Three days later I saw him again. This time I had arranged nothing, and was on horseback, heading back into London over the Bridge, and clomped up towards Cheapside, my page on the pony behind me. Not much of a security guard, but all I wanted or thought I needed. The other horse was coming in the opposite direction and stopped directly in front of me. The rider bowed, and removed his hat. I already knew who he was since there was no one else like him.
“My lady,” he said very softly, “it appears we are fated to become acquainted.”
His voice held inner strength, but it was so quiet, I had to strain to hear him. I was, however, delighted that he remembered me. I smiled and said, “I have no idea who you are, sir. You must tell me your name.”
Improper, I knew. But who cared? I just wanted to get to know him. He’d be an excellent source of information for my spying, and I knew I’d enjoy his company.
He bowed even though he remained in his saddle and replaced his hat.
“I am Jasper Fairweather, my lady,” he said, “A common man of no consequence. Yet in spite of the lack of title and the even greater lack of propriety, under such circumstances, I shall be delight to know your own name, madam.”
The soft voice again. But I heard every word and answered with a smile.
“The Lady Sarah Harrington, sir,” I told him, and called him sir even though he wasn’t one. I wanted friendship. “And the last time I saw you, we were both in a compromised situation. Now we are simply passing each other on the street and cannot be accused of anything.”
“Except that of a common man introducing himself to a high-born lady, with no previous knowledge of each other to excuse the impertinence.”
I spoke as quickly as I could. “But we are now old friends, Master Fairweather, and there is therefore no impropriety should I suggest that you escort me to The Turk’s Head where we can share the new fashion of coffee mixed with politics.
It’s not far from here, I believe.”
His mouth twitched just on one side, a half-hearted smile of acceptance. Whether disguised reluctance or disguised eagerness, I wasn’t at all sure. But the coffee house was not far off, and he seemed to know the way. Only minutes on horseback. I’d never yet been there and had wanted to for several months. No point asking my husband of course.
The candles were spitting and kept the corners dark. Privacy could be important in such a newly introduced place of dubious reputation. There had been talk of banning both the drink and the place of its preparation, but so far, we were legal even if definitely improper. But Jasper spoke to the proprietor, and we were instantly shown to one of the corner tables, tiny and uncovered, with two cushions seats. I shuffled into the darkness, and once I was cosy and well tucked in, he sat facing me. The coffee itself was a vile concoction and as black as mud with a taste about the same. But the conversation was quite another matter.
“A place of instant friendship,” said my new friend. “How,” he paused, then said, “interesting.”
I giggled, which wasn’t something I usually did. Actually, I despised gigglers, and here I was, embarrassed into doing just what I disliked. “I expect,” I said, keeping my voice down, “you’ve been to this place before. They call it a house of sin, but it isn’t, is it.”
“I imagine,” he answered, “that such places will become quite numerous in the future. Personally, I cannot see how coffee contains any particular sin, nor is the meeting of those who drink it. If anything, I would be more likely to criticise the tavern or the ale house. Although perhaps not under Cromwell’s judgement since he enjoys labelling life as sinful. I happen to enjoy the drinking of coffee which directly proves that Cromwell will not.”
I felt that real future popularity was most unlikely, but didn’t say so. Instead I said, “Well, Master Fairweather, perhaps we should discuss politics since we met in unusual circumstances, and it seems that we both support the same side.”
And at that he really did smile. A proper smile. And he said, “It would seem so, my lady. Although I am not entirely sure which side that might be.”
Chapter Eleven
I told Vespasian that he was a flirt, and he laughed at me.
“Flirting with my wife is a sin, perhaps?”
“Sarah’s a complete stranger,” I objected. “And she’s no way your wife because I am.”
“And she is you, my love,” he grinned.
“But she’s married to Arthur Harrington,” I pointed out. “He’s seriously disgusting of course. She’d love to have you instead. But even if she is me, she can’t have you.”
