Love's Labyrinth

by Anne Kelleher

  “What about now, then?” she asked, the hint of a smile playing on her mouth. He was so obviously torn between his desire to play the good host and his discomfort with the whole unbelievable situation. But was it really that? A little pulse beat a rapid tattoo at his neck.

  “No one’s about now,” he replied. “But—Sir John was wrong to speak to you as he did. I want to assure you that despite what you may believe, I do not think of you as a woman of loose morals, and neither should anyone else.”

  “Thank you.”

  They walked a little farther in silence, and then Nicholas said, “He was here to speak to me about a betrothal with his daughter.”

  “Oh?” She waited.

  “Patience.”

  Olivia waited, and, when he did not continue, asked, “Patience?”

  “That’s her name. Patience.”

  “Ah.” She wondered, fleetingly, why he was telling her, and why he seemed to struggle so with the words. “Lord Nicholas, please—you need not explain yourself. I understand that Sir John had no idea of the real situation. And I suppose that, given the mores of this time, I do appear somewhat—startling.”

  He laughed, and she was startled to hear how deep and rich his laughter was. “Indeed, mistress. The fact of it is that, Puritan that Sir John might be, he’s rich—rich with an only daughter, who, while she may be skinny as her father, and half as toothsome, is yet considered by many to be a great catch.” He paused. “You understand me?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “Yes, indeed.”

  “Sir John,” he went on, his tone growing serious, “has long desired the Talcott lands—what’s left of them,” he finished with a bitter twist of his lips. “He offered to buy them some time ago while my father yet was living, and just a few years ago, there was a dispute over the property lines. But now, now that his daughter’s come of marriageable age, he’s found a new way to acquire the lands—he thinks.”

  “Will Sir John make trouble for you, since he saw me dressed the way I am?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I doubt it. I find I care little what he thinks in general, and even less what he thinks of you.”

  “And what will you do? About his daughter? Will he still allow you to marry her?”

  Nicholas drew a deep breath. “In truth, mistress, at one point, I found the idea tempting. The prospect of a rich wife is not one to be spurned lightly. But…” he hesitated.

  “But?” Olivia prompted.

  “I do not think after today there will be any more conversations with Sir John.”

  An odd feeling shivered through her. What on earth could this mean to you, she asked herself. So he’s not going to marry some skinny Puritan wench with an insufferable father. What’s that to you? “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?” she asked, choosing her words with care.

  He paused in midstride and swung her around to face him. In the falling dark, his eyes were difficult to see, but his tone of voice was solemn. “If all goes in Calais as I hope it will, mistress, then I’ll be able to be a bit more selective when it comes to wives—rich or not.”

  The full August moon hung like a round silver coin over the rooftops of London as Christopher Warren slipped into the side door of a large town house. The servant who admitted him wordlessly indicated the stairway with just a nod. Warren silently slipped up the narrow flight of stairs to the heavy oak door on the upper floor.

  “Enter,” a voice said at his knock.

  “My Lord.” Warren sank upon one knee before his master. The room was deep in shadow, but for the single pool of yellow light cast by the lone candle on the desk.

  Walsingham did not pause in his writing. “Master Warren.”

  “All is in readiness, my lord.”

  “You’re sure you have the right man?”

  “Beyond all shadow of a doubt, my lord.”

  “Good.” Walsingham paused long enough to shake sand across the surface of the parchment. He waited a moment, then emptied the sand into a container on the desk. He folded the parchment, poured a bit of wax on the edge, and sealed it with his ring. “Take this message to my Lord Cecil. Assure him that every precaution’s been taken, and that I will personally deliver the plans as soon as we have them from the traitor.”

  “Lord Cecil knows you’d rather die yourself than let any harm come to Her Majesty,” Warren said as he got to his feet. He took the parchment and slipped it into his shirt.

