by C. J. Archer
“It would please me greatly,” her voice rose on the word so that even those courtiers in the far corners of the presence chamber could hear, “to see you make an advantageous match, my lord.”
One of her advisers approached and whispered in her ear. She nodded. “Very well, let us not keep the ambassador waiting.” She rose. The room hushed except for the rustle of gowns and cloaks as everyone bowed. She left with her advisers and ladies-in-waiting in tow. As soon as she was gone the noise level rose again as most people filed out.
“Not you too,” Grayshaw said, remaining behind with Leo.
“Not me what?” Leo asked.
“Getting married.” Grayshaw made a face.
“Mother has someone in mind.”
“A mother like yours would be an advantage in the negotiations. Unfortunately I have to navigate the dangerous waters of betrothals alone.” Grayshaw had been an orphan for as long as Leo had known him. A modest inheritance had allowed him to purchase a house in Blackfriars after completing his Oxford education. His uncle, a lawyer, had obtained him the position at court, and after a few years, Grayshaw was made assistant to Sir Francis Walsingham. It was a solid position for a gentleman in his situation.
“You may borrow my mother at any time,” Leo said. “Don’t be in a hurry to give her back.”
Grayshaw laughed. “If only you’d stayed in Northumberland, you could have avoided your mother and pleased her at the same time.”
“How so?”
“The Finchbrooke girl is widowed. You know her brother well, as I recall.”
Leo nodded. “The Finchbrooke estate is not far from Warhurst.”
Grayshaw turned serious. “What’s she like?”
“Kind. Pretty, but not in the way of these court beauties. She has a…quieter sort of beauty that radiates vibrancy and wonderment. She’s got a sharp wit and she laughs—” He bit off the rest of the sentence. The person he’d just described wasn’t Catherine, daughter of Lord Finchbrooke, but Alice Croft. He tried to conjure up the memory of what Catherine looked like but couldn’t. The only picture in his mind was of Alice, her face soft, her eyes closed in ecstasy, her hair splayed like a fan across the pillow.
Christ.
Grayshaw watched him with a curious expression. Leo cleared his throat. “My mother is opening negotiations with Lord Finchbrooke for a betrothal,” he said.
“Oh.”
Leo narrowed his eyes at his normally jovial friend. “Oh?”
Grayshaw sighed. “I too have opened negotiations with Lord Finchbrooke.” He tugged on his lace cuffs. “I’ll bow out.”
“You will not. Catherine deserves to have more than one man vying for her affections.” He held out his hand. “May the best man win.”
Grayshaw shook it then shook his head. “We both know that will be you. You have the title, I have only a modest income.”
“You have favor here at court and some influence with the queen’s advisers. You could rise even higher and who knows, wealth and a knighthood might come to you. Don’t give up.”
What was he saying? He should be encouraging Grayshaw to look elsewhere for a wife. Catherine would be the new Lady Warhurst. She had to be. She would bring enough property with her that Leo could use it as surety against any loans. He needed the loans to sink some mines, and he really needed those mines. His people, scratching out a pathetic living on his barren lands, needed them.
They all needed Catherine. Together they would care for his tenants, mine the coal, and extend the simple tower of Warhurst Hall and build something grand. Something to pass down to his heir. Far away from London.
Far away from Alice.
Leo’s stomach tightened as if it had been tied into a knot and someone was pulling the ends.
“Are you ill?” Grayshaw asked, taking Leo’s elbow. “You look pale.”
“I just need a little air. It’s stifling in here.” He moved toward an open casement window and peered out onto the formal terraced gardens below. Grayshaw followed him. “Charles, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Anything. We see little of each other these days but I like to think we are still good friends.”
Leo wasn’t sure the friendship would stretch to giving away state secrets but he had to try. If he didn’t wed Catherine then everything rested on Lilly marrying Hawkesbury—everything he’d worked for, everything he dreamed for his tenants and himself.
He must forget Alice and conquer his lust or he’d never be able to concentrate on the more-important task of securing his future.
He told Grayshaw about his investigation without mentioning Lilly’s state, although from the look on his friend’s face he’d probably guessed she was carrying Hawkesbury’s child. “I need to know if there is anything in Walsingham’s files on Hawkesbury’s father,” Leo said after he repeated Marlowe’s admission without naming the playwright.
Grayshaw shook his head. “I’m sorry, my friend, I can’t. Not even for you. If I get caught reading files I’m not authorized to search, I could lose my position.”
“I understand, but—” A new arrival into the presence chamber caught Leo’s attention.
Lord Hawkesbury.
His gaze settled on Leo then shifted to Grayshaw. The smile on his lips froze, the dark eyes narrowed. Leo could see the pieces falling into place in his mind—Leo’s presence at court for the first time since his arrival in London, his quiet conversation away from everyone else with the assistant to one of the most powerful men in the country.
Even from a distance Leo could see him swallow heavily. Hawkesbury inclined his head in greeting then made his way to a group of courtiers and joined in their conversation.
Lord Enderby was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 14
Alice thought lying to her parents about her whereabouts the night before would be easy. It had been easy to send them a message, but now that she was face-to-face with them and her sisters in the kitchen, she felt horrible. She almost wished they didn’t believe her. She deserved a tongue-lashing, not their enthusiastic attention.
