable of seeing her point. He believed what he said to the very depths of his being. And so she quelled the surge of anger and bit back her opinions. Voicing them would achieve nothing except more hurt.
"Yes, Father," she said instead. "As you wish."
He approached her, for a kiss perhaps or to speak gentler words, but she lowered her head and curtsied as she would to one of the highest rank.
"Minerva," he said, suddenly sounding old, "let's not quarrel."
"I'm going to my room. Your paper will be complete by the morning. We can discuss it over breakfast if you like."
"But you'll be up all night!" He took her hand in his own and patted it. "Minerva, I'm pleased that you see the error of your ways, but you do not need to prove your earnestness to me."
"I'm not. Good night, Father." She turned and left before they both said something they would regret. Something else.
CHAPTER 3
Robert Blakewell watched her approach along busy Gracechurch Street. Her black woolen cloak flapped in the wind, exposing the light blue of her gown beneath. She was too far away to determine if she wore the same patched-up cloak as yesterday or if the gown was long out of fashion. The tall black silk hat certainly was. His mother had worn that style several years ago.
She pulled the edges of the cloak together and tugged the brim of her hat down, obscuring her face. It was her though. He knew it by the way she walked. Erect, purposeful, prim. A gentlewoman's walk. One fallen on hard times it would seem. She wore no gloves today and he found himself staring at her long, fine fingers.
Min, she said her name was. Unusual. Like her. He'd never met such a pretty and plainspoken woman outside his own family circle. As with his mother and sister, Min had a quick mind to go with the pouting mouth and big eyes. A combination that had got his sister into trouble.
It had almost got Min into trouble too if his reaction to her was anything to go by. He'd got a handful of soft curves when he caught her. And those lips—full and only a twitch away from a smile. When he'd touched them, he'd almost kissed her. The urge had been powerful and immediate.
He'd not succumbed yesterday. Today...well, he would see. A lot depended on what Style said. More than Blake liked to admit. The irony was, he had no alternative plan. If Min hadn't chosen him, he could still be trying to find a way into the company of players that called themselves Lord Hawkesbury's Men. He knew what had to be done once he was inside, it was the introduction that had eluded him.
Until yesterday when Min had chosen him. Out of all the men lingering in the vicinity, she'd fixed on Blake for some reason of her own. The hardest part was over. Now all he had to do was find out which of the troupe's swine turds deserved to have their balls removed for what they'd done to Lilly.
Min continued towards him, her head down, not watching where she was going. Again. He shook his head. Hadn't she learned from the last time? Just as she was about to pass him, he stepped in front of her.
She bumped into him and he caught her shoulders, stopping her falling on her arse.
"What—?" She shook herself free then, several moments too late, finally looked up at him. "Oh. Blake." Recognition dissolved the irritation in her gray eyes.
"Hoping to avoid me?" he said.
Her gaze didn't quite meet his. He had his answer.
"It's too late to back out now," he said. "I'm here. And I think I'd like to be a playwright."
She scanned the faces of passersby, perhaps searching for the elaborately feathered hat Style seemed to favor. Or perhaps she was simply avoiding looking at Blake. "Part of me was hoping you wouldn't be here," she admitted.
"Sorry to disappoint you."
"No you're not." She chewed her lower lip and he lifted a hand to stop her destroying the succulent morsel, but dropped it before she noticed. Touching her had shocked his senses awake. He couldn't risk touching her again.
"You see, it's just that...I really don't..."
"Want me to ruin this opportunity for you?"
"That's it!" She smiled at him, leaving her harried lip alone. "Thank you for understanding. So you'll leave?"
"No."
Her face fell. More lip chewing. Reading her emotions was like reading a book, and not a very difficult one. "Perhaps you could hide then," she said. "Just over there." She nodded in the direction of a tavern where several barrels were being unloaded from a cart. A group of men, some swaying, one singing loudly and out of tune, hovered around the barrels like flees on a dog. He grunted. If he was going to hide, he wouldn't choose a place where he'd stand out like a mermaid on a rock.
"No," he said again. "I'm staying here. I want to meet Style."
She stared at him for a long moment. He accepted the challenge and stared back. It gave him a chance to study her. A splash of freckles decorated both cheeks, and one had slipped down to the corner of her mouth, giving the impression she was constantly smiling. Her nose was slightly crooked and a tiny pock scar marked her chin. Her hair was tucked tightly beneath her hat so that not a strand escaped but he could see that it was fair with only a hint of red, not quite as dark as the queen's. It reminded him of sunrise over a Saracen desert.
Ha! Poetry. Any half-wit could do it.
