The Privilege of the Sword (33 page)

W
E WERE NEITHER OF US VERY BIG, BUT SOMEHOW
these past weeks Marcus had gotten taller than I. He was walking so quickly that I had to break into an undignified trot to keep up. “What’s the hurry?” I panted as we toiled up the sloping street across the river.

“Are you sure you remember the house? I want to get there before him. I want to see him come in, see what he does.”

We had a brief dispute about which alley it was, and then we recognized the cherry tree limb sticking out over the back wall of the house—it was definitely cherry, I could tell, now that it was showing signs of budding—so we knew we were in the right place. We did clever things with the rope and the branches, and then it was really pretty easy for us to skimble up and over the wall with hardly any whitewash on our legs.

It was a smallish garden, nicely laid out with little stone paths running between bushes and herbs that had been cut back for the winter, and patches covered with straw that would probably be flowers or strawberries. The back room of the house had tall windows that looked onto the garden. The tall bushes against the wall gave us a perfect spot for hiding, and a perfect view of the room and its occupant.

It was a woman close to my mother’s age, with a strong face and auburn hair that looked like it had been carefully dressed in braided coils and a chignon that morning, but turned into a bird’s nest by the succession of pens and paintbrushes she was pushing in and out of it. Her eyes were very wide set, and her lower lip was so full that it looked as though someone had taken a dessert spoon and scooped a little out from under it. She was not plump, but she was large, somehow, like a heroic stone sculpture. And even under the loose smock she wore, I could see she had quite a bosom.

The woman sat at a long table, staring intently at a bowl of fruit. Then she pulled a paintbrush out of her hair, licked the tip, dipped it into some paint and drew a few lines on the outside of a white bowl.

“What on earth is she doing?” Marcus hissed in my frozen ear.

“Painting china.”

“Is she a painter, then? Is that all he’s doing here, getting his portrait done?”

“This is different. It’s very stylish; everyone wants painted china. Even ladies do it sometimes.”

We watched her work on the bowl. It was turning into the petals of a flower.

“Is she a lady, then? She doesn’t look like one. She’s got paint on her smock, and her hands are dirty.”

“Maybe it’s his sister. Let’s go,” I whispered to Marcus; “I’m cold.”

“Put your hood up,” he murmured. “Wait ’til he comes.”

I shifted uncomfortably. The shrub was scratching my neck. The woman looked up, and I was sure she’d heard me, but it was the maid coming into the room, and after her came Lucius Perry.

As soon as the maid had left with his cloak, Lucius Perry leaned over the woman and kissed her. He drew the pens and brushes out of her hair one by one, and he put his fingers into it and pulled it way out over her shoulders. It was very thick and lush, the woman’s hair. You could tell from the way he was holding it that it weighed a lot. He kissed her again, and started to draw her toward the couch by the window.

“That’s enough,” I said, trying not to sound nervous. “I’m going.”

“Shh!” said Marcus. “Do you think we can get closer? I want to hear what they’re saying.”

“They’re not saying
anything,
Marcus. Just
Ooh, ahh, my darling
or something like that.”

“They’re talking,” he said. “She’s annoyed with him.”

“Maybe she’s just found out about Glinley’s.”

“Not that annoyed.”

“So what is she saying?”

S
HE WAS SAYING,
“I’
VE GOT TO GET THAT LAYER DONE
before it dries, Lucius. Really.”

“Paint it over.” Lucius Perry was untying her smock with one hand, and feeling underneath it for her bodice with the other. “Later. I’ll help you.”

“Goodness. Such enthusiasm.” Pulling herself up on one elbow (and pulling her chemise back over her shoulder), she ran a finger along his lips. She felt his hands loosen, his mouth part a little, and she smiled. “What have you been up to, to be so inspired?”

“Paying the duke his fee.”

“I should have known. You always like that.”

He lay back in blissful reflective surrender, and in a flash she’d leapt off the couch and over to her work table.

“Teresa!” Lucius Perry leaned precariously off the edge of the daybed, reaching across the studio to her. “Don’t leave me like this!”

“Go to bed, Lucius,” she said, and picked up a brush. “I mean, to real bed. I’ll come to you there when I’m done.”

“When?” he asked plaintively, lying back and staring at the ceiling.

“What does it matter, when? You’ll go right to sleep, I know you. You’ve been up all night at the one place and half the day at the duke’s already.” She saw him arranging himself in an attractive position, left arm flung carelessly over his head, right-hand fingers curled against his thigh. He stretched like a cat in the weak winter sun, so that everything he had to offer was clearly defined.

Teresa took a sip of tisane that had gotten good and cold. “Now, listen,” she said. “This afternoon Helena Montague is coming to take chocolate. She’s one of the few still speaking to me; I cannot disappoint her. And she’s asked me for six matching bowls.” She curled her brush around the rim of this one, making an azure border. “I showed her my work last time she came, and very admiring of it she was. Claimed it was quite the prettiest she’d ever seen, and wanted a complete set, if I wasn’t too busy.” Teresa smiled dryly. “I assured her I was not. I can’t imagine what she’ll do with them; give them to her hatmaker or something, I suppose, but she’s going to pay me good money, and that’s what matters.”

