My Secret Life

by C. J. Archer

  "No!" Min finished washing and dried herself. "I slept soundly."

  "Then you'll be ready for our chores."

  Chores? She'd almost forgotten she'd promised to help Jane so the maid could go to the play in the afternoon. "Yes, of course."

  "If you've got work to do, I could go another—."

  "No, I'll not hear of it. You never know with plays, it might not be on ever again if the audiences don't improve. Today could be your only chance."

  Jane helped Min dress in her plain woolen gown then pinned her hair beneath a white cap. "I'll just rearrange the bed and—."

  "No!" Min rushed past her and scooped up the sheets and the cloth in which Blake had spilled his seed. "I'll do it. You...do something else."

  Jane frowned again and thrust a hand onto her hip. "Anythin' you want to tell me, Mistress? Because if there is, I'll not breathe a word of it to anyone."

  Min shook her head, hardly breathing herself. She knew. Jane knew Blake had been there last night. Min could see it in the maid's eyes—they were clear orbs with the power to see everything, especially a guilty conscience. No, not guilty. Min refused to feel guilty over something so thoroughly fulfilling.

  "Very well." Jane sighed. "But if you need anythin', anythin' at all, you come to me. Understand? I know a thing or two about...things."

  Min swallowed and managed to nod again. She hugged the sheets closer to her chest. They smelled like Blake. "I will. Thank you, Jane. I'll be down shortly."

  Dismissed, the maid left but not before she squeezed her mistress's arm and gave Min an odd little smile. Sympathetic? A secret shared?

  Jane closed the door behind her and Min groaned, dropping the sheets onto the floor. Perhaps with time the embarrassment would ease, but she doubted it. She only hoped that Jane was the only one wise enough to suspect what had occurred during the night. Even so, it was probably for the best if Min avoided her father for as long as possible.

  She gathered up the sheets again and followed Jane down the stairs. Since it was washing day anyway, she filled the large copper pot from the cauldron of water constantly boiling over the kitchen fire and rolled up her sleeves. It took nearly an hour to wash sheets and shirts and another hour to brush down and spot-clean all the finer clothing but she didn't mind. It gave her time to think about her play, and about Blake. Mostly about Blake. The way his hands had felt on her skin, how his kisses had revealed his hunger, and how he'd swelled inside her in the moment before he'd pulled out and spurted his seed.

  She hadn't planned on going to the play that afternoon, but by the time she finished the washing, she'd changed her mind. Jane might enjoy the company. And Min simply had to see Blake again or she'd go mad.

  He was all she could think about. All she wanted to think about. Not even her next play could nudge aside images of him in her bed, gloriously naked and hard for her. Only her.

  But the thrilling thoughts were edged with sadness. He'd made it clear their union wouldn't happen again. She didn't know the reason. A previous betrothal? More likely it was Min's lack of status and money. She wasn't sure who the Blakewells were but he was a gentleman and gentlemen had to marry well. The daughter of a failed scientist, even a knighted one, was hardly a sought-after prospect.

  She sighed. She was foolish to be even courting the idea of marrying him. Silly thoughts like that could make a fanciful girl like her sad. And she had no reason for sadness. She was healthy, had a loving father although a sometimes absent-minded and cross one, and her play had been performed by a real company of players for the first time. She'd also lost her maidenhead to a very desirable gentleman. There was much to be proud and thankful for. She shouldn't want more.

  "Ah, there you are," Jane said on entering the kitchen. She set down two baskets filled with breads, cheese, joints of meat and vegetables.

  Min set aside one of her skirts she'd been mending and helped the maid unpack the baskets. "No black bread," she said with satisfaction. "Is that a leg of mutton?"

  "Aye. I was able to buy the best of everythin' thanks to you, Mistress." She smiled at Min, none of the suspicion of earlier in her expression at all.

  Min smiled back. It was all thanks to her. And if she could sell her next play to Style too, she might even be able to afford a new skirt and perhaps even the map her father wanted.

  "You'll never guess what the talk is at the Stocks Market today," Jane said, a lettuce balanced on her palm.