Min clicked her tongue. "Very well, you may stay," she said as if it had been up to her. "But," she pointed a finger at him, "do not speak to Style unless he directly asks you a question. I'll do all the talking. And do not, under any circumstances, say anything about the play. I've told him you're shy, so...act shy. You can do that can't you?"
"I can try." He glanced towards the White Swan but Style was still nowhere to be seen. The company's performance for the day had ended a while ago and yet he'd not appeared amongst the audience leaving the inn.
The crowd was thinner today. Word must have spread through the City that it was more interesting watching two ants crawling up a wall than the dung Lord Hawkesbury's Men called a play. He wondered if Min's play was any better. It couldn't be much worse. But what if it
wasn't good enough?
Blake would need to find another way, that's what. He could just barge in, fists and accusations flying, but Lilly wouldn't speak to him if she ever found out. No, he needed to be more subtle. Damn. He wasn't very good at subtle.
Thank god for Min.
"However," Blake went on, "perhaps you should tell me about your play so I can answer any questions he may ask me directly." Better to be armed and ready than caught unprepared.
"He won't."
"He might."
"Very well," she said and he was surprised that she acquiesced so easily. She'd seemed ready for a battle. He even looked forward to one. "It's set in Ancient Rome and is about a young couple who fall in love but through a series of unfortunate events directed by the Gods, they're kept apart. It's too complicated to go into more detail."
"It's a tragedy?"
"No, a comedy."
"A romance?"
"Yes."
He watched her, trying to determine if she was being serious or making fun of him. By the set of her jaw, she didn't look like she was about to laugh. Bollocks.
"You don't like romantic comedies?" The sun chose that moment to appear from behind a cloud and she narrowed her eyes against it. Or was she narrowing them against him?
"No. It's not that." A few moments ago, he'd thanked Fortune that this opportunity had fallen into his lap. Now he wasn't so sure. A romantic comedy? Min thought him a suitable candidate for writing a romantic comedy? She expected Style to believe it too? He was a privateer for God's sake, captain of his own brigantine. He'd made life hell for Spanish galleons from the Levant to the New World. He'd been chained up in jails not fit for a dog. He'd killed pirates, got drunk with brigands and fought for his country, his honor and just because he damn well felt like it. Now this girl expected him to pass for a writer of romantic comedies? His crew would laugh him off his ship if they found out.
He blew out a breath. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as he thought. "Does anyone get murdered?" he asked. "In this play?"
She frowned. "No."
Pity. "Is there a pirate? Or an evil emperor?"
"No, no villains. Although one of the Gods is quite competitive and thinks up some cruel scenarios to keep the lovers apart."
What sort of play doesn't have a villain? He sighed. A romantic comedy apparently. "What about a cannon?"
"Not in ancient Rome." She looked apologetic. "No guns either." She suddenly brightened. "But there is a sword fight."
"Just the one?"
"Yes. Sorry." There was a long pause in which he could see her warring with herself. Eventually her playwright's curiosity, as she had called it, won. "You like violence." She pulled the edges of her cloak together as if fending off the cold, but the day was reasonably mild. Did he frighten her? He spent much of his day trying to frighten people so it wouldn't surprise him. However it did surprise him to realize he didn't want to frighten her.
"If I wrote a play," he said, "it would at least have a murder in it. Probably two. And a villain. A really bloodthirsty one."
"You didn't write it," she said irritably. Irritation was better than fear.
"But if people are to think I did, there should be a dead body."
"Oh. I see what you mean." She sounded genuinely concerned. "You do seem like a man who would have no qualms killing a character."
"Thank you," he said then wondered why he'd said it. This woman addled his mind. He'd had two conversations with her and so far she'd managed to make him do things he wouldn't normally do. Like this. He was actually agreeing to act as the writer of her romantic comedy?
He'd done many foolish things in his life, but this was top of the list.
You'd better appreciate what I'm doing for you, Lilly. And you too, Mother.
"If it's a comedy, does it have a clown?" he asked. There'd better be a clown. All good comedies had clowns dancing jigs.
"There's a comedic servant," she said.
He sighed. "That'll have to do."
"Yes, it will." She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. Had he offended her?
He didn't have a chance to ask because Style appeared. When she saw him, Min caught hold of Blake's hand in a grip that could put many men to shame. Her hands weren't as soft as he thought they'd be. Small calluses marred her palm. The sort of calluses that come from continuous hard work, not the lifting of a quill.
It was wrong. Min was an educated woman of gentle birth. She should have smooth hands—perfect palms to match the perfect fingers. He rubbed his thumb along the hardened bumps, annoyed at them, at whatever had put them there, and at whoever was supposed to be taking care of her. Who could allow a daughter or sister such as Min to do a servant's work? Wrong, wrong, wrong.
