by C. J. Archer
Min shrugged. "I don't know. He's not said anything to make me believe he has marriage on his mind."
"What about... has he tried... something..." Her father stretched his neck as if his ruff itched.
"Like kissing me?"
"Yes!" he blurted out along with a breath. "Well, has he?" His face darkened. "Because I'll need to have a word with him if he has."
"No, he hasn't," she said, also blushing. The discussion was a little embarrassing, especially coming on the heels of her kiss with Blake. Even worse, her father noticed her reddening face.
"Ah," he said, with a fatherly nod and a grim set to his mouth. "I see. Well, I think it's time I find out what his intentions are."
"No! Not yet. Please. Don't pressure him. Perhaps he's not ready to reveal his intentions."
"But if they're dishonorable..."
"They're not. I'm sure of it. You know Ned. He'd never do anything to hurt me or my reputation." Not like Blake. The rogue hadn't given her reputation a second thought when he kissed her.
Min smiled her sweet-daughter smile and Sir George's expression softened. "Very well. But if this goes on for much longer, I will be talking to him. I need to know what he wishes to do with you." Min had thought that part was obvious. "Because I'll still need you here after you are wed," he went on. "There's no one else I trust to write up my notes."
Min squeezed his hand, feeling like an imposter—she lived with her father now and yet she hadn't written out his latest notes. She couldn't imagine the situation changing once she was wed. "I'm sure Ned wouldn't mind if I visited every day."
The clunk of a pot thumping down on the table made Min jump. She turned to see Jane glaring at her.
"What is it?" Min asked her.
"Nothin'," the maid said without looking away. But her unspoken words were written clear across her face—It sounded like you're thinking about marrying Ned. Min didn't need to hear it said aloud.
"I might," Min said as if Jane had spoken. "I haven't made up my mind."
"About what, my dear?" her father asked.
"About...my old hat. I haven't decided if I like it enough to keep wearing it or not."
"Very well," Jane said. She stacked a smaller pot inside the first without taking any care and the sound of copper banging copper reverberated around the kitchen. "But the hat isn't really you is it, m'lady? It lacks...fun."
"Fun?" Sir George said, looking from one to the other. "A hat's a hat isn't it?" Both women shook their heads. He shrugged. "I suppose I'm not really qualified to talk about these things."
"But my old hat is reliable," Min said to Jane. "And nice. There'll never be any surprises with that hat. It'll never fall off, for example, and disappear."
"It's dull," Jane said. She heaved both pots into her arms and cradled them like a fat child against her chest. "And you, my girl, require a hat that matches you in wit. Somethin' suited to yer spirited nature. If you can find that kind of hat, it'll never fall off and disappear." She dropped both pots onto a shelf.
Min winced at the noise. Sir George shook his head. "I think Jane's in one of her moods," he said under his breath to Min. "Although the Lord only knows why talk of your old hat would set her off. Come, let's see what the Taylor lad wants."
Min was only too happy to oblige. She wasn't sure what had set Jane off either but it certainly wasn't anything to do with a hat. Didn't she like Ned? How could she not? Everyone liked Ned. He was a personable man with an easy, polite manner. He was also quite handsome, if a little portly. And rich—his father was one of the premier merchants in the City. His business was doing exceedingly well by all accounts. Most women would be happy at the attention he paid them. Min was.
Was. In the past. She had once thought about marrying Ned. It would be a good match on both sides. He would acquire a knighted father-in-law, a step towards becoming a gentleman himself, and she would gain financial security.
But that mercenary attitude had fallen by the wayside some time ago. She simply couldn't marry for money. Well, in all honesty she probably could, just not to a man who thought the theatre was a breeding ground for the devil's minions and therefore a place to avoid at all costs. Jane was right as usual.
Besides, how could she think about Ned in that way after Blake had taken her face in his hands and kissed her. The kiss had been intense, fierce and bold.
Passionate.
