My Lady Gloriana

by Sylvia Halliday

  She wasn’t sure he would ever know his place. “Humph!” she said to cover her confusion. She turned briskly and continued down Church Street, toward the quay. “We’ll go this way. Fish for supper, I think.”

  The streets near the river were even noisier than Church Street had been. Several shipbuilding factories had been set up alongside the quay, and half-finished vessels swarmed with busy workers. But above the clank of iron fittings and the thud of countless hammers, Gloriana suddenly heard the sweet, shrill sound of a flute. She and Thorne moved closer, where a small crowd had gathered. A young man, dressed in dark and simple clothing, sat on a bench, playing a lively song that Gloriana had often heard sung by the sailors at the port. In front of the man, several children danced to the merry tune.

  Thorne let out a gasp. “I’ll be damned!”

  His outburst had been so unexpected that Gloriana turned in alarm. “What is it?”

  She had never seen him so rattled. “That… man…” He took a deep breath. “That is… I met him when I came to Whitby before. Dobson, I think his name is. A scholar visiting from London. We chatted for a bit. I was surprised to see him playing the flute, is all. He never mentioned it when we spoke.”

  “You gave me a fright. I thought the sky was fallin’!”

  He laughed and took her by the arm. “Come. I should like you to meet him.” He steered a path through the crowd and approached the man. “Master Dobson, sir,” he said. “I’m John Thorne. You remember we met when last I was in Whitby?”

  Dobson put down his flute and rose to his feet. Gloriana noted his fine features, his clear blue eyes, the golden hair tied back with a black velvet ribbon. He smiled warmly at Thorne. A fine man, she thought, without the haughtiness she had seen in more than one scholarly man in London. “Thorne,” he said. “Ah, yes. How nice to see you again.”

  Thorne indicated Gloriana. “I should like you to meet my mistress.”

  Dobson reached for her hand. “Mistress Cook, is it not?” Instead of shaking her hand, he lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them softly. “’Tis my pleasure, ma’am.”

  Thorne coughed loudly beside her. “You aren’t at a fancy ball, Master Dobson.” Gloriana was surprised to hear a note of irritation in his voice.

  Dobson scowled. “Please do not speak to me in that insolent tone, John. Your mistress is a beautiful woman who deserves every honor I can show her.”

  Thorne’s smile was tight with controlled fury. “Your pardon, sir.”

  Gloriana rolled her eyes. What was it about men that they had to compete with one another at every turn? Though she couldn’t imagine why they seemed to be on the edge of a quarrel. Best to change the subject. “You play a fine flute, Master Dobson,” she said quickly.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I have been studying the songs the seamen sing at work. A most interesting field of study.”

  Thorne seemed to make an effort to control his feelings. “But the flute, sir. You never spoke of your talent. That is, when last we met.”

  Dobson smirked. “I have many talents. It only takes inquiry to find them out.”

  Thorne nodded. “Indeed. I have been thoughtless. Not to have asked,” he added humbly.

  Dobson smiled, showing dimples in his cheeks. “No matter.” Several townsfolk crowded toward him, begging him to play again. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he said, shaking hands with a number of people and waving to an elderly couple who were passing by.

  Thorne raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have made a number of friends in town. And in a short time.”

  Dobson scanned them both, a puzzled frown on his face. “And you have not?”

  Gloriana blushed, feeling shamed by his question. How could she have made friends, when she quarreled so often with the townspeople? “We… come to town so seldom… and the cottage is so… so…” She couldn’t think of a proper word.

  “Secluded,” Thorne said quickly. She shot him a smile of gratitude.

  Dobson chuckled. “Why then, we must remedy that at once.” He motioned to the couple, who hurried to join them. “Master Wilson,” he said, indicating Gloriana, “I should like you and your charming wife to meet Mistress Glory Cook, who has opened a blacksmith shop just outside of town.”

  Gloriana smiled, welcoming their warm handshakes. “’Tis my pleasure, sir. Madam.”

  Wilson returned her smile. “Ah, yes. Are you not in the old Wickham place just above Robin Hood’s Bay?”

