by C. J. Archer
Jane gasped and stood suddenly, sending her sewing tumbling to the floor. "Oh, dear girl, what is all this?" She picked up the gloves and sniffed them. "I do love the smell of new leather."
"Good because they're yours."
"Oh no, I couldn't." She returned the gloves to the basket. "You already paid me—."
"That was simply what you were owed. This is extra for your continuing good service."
"Oh." Jane fingered one of the gloves. "They're very well made. Excellent stitching."
"Try them on," Min said.
Jane shook her head. "I couldn't. I shouldn't accept them. They must have cost quite a lot."
"Don't worry about the cost and just try them on. Go on," she said when the maid hesitated again.
Jane chewed the inside of her lip and picked up the gloves. She put them to her nose and closed her eyes as she inhaled. "They are lovely."
"It's settled then."
Jane pecked her on the cheek. "Dear girl, you're so good to me."
"Good Lord, Jane, you're acting as if I was giving you the moon. It's just a pair of gloves."
"But such a fine pair. I'll save them for Sundays." Jane wiped her palms down her apron and tried on the gloves, oohing and aahing as they slipped over her fingers. "Can we afford all this, m'lady? There's such an awful lot here."
"We can. And there'll be some left over for a nice piece of beef for next week."
"And cheese without mould?"
"Of course. And no black bread either."
Jane laughed loudly as if it were the funniest thing she'd heard. Then because Min needed a good laugh and Jane seemed so happy, she joined in. After a few inelegant snorts which only set them off again, they plopped down on stools, breathless and red cheeked.
Jane removed her gloves and returned them to the basket. "Aren't you tryin' to economize?" she said, dabbing the back of her hand to her cheeks.
"Oh, Jane, I'm tired of economizing. I've mended clothes until they've become nothing but patches sewn together. I'm trying to cram as much onto a page as possible when I write that I can barely even read it. Just for a while, I want to remember what it's like to not economize." Jane nodded but Min wasn't sure she entirely understood. How could she when she had even less than Min? "Besides, there's still the money from Lord Pilkington coming in. And we do need all these things."
"I suppose so. And there'll be another payment from Style for yer next play anyway," Jane said, gazing at her gloves.
Min nodded and plastered what she hoped was a confident smile on her face. She didn't want to destroy Jane's euphoria. Not until she knew for certain what Lord Hawkesbury planned to do regarding the performance of her plays by his company. The outlook might be grim, but Jane did look so happy with her new gloves and her hopes for the future. Min simply couldn't take that away from her yet.
She gathered up all the purchases and returned them to the basket. All except the map. "I'll take Father his gift now. I'll tell him it's for his birthday next month and he might not ask questions about the expense."
"He will when you present him with a new cloak," Jane said, tugging on a corner of the broadcloth.
Min sighed. "I'll cross that bridge once the cloak is made up." She headed to his study but stopped at the closed door. The last time they'd spoken, he'd shattered his spectacles and stormed off in anger. She had no idea how she'd be received but she had to find out. She couldn't avoid him forever. She knocked softly. On his order, she entered.
"Ah, my child, how are you today?" He removed his spectacles—his spare pair—and placed them gingerly on top of an open book. It would seem he wanted to pretend all was well. That suited Min.
"Fine thank you, Father."
"And what, pray, have you been doing with yourself on this pleasant morning?" He glanced out the window. "Is it a pleasant morning?"
"A little cloudy but I don't think it will rain." Min was under no illusions that his question had more to do with his concern over the completion of his own work than any interest in her activities.
"You've been out then?"
She nodded and handed him the rolled up map. "I bought you this. It's the map you wanted."
"Oh?" He looked at it as if it had grown wings. Then he cautiously took it. She chewed her lip as he unrolled it. "Minerva, my girl, this is marvelous!" He shoved aside books and papers on his desk and spread the map out. "Ah, yes." He mumbled to himself as he pointed to various features, then rummaged through several sheets of paper before finding one containing his own calculations. "Mmmm, ahhh, yes, yes." He pulled at his beard and muttered to himself, occasionally nodding.
He was completely engrossed so Min retreated to the door, one small step at a time so as not to catch his attention. She was almost out of the room when he glanced up. There was a light in his eyes, brighter than before, but also something else. Concern? "Thank you, this is a wonderful surprise, but...what brought on this generosity of spirit?"
"I knew you wanted it so I decided to give you an early birthday gift. Do you approve?"
He nodded and spread his hand lovingly across the map. She should have taken that moment to turn and run. But she was just a little too slow and he spoke before she could escape. "Where did you find the money for it? You didn't go without candles did you? You couldn't write at night without them."
"I managed to save a little extra this week without sacrificing the candles."
"You did?" His beard trembled as he chewed over that piece of information. "Even after the mutton we've been dining on?"
Since when had he become so concerned with the household finances? He'd never once questioned her before. He'd simply allowed her to take over the task of budgeting the family's income when her mother passed away. He'd shown very little interest in monetary matters at all, as long as he had books, paper and ink. The fact that he'd noticed what he'd eaten for dinner was also rather alarming. Usually he didn't care about food, it was simply something Jane brought into his study, disrupting his work. All breads were equal, as were all meats. As long as an empty stomach didn't distract him, he was even known to miss meals entirely unless Jane or Min reminded him to eat.