“What was it like?” her youngest sister, Jane, asked. Her huge eyes regarded Alice with wonder, as if she’d been to heaven and back.
“What was what like?” Alice said, sitting beside her other sister, Elizabeth, near the fireplace. A large pot hung over the low fire and delicious smells of stewing meat wafted up with the steam. Why her mother still bothered to cook so much food, Alice didn’t know. Since the company had moved to the Rose on the other side of the river, it was too far for Alice and her father to return home for their midday dinner every day so they mostly dined out with the rest of the troupe. Her mother made them eat another hearty meal at suppertime simply so none went to waste.
“Mistress Peabody’s house!” Jane said in exasperation. She hopped from foot to foot until her father growled at her.
“Be still, child,” he said.
“I can’t.” Nevertheless, she stopped hopping and plonked down on a stool, put her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. “So?” she said to Alice. “How big is the house? It must be enormous! Her father is a gentleman, is he not?”
“Jane,” their father scolded. “Don’t pry.” He popped a pin in his mouth and poked another through the hem of the doublet he was mending. The pale blue cloth spread over his knee and the lace edge touched the newly laid rushes. It was a costume worn by Edward Style in their latest play.
Alice frowned, searching for Minerva’s father’s name. She smiled through sheer relief when she remembered it. “Sir George Peabody is a gentleman scientist, but that doesn’t make him rich.” She didn’t know what degree of wealth the Peabodys had so she decided to give answers that said as little as possible.
“He must be,” Jane said with absolute certainty. Her restless, ten-year-old body began to wriggle again and her father shot her another scowl but with a pin in his mouth remained silent.
“How many servants do they keep?” her mother asked, dippi
ng a wooden spoon into the pot.
“I’m not sure,” Alice said. She, too, squirmed in her seat but not for the same reason as Jane. In contrast, Elizabeth, her grave thirteen-year-old sister, sat almost still. Only her fingers nimbly worked at trimming an old hat of Alice’s.
“Not sure? What were you doing there all that time?” her mother pressed. She tucked a strand of gray hair behind her ear and regarded Alice with pride. “Just think, my beautiful girl making friends with gentlefolk. How you do rise, Daughter.”
Alice blushed. Sink was more like it. Today especially. Last night she’d risen on emotions so high, so sweet, she’d been flying. But today her heart felt like it was weighted down with a pile of bricks. She looked at her lap until she’d blinked back her tears. She must not think of Warhurst, of their night together, and of his subsequent coldness.
Unfortunately it was all she could think about. It made lying even more difficult.
“I didn’t see all the maids,” she said. “Just the one assigned to me.”
“You had your own maid!” Jane exploded with a whoop.
“Jane,” their father warned, removing the pin from between lips overhung with whiskers. “Calm yourself. Let’s hear what your sister has to say. And quickly, for we must go, Alice.”
“Yes, tell us more, Alice,” Jane said. “What was the bed like?”
“Cold without you and Elizabeth,” she said truthfully. Elizabeth looked up from her work and smiled prettily.
Jane shook her head and said, “That’s not what I meant.”
“Big,” Alice said. “And soft.”
“Was there a lot of silver plate on display?” her mother asked. “What did you sup on?”
Alice told them as much as she could, blending actual events from her night at Blakewell House with what she guessed might have occurred had she been staying with Minerva. The lies grew easier to tell as her family listened ravenously. She even included a tale to explain how she cut her arm involving a pair of scissors and a clumsy maid.
“Come, Alice,” her father said, rising from the table. “We must go or Style will lose his temper.”
“He’s always losing his temper,” Jane said.
“Hush, child.” Their mother frowned at her. “You shouldn’t say such things, not even to us. Without Roger Style, your father would not have work.”
“That may be so, but he’s still a horrid man.”
Alice smothered a smile by kissing both her sisters on their foreheads. “I missed you two. Be good and help Mama. I’ll see you both later and you can help me with Minerva Peabody’s wedding gown.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “Oh, can we? Alice, you are so good to us. To work on something so fine would be a joy.”
“Yes, you must make something fit for a grand lady like Mistress Peabody,” Jane said.
Their father snorted. “Might I remind you that Mistress Peabody is a playwright, not royalty. And might I also remind you that you are my assistant first and foremost, Alice. The wedding gown can wait.”
It was time to tell him, tell them all. There’d never be a better opportunity. “I am your assistant for now, Father, but not forever. I have different plans for my future.”
Everyone stared at her for several minutes—at least that’s how long it felt. “Plans?” her father finally spluttered. “What plans?”
“To open a shop and make fine clothes. The very finest. Minerva’s gown will be my first.”
More staring. Beside her, Elizabeth swallowed loudly.
“But,” her mother began. She held her wooden spoon up in the air and the juices ran unchecked down the handle. “But why?”
Alice knew they wouldn’t understand but she had to try and explain it to them somehow. She owed her parents that much. “Because I can’t be Father’s assistant forever—”
“Why not?” he bellowed. “What is wrong with being my assistant? It is an admirable occupation for a girl such as yourself.”
