by Mary Daheim
Francis drained the cup and handed it back to Morgan. “I’ll have more. It’s not as wretched as most of the stuff one finds this far south.”
Feeling her temper rise, Morgan clattered the cup and the bottle together on purpose, then thrust the whiskey at Francis in such a way that some of it sloshed onto his sleeve. He scowled for a split second at the stain, and took another drink.
“You don’t forgive and forget, I see,” Francis drawled, resting one high-booted leg on his knee.
Morgan had not yet sat down again and all but jumped up and down at his comment. “Oh! How could I? You were an animal! You even tied me up!” She looked at her wrists as if she could still see the belt wrapped ’round them.
“Some wenches like that,” Francis said equably. “It’s a sort of game.”
“A game!” Morgan looked aghast. “You have some peculiar playmates, if you ask me, Francis Sinclair!”
“Good God, I wouldn’t dream of asking you!” Francis sounded impatient and a bit gruff. He finished off his second cup of whiskey but did not ask for more. “See here, I made an honest mistake, which surely even you could understand considering the circumstances. If we’re going to live in each other’s pockets at Belford, we can’t spend the rest of our lives arguing about whether or not I thought you were Meg or Moll or whoever in hell you were supposed to be.”
“Bess.” Morgan was pouting, her fingers tracing the outline of the whiskey decanter in jerky little motions. She wanted to cry but would not give Francis the satisfaction.
“Bess, then.” Francis had stood up, looking awkward as well as angry. “Well? Can’t we let the past rest?”
It occurred to Morgan that his words about Belford were only his own opinion. She had no intention of going there, nor of marrying his brother. At the moment, all she wanted was to be rid of Francis Sinclair, who made her extremely nervous.
She tried to muster as much dignity as possible with her head held high and the topaz eyes looking up into his scowling countenance. Obviously, if she expected a formal apology she was not going to get it. “Since it can’t be undone, I suppose I can at least say that I will not harangue you further.”
The slightly sloping shoulders seemed to slump even more with apparent relief. “All right.” The scowl faded as he ambled to the fireplace and poked at the wood, which appeared not to have been completely dried out. “I’m in London to do some buying—household goods and cloth. I also came to take you back to Belford.”
Morgan clutched the arm of her chair and wondered how she should react. Submissive, of course; she must stall for time. “There is so much to do—I have no trousseau, and it’s only the second week of March. I did not think you—or James—would come until April, at the earliest.”
“We had an early spring; the roads became passable before February was over.” He continued working with the poker but without much success. “James would have come but our sire has not been well this winter.” Francis finally replaced the poker on the hearth and dusted off his hands. “I plan to be here at least a month and you can shop with me. James has planned the wedding for early May.”
“He might have consulted with me on the date,” Morgan said irritably. A month or so did not give her much time. “I would have liked to have been informed of these details since I planned on visiting my parents before going north.”
Francis had paused to admire the few volumes that Morgan carted from palace to palace. “That should still be possible,” Francis allowed. “Faux Hall is not that far away. You should be able to stay there for a week or more.” He paused and looked at her closely, his sandy brows drawing close together. “How old are you, Morgan?”
“I was nineteen last month. Why?”
“You look younger.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters. I’m twenty-six and James is twenty-eight. Lucy is but a year younger than I.”
“Lucy?” Morgan pretended puzzlement at the name.
“My wife. You’ll like her, I’m sure. Everyone does. You’ll like our children, too.” He had extracted one of the books and was flipping through the pages, apparently quite at ease.
“You have children?” Morgan’s question was low and faintly incredulous.
“Of course. Two, a boy and a girl. They’re amusing little creatures, if I do say so myself.” Francis put the book back and actually smiled, that whimsical, crooked smile Morgan was beginning to know quite well.
He seemed so sure of himself, so sure of her future, so sure that she would trot off to Belford with him come April that her courage faltered and unbidden tears surfaced in the topaz eyes. With growing discomfiture, Francis watched her and sighed deeply. “Oh, come, come,” he said almost roughly, looking away from her to the cuff of his boot. “This isn’t life’s end. Few people marry for love, yet many arranged matches work out in a way that defies romantic daydreaming such as you cherish.”