  "Mistress Flood's latest confrontation with her neighbor?"

  Jane laughed. She looked happier than Min had seen her in a long time. "No, yer play!"

  Min stared at her. "Really? You're not teasing me?"

  "I would never tease you about that, Mistress. It's true, yer play is on everyone's lips. Mistress Harrison the fishmonger's wife wanted to see the play put on by Lord Strange's Men yesterday but she and her husband got to The Theater too late. There was no seatin' left in the gallery and what with Samuel's bad back, they couldn't stand. So bein' in mind to see a play, they set about to find another and someone mentioned there'd be seatin' at The White Swan since Lord Hawkesbury's players aren't even fillin' half the inn-yard. And to their surprise, it was a new play called..." she paused for what could only be effect, "...Marius and Livia! And it was a real gem, Jenny Harrison said. She told me herself but you know what she's like. By the time I reached her stall, she'd said to everyone who'd listen that Lord Hawkesbury's Men have a ripper of a play on their hands. She said young Wells turns a fine leg as Marius." Jane put the lettuce down on the table and sighed. "Oh, to think it is your play she was talkin' about, my dearest girl."

  Her play. Min could hardly believe it herself. Surely she must be asleep and dreaming. People were discussing her play at the market! "You didn't tell her I wrote it did you?"

  "Of course not! I'm no ninny. Yer secret is safe with me. Oh, I can't wait to see it. I think I'll pay the extra and get a seat so I'd best get there early. Last time I went, I couldn't see over the lout in front of me."

  "I'll join you," Min said.

  "Oh? And to what do I owe the pleasure of yer company?"

  "I want to see it again of course."

  "Really?" Jane cocked her head to the side. "Are you sure it's not because yer new hat will be there?"

  Min should have been cross with her maid for being so forward but Jane said it with such a mischievous grin that she couldn't summon anything but a smile herself.

  "That is none of your business, Jane. Now, we'd best get dinner ready or we won't be going anywhere."

  They worked side by side preparing the mutton in the kitchen until a knock sounded at the front door. Jane went to answer it.

  "It's Ned Taylor," she said on her return. "Do you want me to tell him you're not home?"

  "If you didn't tell him that straight away then he'll not believe you." Min studied her hands. They were greasy and smelled of raw meat. "I'd better see what he wants, but not like this." If Ned saw her in her stained and roughened work clothes he might bring it upon himself to be her knight in shining armor and save her from her life of drudgery. The image caused a giggle to bubble to the surface. At Jane's raised brow, Min said, "Have Father speak to him while I change."

  Jane went to retrieve Sir George from his study while Min went upstairs to throw a nicer gown over her working clothes and freshen up. She lifted her looking glass to check her hair but decided not to push the stray strands back beneath her cap. Ned didn't need any more encouragement.

  Oh lord, what if he was here for an answer to his proposal?

  She sighed. If he was, she'd simply have to give it to him.

  She found her father and Ned in the parlor discussing shipping news. It was the one topic they could both converse on without boring the other. Ned, however, was more interested in the cargo while Sir George wanted to hear about the uncharted coasts. It seemed they'd found one ship that satisfied both their needs.

  "The Silver Star has been in port for nearly a week now," her father said. "She
ventured into the East Indies on her last voyage."

  "Brought back cotton by the barrel load and indigo for dyeing," Ned said, nodding. "But I've not managed to get my hands on any yet. The captain proves elusive despite my efforts to petition him and the first mate won't strike any bargains without his captain's orders. Ah, Minerva, there you are." He took her hand and bowed over it, clicking the heels of his shoes together. "You appear quite...over-wrought." He stared pointedly at her unkempt hair. "Are you unwell?"

  "You're not are you, Minerva?" her father asked before she could answer. His concern warmed her heart.

  "No, I'm quite well," she said.

  "Perhaps there's something on your mind," Ned said. "Something you wish to discuss with me." He raised both eyebrows and Min was left in no doubt he had come for an answer to his marriage proposal.

  She sighed inwardly. It was best to get it over with. She opened her mouth to speak but her father cut across her once again.

