by Lily Reynard
Margaret's mouth made a little "O" as she gazed at the layers of white lace and expensive gray satin that comprised Antonia's skirts. She bobbed obediently. "I'm Margaret Fitzgeorge, ma'am."
"'My lady,' not 'ma'am,'" Kit corrected.
"My lady," Margaret echoed obediently.
She glanced upward, shyly, then her gaze returned to Sweetheart, who was preening himself on his usual perch near the windows. "You have a parrot! Like Prospero."
"I've heard of Prospero. May I meet him?" asked Antonia, charmed by the little girl. She had Kit's eyes and the shape of his face.
In reply, Margaret dug in the pouch hanging from her girdle, then held out a battered looking green-and-yellow wooden bird.
"Hello," Sweetheart said from his perch, cocking his head at Margaret's toy.
Margaret's mouth opened, and her eyes went wide.
She stared at Sweetheart, who proudly ruffled himself up and shook out his feathers. Antonia could tell he was enjoying the little girl's rapt attention.
"Yours is the only real parrot she's ever seen, my lady," Kit said, a little apologetically.
"I like Prospero, too," Antonia said to Margaret. She received a wide smile in return.
Antonia made a vague gesture at the sofa and collection of chairs lining the walls of the parlor.
"Please, sit," she said, spreading her skirts and settling herself on the sofa.
Kit sat next to her. She caught the faint scent of lye soap overlaid with leather.
She dropped her eyes and found herself studying his hands, resting curled against his breeches. They were sinewy and long-fingered. Strong hands.
And gentle, too, Antonia thought, remembering how they had traced across the tops of her breasts.
Feeling uncomfortably warm at the memory, she plucked at her skirts. Then she remembered she had not ordered refreshments.
Picking up a silver handbell from a nearby table she rang for the maidservant, who promptly appeared.
"Peg, you may fetch us tea. With gooseberry tarts, if you please," said Antonia.
"Certainly, milady." Peg, whose dark hair was liberally silvered, winked at Margaret, and turned to go.
"I've been told that you are particularly fond of gooseberries," Antonia said to Margaret, who still stood in the middle of the parlor, her hands clasped before her as she watched Sweetheart avidly.
Margaret nodded, shuffling her feet against the patterned blue carpet. "Yes, my lady."
Then as if the gray-and-white bird were a lodestone, the little girl's gaze returned to Sweetheart's tall perch.
Grateful for the distraction, Antonia studied Kit's daughter with interest. The little girl's hair was neatly braided with ribbons under her cap, and the neck of her shift was embroidered with a fraying border of tiny blue flowers.
Antonia realized with a sudden pang that Kit's late wife must have stitched them.
"His name is Sweetheart," Antonia said, with a nod in her parrot's direction.
"How do you know that it's a 'he,' my lady?" Margaret asked, tilting her head to one side.
"I don't," Antonia answered. "I suppose I shall have to change my mind if Sweetheart ever lays an egg, but thus far he has not." She chuckled, trying to picture it. "He was barely fledged when caught in Africa, and I am his first owner. He's about...let me think...six years old. He's still quite young for a parrot."
"How old will he get?" Margaret edged closer to the perch. Kit cleared his throat significantly, and she added hastily. "My lady!"
"Older than you or I, I think," Antonia said. "These birds sometimes live to be a hundred years old."
"Oh. That's old!" Wide-eyed, Margaret turned to look at Antonia. "Uncle Hugo—well, he's not really my uncle, but he was one of Papa's friends—made Prospero for me." Margaret offered the wooden toy to Antonia.
Antonia took it and examined it carefully. It had been carved by a skilled hand.
"He's lovely," she said, sincerely. "He looks like Lancelot, who belonged to a neighbor when I was a girl. Mr. Springham bought Lancelot from a sailor because he fancied teaching a bird Bible verses to impress his friends."
"And did the bird talk?" Margaret asked, accepting Prospero back from Antonia.
"Yes, he did!" Antonia laughed. "No one would ever tell me exactly what Lancelot said to Mrs. Springham, but I gather 'twas not a Bible verse!"