I was curled beside him on the rug before the fire, cosy but conscious of the unguarded flames. The cottage we had bought stood in cheap little Hammersmith, no longer a street of smiths hammering into the evening, but an overcrowded village with cheap rooms to rent and a sky of thick black smoke from the chimneys. The river pushed past the cottage we’d taken, dark as the smoke and stinking of faeces and decay. A minute bedchamber, a trivet over the fire for cooking, and a living room the size of a hamburger. But we had added our own special touches and what Vespasian did when he felt like it, was always astonishing. Besides, our cottage sat alone without close neighbours, and I soon adored it. Oh, that bed. And Vespasian’s arms, instead of the mud and snivelling puritan wives awaiting their husbands, all drunk of course as they celebrated their victories.
My possessive words clearly didn’t bother Vespasian in the slightest. “My dearest beloved,” he said with faint amusement, “we are come to destroy demons and not to fuck the enemy.”
“You don’t really think she’s the enemy,” I pointed out, since he knew very well that she was a royalist spy. “Is she pretty?”
“Yes, she is,” he nodded without hesitation. “Yet does not resemble you except for a faint familiarity within the eyes. And she is the same height, although not the same width.”
So he’d looked close and certainly noticed a lot. “Oh well,” I sighed, “she can’t be as nice as me. Nobody is.”
Kissing down the side of my neck, his breath was as warm as the fire. “Naturally true, my delicious angel,” he said between kisses. “But you should accustom yourself to the fact that she is you, and you are her, and there is no other person between you.”
I knew it of course. When I slipped into Sarah’s mind, I was at first conscious of my own thoughts and knowledge as well as hers. I had done the same long ago with Tilda. Yet, once I slid deeper into Sarah’s mind, I was her alone, and modern Molly disappeared. A brief lurking hint of something unnatural sometimes remained as though I was half asleep and dreaming, but even this was rare. Sarah, after all, was a very determined young woman and although she had learned to be weak and obedient to her husband, inside she brooded and practised her own strength.
It took Sarah only two short weeks to realise that she was in love – or perhaps in lust – with my husband.
Well, that was something we could certainly both agree on.
Vespasian, on the other hand, claimed that apart from a vague veneer of curiosity, what he needed was an introduction to the horrible husband, for the principal demon was enthroned there, and gaining strength. Cromwell’s inner problem was equally urgent since his actions affected more than a few people, but there did not exist a friendship close enough for action.
“We’re mad,” I told Vespasian. “Utterly crazy. We’ve travelled time and space to tackle demons from our own garden and ended up with the problem of me meeting me.”
“I find the duplication of the woman I love to be a charming and fascinating circumstance,” Vespasian smiled at me, each corner of his mouth tucked, and eyelids lowered. I gazed back. I thought his statement was both flattering and insulting. “Yet,” he continued, “the meeting of your two incarnations would be unwise.”
“One would disappear?” I shivered.
But he was still smiling. “No,” He was running his fingers through my hair as though untangling knots. No decent hairbrush and plenty of wind meant my hai
r tangled constantly. “You, my beloved, being the one out of your life’s time progression, would begin to fade. Returning to your modern state would reinstate you. But the complication would be difficult to explain.”
“I won’t meet her.”
“You, little one, will stay close to Agnes Oats.”
She was the last person I wanted to stay close to, but it was what I had come for, and would be my safest path.
Chapter Twelve
With the stink of his breath in my mouth and the clamp of his fingers on my neck, I wanted to follow the habit of several years and whisper, Yes, my lord, and Whatever you wish, my lord. Yet I searched my head for the courage I fostered in the years of my youth, and managed a quivering denial.
“I swear it, my lord, I have never been disloyal and never unfaithful. I would never cuckold the man I respect and admire. I have only met this other man, a common man who follows Cromwell with all his heart, twice and both times without intention or appointment. It is you, my lord, who this man wishes to know, and not myself at all.”
Lies, hypocrisy and cowardly nonsense. But it was also practical and therefore worked whereas any admittance closer to the truth might have finished me entirely.