She'd written the word many times but never known the raw power of it until yesterday. Never known that passion could fill a person's soul with desire so hot it burned. Never known the sheer joy it brought, the heady, drunken pleasure generated by a single heart-stopping kiss.
There was nothing polite or safe about the kiss or about Blake. That in itself should have sent her running to Ned. She should want someone reliable like him, someone gentle and thoughtful, open and honest. But, shockingly, she didn't. She yearned for more of Blake's kisses.
The realization sent a jolt through her. Until recently she'd never have thought she wanted anything other than her old hat, the one she used for every occasion because it went with almost every outfit. But the hat had lost its usefulness. Oh dear, that seemed so utterly vain and selfish. But she couldn't help thinking that way. She wanted, needed, a new hat with every ounce of her awakened flesh. She would do almost anything to see how it looked on her, how it felt. Just for a few minutes. A few delicious, sinful, glorious minutes.
Min shook off the tingles that washed down her spine. She had to concentrate on Ned for now, not Blake. The sooner he left, the sooner they could dine and she could go see her play.
And Blake.
She entered the parlor and smiled a greeting at Ned, standing near the unlit fireplace. The room was cool, made even more so by its lack of furniture and hangings—only two uncushioned chairs occupied the space in front of the hearth and a single embroidered cloth, made by her mother, hung on the largest wall. Everything else had been sold.
Ned bowed, his tall hat slipping a little over his forehead. He pushed it back. "It's good to see you, Sir George, Minerva. The weather has turned a little cool of late, don't you think? I dare say winter will be upon us soon."
After half an hour of banal small talk, Sir George made his excuses and returned to his study, leaving Min with Ned, all polite conversation exhausted. Surely dinner must be ready soon.
She smiled at him but glanced past his shoulder to the open door. Where could Jane be? Couldn't she see she needed assistance? Jane, the one who was vehemently against the dull hat, had deserted her too.
"Are you listening, Minerva?" Ned asked, dipping his head into her line of sight. "I asked what you were going to do this afternoon."
"I'm going to the theatre," she said without thinking.
"The theatre! Minerva, are you sure that's a good idea?" His pinched mouth told her he didn't think so.
She didn't want to get into a discussion on the respectability of theatres with Ned. She would probably lose. Ned, like her father and most City officials, worried about the effect the theatres had on Londoners. Granted, a large congregation of people in one place could lead to scuffles, sometimes violent ones, but they were rare. And being winter, the packed audience hardly ever spread the plague, only a little fever here and there. Besides, Min wouldn't be in the pit where London's poorest stood shoulder to shoulder, breathing down each other's necks. She would be safe in the gallery. Really, the playhouses and inn-yards that sometimes acted as theatres weren't all that bad.
"I know you enjoy writing your little plays," Ned went on quickly, "but can you not simply do it for your own amusement? Is it really necessary to see others being performed?" He stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the bare mantelpiece, the other spread over the belly of his crimson peascod doublet. The stiffened pod-shaped garment might be the height of fashion but it only served to make his waist seem disproportionately round.
Min got to her feet but stopped her tongue from saying the first thing that came into her head just in time. Ned
was completely without guile in asking his question. He honestly thought she should be satisfied with writing for herself. Poor, silly Ned didn't have any idea what drove her to the theatre so regularly. He didn't know what kept her up at night, feverishly writing until her hand cramped and her eyes went dry.
"What?" he said, frowning. "Why are you looking at me like you feel sorry for me?"
"Because I do." She laughed and kissed his cheek on impulse.
He suddenly took her by the arms and held her close but not hard. "Why?" His breath was hot on her nose. He smelled of cheese.
"Ned," she said, still smiling as she stepped out of his grasp, "a play is supposed to be performed. You cannot read it to yourself and think you understand it completely. A play's soul can only be captured by players, with props and costumes and sound effects that reverberate around the uppermost galleries. And most of all, a play needs an audience who respond to it with tears or laughter or a sharp intake of breath. It is not just my own play I would like to see performed. One day," she added because she wasn't prepared to tell him her secret. Not yet. "I wish I could see all the plays. Oh Ned, do try and see one put on by a good company. You might find you enjoy it. Lord Hawkewbury's Men are—."