Morgan brushed at the tears with her hand and steadied her voice. “Did you marry for love?”
He looked up at her with some surprise, then smoothed out his rumpled doublet. “No,” he answered candidly. “But I love my wife now. Very much.”
Morgan could not resist an outraged gibe: “So much that you tumble any willing—or unwilling—wench who falls across your path?”
Francis waved a big hand in exasperation. “God’s teeth, I don’t have to explain my most intimate behavior to you!” He snatched up his cloak and stomped off toward the door, scowling up at the lintel. “See here,” he said, turning back and speaking in a more ameliorating tone, “my brother, James, is basically a good, gentle man. Don’t judge him by me; we’re very different.”
For some inexplicable reason, Morgan did not find this statement at all reassuring. She was shaken and upset: Marriage to James Sinclair was impossible; a long, drawn-out unconsummated flirtation with the King of England would surely snap her nerves; but worst of all, the prospect of becoming Sean O’Connor’s wife seemed as dangerous as it was unlikely. Her only hope was to keep the King dangling just long enough to make James so angry that he would change his mind and seek another bride. Morgan had to clutch at this slender straw, even as she watched Francis Sinclair shuffle his booted feet in the rushes and look impatiently around the room.
“I must be going,” Francis said at last when he realized that Morgan was not going to comment further on himself or his brother. “Do you like clothes?”
The question caught Morgan off guard. “I—yes, very much.”
He nodded. “I thought so. I like what you have on; it’s a comely shade of turquoise. But the sleeves aren’t right. You need a longer oversleeve to add height. You’re rather small, you know.”
Morgan’s brow crinkled. Francis Sinclair hardly struck her as a connoisseur of women’s fashion. But then, he hadn’t seemed like a husband, a father, or an expert on architecture and poetry, either. This tall, gruff man had a great many facets that Morgan had not readily recognized, and she could not help but respond with a mixture of annoyance and mirth. “And you? Surely that doublet is slashed to make you seem even taller than you already are.
“Mmmmmm?” Francis looked down at his attire. “Oh, perhaps so. But I have a very short tailor.” Only his eyes betrayed his amusement.
Morgan was so surprised that she had to bite her lips to keep from laughing. His hand rested on the latch, but as she held out her fingertips for the customary kiss of leave-taking, he shook his head. “It’s not necessary,” Francis asserted. “Courtly manners go down ill with me.”
Morgan felt like telling Francis Sinclair that manners of any kind seemed to go down ill with him, but merely let her hand fall to her side. “Then good day to you, sir,” she said stiffly.
“Good day,” said Francis, and loped out of the room.
“Of course Jane is well,” Tom Seymour assured Morgan as they discreetly withdrew from the gaming tables at Whitehall where the court had moved just three days after Francis Sinclair had arrived in London. “She becomes caught up in the quiet
routine of Wolf Hall, especially our brother Harry and his children. He needs another wife,” Tom explained as they watched the usually dispassionate Harry Norris cry out over a trick he had lost by mistake to Madge Shelton. “He’s not interested in politics or the court, and prefers the life of a country squire. A good thing, since our father has not been well lately.”
“Everyone’s father seems unwell,” Morgan remarked, thinking of Liam O’Connor’s recent demise and the Earl of Belford’s reported ill health. “I begin to wonder if it isn’t the times which make our parents’ generation ill.”
Tom cuffed Morgan’s shoulder with a gentle fist. “Now, Morgan, you mustn’t say that sort of thing. Nor is it like you. I’ve noticed your tongue has honed itself to a fine point since you came to court.”
“Isn’t that part of being at court?” Morgan retorted as Anne Boleyn clapped her hands in glee over her victory at Dame Chance.
Tom shrugged his broad shoulders. “I suppose.” He was watching the sleekly beautiful Margaret Howard puzzle over a newly dealt hand. “How do you get on with the fair Margaret?”