With a strangled sound, she suddenly dropped her hand and stared at him like a startled cat. He flexed his fingers, still able to feel the weight of her hand, the warmth of her touch against his skin.
He formed a fist and beat back the fire spreading through him. There was no room for those kinds of fires in his world. Not the ones started by innocent, big-eyed gentlewomen.
Roger Style joined them but Min barely registered his presence. Her mind was elsewhere—in Blake's hand. The tender rubbing of her palm had felt good. Until she'd remembered who he was and that she shouldn't be holding hands with him. He was a complete stranger. She'd only ever held hands with Ned twice and one of those was because he had helped her onto a wherry to cross the Thames.
She snuck a sideways glance at Blake. His face could have been hewn from rock. There wasn't even a hint that holding hands with her had been anything other than an everyday, mundane occurrence.
It probably was. No doubt men like Blake did more than hold hands with women on a daily basis. Her face heated as she thought about what else he could do to her.
"Well," said Style, "you're here. Good." He spoke to Blake.
That annoyed Min. It probably would have annoyed her more if she had been concentrating. She forced herself to listen. Roger Style was the reason why she was there after all. It had nothing to do with Blake. Nothing at all.
Style cleared his throat. "It's a, er, comedy," he said, lowering his voice as if he were saying a naughty word.
"Yes," Blake said, crossing his arms and drawing himself up to his full height so that he towered over both Style and Min. "A romantic one. So?"
"So...it's not what I thought you would have written." Style's nervous laugh died like an unfunny jest.
"You're not the only one who thinks that." Blake might as well have poked Min with his elbow, his tone was so pointed.
"But did you like it?" Min held her breath. The moment seemed to drag on forever as Style turned to her.
He blinked as if he hadn't noticed she was there. "Oh, good day...what did you say your name was again?"
"Minerva Peabody." Why didn't he just tell her what he thought instead of going through these dull pleasantries?
She felt Blake shift beside her and glanced at him. He was staring at her, unblinking, frowning, as if seeing her for the first time.
What? she mouthed.
But he looked away and Style was talking again. "And your name?" the manager and lead player of Hawkesbury's Men asked Blake. "I didn't catch it yesterday.
"It's Blake. Just Blake," he said before Style could question him as Min had done.
"I see." Style cleared his throat.
"Well?" Min prompted. "Did you like the play?"
"You're a Cambridge man," Style said, ignoring her. "I can tell. All the good poets are from Cambridge. Marlowe, Greene, Spenser... I had a rather impertinent country fellow from a village on the Avon try to tell me that a university education meant nothing when writing plays. But I soon put him right. Hired him as an actor instead."
Did he just say she was a good poet? Good was...good. Wasn't it? But did good mean he wanted to buy the play or did it mean he'd prefer to use the parchment on something more useful like a shopping list? She was about to ask when he spoke a
gain.
"Do you know Kit Marlowe?" he asked Blake.
"No," Blake said. "Should I?"
Style shrugged. "No, no, of course not. Your writing is nothing like his really. A much lighter tone."
"Too light?" Min asked. "I know dark and tortuous is very popular after Tamburlaine and Dr. Faustus, but I can't—" write tortuous heroes, she almost said. "But I can't see Blake writing anything but comedies."
Two pairs of eyes turned to her. The brown pair seemed annoyed that she'd interrupted. The bright blue pair brimmed with something she hadn't seen in them yet. Laughter?
She shrugged. "Well, I can't."
"After reading this," Style said, "I tend to agree."
"So do you want it?" Blake asked him.
"I'll give you two pounds."
"Yes!" Min said at the same time Blake said, "Five."
Five! What was he doing? He was going to ruin everything! Why oh why had she been taken in by those impossibly bright eyes and oversized shoulders?
"Three," Style countered.
"Four is my final offer."
"Blake," she hissed. Her dream was slipping through her grasp as she looked on, powerless to make him keep quiet. It was utterly frustrating.
"You're an unknown," Style huffed. "People won't come to a play written by an unknown." He tossed his head, making the blue and green peacock feather in his hat flutter.
"They'll come when they hear how good it is after the first performance."
Min wanted to throw her arms around Blake and show him how grateful she was for his support. Then she remembered he hadn't even read it. She still wanted to hug him but for an entirely different reason that had nothing to do with her play and everything to do with exploring more of the hard body she'd felt the day before.
"I could ask for the second night's takings," Blake said.
"You've got a lot of faith in your play if you think it would last two nights," Style said.
"You're here aren't you? You obviously have faith in it too or you wouldn't have shown up. Four pounds or I walk away now and offer it to..." His gaze shifted sideways to Min.