"I got an excellent price on both the mutton and the map," Min said. The map had been purchased with a part payment, the rest to be paid when she had the funds. It had been a risk considering she wasn't sure where the funds would come from, but she was prepared to take it. Seeing her father happy confirmed that she'd made the right choice.
"Good girl. You always had a head for practicalities. Come here and appreciate this fine piece of cartography."
Crisis over, Min could breathe again. She made a show of looking at the map with him and listening as he eagerly described points of interest. But she really saw nothing except the land masses of England and the New World. So far away. So much ocean separating them.
How long did it take for Blake to sail from one to the other? Her father would know. But she didn't want to find out the answer. It wasn't only the physical distance between them it was also the personal one. She and Blake were oceans apart in experience, views and nature. A marriage could not flourish in those conditions unless someone was willing to compromise, and she didn't think either of them was prepared to, let alone capable of, doing that.
"I must be going," she said. "Enjoy your map. Will you be joining me for dinner?"
"Have Jane bring me something."
"Very well, Father."
"Are you going to finish my paper after dinner?" he asked, peering down his nose at her. So she had not escaped after all. "I would have liked to speak to you about it before the symposium but we've not got time now. It must be printed as soon as possible."
"Of course we'll have time. It's not finished but I will complete several pages—."
"Not finished! What have you been doing these last few days, Minerva?"
"I—."
He slammed his fist down on the map, making Min and everything on the desk jump. "I told you to have it ready for the sy
mposium! If it's not finished this afternoon it'll never be printed by tomorrow."
"Tomorrow! But it's another two weeks before the Academy's next gathering." Oh dear, couldn't he even keep track of the days anymore? She patted his arm. "Tomorrow is only the eleventh, Father," she said gently.
He shook her off. "I know that. But the Academy is hosting a special symposium to honor Petrick van Rijn."
"Wh, what?"
He must have mistaken her sickened look for one of confusion. "He's a visiting Dutch scientist who wants to hear our ideas. Minerva, we spoke about this. I told you about the symposium."
Min's stomach plunged to her toes and a sense of dread folded around her. There was no way she could write his paper and have it printed by tomorrow. "I'm so sorry, Father."
"You're sorry!" He squared his shoulders and straightened his usually hunched back so that he appeared taller than he had in a long time. "Sorry isn't going to get the paper ready on time, is it?"
Tears stung her eyes but she refused to take the entire blame. "I thought you were talking about the next meeting," she said, desperation making her voice high. "You didn't clarify—."
"You've been writing your poetry and plays again, haven't you! I've been warning you over and over that science is what matters, that it is the future, but you've not listened. Instead you've squandered your talent and time on...on nonsense!"
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that her plays had bought him a new map and the first decent food they'd eaten in weeks. That their immediate future depended as much on her plays as on his science. But she bit her tongue to keep the words to herself. He wasn't in a fit state of mind to hear her defense. She wasn't sure he was capable of hearing the blasts from a thousand horns let alone her small voice.
With a growl, he pushed past her and stalked to the door.
"Father, where are you going?"
He strode up the stairs. Min ran after him. Jane poked her head out of the kitchen as they passed.
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes," Min said without stopping, "I'll be down to dine shortly." But it wasn't all right. She had a dreadful feeling her father was about to do something that she'd not thought him capable of.
Destroying her dreams.
"Father," she said, catching up to him outside the door to her study, "please come back downstairs. You're over-exerting yourself."
But she knew he hadn't heard her. His eyes were wide and dilated, his mouth twisted into an ugly slash. He pushed open her door and stalked to her desk. "Where is it?" he snapped.
"Where is what?" She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder but he pushed it off and began rifling through papers—most of them his own work—scattering them over her desk and onto the floor.
"Father! What are you doing?" She knelt and gathered up the pages but more followed in a snowstorm of parchment. "Stop it! You're making a mess."
"Aha! Here it is."
She looked up. "My play!" He held up the latest version of The Fantastical Lives and Loves of Barnaby Fortune in triumph. She dropped all the rescued papers in her haste to stand. "Father, what are you going to do with it?"
"Help you, my poor girl. The sooner this time-wasting twaddle," he flapped the pages in the air, "is banished to the fireplace, the better off you'll be."
"Father, no!" She tried to seize the pages but he put the manuscript behind his back.
"I only have your best interests at heart, Minerva. Once I've relieved you of this cursed muck, the sooner you'll see that I am right." He moved to the fireplace. There were no flames but a puff of air on the glowing embers would see the pages catch alight in no time.
"No! Don't!" She grabbed his elbow and pulled hard. He winced and dropped his arm, allowing her to snatch the play out of his fingers.
He reeled on her. "Give it back to me!" His breathing labored dangerously.
But in that moment, she didn't care about anything except her manuscript. It was all she had left now that Blake was out of her life. She held it close to her chest.
"You ungrateful, irresponsible daughter! I am your father and I am demanding you give me those pages."
"Or what?" She barely recognized her own voice, clogged with emotion.