"I have been once." He sniffed and returned to his earlier repose with one hand on the mantelpiece and the other resting on his belly. It looked practiced and rather ridiculous. "Five years ago. It was a comedy but wasn't very funny. Several men in the audience, apprentices I suspect, started a fight before it had even finished. I barely escaped with my purse and my life."
"Well I've never seen any trouble," Min lied.
He made a clucking sound in the back of his throat as if he didn't believe her. "Doesn't your father disapprove?"
"Only if he wishes me to write up his notes instead." It was the truth, but not all of it. She bit the inside of her cheek and hoped he wouldn't ask her who chaperoned her to the theatre. She really didn't want another lie on her conscience.
"My poor Minerva," he said, coming closer. A strange look, intense and yet soft, descended over his features. It was most disconcerting and Min backed away until her legs hit a chair.
With nowhere else to go, she sat down and hoped he wouldn't draw any nearer. "What do you mean?"
"Your father works you too hard. You shouldn't have to be locked away in your room as if you were his apprentice. It's not...normal."
She pushed to her feet. "I am not locked away and I do it voluntarily. Father needs me."
"That may be, but you shouldn't have to do it. When we are wed, you won't need to work so hard. You can put away your inkwells—."
"Wed?" She sat down again. This was all happening too suddenly. She wasn't ready. She hadn't prepared a proper speech. She wasn't even sure what her answer should be. He was quite rich. And safe...
He knelt before her and took one of her hands in both of his. They were warm and damp. "Perhaps in the spring..." When she opened her mouth and nothing came out, he went on, "I adore you, Minerva. You're everything I could ever want in a wife. Gentle, honest, loyal and pretty." He wrung her knuckles as if trying to smooth them down. "A humble merchant like myself could go far with a wife like you. Who knows, I might even become lord mayor one day." He laughed, loud and hollow.
She gave a weak smile in return. "But...this is so sudden. I had no idea you harbored such feelings..." Oh dear, another lie. She knew what he wanted from her. She'd always known, she just hadn't expected him to do anything about it. Ned had been around for years, always there, constant and steady, showing no more interest than was acceptable. Until now. Why?
"Dearest Minerva." He shifted his weight and his knee let out a resounding crack of protest. He winced.
"Do get up, Ned, I have no wish to hobble you."
He rose, drawing her up with him. "My father is dying Minerva."
Ah, so that was why. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. He's been ill for some time, it will be a relief from the pain." He looked away, blinked once, then returned to the conversation with a shake of his head. "On his death I will inherit the shops, part ownership of a ship, the house and two other leased properties. I'll be in need of a capable wife to manage my home. A loving, caring woman from a distinguished family with a reputation as pure as snow. Like you."
Oh dear. Would he revoke his offer if he found out that her reputation had been compromised? She withdrew her hand from his and wiped her palms down her skirt. "Ned—."
"No, don't answer now. Think about it first."
"I will."
"Keep in mind that I shall be incredibly rich upon Father's death. You have no idea how much money he has. You can buy all the beautiful new clothes and hats you want." He cast a discerning mercer's eye over her velvet gown. It might be one of her good ones but it was still showing signs of long use. "There'll be no more old things for you. No more working your poor fingers to the bone writing up your father's work. I'll be able to keep both of you in comfort. He won't have to worry about his silly scientific hocus pocus again." He smiled. She managed a smile too even though something inside her shriveled. "I'll discuss the terms with your father another day. I must return home now." He bent and kissed her dryly on the cheek. "Soon, my sweet. Soon."
Min's jaw dropped as she watched him leave and she stayed like that until Jane entered. "You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, waving a hand in front of Min's eyes to draw her attention away from the door. "What is it?"
Min blinked. "Do you know, Jane, you and Ned have a lot in common?"