  "Or is there something you wish to tell me, my child? Did you copy out the rest of the paper last night and find something amiss? Is that it?"

  She looked from one to the other, trying to decide who to go into battle against first. It was like choosing between entering a burning building or a flooded river. Both looked at her, expectant and—oh dear—hopeful.

  She looked to the door. Where was the ever-present Jane now?

  "Father," she said, choosing her words carefully, "I had a...an ache in my head so I went to bed early. Your work is not quite finished." Her head was about the only place that hadn't ached last night. Every other piece of her had yearned for Blake—before, during and after his nocturnal visit. And still did. It was like a disease—thinking about him made her go hot and cold all over.

  And made her bold and just a little foolish. That could be the only explanation for why Min's lie rolled surprisingly easily off her tongue despite the two men watching her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Her indiscretion with Blake had proved a disconcerting experience on many levels.

  She swallowed and couldn't quite meet their gazes.

  Her father snorted in disbelief. "Then why was there a candle burning in your room for half the night? Well, Minerva, answer me that!"

  Oh no! Had he heard noises too?

  "You were writing your Roman play again, weren't you?" he said, taking her silence for guilt.

  Ned's brows rose. "Roman play?"

  Min ignored him. "I wasn't." Her response was quick and came without her even thinking, proof of just how familiar she'd become at telling falsehoods. "I must have forgotten to extinguish the candle. I'm sorry, Father, I know we're trying to save them. I shall be more careful next time."

  He pushed his spectacles up his nose then removed them altogether. His gray eyes stared hawkishly down his beak-like nose at her. "You've never forgotten to blow out a candle in your life, Minerva. The dangers of leaving candles burning has long been drilled into you, and you yourself are always conscious of their cost."

  "Are you saying you don't believe me?" If he wanted to argue with her once more then so be it. Sometimes it was better to be up-front than let issues stew beneath the surface.

  Beside her, Ned shifted and scratched his temple. He looked to be deep in thought, not really listening to the conversation. Good.

  "I am saying you put more emphasis on your plays than on my work," Sir George said. He stood by the window, a rigid, imposing figure dressed in a black gown, his long gray beard twitching as his jaw worked. "Need I remind you of the importance of my—?"

  "No, you need not." She would not let him shame her into thinking her dream was any less worthy than his. It wasn't. It was simply a different dream.

  "Minerva, I am you father! Do not speak to me as if I was anything less."

  She stiffened. "Your paper will be finished in time for the Academy's meeting," she ground out. "Isn't that enough?"

  Ned coughed. "Ah, I think I'd better go. We can discuss the other matter tomorrow, Minerva. Good day, Sir George. I'll see myself out."

  Min gave him a curt nod. Her father didn't even do that. He was completely focused on Min, a fury like she'd never seen before darkening his features and deepening the grooves around his grim mouth. She could practically see steam rising from his nostrils and ears.

  "I wish you to do more than copy it, Minerva," he said, "I want you to read it, digest it, then talk to me about it. The way we usually do." His words were almost sentimental except for the righteousness slicing through his tone. "The way you're supposed to do."

  "Supposed to?" She barked out a humorless laugh. "As a loving and dutiful daughter, you mean?"

  His shoulders hunched and he suddenly seemed less imposing and more like the old man he'd become in recent months. "But of course," he said sadly. "Isn't that how your mother and I raised you? Isn't that why we gave you an education to rival any boy's?"

  "You gave me an education to rival any boy's because you had no boys. I am all there is." Her father's anger may have dissipated but she still boiled with it and she couldn't stop it from spilling over. "And I already tried to discuss your theory with you yesterday but you wouldn't listen. As always, you had that oliphantine nose stuck in a book and your head in the clouds."

  The nostrils on his offending nose flared. "As I recall, you told me it needed more work and I told you I wanted you to read the entire thing before you jumped to any conclusions. Please Minerva, let's not—."

  "I don't think I was the one jumping to conclusions, Father."

  His eyes narrowed and the rigidity returned to his body. The crunch of glass filled the taut silence.

