Rose (Flower Trilogy) (12 page)

She hurried away without looking back, hoping he wouldn’t follow and heaving a sigh of relief when she made it into the unfinished vestibule without hearing any footsteps behind her. Thinking to hide herself even better, she slipped into the half-built dining room and sagged against an exquisitely carved wall.

This late at night, she’d expected it to be deserted, but it wasn’t. Across the chamber, Kit and Ellen were having words again.

Did the man never sleep?

“Let me see it,” he said, reaching toward his sister. “Why should it be a secret?”

“ ’Tis mine,” Ellen shot back, clutching a book to her chest. “Why do you have to stick your nose into everything that’s mine?”

Dazed, Rose stared in their direction. It struck her suddenly that in his fine but plain suit, with his gleaming black hair free instead of tucked beneath a wig, Kit looked anything but aristocratic. His skin was browned from working outdoors, and he carried his lean, rangy body with easy authority, not the controlled movements necessary to carry off the weight of layers of heavy fabric and ribbons.

In an odd way, she found the lack of fussiness appealing.

But she wanted an aristocratic husband.

’Twas a good thing he was just a friend.

“Rose!” Ellen exclaimed, spotting her and abandoning Kit to hurry over. “I was hoping to see you tonight.”

“Were you?” Rose asked.

“Yes. I brought a book I’d like you to translate.”

“Did you?” Her gaze still fastened on Kit, Rose seemed to be reduced to two-word responses.

“Will you try?” Ellen grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down the length of the chamber. “I am dying to find some fresh air—this place is filled with sawdust.”

Before Rose could protest, Ellen had propelled her out a door at the end of the chamber. As it shut behind them, Rose sneaked one more glance at Kit. The last she saw of him was those wicked green-brown eyes.

It should be a crime for a commoner to be so attractive.

Ellen led Rose down a long back corridor, around a corner, and out into a small brick courtyard. Unlike Horn Court with its uniformed guards and staircase to the King’s chambers, this homely area was lit by a single torch and held naught but stacks of building supplies and a weathered wooden table with two chairs. Rose gratefully dropped onto one of them, amused to hear assorted bangs, scrapes, and curses coming from high in the building to her right.

“We’re almost back where we started, aren’t we?”

Ellen took the second chair. “ ’Tis the dining room on the other side of that new wall, yes.”

Despite the sounds of construction, the courtyard seemed private enough. “Why wouldn’t you show Kit the book?”

“He’d make certain I never saw Thomas again.”

“Oh?” Rose felt drained, but her curiosity was stronger.

“May I see it?”

“In a minute.” Ellen laid it on the table and ran a finger over the gold lettering that gleamed in the torchlight. “Kit drew a picture of you.”

“I know. I saw it. ’Twas very well done. I had no idea he was an artist.”

“He’s not. Or not anymore. He used to draw all the time, and paint, too.” Ellen’s voice was so melancholy, Rose’s throat tightened just hearing it. “Da used to bring extra wood home from his work—he’d spend hours sanding it smooth and cutting it to size so Kit could paint on it. And Mama would bring home leftover paints. The lady she worked for painted landscapes as a hobby.”

“They sound like they were very devoted parents.”

Ellen nodded, still absently tracing the gilt title. “They were. But Kit hasn’t painted since they died. Not anything.

He says he’s too busy, but I’m not sure I believe him.”

“He
does
seem very busy,” Rose said gently.

Ellen’s eyes, so like Kit’s, went from sad to furious in a heartbeat. Brown to green. “All he wants to do,” she said between gritted teeth, “is make money and add it to my dowry. He thinks he can buy me a titled husband. I don’t
want
a titled husband. I want Thomas.”

Rose had never been afraid to ask questions when she wanted answers. “How much is your dowry?”

“He adds to it constantly. Half of every penny that comes his way. Last I heard, ’twas up to eleven thousand.”

“Pounds?”

“Pounds.”

“Gemini,” Rose breathed, stunned. “Mine is only three thousand.” Hardly a pittance—three thousand pounds was ten years’ income for a gentleman. “I have another ten from my grandfather, but that money is mine to control.”

Ellen pushed back her unruly dark hair. “Kit doesn’t let me control anything.”