  “Of course he does,” answered Walsingham, taking up his quill and a fresh sheet of parchment. “It’s everyone else who must be reminded.” With a pointed look that inexplicably chilled Warren’s bones, he turned back to his writing.

  The London streets were crowded with people hurrying home in all directions. Warren slipped out of the same side door and joined the general throng of humanity hurrying through the crowded streets. Just before he reached Bishopsgate, he paused as someone jostled his arm. Before he knew it, a pickpocket was taking off down the street, the precious parchment clutched in his hand. Warren swore beneath his breath and took off after the urchin. The packet had no value at all—the idiot boy must be desperate not to realize that he held no treasure. Slipping and sliding through the muck and filth that filled the streets, he dashed after the shadowy runaway. The boy was just about to tear around a corner and down a dark alley, when a tall shape reached out, grabbed the lad by the scruff of the neck, and shook him. Warren came running up and joined them.

  The man handed Warren the packet, and Warren stared up into the mild eyes of a tall young man whose face seemed familiar. “Here you are, sir.” His rescuer spoke with a thick Warwickshire accent.

  Warren took in the high forehead, the thick hair combed neatly back beneath a fiat wool cap, the smooth, clean-shaven face, and judged the man to be about twenty. He narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar about this young man, something that rang a bell. He’d seen this face before, he knew he had. “Thank you,” he said, pocketing the packet securely. “And you—”

  He raised his arm to cuff the boy, who still struggled to get away, but the young man raised his other arm and blocked Warren’s blow. “Now, now, no need for that. He got nothing for his trouble, did you, lad?” He gave the boy a little shake and set him free. “Off with you,” he said as the boy took off with the speed of a greased cat.

  Warren stared at the younger man. “Why’d you do that?”

  “He didn’t get away with anything,” answered the young man, who returned Warren’s most formidable glare with such a good-natured smile Warren wondered if the young man were simple.

  Warren was about to reply when two more young men rounded the corner. “Will!” the taller one called. “Will Shakespeare! We’ve been looking all over for you—Marlowe’s announced a new play.”

  The young man glanced over his shoulder and turned back to Warren. “A pleasant evening to you, sir.” He tugged at his cap and loped away, leaving Warren fuming under his breath and wishing all players consigned to the bottom of the sea.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE DAY OF departure dawned fair and promising, after a late-night storm that finally brought relief from the oppressive humidity of the past few days. Olivia woke up next to Alison and lay quietly, listening to Alison’s gentle breathing, and wondering what the day would bring. Her traveling costume was laid out on the table and chairs; at the foot of the bed, a small black trunk held the rest of her clothes. She’d been amazed that old Janet, with the aid of three seamstresses commandeered from the closest village, had been able to produce the amount of clothing that they had, in such a short period of time. Of course, the clothes had all been those that had originally belonged to Nicholas’s mother, so the major part of the work—the laying out of the patterns and the cutting of the fabrics, as well as most of the sewing—had already been accomplished. But there had been a great deal of fitting and refurbishing, and Olivia had watched in wonder as the four women had turned old Lady Talcott’s clothing into three serviceable dresses that fit her perfectly
.

  Beside her, Alison sighed softly and turned over, snuggling deeper into her pillow. She’d spent the greater part of the last three days closeted in Geoffrey’s study, going over his calculations and the layout of the maze. She hadn’t seemed any happier to be here, but at least she had something to occupy her time. And the two of them seemed well suited in some odd way, thought Olivia, despite their disparate backgrounds. Geoffrey was intensely interested in everything Alison could tell him about life in the twentieth century, from politics to clothing styles. From what Olivia could tell, the two of them never stopped talking.

  A gentle knock on the door startled her. She slid out of bed, reached for the light woolen robe that, like most of their clothing, was a hand-me-down from Nicholas and Geoffrey’s mother, and padded to the door, the smooth wooden boards cool beneath her bare feet. “Yes?” She opened the door a crack and saw Janet, with a tray, and two of the younger maids, each with a large bucket of steaming water.