“Good money?” Lucius said dreamily. His body had gone slack, as if he were talking in his sleep, which he practically was. “I’ve got money.”

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty. Buy yourself a new hat.”

He closed his eyes at last. His face was suddenly as still and holy as a king’s on a tomb. “Marry me.”

“Not this year,” she said. “Maybe next. Come on, wake up,” she said without looking at him, still working on her bowl. “Don’t you want to be able to marry a respectable woman? If Helena Montague finds you lolling on my daybed looking like a model for the Oak God’s lover, whatever is left of my name will go up in smoke like bonfire wishes.”

“Marry…”

“Mmm-hmm. Well, at least they dry quickly. Though I suppose I’ll just have to keep giving her more cakes until they do, so she can see. I should have started these last week, but I got a new idea for my first act. I do wish writing paid as reliably as painted china; it’s so much more entertaining. But the public is fickle, and the theatre such a quagmire…. I’m sure Sterling is cheating me on the gate. I wish I could do something original. I wish I could do comedy, but I’m just not—
Lucius
!” She said it so loudly that the two listening in the garden heard her voice bounce off the walls. “Wake up and go to bed. And send Nancy in to do my hair; it’s come all undone.”

W
E WATCHED
L
UCIUS
P
ERRY GET UP AND DRAG HIMSELF
out of the room. “It’s sooo exhausting,” Marcus whispered, “working for the duke.”

I giggled. “Now what?” I said.

“Back over the wall, Katie, quick! We have to see if he goes out the front.”

“If he does, we’ll follow him, right? Maybe he’s got another girl somewhere else.”

“Two girls! And don’t forget the pony….”

We barely made it over the wall, and when we had watched the front of the house for long enough (in a not-very-good hiding place next to a house down the street—“Bring knucklebones next time,” said Marcus; “we’ll need to look like we’re playing, like we belong here.”), we went back and wrestled the rope out of the tree. No one set any dogs or guards on us, so we must have been quiet and stealthy enough, though we were so charged up with the thrill of our triumph, I was sure we’d be caught.

Flushed and sweaty and grinning, we stowed the rope away. “And so?”

“Gingerbread,” said Marcus. “It’s traditional.”

chapter
VII

T
HEY TRIED FORCING HER TO EAT, AND THEY TRIED
denying her food. It made no difference; Artemisia remained obdurate. They tried promising her treats, offering to buy her pets and jewels, even a trip to the races, for which she’d been agitating for months, but to no effect. Her mother considered threatening to cut off her hair—that had worked once—but it would spoil the wedding. Lord Ferris sent flowers, and daily notes inquiring after her health, which, after what she did to the first one they showed her, they kept to themselves.

When her good friend Lydia Godwin came to inquire after her, they very nearly turned her away. But Lydia was glowing with joy at her recent engagement to Armand Lindley, and perhaps, thought Lady Fitz, the girl could talk some sense into her.

When she saw Lydia’s sweet face come through the door to her room, Artemisia melted altogether. She flung herself into her friend’s arms, and wept there without a word. Strongly moved, Lydia wept, too. It was not until they both stopped to look for handkerchiefs that Lydia asked, “My dearest Mi, whatever is the matter?”

Artemisia seized her friend’s hand. “Your father,” she said tremulously, “Lord Godwin, he knows the law, does he not? Might you—might you ask him for me whether a girl is compelled to marry if her parents wish it, even if she does not? Even if she has given her word in betrothal—but now, she does not wish to?”

“Of course I will ask him, sweetest one. But surely your parents will not force you against your will? Even they cannot be so hopelessly old-fashioned.”

“They will, I know they will—they are at me every day, and no one understands!”

“Dearest Mi, whatever has happened to you? What has Lord Ferris done, for you to take him so violently in dislike?”

For a moment, Artemisia considered telling her friend everything. But she knew that her dearest Lydia was a very conduit of news about all their friends’ doings. And so she knew that, despite their great love, it would be next to impossible for Lydia to keep the sensational news of her ruin to herself. Artemisia wisely contented herself with crying out, “I cannot marry him! I would rather die!”

Lydia did her best to explain that, from her experience, true love and mutual understanding, such as she shared with her gentle Armand, were enough to conquer all impediments. But her words had little effect. Artemisia pressed her hands to her mouth and would not look at her.

Lydia sat and gently stroked her friend’s hair. It was worse than she had thought. She’d seen Artemisia in a passion before, especially when she was trying to scare her parents. But never before had she refused to open her heart to her dearest friend—and never before had her eyes been quite so red, her face so taut, her breath so ragged. Lydia thought best how to divert her, that she might regain some comfort and composure.

“Mi,” she said, “do you remember when we went to the theatre to see
The Empress
, and you had nightmares after?”