“Well enough. She’s placid, if dull. But I still haven’t found out why Madge moved.”
Tom moved back a few paces farther from the tables laden with cards, coins, delicacies, and drink. “You don’t really know?” he asked, a red eyebrow raised at Morgan.
“No,” she replied, frowning quizzically. “I take it you do.”
“Some of us do.” He glanced about to make sure no one could overhear them. But the richly dressed assembly of gamblers were engrossed in their games. “Let us say that Madge is now in more accessible and commodious quarters.”
Morgan still looked puzzled until his meaning dawned upon her. “The King?” She breathed the words and saw Tom nod once. Her first reaction was to laugh—until she realized the implications for herself. If Madge Shelton had surrendered her body to Henry, he might abandon his fruitless pursuit of her own virtue. If he did, Morgan’s ploy would have failed and she would be headed for Belford within just a few short weeks. Panicky, she scanned the royal chamber for Sean, though she knew he was not among those who were gaming small fortunes away with no apparent heed of the consequences. She had to get away; she had to find Sean; she had to think of some reason for leaving Tom so abruptly. The excuse appeared unexpectedly in the form of Francis Sinclair, who had just entered the royal apartments and was surveying the courtiers with a mixture of disdain and bemusement.
“Don’t think me rude, Tom,” Morgan said in a forced voice, “but I must speak to Francis—about my trousseau.”
Tom glanced at Francis and grinned. “That big bumpkin? What would he know of trousseaus?”
“More than you might think,” Morgan replied tartly, and she was astonished to find herself defending Francis Sinclair.
So was Tom, who stopped grinning at once and looked perplexed as he watched Morgan hurry to the side of her future brother-in-law.
But Francis proved no help in aiding Morgan’s search for Sean. He had come looking for her, insisting upon a shopping trip to Cheapside despite the drizzle which fell on the city. “You’ll have to get used to foul weather,” Francis declared as he propelled her out of the Queen’s apartments. “It’s much worse in Northumberland.”
Morgan wanted to remark that no doubt everything was worse in Northumberland, but held her tongue. She was depressed and apprehensive. At that moment, as she pulled her heavy gray wool cloak around her and put the hood up over her hair, Morgan fervently wished she could throttle the promiscuous Madge, whose lax morals might well wreak unwitting havoc with Morgan’s future. First Bess, now Madge; Morgan cursed all women of blemished virtue.
“You are quiet,” said Francis as they headed out of Whitehall and toward The Strand. Despite the rain, Londoners were going about their business, and the usual unending parade of drays, carts, barrows, and litters jostled the horses and foot traffic along the route to Cheapside.
“You expect me to be elated at the prospect of life in Northumberland with your brother?” Morgan demanded sharply as a young boy carrying two buckets of milk pushed past them.
It was Francis’s turn to remain silent. He grimaced when two roistering ’prentices all but ran into him as they chased each other through the busy street. Nearing Temple Bar with its wall and chains proclaiming the boundary of the city’s jurisdiction, Morgan realized that her feet were wet. She also realized that Cheapside was a great deal farther than she had thought.
“I’m not fond of walking great distances,” she announced as they passed the Temple itself, which housed one of London’s four great Inns of Court.
“It’s good for you.” Francis glanced down at Morgan’s unsuitable court footwear, dainty green suede slippers embroidered with saffron-colored lilies. “I think we’d best buy you some sensible boots. You’ll be ankle-deep in mud half the year at Belford.”
Morgan did not catch the twinkle in his gray eyes and she was not amused. The more she heard of Belford and the North Country, the less she liked it. “We must have walked a mile already,” she declared peevishly as they sighted Ludgate Hill and the great spires of St. Paul’s Cathedral. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and stopped in her tracks. “I’ve never seen St. Paul’s so close before.”
“A handsome church,” Francis said, gazing up at the imposing structure with unconcealed admiration. “The aesthetic effect is sullied inside by the hawkers and concessionaires.”