He'd never struck her in his life but from the raw anger pinching his face, she suspected that was about to change. She braced for the slap.
None came.
She took advantage of the hesitation to diffuse the situation by striking at the heart of their relationship—his dependence on her.
"If you burn or in any way destroy or damage my plays," she said, speaking every word carefully so that her voice wouldn't crack, "I will walk out of this house and never return. Is that clear?"
He blinked slowly, once. It was like a mask had been raised. One moment he was crazed with ire, the next he was the little old man who couldn't even remember to eat at meal times. Min resisted the urge to steer him to the nearest chair to sit down. As with teaching a child, she needed to stand firm or he would never fully understand the depth of his error.
"Forgive me, Minerva," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I let my emotions get the better of me. It'll not happen again."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"I'd best leave you alone to finish..." He left the sentence dangling, perhaps expecting her to complete it for him.
She did not. Instead she stood by the door and held it open for him. He shuffled out and his shoulders rounded, once more the meek old man. She closed the door against the urge to go after him. It would do no good. The simple fact was, she had work to do and very little time in which to do it.
Without his paper in proper order and printed up for distribution to the audience, her father would have to work from his own memory and notes for his lecture. And that was definitely not a good idea with the chaotic paths his mind took lately. With his reputation already hanging by a thread, he needed to put forward a professional and capable image to attract further sponsors. And to retain the one he had.
She sat at her desk and got to work. Jane came with a slice of mutton pie and left with strict instructions that Min wasn't to be disturbed.
Some time later, she put her head down on the desk and sobbed. Not only was the amount of work still to be done insurmountable, but it was becoming clear that her father's theory was poorly thought out. She'd known from the first paragraph that it was a wild conclusion, but now she'd come to realize he'd not backed up his interpretation with solid reasoning. His explanations were haphazard in places, vague in others, and relied upon untested theories and speculative data provided by unreliable sources.
It was awful. He'd be the laughing stock of the Academy by the end of his lecture. No disciple of the New Sciences could accept the theory based on this paper, not with her father's reputation already sullied from his last disaster.
Her only hope was that Lord Pilkington would not attend and that he wouldn't hear of her father's madness later. For it had to be madness. What else could explain his descent from brilliant scientist to the...the nonsensical failure he'd become?
But the scientific community being as close as it was, that was not a realistic hope at all.
CHAPTER 17
Blake didn't understand it. Min had rejected him, a man with a lot to offer a woman. He was wealthy, came from a respectable family and was reasonably handsome. What he lacked in charm he made up for in good personal hygiene and attentiveness to a woman's needs in bed. What more could she possibly want?
Even if she didn't love him, or like him overmuch, it wouldn't matter because he was away for months on end. He could stretch it to years if she preferred. Many women he knew would consider that the perfect marriage.
Not that he'd find it easy to stay away from Min for long periods. Knowing she was waiting for him in his home, his bed, would drive him to sail through the worst tempest the sea could throw at him. He was beginning to think she was like the Sirens of legend, calling to him, and he was unabl
e to resist her song. He was certainly finding it difficult to stay away from her while in London.
He almost asked Alice Croft for advice but decided against it. Ever since he arrived at the White Swan to undertake his bookkeeping duties for the afternoon's performance, everyone, including the seamstress, had given him a wide berth. All except Style. Unfortunately.
As soon as he saw Blake, he strode up to him and pulled the prompt book out of his hands. "What were you trying to do yesterday?" the manager demanded. "Destroy this company?"
Like a herd of sheep, all heads turned as one to watch the drama playing out before them. Everyone stopped what they were doing, except for Croft who sat on a stool, polishing the blade of a gladius. The warning glare he gave Blake said more than Style's blustering words ever could—do not jeopardize the troupe's patronage.
"No." Blake could have said the incident had nothing to do with the company, but he doubted Style or the others would see it that way. Min hadn't. But then Min had more at stake. Style and his players could find another patron, but Min's fortune was linked inextricably with Blake's. If Hawkesbury forbade his troupe to perform Blake's plays, as their writer, Min would suffer.
It was the flaw in his plan. The reef in the bay, except he couldn't steer around it like he'd originally assumed. Min had got under his skin and inside his conscience. No easy feat considering he'd thought he no longer had one.
"No?" Style must have been furious because he hadn't noticed his toga slipping nor did he wipe away the spittle frothing at the corner of his mouth. "That's it? That's all you have to say? No?"
"Nobody died," Blake said, "so there's no cause for alarm."
"Nobody..." Style gurgled, turning an interesting shade of crimson. "No cause for..." He began to choke and splutter, his face turning redder and redder.
Blake slapped him on the back, perhaps a little harder than necessary. Style stumbled forward through the curtain—newly replaced—onto the stage. The audience massed on the other side roared, thinking the play was about to begin. Style said a few words to calm them then re-entered the tiring house.
He wagged a finger at Blake. "Do not think that your plays will save you, Blakwell, or whatever your name is. I don't care who you are or how good your poetry is, if you so much as approach Lord Hawkesbury again while he is patron of this company, you'll find yourself without a job. Is that clear?"
