by Nina Mason
Gemma looked surprised, but not displeased. “Is that what you really want?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s settled.” Gemma leaned in and kissed Maggie softly on the mouth, as if to seal their agreement. “I shall stay with you until your husband returns…or until you ask me to go, if you should tire of my company beforehand.”
Maggie, pleased by her answer, wanted to kiss her again, but refrained. Instead, she licked her lips and said, “Shall I ring for a servant to bring us our morning meal?”
“Please do. And whilst we eat, we can discuss what we might do today to amuse ourselves.”
The suggestion regarding leisure pastimes both surprised and delighted Maggie. “Do you not have to go to your shop?”
Gemma touched her cheek. “No one will die if I take a few days off.” With a light laugh, she added, “At least, I hope they will not.”
Over a meal of soft-boiled eggs, crisp bacon, and buttered toast, Maggie told Gemma all about Lord Mulgrave, including what she’d seen at the chapel and what he’d done to her at the masquerade ball. After promising to contrive a way to put the earl in his place, Gemma asked after Lady Fitzhardinge.
“Have you seen her since our evening of ribald entertainments?”
Maggie poured herself another stoup of ale from the pitcher the maid had brought with their morning meal. “As a matter of fact, she called upon me last night to deliver a letter from Robert.
“He sent you a letter? How good of him.” As she said it, she looked genuinely pleased.
“Yes, it was good of him—and no trifling matter under the circumstances.”
“Did his words lift your spirits?”
Maggie smiled at the memory of Robert’s passionate sentiments. “They did indeed…as has your company.”
“Did the viscountess look well?”
“Very well.” Maggie sipped her watered-down ale. “I considered inviting her to join us, but did not know if you would appreciate the gesture.”
“I would not have minded, if you desired her presence.”
“I must own I did not…but would not object to her joining us at another time, provided she can tear herself away from Lady Churchill, of course.”
Surprise colored Gemma’s handsome features. “Lady Churchill? Do you refer perchance to the notoriously loudmouthed maid of honor who is a great favorite of Princess Anne’s?”
“The very one.” Maggie smiled through her guilt. She did not make a habit of repeating gossip, but this rumor was too juicy to keep to herself. “’Tis whispered around the court that Barbara has replaced Anne as Sarah’s favorite, much to the princess’s discontentment.”
Gemma’s eyes brightened. “How delightful. And how I should love to be a fly on the wall in that quarter!”
The suggestion made Maggie feel so deliciously wicked, she could scarcely keep her countenance. “There might be a way to grant your wish.”
“Oh? How exciting. Do tell me how.”
“Some time back, the queen told me of a storage closet with a spyhole once used to eavesdrop on foreign dignitaries.” Maggie felt positively giddy at the prospect of spying upon the two ladies-in-waiting. “She used to live here, you know, with my father, when they were the Duke and Duchess of York. The bedchamber belongs to Lady Fitzhardinge at present. Her husband is away in Holland at present, acting as my father’s ambassador in negotiations with William and Mary. I suggest we wait until dark, then go have ourselves a peek. What do you say to that?”
“I say it’s a splendid idea. But what shall we do to pass the time beforehand?”
Maggie, despite feeling tipsy, took another drink of ale. “What would you like to do?”
Gemma’s eyes twinkled with mischief as she nibbled a slice of buttered toast, her pinkie finger daintily extended. “I hoped we might do some shopping—preferably at the establishment where you acquired the Monsieur and Signor. I should very much like to procure my own ambassadeurs de plaisir, if you take my meaning.”
Maggie’s delight burst forth in a grin. “I understand you perfectly, and will gladly take you there. But I must warn you, the shop is in Covent Garden, in the heart of the sex district.”
Gemma, feigning shock, lifted an eyebrow. “The sex district! How exquisite that sounds. Or did you mean to put me off the idea?”
“I only meant to be informative,” Maggie told her, being truthful, “on the off chance you might be apprehensive about venturing into the area.”