  “Breakfast, mistress. And Lord Nicholas thought ye’d like to bathe afore your journey. He ordered up a bath.”

  A bath, thought Olivia with a sigh. Bless Nicholas. She’d seen at once how labor-intensive it was to bathe. Buckets and buckets of hot water had to be hauled up from the kitchens, and in the five days since they’d appeared in the sixteenth century, the two women had only washed their hair once, and taken sponge baths. She opened the door wider and the maids marched in, followed by Janet and her tray. Behind them, she heard heavy pounding on the stairs.

  Janet placed the tray on the table. “That’ll be the tub, mistress,” she said, nodding toward the door. The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the door flew open and two men, struggling with a large wooden tub, staggered in. Olivia glanced at Alison, who was still sleeping as soundly as ever. Alison would welcome a bath as well.

  She stood aside while the men carried in the tub and placed it before the empty hearth. A low wooden screen was next. A procession of maids carried in bucket after bucket of hot water, while Olivia ate her breakfast of coarse brown bread and softened cheese. Finally, Janet added a packet of scented herbs to the steaming water. When the tub was nearly full, she brought in several linen towels and a rough bar of soap and placed them on the table. “The bath’s ready, mistress,” she said, her round face earnest. If she thought to question the sudden appearance of the two women, she was too utterly loyal to both Talcott brothers to breathe a suspicious word or to ask a potentially unsettling question.

  Olivia slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the hot water. The water closed over her shoulders, and she settled back against the wooden tub with a sigh. Suddenly she’d never felt so dirty in all her life. She raised one leg out of the water and surveyed it critically.

  From the other side of the screen, she heard Janet gathering up the breakfast tray. “I’ll come back in a few minutes to help ye dress, mistress. Is there anything else ye require?”

  Olivia hesitated, considering. “Yes,” she said on impulse. “A razor.”

  “A razor?” Janet peered around the screen, incredulity winning over modesty. “Did I hear ye say ye want a razor?”

  “If one’s available?” Olivia asked, deciding to brazen out her request. There might be plenty of things she could miss about the twentieth century, but she wasn’t going to give up shaving her underarms and legs if at all possible.

  Janet nodded, clearly mystified. “I’ll—I’ll just go see if I can find one from his lordship or Master Geoffrey.” The old woman carried the tray out, still wearing a puzzled expression.

  Olivia ducked down beneath the water, separating the long strands of her hair with her fingers. She surfaced, reached for the soap and, working up a satisfactory lather, managed to wash her hair. She rinsed, just in time to see Janet peering around the screen once more, a straight-edged razor in her hand.

  “Lord Nicholas sent this with his compliments, mistress.” Olivia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the woman’s dubious expression. Loyal as she might be, this was clearly one request she’d never heard.

  “Thank you, Janet.” Olivia reached for the razor with all the nonchalance she could muster. She closed her fingers cautiously over the blade, and smiled a dismissal at Janet as if she handled straight-edged razors every day of her life. “That’s all.”

  “Ye’ll be wanting nothing more, then, mistress?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “I’ll come back to help ye dress, then.” With another shake of her head, the older woman was gone.

  Olivia took a deep breath and placed the razor carefully on the edge of the tub. She picked up the soap and worked it into a lather beneath her right arm. She gingerly picked up the razor and was about to apply it to her underarm when Alison’s voice made her jump.

  “Liv! Where on earth did that bath come from?”

  She looked up to see Alison peering over the screen, and carefully lowered her arm. “They brought it in while you were sleeping.”

  “Could I use one of those! Think they’ll mind bringing more water up for me?”

  “I wouldn’t think so—especially since they have the bath all set up. And look—look what I have.” Olivia held up the razor.

  “That’s a razor? You’re going to use that to shave your legs? Geez, Liv, that looks more like a murder weapon. Be careful with that thing, huh?”