  “Aye. That we… are. A cozy cottage.” She turned toward Thorne. “And this… is my manservant and blacksmith, John Thorne.” She nodded regally at him. “Make your proper salute to these fine people, John.”

  She saw the familiar flash of anger in his eyes for what he took to be an insult to his pride, but he managed a small bow. “Sir. Madam,” he said in a tight voice.

  Dobson nodded, a sly smile on his face. “Very humbly done, John,” he said in a lordly voice. “Good for you.” Gloriana saw Thorne’s fist curl in fury, and wondered why Dobson seemed to be deliberately provoking him. Then the man went on smoothly, as though he were unaware of the effect of his words on Thorne. “Master Wilson, I understand that John, here, is a most skilled blacksmith. You might ask your friends to visit Mistress Cook’s shop.”

  The old man nodded. “A fine idea, sir.” He turned to Gloriana. “And can your man fashion other things besides horseshoes?”

  “Yes indeed, sir. Soup-ladles, wrought-iron fences, all manner of tools.” She ignored Thorne’s look of panic. She’d been turning out goods like that for Old Diggory for ages.

  “I’ll certainly spread the word, ma’am.”

  Dobson’s expression was suddenly serious. “One other thing, Master Wilson. You recall the shipwreck last week, of course.”

  “Dobson! No!” Thorne leaped toward the man as though he intended to strangle him.

  Dobson’s blue eyes narrowed. “Do not interrupt me, sirrah. I will tell it.” He smiled at Wilson and gestured at Thorne with a wide sweep of his hand. “This fine man here was the stranger who so bravely directed much of the rescue effort.”

  “You don’t say! Good job.” Wilson patted Thorne on the shoulder, while his wife, her eyes wide, turned to a nearby group of women and began to whisper excitedly to them. In a moment, Thorne was surrounded by half a dozen townsfolk, all praising him and eager to shake his hand. He seemed embarrassed by all the attention, his cheeks turning red.

  Gloriana giggled softly. Who would have thought that such a proud man could suddenly turn so shy? She knew it was wicked of her, but she turned to him and smiled innocently. “Say a few words to these fine people, Thorne.”

  “Mistress…” His eyes were full of pleading.

  “No. You must. I insist on it.”

  He glared at her, then cleared his throat. “I only did what had to be done. If you wish to show your gratitude, bring your business to Mistress Cook here.”

  After a few more minutes of congratulations, the crowd slowly drifted away, taking Dobson with them. Gloriana turned to Thorne and giggled again. “I do believe you be shy, Thorne.”

  “I’m not used to praise for something I’ve actually done,” he growled. “Now, weren’t you going to buy fish for supper? And I still need to get some wine and rum.”

  He seemed so uncomfortable that she wanted to make her peace with him. More flies with honey, she thought. She gave him her warmest smile. “I’m sorry, John. I reckon I wanted to tease you a bit, as you like to tease me.”

  He relaxed at that. “Fair enough. I suppose I deserved a bit of your revenge.” He pointed to the crowd, still buzzing with Wilson’s news. “And I think we won’t lack for customers in Whitby now. Nor friends.”

  “Thanks to your Master Dobson.” She indicated the clock in the town square. “I’ll meet you at the stable at half after the hour.”

  “I’ll be there, mistress.”

  She watched him go, striding purposefully back to Church Street. Friends. They would have friends in town. When she thought
of it, she realized that, though she had known many people in London, she had never felt that they were true friends. And now she was to have what she had missed in her life.

  And of all of them, the dearest friend, she knew with a sudden flash, had become—in such a short time that it made her head spin—John Thorne. As though she had known him for ages.

  “I shall cook you a fine supper tonight, John, my friend,” she whispered softly.

  Chapter Eight

  Thorne tore off a chunk of bread from the fresh loaf and mopped up the last of the fish stew in his bowl. He savored his final taste of strong mackerel, potatoes, and rich cream, then washed it down with a large gulp of his wine. “Damme, but that was good,” he exclaimed, smacking his lips.

  Gloriana shrugged in seeming indifference, though he noticed that she could scarcely hide the satisfaction on her face. “That were… was nothing.”

  “No, really. You are a superb cook.”

  “What does that mean? Superb?”