“Happily, I am made of sterner stuff than many of our sex. I could not succeed in a man’s occupation if I were a wilting violet, now could I?”
“I suppose not.”
Gemma reached for another slice of toast and took a small bite. After swallowing, she asked, “What will you do with wee Jamie?”
Maggie, in her delight at the prospect of an outing, had not considered what to do with her son. “Leave him in the nursery, I imagine.”
“No, you cannot,” said Gemma, her expression growing serious. “He may be contagious.”
Maggie could not help but raise her brows in surprise. “But…how can that be when he appears perfectly healthy?”
“Appearance means naught.” Gemma leaned closer and lowered her voice. “He has been infected with the virus and can, therefore, pass it on. And once he falls ill, he must be quarantined until the last of the scabs fall off.”
“Goodness me,” Maggie said, pressing her hand to her bosom. “I had no idea, and am grateful you warned me before I exposed him to other children.” Getting an idea, she glanced toward the front door before returning her gaze to Gemma’s. “Perhaps the chambermaid will agree to watch him, if I tempt her with a few shillings. Judging by the pockmarks in the hollows of her cheeks, she will be in no danger.”
“That sounds like a capital idea.” The excitement in Gemma’s eyes mirrored her own. “Let us set off, then, as soon as we’ve completed our morning toilettes.”
“Let me just ring for my maid to assist us both.” Maggie rose and started toward the bell pull, then stopped and turned back to Gemma. “You are welcome to continue borrowing from my closet until we can collect your things. I believe we are similar in size, so the fit should not be an issue, especially with my mantuas.”
“That is very good of you, duchess.” Gemma, having finished her toast, licked the butter from her fingers. “I might just take you up on your offer.”
* * * *
Robert passed a restless night, but not because of his intimate proximity to Juliette. What kept him awake was the message he’d received from the Virgin Mary, if indeed the vision had been genuine. He was inclined to believe it was, if for no other reason than this one: his imagination would never invent aught as devastating as the sacrifice of his only son.
Rolling onto his back, he heaved a sigh and stared up at the shadows dancing on the cabin’s ceiling. Gradually, they took on the shape of Michelangelo’s Pieta, which he’d viewed when in Rome during his Grand Tour of the continent. What had impressed him most about the marble masterpiece was not the skillful carving of the folds in the Blessed Virgin’s gown; it was the look on her face. In the immediate aftermath of her son’s crucifixion, Mary wore an expression of graceful acceptance, even as she held Jesus’s brutalized body in her arms.
Robert had stood there at least an hour, mesmerized by the sculpture’s unearthly beauty whilst meditating upon the meaning of what he observed. Were he to lose a child in such a cruel and unjust way, he’d thought, he could not imagine feeling anything close to serenity.
Then, like an epiphany, he saw the artist’s deeper message. The statue was meant to embody the Christian ideals of faith and forgiveness. If one accepted that God knew best and forgave the trespasses of others, one would always be at peace.
The truth seemed so simple and, at the same time, so difficult to exemplify. And yet, Mary had done it, as had so many other saints and martyrs. So had Abraham, who stood ready to sacrifice Isaac before the Lord stayed his hand.
&
nbsp; Could I not do as they had done?
His every feeling revolted. No, he could not. The thought was far too wrenching to contemplate. He and Maggie had lost so many children before they were blessed with wee Jamie. It seemed too cruel that God should finally give them a son only to ask them to give him up.
Aye, the Bible said, “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” but it also said, “Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; yea, our God is merciful.”
Was the psalm incorrect? Was it nothing more than flattery for a tyrant? It would seem so, given the terrible things God did to Abraham, Job, Lot, and a whole host of other poor souls.
As these thoughts tormented him, the waves rocked the ship. The wounds on his back had scabbed over, but the wounds in his soul still bled freely. Heartsick and homesick, he conjured his boy’s sweet face as he slept snugly in his cradle, oblivious to God’s malicious intentions.
I sacrificed my son and now, so must you.