“He just wants what’s best for you.” Rose was sure of it.

She was also sure Kit was going about it in a typical male, pigheaded way, but she wouldn’t say that, not now. “He took responsibility for you so young,” she said instead.

“Only sixteen, wasn’t he?”

“And I was six.”

“Well, then, of course he couldn’t let you make your own decisions.”

“But I’m older now. Why can he not see that I’ve grown up? I
hate
being at odds with him. I hate the harsh words. I love him—but I love Thomas, too.” Ellen fought to hold back tears. “Will you help me convince him?”

Rose blinked. “Me? Why should Kit listen to me?”

“He
drew
you,” Ellen reminded her. “He hasn’t drawn anything but buildings in twelve long years.”

And he’d kissed her, too, but Rose wouldn’t be telling Ellen that. “I suppose I can try,” she promised her. “But I’m not at all sure I can make any difference.”

Pigheaded. That was Kit.

But Rose also thought he was right—at least where Thomas was concerned. A pawnbroker, for God’s sake!

“Do you know, Ellen,” she ventured carefully, “it might be a good idea for you to kiss Thomas before you decide you want to marry him.”

“Kiss him?” Dashing away the tears, Ellen burst out laughing. “Mercy me, that is precious.”

For a moment Rose was confused, but then she just felt a fool. Of course Ellen had kissed her love. The girl was eighteen, and Rose had contrived to be kissed long before that.

She just hadn’t enjoyed it.

“Show me the book,” she said.

Sobering, Ellen pushed it slowly across the table. “I would like to read it together with Thomas,” she said, for the first time sounding a bit shy. “But ’tis not English.”

“Yes, you said so.” Rose looked at the title. “ ‘
I Sonetti
Lussuriosi
di Pietro Aretino,’ ” she read aloud. “ ’Tis Italian.”

“Ah. I was wondering.” Ellen scooted closer. “What does it mean?”

“ ’Tis authored by a man named Pietro Aretino, and ’tis called
The Licentious Sonnets,
” Rose translated with some relish. This sounded good, maybe even as good as
Aristotle’s Masterpiece.
She flipped open the book—and stared.

There, above the first sonnet, was an engraving of two people.

Naked people. On a bed.

She leaned forward to study it closer, wishing for more than the flickering torchlight. The man and woman were embracing, both lying on their sides, their legs entwined.

Most of the woman’s body was artfully hidden behind the man, but the man’s bare bottom was there for the world to see in all its well-muscled glory.

So
this
was how people made love! Gemini. This was definitely better than the
Masterpiece.
Much more instructive—the pictures made all the difference.

A small smile flirted on Ellen’s mouth as she gazed at the picture, too. “He’s a fine specimen of a man, is he not?” she asked conspiratorially.

Rose wouldn’t know—she didn’t have anything to compare him with. But Ellen obviously did . . .

Suddenly instead of feeling like the older, wiser woman to Ellen’s eighteen, Rose felt about five years old.

Ellen wanted this book translated. Ellen wanted to share it with her love. No, her
lover.

“No wonder you laughed when I counseled you to kiss Thomas!”

Ellen didn’t even blush. “We’re in
love,
” she said in an impassioned tone, as though that explained everything.

And maybe it did.

“What does the sonnet say?” Ellen asked.

“
‘Fottiamci anima mia, fottiamci presto; Poi che tutti per
fotter nati siamo.
Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love.’ ” She looked up. “That is nice, no?”

Ellen looked disappointed. “I thought it would be . . .

you know, more
racy,
to match the pictures.”

“The picture is not all that racy.” Now that she’d recovered from the shock of seeing naked people on the page, Rose decided the engraving was rather nice. “ ’Tis tasteful enough, all considered.” She turned the page. “Oh . . .”

Not quite so tasteful, the woman was now on her back, half reclined against the headboard, while the man knelt between her spread knees, his body meeting hers in exactly the right place.

“Oh,” she said again.

“Look at the next one.” Ellen reached to flip the page.

“Oh!” Rose tilted her head, then turned the book sideways. There seemed to be so many arms and legs, she really couldn’t tell
what
was going on.

Could people really do that? She’d never imagined—

“And the one after that.”