  He grunted and opened his fist. Shards of glass fell onto the rushes. He'd broken his spectacles.

  She gasped. "Are you hurt?" She caught his hand but he pulled it away. Not before she saw the red stripe of blood crossing the palm. "You are hurt." She called for Jane as she told him to close his fist over the wound to stem the flow of blood. He wouldn't. He simply stared at it. "It's not too deep." She tried to smile but it wouldn't come. If her father's hand was damaged beyond use because of their argument, she'd never forgive herself.

  "Blood," he said, continuing to stare. Jane rushed in and applied a clean cloth to the wound. "So much blood and death."

  "Pardon?" Min said. "Death? Father, you'll not die."

  "But they will."

  Min exchanged glances with Jane. The maid shrugged. "Father, who will die?"

  "Oh. What?" Sir George blinked rapidly and looked up at his daughter. He smiled. "I'm glad we're no longer arguing," he said.

  "So am I but...who were you talking about just now?"

  He shook his head. "What do you mean? I spoke only of us not arguing. Jane, do you have any of that salve left? It worked wonders that time I cut my finger."

  "Aye, Sir," the maid said. "Come with me to the kitchen and we'll clean the blood away first."

  Min stared after them then plopped down onto a chair. What had her father been talking about? And why could he not recall saying it? Was her mind playing tricks on her? No, she'd definitely heard him, as had Jane. Which meant his mind must be playing tricks on him.

  Oh Lord. For a man who needed a quick mind as much as he needed air to breathe, losing it would be a disaster. She sighed. For a day that started out so sublimely, it had turned rather awful.

  CHAPTER 12

  Lord Hawkesbury was an elusive man, Blake found. The steward at Hawkesbury Hall said his master wasn't home and he didn't know where he'd gone. Ha! Of course he knew. Stewards knew everything. It was a requirement of their position.

  Blake had waited for an hour on the opposite side of The Strand to the mansion but the master had not returned, at least not that way. On the likely chance that he'd returned home via the river and entered the house using the grander entrance fronting the Thames, Blake once more questioned the steward. Lord Hawkesbury still had not returned.

  He glanced to the sky. The sun hung high, brighter than it had for days, untroubled
by the few gray clouds drifting past. It was time for Blake to prepare for the day's performance of Marius and Livia.

  It would have been quicker to take a wherry down river but he chose to walk. The exercise would hopefully soothe his frustration and the ache that had gripped him by the balls ever since he'd left Min's room the night before. So much for assuaging that craving.

  He trudged along Fleet Street back to the City. He paused near the Bell Savage Inn to allow a dray packed with children and caged ducks to rumble through Ludgate. A lad nailing a handbill to the inn's door caught his attention. It wasn't until the boy finished that Blake saw that it announced the day's performance of Marius and Livia at the White Swan.

  It seemed he would be reminded of Min no matter where he went.

  A well-dressed couple stopped to read the handbill and Blake caught snatches of their conversation on the breeze.

  "... very good," the woman said. "Should we go?"

  "Isn't it a love story?" the man said, his derision obvious. Blake smiled to himself.

  "If Mr. Dickson liked it..." The woman's sentence was lost beneath the thunderous roll of a coach's wheels over the cobbles.

  The man still looked undecided so Blake wandered over. "It's an excellent play," he told the gentleman, "despite the romance. I thoroughly recommend it."

  The woman smiled and said, "See."

  The gentleman didn't look convinced. He eyed Blake up and down, as if assessing his taste in plays. "You've seen it, Sir?"

  "I have. It's an entertaining way to spend an afternoon." He sounded like a peddler, or worse, Roger Style.

  "Thank you," the woman said, "we'll go today."

  They left. Blake read the handbill again. It really was a good play. Min had great talent. And fortitude—she'd had her play performed despite the odds against her. It was a pity she couldn't take credit for it.

  Not that it seemed to concern her. Not yet. It may one day. After the continued success of her plays, she might come to regret not being known as their author.

  A disturbing thought struck him. What would she do if he left London? Who would she claim penned her plays then?