Margaret giggled. "I bet he called her a poxy whore. That's what Uncle Hugo called the tavern wenches when they tried to shortchange him."
There was a brief, appalled silence in the parlor. Then Sweetheart made a sound suspiciously like a giggle.
"Margaret Anne!" Kit said in a strangled voice.
Margaret's eyes widened as she noticed the deep red color of her father's face. "But Papa, Uncle Hugo always said—"
Antonia pressed her lips together tightly. She would not laugh. She should not. But her face hurt with the effort of controlling her expression.
"Most of the things Uncle Hugo used to say aren't to be repeated by young girls, and especially not in polite company." Kit's voice was mild now, but his face was still flushed. "You will apologize to Lady Cranbourne for your language."
Margaret looked as if she might begin to cry as she shuffled her feet against the carpet. "I apologize for saying bad words, my lady. I didn't mean to."
"That's quite all right, Margaret," Antonia said. "Your Uncle Hugo sounds like quite a character."
"He was," Kit said, chuckling. "You couldn't ask for a better man to have guarding your back in a fight. Margaret took to following him around after her mother passed away. I'm afraid she was exposed to some, er, questionable influences."
The generous tea arrived. Margaret scurried over to the table and gazed with awe at the selection of shortbread, gooseberry tarts, cream cakes, and almond biscuits.
"Eat as much as you like," Antonia said, smiling at the girl's expression. "Cook is very proud of her tarts. The shortbread is good, too."
"Thank you, ma'am—I mean, my lady," Margaret said, then snatched up a slice of gooseberry tart and stuffed the whole thing in her mouth. Her cheeks bulged as she chewed frantically.
Antonia felt rather than heard Kit's sigh.
"I don't suppose it will do any good to tell her to eat slowly," he whispered, leaning close so that his breath was warm against her ear.
Antonia shook her head, trying to ignore the pleasant shiver at the base of her spine.
Don't touch him, she told herself. No matter how much you want to. Be discreet.
Momentarily deprived of his audience, Sweetheart shuffled to the end of the perch closest to Margaret.
By the dint of stretching his whole body while clinging nearly upside-down to his perch, he managed to grasp one of her cap-ribbons, and began tugging at it gently, trying to work it free of Margaret's head.
In a moment, the cap had slithered free.
Margaret stopped chewing, and stood stock-still. "Does that mean he likes me?" she whispered.
"I think so," Antonia replied. She rose and stretched out her hand. "Sweetheart, give me that."
He backed away, the cap dangling from his beak. "No," he muttered.
Antonia wasn't certain that he really knew what he was saying, but the timing of his words and phrases were suspiciously appropriate to the occasion.
"Sweetheart," she said firmly, and caught the end of the ribbon between her fingers. "Up."
He stepped up on her hand reluctantly, muttering something unintelligible. But he refused to let go of the cap.
Antonia glared at her bird. He glared back.
"Margaret, would you like to give Sweetheart one of your biscuits?" Antonia asked.
The stratagem worked.
Dropping the cap as soon as he spied the proffered treat, Sweetheart took the biscuit from Margaret's fingers, and holding it with one foot, proceeded to reduce it to a rain of crumbs. When the last of it had dropped to the floor, he puffed up his feathers with happiness.
He shifted from one
foot to the other, bowed his head. "Want scratch."
"Would you like to pet him?" Antonia asked.
"Yes, please!" Margaret said.
The little girl's face glowed as the parrot stepped onto her wrist from Antonia's without any hesitation.
"Now," continued Antonia, "He likes to have his feathers stroked against the grain—like this—but be very gentle. See how he's arching his neck? He likes that, Margaret."
With that, Antonia withdrew her fingers and let Margaret take over. "Why don't you sit here?" She indicated a low hassock. "And put Sweetheart on your knee."
Within moments, the two of them, bird and girl, were blissfully wrapped up in each other.
Antonia returned to her seat. "Here." She held out the cap.
Kit took it, his fingers brushing hers. "Thank you for being so kind to my daughter."
And then she did it. She couldn't help herself. She looked into his eyes, and saw in him the same longing that had been consuming her.
"Antonia—" he began, hoarsely.