In
Posizione Quattro,
Position Four, the woman and man were both seated, facing each other, she on the edge of a bed and he on a chair pulled close. Staring at the picture, Rose felt a wave of heat ripple through her. The woman’s legs were spread wide. The man was touching her
there.

And the woman was touching his . . . yard,
Aristotle’s Masterpiece
had called it.

Rose hadn’t heard the term
yard
before reading the
Masterpiece,
but she guessed Ellen would already know that word—and probably more.

Although Rose considered herself educated, she now realized the
Masterpiece
had only explained how everything worked in clinical terms. The whole process of making love had remained somewhat of a mystery.

Until now. A strange ache spread low in her middle as she tried to imagine herself as the woman in the engravings. The only problem was she couldn’t envision doing any of those things with anyone she’d ever met . . . except Kit.

That odd ache intensified, and she shut the book.

After taking a moment to collect herself, she drew a shaky breath. “Where did you get this?” she asked Ellen.

“I found it in Thomas’s shop.”

“Someone
pawned
this book?”

“People pawn everything. Jewels and pottery and pistols and swords . . . ’tis like a treasure trove, I’m telling you.

My favorite place in the world. You should pay a visit, Rose. The shop is right on the High Street.”

Rose had never thought she’d like a pawnshop—they were seedy places, from what she’d heard. Disreputable, along with their owners. “Does Thomas have other foreign books?”

“Not like this.” Ellen laughed. “But yes, I’ve noticed other books that aren’t in English. This book was part of a whole library someone pawned; I don’t think Thomas ever looked through the titles to see what he had. He seemed surprised when I showed him this one.”

“I’ll bet he did.” Rose couldn’t imagine sharing this book with a man. Or rather, she could, but only one certain man—and she didn’t
want
to think about that.

“Can you translate the rest of the first poem?” Ellen asked.

Rose slowly reopened the book, grateful that the words, at least, didn’t seem disturbing. She would just read those and try not to look at the pictures.

“Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love. And if you adore my . . . yard . . .”

Ellen nodded. She
did
know that word.

“. . . then I will love your . . . your . . . seat of womanly pleasure. Good God.” Rose felt her cheeks heat; in fact, she could not remember blushing so much in her whole life as she’d done since coming to Court. “This is not sounding at all sonnetlike, is it? I have never before attempted to translate a sonnet.”

“ ’Tis fine,” Ellen assured her. “I am
sure
Thomas will enjoy hearing this.” Her eyes glittered with anticipation. “I will never remember it, though. Let me try to find quill and paper so I can write it all down.”

Rose wasn’t at all certain she felt up to translating these sonnets aloud in a courtyard in the middle of Windsor Castle. Especially with Kit somewhere on the other side of that wall. For all she knew, he could be heading here to fetch nails or a beam any minute.

She’d never considered herself a prude, but a lady had her limits.

“Never mind,” she said when Ellen stood. “I shall take the book back to my apartments and write down the translations myself. That way I’ll be able to think about the wording. Perhaps I can make it more sonnetlike.”

“Oh, that is a very kind offer. But do not trouble yourself to work on the wording overmuch. Thomas is no devotee of sonnets.”

Rose was looking forward to meeting this Thomas. She couldn’t imagine that he was a very refined man, but Ellen certainly didn’t seem to mind.

“When will you bring me the words?” Ellen asked. “Tomorrow morning, at the pawnshop?”

“ ’Tis past midnight already.” Rose stood with a yawn.

“How many sonnets are there?”

“Sixteen.”

All those engravings to study. She had a lot to learn . . .

and that odd heat was starting already, just thinking about it. “I could translate one by the morning.” ’Twas late, not to mention she’d like to keep this book for a while. “Will Kit allow you to go to the pawnshop?”

“He has to sleep sometime,” Ellen said with a mischievous smile. “I imagine once he allows himself to succumb, he will sleep like the dead. I should be able to sneak out early easily enough. When he wakes, though, he will surely come for me and drag me back here while he works all the day.”

“And half the night,” Rose agreed. Kit was the hardest-working man she’d ever met.

“Probably.” Ellen sighed. “Will you visit the pawnshop tomorrow, then? In the morning?”

“I’ll come,” Rose promised. She grabbed the book, and the two of them returned to the dining room.