The snarl remained, but Arthur released my throat. I could breathe and I quickly stepped back. His spit, however, still splattered my face as he spoke. “And how do you know this gutter scraping isn’t some royalist assassin in disguise?”
What a sweet thought. “He is neither a creature of the gutter nor an assassin, sir. He speaks with Cromwell in their camp and is often seen with him. His clothes are of quality, and he rides a fine horse.”
Snarling again. “You know so much about him? It’s a lie, then, that you’ve met him only twice.”
I shrank back again. “No lie, my lord. But I have seen him many times in the camps, yet without meeting the man or speaking with him. I know only that he’s a true supporter of our cause, a gentleman if not a lord of title, and that he wishes to meet and speak with you. He admires you, so wishes to talk with you.”
Finally, the loathsome creature relaxed, stood back and began to wander over to the table where the wine decanter stood. He poured himself a glass but didn’t offer me one. Then he nodded and said, “Then bring the fool over one day. You see him often enough, so make an appointment. Clear it with me first, then bring him for midday dinner. I’ll permit it.”
I ran upstairs and collapsed on the bed. Even such a small matter became a terrifying encounter when it involved Arthur. But for once, I’d succeeded.
It was six days before I saw Jasper Fairweather again, and he didn’t notice me at first. I had to wait until he’d finished speaking with the small group of Cromwell’s men, and then sidle over in the hope he wouldn’t just walk away.
He didn’t. He stood before me and smiled down at my blushes. “Sir, you once told me you wished to meet my husband,” I reminded him. “Is that still what you want?” I didn’t add that no one else in the entire world ever wanted to meet with Arthur, Lord Harrington, the beast of Bracken House first house on the road to Hell.
“Then I am suitably delighted, my lady,” he said, bowing dutifully. “Has a suitable time been arranged?”
I said no, and hoped he’d suggest that we discuss the matter once again at the coffee shop. Sadly, he did not. I said, “You are formally invited to Bracken House at midday to share our dinner, sir. But the day is for you to choose, since I presume you are a busy man. I shall then confirm the date with my lord.”
“Then it must be next week,” said the man. “Tuesday at midday would be convenient, but Wednesday would be equally suitable.”
And damn the man, he just walked off. Another bow, another smile, and his boots disappearing over the hillocks and the mud. I stood there quite bereft, and then made my own cross departure.
Arthur had to be difficult, and so the chosen day was denied, but he agreed to the following Wednesday. I was delighted. I hurried to the lodgings in the city where the government’s top men usually gathered to discuss all and every situation, plot and programme. The man I wanted was there. I was invited in since half the men knew me already and had seen me often, and there, next to the window, Jasper Fairweather sat, long legs stretched, ankles crossed, elbow resting on the arm of the chair and his chin on his knuckles as he gazed at the rain outside.
I was soggy and dripped as I stumbled in and approached him. “Sir,” I said in a rush, “you are invited to our home next Wednesday to take our midday meal with us, and Lord Harrington will be delighted to greet you, sir.”
It was agreed without surprise.
And indeed, my husband met him at the door. Oh, my good Lord, what a contrast. Jasper stood straight, no wig, with his rich black hair brushed back and somewhat longer than the Puritan fashion now favoured. He carried his hat and gloves, and wore dark clothes, fine white lace cravat and cuffs below the dark brown jacket, long boots and no rings or other decorations. But he was no strict Puritan, that was clear.
My husband reached only to Jasper’s shoulder, but was dressed in every ribbon, every golden ornament and every piece of satin and lace he owned. Whereas Jasper showed no Puritan values, Arthur clearly displayed a desire to show off both wealth and status. His new wig, long and heavily curled, was russet and did not suit him at all. Beneath, his own hair, although now shaved to discourage the latest swarm of head lice, was a limp brown.