  He noted with pleasure that she no longer seemed embarrassed to ask about words. “The best of the best,” he explained.

  “Humph. You were just hungry.”

  That was true enough. After their morning shopping in Whitby, they had spent all afternoon in the forge. Thorne had successfully hammered out half a dozen horseshoes in various sizes, now pegged neatly on the wall of the shop, then watched in amazement as Gloriana had fashioned ladles and pothooks and assorted iron tools with a skill he could only hope to master. “But hungry or not,” he said, “your cooking was delicious.” He smiled slyly at her. “How can I thank you for supper? My usual thanks to a beautiful woman?”

  “You are a devil, John Thorne.” She pushed aside her plate, rolled up her sleeve, and anchored her elbow firmly on the table. “Win it then. If you can.”

  He couldn’t avoid her challenge, though he was determined not to sulk if he should lose this time. If he should lose. She wouldn’t take him by surprise, as she had last night. He positioned himself across the table and clasped her hand. At her signal, he strained mightily against her, his teeth clenched in concentration. But it was no use. He felt his arm slowly giving way to her superior strength, and allowed himself a small muttered curse as she slammed his arm onto the table. He forced a smile. “One of these days, mistress…”

  She grinned. “But not tonight, John. Alas.” She rose from the bench and cleared the table. While she rinsed their bowls, he pulled the armchairs near the hearth. She indicated a small basket set on a shelf. “Fetch my sewin’, Thorne. I’ll do a bit of mendin’, I think. Will you smoke?”

  “Not yet. And I have something better than your sewing tonight.” When she raised a questioning eyebrow, he crossed to his coat, fished in its pocket and pulled out a small volume. “A gift for you.”

  “Will you read to me, then?”

  “No. You’ll read to me.”

  She shook her head. “You know I can’t… that is…” She stamped her foot. “Will you shame me, caitiff? And in my own house?”

  “’Tis not meant to shame you. How can you learn to read if you don’t practice?” He held out his hands, palms upward, and pointed to the growing calluses, the blister that was beginning to heal. “If you can make a blacksmith out of a ‘softling,’ as you’ve called me, why can’t I make a reader out of you? I’ve been angry at myself from time to time, but only at my lack of skill. Not because I was ashamed.”

  She looked down, seeming to struggle with her pride. “What is the book?” she said at last, lifting her chin and staring boldly into his eyes.

  “’Tis called Colonel Jack, by Daniel Defoe. I’ve heard it’s quite a lively story.” When she still hesitated, he smiled. “You can do it. Did you not charm the charcoal seller this morning?”

  “That be… was different. I can’t charm the words out of a book by smilin’.”

  “True enough.” He crossed to the table and indicated the bench. “Sit beside me. I’ll read to you for a bit. Follow along with the words as I read, and stop me if you need a word to be explained. You can take over when you feel ready.”

  She nodded in relief and took her place beside him. He found it difficult to concentrate on the book, with her seductive body pressed close against his, but he began at last to read. She followed along, occasionally interrupting him to ask about a word.

  It was indeed a lively story, concerning a young bastard son of a gentlemen brought up by a foster mother with two other boys similarly disadvantaged. And the description of their lives in the back streets of London, as they spiraled into petty crimes, made him chuckle. He was surprised that Gloriana sighed unhappily at every humorous misadventure.

  “Don’t you find it amusing?” he asked at last.

  She looked up at him, her green eyes glistening with the beginning of tears. “I have known too many boys like that,” she said. “Poor children, fightin’ for every crumb of bread. They winds up in prison, or starvin’ to death. I were a bastard, too. But at least I had my Da, and we got along. We didn’t live in the streets.”

  “What did he do, your father?”

  “I makes no excuses. He were a thief.” She spat out the words like a challenge, but he could read the uncertainty in her eyes.

  “’Tis not for me to judge,” he said gently. And surely it was so, he thought with sudden realization. He’d never thought about it much, the grinding poverty of the London streets. He’d enjoyed his privileged life, seldom noticing or caring about those whom he considered beneath him. He’d given generously to his church, to charity, of course, but he’d never been particularly interested in where his money went. “And what did you do, as a child, when he was engaged in his work?”