The maid screwed up her nose. "Is this yer way of telling me I have bad breath? I know I eat a lot of cheese—."
"No. You both think I need a new hat."
"Ah." Jane smiled knowingly. "And what do you think, m'lady? Do you think you need a new one?"
"I'm not sure. But I think perhaps I'll try one on this afternoon, just to see if it fits."
CHAPTER 7
It was a good play. Very good. It would have been better with a death or maiming but at least it had a sword fight. A somewhat pathetically acted swordfight, all slow thrusts and predictable parries. Limp swordsmanship aside, Blake found himself riveted to the action on stage. He wasn't the only one. The audience hardly breathed as they listened to the players' every word. Min really knew how to write a story that appealed to nobles and laborers alike. She was turning out to be quite a surprise, in more ways than one.
That kiss for instance. How could one woman appear so innocent and yet steal the air from his chest with a single kiss?
Beginners luck. It must be.
"Move it," Freddie said, pushing past Blake as he came off stage. The boy lifted his Roman dress, revealing pale reed-thin legs, and raced to the back of the tiring house behind them where the costumes hung on pegs arranged in the order they'd be worn and props were laid out on a table—Cupid's bow and quiver, Mercury's wings and sundry short swords and shields.
Blake held back from clipping the lad over the ear. He didn't want to cause a scene. He checked the prompt book instead. Freddie was due back on stage soon dressed in a boy's costume. A boy playing a girl pretending to be a boy. Not exactly original but Min had made it unique with clever phrases and intriguing characters.
The scene ended and both the Style brothers came off stage, dressed in patrician togas. "Where to now?" Roger asked Blake. He ran a finger down the plot pinned at the entrance to the tiring house. "Ah, the heavens," he said, answering his own question.
The brothers joined the other players at the back of the now cramped tiring house just as Wells joined Blake. "Getting the hang of bookkeeping?" he asked.
"I'm managing," Blake said.
Wells laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man. If only all our bookkeepers had been as reliable as you. Some of them couldn't even read," he said, still smiling. Always smiling. It was damned annoying.
"There's a woman back there," Blake said. "A comely one." He looked for her but couldn't see past the throng of players and props clu
ttering the tiring house.
"Alice Croft, John Croft's daughter," Wells said. "Why? You want her? I warn you, she can be prickly."
Blake ignored him. "You get many women back here?"
Wells shrugged. "Sometimes. Style doesn't like too many people clogging up the heart, as he calls the tiring house. Why? You want one?"
Blake snorted softly. "Do you remember any in particular in the last few months? Any that have caught your attention?"
"Any what? Oh, you mean women." He stopped smiling. "No. Why? What's this got to do with me?" His voice rose at the end of his sentence and his Adam's apple bobbed furiously. "Er, I've got to go, that's my cue." He launched himself through the curtain onto the stage beyond to join one of the hired actors playing the hero's servant.
Freddie emerged from the depths of the tiring house and shoved past Blake. From the way he put his shoulder into Blake's chest, the lad was trying to prove a point.
Blake was in no mood for disrespectful youths. He caught him by the scruff of his costume, bunched the cotton dress in his fist and pulled the lad off his feet to look at him eye to eye.
"Put me down!" Freddie whispered loudly.
"Not until you apologize."
"But that's my cue!" The lad glanced frantically at the curtain. Wells could be heard repeating his line for the second time.
"The sooner you apologize the sooner you can go on."
"What's the hold up?" Croft came up, took one look at Blake and the boy and nodded. "I'm sure he deserved it," he said, "but we wouldn't want the play to suffer now, would we."
Blake squeezed tighter. Freddie's face turned a satisfying shade of red.
"Sorry," the lad squeaked.
Blake dropped him and the lad stumbled before getting to his feet, gasping for air and rubbing his throat.
"Next time," Blake said, "watch where you're going. Now get up there or you'll ruin my play."
The boy scampered onto the stage. Through the gap in the curtain, Blake could see Wells' face brighten with relief.