  “I’ll try.” Gritting her teeth, Olivia gently stroked the sharp edge across her skin, and was gratified to see the short hairs disappear. “Well. It works.”

  “Just be careful,” came Alison’s voice from the other side of the screen.

  “Don’t worry.” Working as carefully and as quickly as she could, Olivia managed to shave her legs and her underarms. She washed and rinsed herself all over and stepped out of the tub, reaching for one of the linen towels. She wrapped it around her hair, as Alison handed her the other. “I did it,” she said as she wrapped her robe around herself. “No nicks or scrapes. I feel like a new woman.”

  Alison opened her mouth to reply when a knock at the door forestalled further conversation. “Come in?”

  Janet peered around the door. “Mistress Olivia? Are ye finished wi’ yer bath, then?”

  “Yes,” Olivia answered, “and I’m ready to get dressed. Would it be too much trouble to bring up a bath for Mistress Alison?”

  “I have the maids heating up the water now, mistress. Lord Nicholas said he thought she’d like a bath, as well.”

  “My, my,” murmured Alison, with a wink at Olivia. “So the handsome prince can be charming, after all.”

  “He lent me his razor, too,” Olivia replied over her shoulder.

  “Lord Nicholas’s seeing to the horses, mistress. He means to leave wi’in the hour, if you please.”

  “Then let’s dress.” Olivia slipped out of her robe and into the linen smock Janet held up. Alison watched as the dressing was accomplished in less time than Olivia had expected. Janet, who’d been Lady Talcott’s maid, was obviously an expert at dressing a lady of her supposed station.

  Over the smock, Janet laced on the bodice, a tightly fitted, sleeveless garment of dark green wool that combined the functions of bra and corset all at once. Next, a padded roll was laced around Olivia’s hips. This would provide something close to the fashionable shape created by a hooped farthingale, but without the restrictions of movement that the farthingale would create. Next, two petticoats, one of russet, the other of the same dark green as the bodice, were laced into place. Over the embroidered sleeves of the smock, Janet laced two sleeves of dark green lined with russet, which had been slashed to allow the embroidery on the smock to show through. As a final step, she helped Olivia garter her russet stockings, and lace on ankle-length riding boots of polished black leather. The boots fit a little loosely, having been purchased from a cobbler in a shop in Sevenoaks, the nearest village. But, thought Olivia as she smoothed her petticoats and sat down to allow Janet to braid her still damp hair, they would have to do. Janet placed a
white coif around her braids and set a felt hat of dark green, with a russet feather, at a jaunty angle on Olivia’s head. She rose and turned to Alison, who’d been watching silently as she’d munched her breakfast bread-and-cheese, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  Alison shook her head slowly, still chewing. She swallowed. “Honest to God, Liv, you look—you just look great!” She shot an apologetic glance at Olivia, realizing at once that she sounded much too twentieth century. They had agreed that Alison would try to restrict her speech as much as possible in the presence of anyone other than Nicholas or Geoffrey. She swallowed hard again, and added, much less emphatically, “You look very nice, Liv. Really.”

  “Thank you.” Olivia winked.

  “I’ll be telling Lord Nicholas ye’re ready,” said Janet, gathering up the bath things. “Mistress Alison, the girls have started heating up the water for your bath—they’ll be up directly to fill it.”

  Alison smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” she said, her manner far more subdued.

  Olivia waited until Janet had closed the door, then burst into giggles. “Allie, you’d better watch yourself.”

  “Thank God I’m not going along on this trip, huh? I’d have poor old Nicholas hung in no time.”

  “Don’t even joke like that,” Olivia said. She wrapped her arms around herself and gave a mock shiver. “But really—you think I look okay?”

  “Liv, you look like the real thing. You look great. You look just like that picture in the pub. Remember?” Alison wagged her finger. “I’m telling you—that picture was you.”

  “I’d better go.” Olivia leaned over and hugged her friend. “You be good now. You hear?”

  “’Yes, Mom.”