“That shouldn’t be permitted,” Morgan declared, making way for a towheaded yeoman driving a team of oxen in the direction of the Fleet River.
“What’s happening to our churches and monasteries and convents shouldn’t be allowed in general,” Francis said with a frown. “Just two years ago London was not as congested as it is now. But since your uncle, with the King’s sanction, began closing the holy houses all over England, not only have the religious orders been displaced but so have the people who depended upon them for employment and charity.”
Morgan felt the need to defend Cromwell in some token manner. “The monasteries and convents spawned much licentious behavior; everyone knows that.”
Francis actually snorted. “Some did. What would you expect, with the tradition of sending second sons and unmarriageable daughters off to the Church when they had no vocations? But generally, they have been godly places, doing more good than harm.”
It struck Morgan that Francis sounded a bit like Sean. Yet Francis seemed to state his case in a more rational manner. “Francis, I’m confused. James follows the new religion, but I gather you don’t.”
“That’s right.” Francis steered her around the north side of St. Paul’s. “But thus far, our differences of opinion are no cause for serious concern.” He held out a big hand and noted that the rain had all but stopped. Overhead, above the spires of the cathedral, a patch of blue emerged among the heavy gray rain clouds. “So far,” he repeated, almost to himself.
They visited the mercer’s, the silk merchant’s, the leather-maker’s, the shoe-maker’s, the hat-maker’s, and even the perfumer’s. Despite herself, Morgan was fascinated; the noise, the haggling, the arguments, the volatile bustle of commerce both excited and exhausted her. Francis, however, did not barter; he stated what he was willing to pay, waited for the merchant’s reply, and either made the purchase or left, depending upon the answer. Money seemed no object, and Morgan suddenly realized that the Sinclairs must be a very wealthy family. It was only at their last stop, the furrier’s just off Chancery Lane, that she and Francis engaged in out-and-out conflict. Morgan wanted a tan cape trimmed in dark brown fox. Francis favored a deep blue model lined with sable.
“The fox feels more lush,” Morgan declared, wrapping the cape around her and turning full circle in front of Francis.
“You look like a small bear,” Francis said.
“Nonsense. The tan and brown suits my hair and eyes.”
“It makes you look all of the same color. You need contrast, not camouflage.”
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“I know what I need. I’ve always worn tan and brown!”
“And looked like a tabby cat most of the time, no doubt.”
Though Morgan’s shoes had begun to dry out, her feet hurt and she was very tired. Francis’s obstinacy was making her furious. “I want this one,” she asserted, clutching the tan cape close to her body.
“You shan’t have it. I’m paying for it!” Francis’s gray eyes were cold with anger. “You’re a spoiled chit, Morgan Todd, and you’ll take the blue or none at all!”
Morgan pulled the tan cape from her shoulders and flung it at Francis. “Then it’s none! I’ll freeze in your northern wasteland first!”
Francis loomed over her, both capes clutched in his hands. The furrier had kept his distance throughout this exchange and now had disappeared altogether. His only other customers, a Flemish burgher and his portly wife, had left as soon as Morgan and Francis had begun to quarrel.
Morgan was fumbling at her own gray cloak, unsteady hands trying to fasten the small silver clasp which held it together. Francis carefully laid the hotly disputed capes down on a table and then abruptly grabbed Morgan by the shoulders. She thought he was going to shake her but instead he kissed her, hard, almost violently, and she reeled against him, stunned and off-balance. Morgan tried to push him away but her efforts were as vain as they had been in the orchard. His mouth continued to plunder hers and her feet were actually off the floor. She felt dizzy in his embrace and knew if he let go of her without warning she would fall; her arms went around him—to prevent a nasty tumble, she told herself hazily—and she was further shocked to feel that odd sensation begin to burn in the pit of her stomach. She was even more stunned to discover that she was kissing Francis back, letting his tongue explore her mouth, allowing his hands to roam at will down the curve of her back and to her buttocks. At last he released her lips and set her on her feet, though his arms were still around her.