She shook her head. "No. Please don't. I can't—we can't—"
"I thought about you all the time I was traveling. Sleeping. Waking. Day and night."
Kit took Antonia's hand and kissed the inside of her wrist once, fervently. He would have released her, but she could not bear to let him go so soon.
They sat for some time in an agony of wanting, their joined hands hidden by the drape of Antonia's skirts.
Finally, reluctantly, they loosened their clasp on one another and Antonia busied herself pouring more tea, filling with activity the void left by the withdrawal of his touch.
When Kit and Margaret finally rose to leave, Sweetheart uttered, plaintively, "Want more."
Antonia understood exactly how he felt.
* * *
She didn't have the opportunity to see Kit alone until after supper, when he and Margaret had been settled into their room, and a trundle bed made up for the little girl.
She went upstairs on the pretense of fetching something, then lingered in the corridor, listening to the low murmur of a bedtime story. Sweaty-palmed, she nearly fled a dozen times, wondering if she was being a fool, worrying that the servants would see her.
Then he emerged from his room, and caught sight of her.
Like a wick catching fire, his expression sprang to life.
Without thinking, she went into his arms, kissing him fiercely, rejoicing in how tightly he embraced her. His mouth was hot and urgent upon hers, and his hands caressed her waist and back as she twined her arms around his shoulders and neck.
There was a sound like a gasp, and they sprang apart.
Shaken, she looked around, but if one of the servants had seen them, then they had vanished around the corner.
Antonia took a deep breath, willing her heart to slow, and smoothed her skirts. "Welcome home, Kit."
"I missed you, my lady...Antonia." he replied, huskily.
Chapter Seventeen
The appearance of things to the mind is the standard of every action to man. —Epictetus (c.100 A.D.)
When Sunday services ended, the Cranbourne household was relieved to escape the gloomy chill of the ancient church. They poured out through the arched stone doorway, into the warm noon sunshine of a glorious summer day.
This being their day off, most of the servants dispersed when they reached the street outside. Some of the footmen strode along, boisterous and laughing, in the direction of the river, making for the bear-pits, brothels, and beer-gardens of Southwark.
Others, like Polly, headed for Sunday dinner at their parents' homes.
Antonia's former maid scarcely noticed the piles of fresh manure and rotting vegetables littering the cobbles of the street as she walked along, disdaining the company of the other maidservants in favor of her thoughts.
Her mind was still buzzing with what she had glimpsed last night: Lady Cranbourne in Mr. Fitzgeorge's embrace, being very thoroughly kissed.
Polly's simmering sense of injustice boiled over.
All those people who admire Lady Cranbourne for her chaste widowhood—if only they knew!
But milady kept her secrets well, with the help of that sly creature Mall.
Polly clenched her fists as she strode along. Now she knew why she had been demoted: Lady Cranbourne knew that Polly wouldn't help conceal lewdness and debauchery the way Mall did!
"Miss!"
Startled out of her angry musing, she drew up short to avoid running into the richly-dressed man who suddenly appeared before her.
He peered down at her, his handsome brow creased. "Polly, is it? The very same as my Lady Cranbourne's maid?"
Polly took in the gold embroidery on his jacket, the opulent fall of lace at throat and wrist, and the splendidly plumed hat tucked under one arm. A profusion of shining golden locks tumbled over his shoulders in carefully arranged disarray.
"M-my lord Thornsby?" She dipped into a belated curtsey.
He had been the one with the roses, she remembered, and obviously enthralled by Lady Cranbourne's wiles. If only he knew what a false creature she was!
He gave a slight inclination of his head. "The very same, and I must confess myself glad at our chance meeting." He took her elbow. "My dear Polly, I have been so very concerned about your mistress. I wonder if I might beg a few minutes of your time, and lay to rest my fears?"
At last! Someone I can warn about the goings-on in Lady Cranbourne's household!
"Of course, my lord," Polly murmured. "How may I assist you?"
It wouldn't be base gossip, Polly told herself, but a legitimate warning to a man seeking a chaste wife.
Lord Thornsby glanced around, and jerked his chin in the direction of a tavern across the street. "I'd prefer to converse with you in private."