Robert clenched his jaw and balled his fists in defiance. He wanted to shake them at the heavens, at God, and scream: No, I shan’t. I shan’t give him up. If you must have a life, you unfeeling despot, take mine instead.
Chapter Seven
After purchasing two Love Birds at the Rising Sun, Maggie and Gemma strolled arm-in-arm through Covent Garden, seeking out other interesting shops to explore on their way back to Westminster. After a few blocks, Gemma pulled up short and exclaimed, “Oh, look. I have been searching for that little gem all over the city.”
They were outside a bookshop. Maggie peered through the glass at the display, which featured several different titles, a pretty delft inkwell stand, and a selection of turkey-feather quills. “To which little gem do you refer?”
Gemma, wearing a naughty smile, let go of Maggie’s arm and started toward the door. “Come inside and see for yourself.”
Maggie, curiosity piqued, did as her companion bade. Once inside, Gemma dashed over to a shelf, plucked up a book, and opened to the frontispiece. Peering over her shoulder, Maggie could not believe what she saw. The page displayed a woodcut of three ladies examining the wares of a dildol seller not unlike the one they’d lately visited.
“How shocking,” Maggie said.
Turning her head, Gemma regarded Maggie with a reproving glare. “I would not have thought you so prudish.”
Maggie, face burning, swallowed and stepped away. The bookshop was crowded. What if someone saw her looking at something so lewd? Yes, she’d just come from a godemiché seller’s in the heart of London’s sex-trade district, but they were in Westminster now. There, the clientele was mostly prostitutes and their patrons. Here, the customers were respectable people looking at all manner of publications. If she were spotted, she’d be the talk of the royal court—and an even bigger target for Lord Mulgrave than she already was.
To avoid notice, she grabbed a book of sermons and promptly buried her nose in its pages. “If you want it, hurry and buy it,” she said to Gemma, keeping her voice low. “I will look it over back at the apartment, where there are no witnesses to judge my impropriety.”
Whilst Gemma made her purchase, Maggie went outside and flagged down a hackney. A sedan chair might be big enough for her and the baby, but would never do for two full-grown ladies.
When Gemma emerged from the shop, she looked from Maggie to the cab and back again. “Are we bringing our outing to a close so soon?”
“We are,” Maggie replied with a sigh. “I am weary of walking and will need to feed the baby soon.”
The driver climbed down and opened the door. “Where to, ladies?”
“St. James’s Palace, if you please,” Maggie replied with a smile.
He eyed them suspiciously. “Would ye be papists, perchance?”
Maggie, mortified by his bold inquiry, said in the snootiest tone she could manage, “What business is that of yours?”
“I don’t care to have heathens contaminating my upholstery for my better fares.”
Maggie, feeling as if she’d been shot through the heart, stepped back.
Gemma, less easily daunted, stood her ground. “Catholicism is not a disease, you ignorant arse.”
“It would appear to be where you two are headed,” he returned with a leer. “And a fast-spreading one, too, from what I’ve heard.”
“Shame on you for putting stock in gossip.” Gemma wagged her finger at the man. “And shame on you for submitting to bigotry.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Save yer reproaches for yer children, woman. Are you papists or ain’t ye?”
Maggie, eager to escape his insults, hooked her arm through Gemma’s and pulled her away. “To the devil with him. There are plenty of other hackneys in the city. We do not have to put up with abuses from the likes of him—or waste our valuable time arguing with witless buffoons.”
“Indeed we do not,” said Gemma, sticking her nose in the air.
They walked arm-in-arm up the street to the corner, where Maggie hailed another cab—one whose driver did not screen his fares by their religious beliefs.
Maggie, still outraged by the man’s slurs, looked out the window as the hackney moved through the streets. The sidewalks were crowded with people from all stations of life, from beggars in filthy rags to ladies and gentlemen in fine velvets and silks.