That was the crux of the issue. A girl such as herself. It wasn’t enough. It never would be. “I want something more,” she said. She shook her head. That wasn’t quite right. “I want something else. I want to do things I’ve never done before. Things that others take for granted.”
“Who?” her mother asked.
“And what precisely are they doing?” her father said. He looked like a thundercloud about to unleash a storm on a picnic.
“No one in particular,” she quickly said. “And they aren’t doing anything bad, simply…adventurous. I find I’m a little bored of late, that’s all. I wish to—”
“Bored! Bored!” Her father loomed above her, his flowing white beard trembling with his rage. Elizabeth shrank back. Jane stayed mercifully silent and still for once. “What has got into you, Alice?”
She bowed her head. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“How can we?” her mother said, plopping down on a stool and slouching as if she were an empty sack. “You say you want to be something more, but how is opening your own shop going to achieve anything? It sounds like a great deal too much work for one girl.”
“Not something more, Mama, something else. I want to be something other than the seamstress who works for Hawkesbury’s Men.”
“And what is wrong with that?” her father snapped. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He eyed her critically. “You haven’t become one of those Puritans, have you?”
“No!” She sighed. This was hopeless. “You don’t understand. I am not ashamed of who I am, I am simply bored with it. I associate with the same people every day, most of them men, and not a single one of them really notices me. I am not Alice Croft but John Croft’s daughter.”
“That is nothing to be ashamed of,” her mother said, pointing the wooden spoon at Alice. “I am very proud of your father. You should be too.”
Alice sighed again. “I am.” It was useless to go on. They didn’t understand how she felt and never would.
Her mother rose and returned to the pot over the fire. “You are who you are. That will never change no matter what you do.”
“Come, Alice,” her father said quietly. “We must go.”
They donned their cloaks and headed off to the Rose on the other side of the river. Her father grumbled most of the way about the extra distance and the pain in his knees. Alice, plunged into melancholy, didn’t respond. First Warhurst’s cold treatment and now this.
That the two were connected struck her when they were halfway across the bridge. Warhurst’s behavior was simple to explain—she was a seamstress, daughter of a tiring house manager. She worked for her father and she would never earn enough to rise above the station she was born into. Perhaps if her shop ever became successful she might one day be mistress of her own life, but until then she was reliant on others’ whims. Either way, it would never be enough to satisfy Lord Warhurst.
But to be fair, her dissatisfaction over her lot in life had begun many years ago. She wasn’t sure exactly when, but ever since becoming a woman, she’d felt out of sorts with the rest of the world. She wasn’t allowed to do anything interesting. She couldn’t wield a sword, she couldn’t go about at night, she couldn’t even walk down certain streets without an escort. The amount of money her father gave her for her work was entirely at his discretion and everything that was hers was really his, including her clothing. The only thing she could safely say belonged to her was her mind, and she might as well not have one of those either. It would certainly make life easier if she didn’t think all the time, and wonder.
“I’m growing too old for this,” her father said as the Rose loomed into sight above the other buildings. “Are you quite sure you want to have this shop?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Arrangements are already underway.”
“Remarkable,” he muttered. “But it’s not really about the shop, is it?” He didn’t look at her but stared straight ahead at the street already packed with drays, carts, and people from all walks of life. A goose gir
l herded her flock toward the bridge and two men had to step aside to let the gaggle pass.
Alice touched her father’s arm and she felt him lean into her a little. “No,” she conceded. “It’s about being…somebody. Do you understand?”
After a moment he shook his head. “I concede I do not.” He patted her hand. “You’re a good girl, despite everything.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t appear to notice her dry tone. “Perhaps if you got married, you wouldn’t be so concerned with all this shop nonsense.”
“Married!”
“Yes. Don’t you think it’s a good idea? Marry a respectable man in a solid trade and you’ll feel much better about everything. Trust me, marriage can fulfill a person. Now, do you know of any men that you might care for?”
Good lord, he was serious! If only she’d kept her mouth shut about the shop until the last minute. “The only men I know are theatre people,” she said. Or, more to the point, they were the only men she knew who’d marry her. There were others—or one in particular—who’d had her.
“Don’t concern yourself, my dear. You are young yet and most men your age are still completing their apprenticeships. In a year or two they’ll be in need of a wife as capable and pretty as you. You’ll see. I’ll ask around the guild. Someone will turn up, perhaps even a man who wishes to have a shop. Or if you prefer someone older—”
“No!”
He chuckled into his snowy beard. “Very well.” He patted her hand. “A young husband you will have. In the meantime, you’ll remain my ever-efficient assistant. No lad could match you as a tailor!”
She sighed. It’s not that she had an aversion to marrying, she just didn’t want to think about it at that moment. Not when her thighs quivered at the memory of Warhurst thrusting between them and the ghost of his kisses warmed her throat, her breasts.
She was so grateful to arrive at the Rose she didn’t even care when a green-faced Freddie ran by her and added the contents of his stomach to the already stinking gutter.
“You’re putrid!” Roger Style shouted at him from the back door that led to the tiring house. “Don’t come back in here until you’ve finished. I don’t want my gowns ruined.”