Oh yes, the food was carefully planned too – with linen and lace, silver and glassware. Three different soups, a huge crusted pie of venison cooked in red wine, and served with onions and parsnips, roast pheasant with beans cooked in spices, blackberry jellies with cream and a lemon tart served with custard. With lavish generosity there was also Spanish Jerez as well as wine, and sugar-coated biscuits. It was the best feast I’d eaten since my wretched wedding day, and I ate a good deal of everything, and drank everything too, much to Arthur’s obvious disgust. I didn’t like the Jerez, but I drank it all the same since I knew it had cost a fortune.
Our guest was not so hungry, and he ate only roast pheasant and drank only wine. I’m not sure whether Arthur was delighted or disappointed at this. After all, he’d made his grand splash and yet enough food remained to keep us well fed for a week and still have something left over for the staff.
“I have been hoping to meet you, my lord Harrington,” Jasper said quietly. “I am no fanatical Puritan myself, but believe in Cromwell’s cause. I understand that you feel exactly the same way.”
“Do I? Yes, of course,” said my idiot husband. “The church is none of my concern. The politics, however, are a matter of considerable urgency, sir. I shall be pleased to hear your opinion.”
Leaning back in his chair and raising his glass of wine, Jasper did not glance once at me. “England does not require a king who believes himself beyond criticism,” he said in his usual soft murmur. “The French have suffered from the holy idealism of the monarchy for too long, and now it has rebounded to us, even though under the Tudor Queen Elizabeth, the sovereign, if not the church, became a more tolerant affair. Her successor James, however, believed that tolerance was a weakness. Now his son Charles is too impressed by his title. Cromwell has a more charitable intention.”
“Ah yes,” Arthur said, gulping. “A gentle and trustworthy gentleman.”
My guest smiled. “I’d call him neither, my lord, and since I know him fairly well, I’d say he has not a gentle bone in his body. Yet his ideals for the country are well intentioned, and some changes will be well managed.”
“A principled gentleman,” Arthur was tipsy enough to permit himself corrected.
I’d be scalded for it afterwards, but now I interrupted. “He is no gentleman,” I said. “And he believes in a god who cares only to deny his people any form of peaceful and harmless entertainment.”
Turning on me with the accustomed snarl, Arthur hiccupped and then shouted, “You sound like a royalist, shameful bigoted female. And since you know nothing of politics,
nor of anything else except the cost of your petticoats, you will keep silent while I speak with Master Fairweather.”
Having blushed scarlet from embarrassment and shame, I would have done as I was told and kept utterly silent, but Jasper turned to me. “On the contrary,” he said in that soft chant of his, “I happen to agree with much you say, my lady, for Cromwell’s beliefs are morally fanatical, and I do not agree that our Lord would be angry with any man or woman who sang like the birds, or wore clothes as bright as the sunset. The Lord God has fashioned his world in ornate beauty, and if we follow His example, then I cannot see the sin.”
“Humph,” said Arthur, quickly refilling his wine glass with Jerez and his sherry glass with wine.
“Yet perhaps his majesty is too autocratic,” I mumbled, and again Jasper answered me.
“He misunderstands the duty of a leader, he misunderstands duty, and he misunderstands justice,” Jasper said. “Whereas Cromwell attempts a more hospitable justice which includes the common man, and sees no benefit in constant wars abroad where we gain nothing but lose our lives and our monetary security.” He filled my wine glass for me and passed it across the table. Arthur sat at the head, myself on his left and Jasper on his right. Therefore, Jasper and I faced each other. “It is wise, I believe to see the rights and the wrongs in those you support as well as in those who rage against you.”
I nodded, although the one who raged against me was always my damned husband, and I saw no right in him at all. Actually, I thought he might fall off his chair. I had never personally ever seen him so intoxicated. If I called his valet and commanded that the lord be taken up to his bed, it would have been perfect. But I couldn’t dare arrange that unless the wretched creature fell flat on his face.
Jasper cheerfully refilled Arthur’s sherry glass, and since the other crystal had been muddled, he used the water tumbler. This was considerably larger. I began to wonder if he had the same motives I had myself.
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