As she watched them going about their business, she wondered how many of them felt as the insufferable hackney driver did. How many of them hated her father and hoped Lord Monmouth might succeed in his bid for the throne? She did not understand the bias against people of the Romish faith. Did their bigotry really all spring from transubstantiation? She could not believe something so inconsequential could be the real cause of such widespread and passionate hatred. Whether the communion wafer and wine were symbols or truly became Christ’s body and blood seemed so inconsequential, especially when the Eucharist did not literally transform into flesh. It all seemed so ludicrous, she might have laughed were it not all so destructive and galling.
Maggie turned to Gemma, who was looking through the dirty little book she’d bought. “I cannot believe people get so worked up over something as silly as transubstantiation. Is it because they think us cannibals?”
“They believe us recusants,” Gemma replied without looking up from the page. “Dangerous dissenters, in other words. They want us all to be the same, to conform, to be like-minded, to be brainwashed en masse by the Anglican clergy and the Book of Common Prayer.”
Maggie, sighing, returned her gaze to the passing view. “It still seems so exasperatingly nonsensical to me.”
“That is because it is nonsensical.” Gemma, looking up at last, gave her a smile. “Be thankful Catholicism is no longer a capital crime. There was a time not so long ago when we would have hanged for our beliefs. The Test Act, believe it or not, was a step forward.”
“My father is nevertheless determined to repeal those laws, come hell or high water.”
“I wish him luck—not that it will make a lick of difference to us.”
Her statement surprised Maggie. “Will it not?”
Gemma’s smile faded. “We are women, duchess. Even if we converted to Protestantism tomorrow, we still could not have professions or hold public office.”
“You have a profession,” Maggie pointed out.
“Only because I chose my husband wisely.”
As she said it, Maggie spied a prostitute she had seen earlier in the godemiché shop. “We could always be whores, I suppose.”
Gemma chuckled. “In my books, there is very little difference between being a wife and being a whore—except that men treat their mistresses with more respect.”
“I suppose that is true for those who make loveless matches.”
“Sadly, few of us have the luxury to do otherwise,” Gemma said dolefully. “Even the highest born ladies must marry for reasons other than affection. Just look at your friend the queen. Was she not forced to marry your father against her will? Did she not spill tears for three days to
gether when she learned she was to be married off to a widowed duke three times her age? And now look what she is forced to endure. His infidelity and the scorn of her subjects, to boot. Is it any wonder no other eligible princess in Europe would have him? Were I in the poor queen’s shoes, I would still be weeping.”
Maggie’s daughterly duty and affection reared up to defend her father against the unflattering picture Gemma had painted of him. “Do not forget that he, too, was forced to marry someone selected for him by the state. My father is a serious man of strong convictions and passions. He needs a woman who lifts his spirits, not one who adds to his natural melancholy and back-breaking burdens. Is the queen well-suited for such a man? Much as I respect her position as his wife, it is clear she does not satisfy her husband’s needs, whatever they may be, and that Catherine Sedley does.”
“Have you met the lady?”
“No, I arrived at court after he’d given her up—and, now that she is back, I have not yet been granted the favor of being introduced to her.”
“Well, I hear she is a sharp-tongued harpy with the figure of a scarecrow and the face of a gorgon,” Gemma said loftily.
“She may not be a beauty, but neither does she have snakes for hair,” Maggie said, appalled by her friend’s unkindness. “Which, in my opinion, only demonstrates my father’s depths of feeling and character. He loves the lady for who she is and her faithfulness to him, not merely for her surface qualities.”
“Still, I cannot believe you are defending her—you, who have threatened your husband with the lash if ever he so much as looks at another woman twice.”
“That is different,” Maggie told her crossly. “Robert and I married for love, not by arrangement, and still have great passion for one another. I also enjoy sex and indulge his darker tastes, unlike many wives, who see their husband’s desires as a burden instead of a blessing. Also, you forget that I am the by-blow of an adulterous coupling myself. While it is true that I disapprove of extramarital affairs for sport, I would not be here if my father had always been faithful.”