* * *
A handful of silver had the Royal Oak's owner fawning and bowing as he ushered them to the back of the tavern.
The front room was crowded with respectable-looking folk, though some of the men on the benches gave Polly leering glances as she passed them.
She raised her chin and straightened her shoulders as she passed them.
She was no whore, but a respectable woman! Her sober clothing should tell them that!
Still, she was relieved when they were ushered into a low-ceilinged private parlor.
It being summer, the hearth was empty and swept of ashes. The shutters had been thrown open, and a rainbow of light poured in through multi-colored panes. A small table, suitable for a private game of cards, stood near the hearth, surrounded by four cane-bottomed oak chairs. There was also a sofa on the other side of the hearth, but the cushions were stained.
She waited, standing near the table, until Lord Thornsby had ordered a bottle of wine, and the host departed.
He settled himself at the table, and gestured. "Seat yourself."
Polly pulled out one of the chairs and perched on it, acutely conscious of the fact that servants did not usually sit in the presence of their betters.
Smiling pleasantly, Thornsby put five gold guineas on the table. A shaft of sunlight struck them, and they glowed so brightly that Polly's eyes hurt. Ten pounds? That's a fortune!
She swallowed, sorely tempted by the equivalent of five years' wages, then reached out and pushed the coins back to Thornsby.
"My lord, what I have to tell you is not for sale. I say it out of concern for your well-being."
He raised his brows, looking amused. "Indeed? Well, that is indeed generous of you, Polly."
He gathered up all the coins, save one, and put them back in his pouch. A single guinea remained, gleaming against the dark wood of the table.
"But you should have a little something for your time," he said, smoothly.
"Oh, it's no trouble, my lord," she hastened to assure him, but her gaze was irresistibly drawn to the gold.
Her mother needed a new gown, and perhaps she could purchase a Latin grammar for her younger brother, who showed promise in his schoolin
g.
The tavern-keeper returned with the wine, two glass goblets, and a plate of honey cakes. He had put a clean apron over his stained clothing and paunch, Polly noticed, and she was discomfited when he winked at her.
"Now, then, Polly," said Lord Thornsby, when they were alone once more. "As I mentioned earlier, I have the deepest concerns for your mistress and it is my hope that you can allay them."
"I'll assist you in whatever way I can, my lord." Polly took a cautious sip of the wine, and found it heavily spiced with peppery ginger.
Her throat burning, she hastily put down the goblet, trying to suppress a cough.
Thornsby followed suit, and also quickly replaced his goblet with an expression of disgust.
"Well, I suppose that's one way to disguise an inferior vintage," he commented, wiping his mouth on his sleeve like an apprentice lad.
He cleared his throat. "Now, my lady Cranbourne seems a trifle too trusting, and I fear that unscrupulous characters may be taking advantage of her trust."
Polly nodded, glad he had brought up the subject so directly. "That's why I wanted to speak with you, my lord. You seem to have honorable intentions towards milady, a-a-and—" Polly stumbled.
How to voice what was troubling her, without seeming vulgar or disloyal?
She couldn't simply say that she'd seen Kit Fitzgeorge kissing Lady Cranbourne with unseemly passion, not when everyone thought Lady Cranbourne was so virtuous, so chaste!
"Honorable...? Indeed, I wish to marry your lady."
Lord Thornsby propped his elbows on the table. Polly noticed that his eyes were pretty as a girl's: golden green and long-lashed.
"Her virtue is, of course, beyond question." He said this so definitively that Polly was glad she'd held her tongue. "But there are others in her household who concern me. Specifically, Mr. Fitzgeorge."
"Oh, him, my lord!" Polly exclaimed, bitterly. "We didn't have any goings-on in the house until he came."
"Goings-on?" Thornsby's voice dropped, and he leaned forward. "Now what do you mean by that, Polly?"
Don't say anything against milady, Polly reminded herself.
"Er, it's only—what I mean to say is—I don't think Mr. Fitzgeorge is a gentleman at all! And on account of those highwaymen, milady is so grateful that I don't think she's asked too closely about...things."