  “I helped him, of course. I’d sit in a dark alley and cry, as if I was lost. And when some soft-headed ‘mark’ came to help, Da would politely ask him for his purse. When I got older and riper, I’d make calf-eyes at the ‘mark’ and lure him into a dark corner where Da was waitin’. And then, I worked at Old Diggory’s forge to bring in a few extra coins. That’s all. And we never wanted for a loaf of bread.” She looked embarrassed for a moment, as though she were reluctant to say more, then pointed to the book. “I be… am ready to read now.”

  He noted that she had carefully neglected to mention that she’d been a whore, which must have been degrading to her. And here she was, struggling to better herself, to rise above her coarse beginnings. What had he ever accomplished in his whole worthless, wastrel life?

  She began to read, one slim finger moving across the page, her voice hesitant at first, then growing stronger as her confidence grew. Occasionally, he would help her sound out the letters, or explain a difficult word, pleased that she took his help with a grateful nod of her head. She read a dozen pages or so, then yawned. “Enough. I be needin’ my sleep. Can we read again tomorrow?”

  “Of course.” He bid her goodnight as she rose from the bench and picked up a candle. “I’ll have my pipe before I sleep.”

  About to mount the stairs, she turned, her exquisite face illuminated by the candle flame. “I think we’ll have salad tomorrow. Your lettuce looks fit to pluck.”

  He smoked in front of the fire, one leg thrown over the arm of the chair. Your lettuce, she had said, giving him credit for all his hoeing and weeding and watering. He grinned to himself. He was bone-tired, his muscles ached, and his feet hurt from all the walking and standing he had done that day.

  But he had never felt more content in all his life.

  • • •

  Gloriana smiled at the farmer. “Never you fear, Master Wallace. My man will finish the job in jig time.” She watched in satisfaction as Thorne hammered out the last shoe for the farmer’s horse, measured it against the animal’s hoof, then plunged it into the water bucket.

  The farmer nodded. “That looks to be a fine job, Mistress Cook. I needs my horse for a special occasion, and he can’t be throwin’ a shoe at the wrong time!”

  “Indeed?”

  “My wife a
nd I be takin’ our new baby to his christenin’ tomorrow. A fine boy,” he added with a satisfied grin. “You’ll be wantin’ a baby someday for yourself, ma’am. You couldn’t do better than our bouncin’ Jacob.”

  The smile faded from her face as an image of her sweet Billy rose in her mind. No! Best not to think of him. She concentrated on Thorne, watching as he hammered in the shoe, filed it smooth, and gave the animal a pat on the head. He had learned quickly in the month he’d been in her service, taking to his work with a cheerful willingness that still surprised her.

  She turned to the other visitor in the shop, a handsome young gentleman who smelled of fine perfume and an easy life. “Now, milord,” she said, indicating the wrought-iron gate leaning against a wall, “there b… is your gate. As promised. I hope you are satisfied.”

  He crossed to the gate and fingered its elaborate curves. “Excellent. Exactly to my specifications. I’ll have it installed this very afternoon.” He smiled warmly at her, his eyes flickering from the top of her head to the tips of her shoes. “You are a woman to be admired, Mistress Cook.”

  She wasn’t sure his words were meant for the work on the gate. It gave her a thrill of pleasure to know that she could catch the eye of someone as important as he was. She smiled coyly at him. “For the gate, milord?”

  He laughed. “That, too. Indeed, it was finished more quickly than I would have imagined.”

  She nodded. “When we promise on time, we deliver on time.” She suppressed a yawn. She was more tired than she cared to admit. Since their trip to Whitby three weeks ago, and the good will that Master Dobson had spread their way, the shop had bustled with customers for most of every day. She had been forced to work in secret in the evenings, turning out the more complicated ironworks that some of the customers demanded, lest they discover her unladylike skill. And with cooking and the nightly reading she and Thorne had shared, she was exhausted.

  But she couldn’t have done it without him. He had even begun to try his hand at pothooks and ladles, simple jobs that he could master, to save her the extra work. And his gentle tutoring while they read—urging her to lower her tone, correcting her faulty grammar—had made her feel that he was a friend who cared about her.