by S. D. Sykes
It was Becky, the younger of the two sisters, who first caved in to vanity, staring at her reflection in the one polished metal plate that we kept for such purposes. She had always been the prettier of the sisters, with large blue eyes, and a short, turned-up nose that gave her the face of an angel. I remember watching Ada, the lady’s maid, comb Becky’s soft blond hair and plait it into long braids that were then twisted under the knitted mesh of a crespine. The girl, at fourteen, loved the attention and fuss of such preening, while her sister, Mary, stood apart from them, with a scowl upon her face. Mary would allow her own hair to be combed, but it was coarser and wilder, and caused Ada to sigh at the knots and tangles in its tresses. Mary would tolerate only a single plait, and under no circumstances was Ada to use pins and jewels in her hair, not even for the feast of Corpus Christi or the festival of Lammas.
There is something about the existence of two young and unmarried girls in a castle that sends up a flare. Or is it a perfume—like the bud of a rose, or the blossom of a May tree? Does their pollen float out across the estate and land in the lap of every man, whether he is old or young, married or not? However it can be explained, I soon found that we were often visited by knights and squires, even the sons of yeoman farmers. They made some excuse about wanting to discuss their rents, or the delights of a recent tournament with me, but truly they were hoping to catch a glimpse of the beautiful maidens that I had hidden in my castle.
How I then cursed the foolish troubadours and their passion for the poetry of love, prompting the men of Kent to leave many letters for the girls by the gatehouse. These letters were mainly left for Rebecca’s attention, though not exclusively, and were sent by lovesick admirers, who could barely take their next breath, such was the pain of their ardour. Mary always threw her letters into the fire, but Becky kept hers in her mother’s wedding casket—a treasured wooden box, covered in carved ivory, bone, and gilded metal. The only advantage of these letters was this—at least they encouraged Rebecca to learn to read, for little else induced her to attend her lessons.
I was asked, myself, often enough, by some leering knight or drunken nobleman, if I might take a fancy to one of the girls, seeing as they both lived under my own roof. As Becky skipped across the great hall at any given feast and danced in front of the crowd, knowing that every man in the room was watching, they continued to make these vulgar suggestions until I was compelled to rebut their insinuations in the most abrupt terms. I admired Becky’s beauty, who could not? But I was not in love with her. And I would certainly not “take a fancy” to the girl, though Becky often flirted with me. I think my indifference amused her at first. Then it intrigued her, and finally it annoyed her.
It was a hot day at the end of July, and I had been over to Versey Castle to visit Clemence and her child, Henry. Clemence had been in one of her acidic moods, chastising me for not managing the Somershill estate to the exacting standards of our father, and then criticizing my scruffy clothes and worn boots. What else was I to wear about the Somershill estate? It was a farm, not the court of King Edward. Clemence’s child, whom she would not release from her grip, had grizzled throughout our whole conversation like a cawing crow, until the boy’s endless whine had given me a headache. On the way back to Somershill, I had stopped to supervise some of the hay harvest, but was then dragged into a discussion with the priest, who wanted me to fine certain villagers in the manorial court for letting their goats trespass on his glebe field. He had no idea of the identity of these villagers, and his only proof of trespass was the testament of his servant—a man who possessed the eyesight of a mole. I will admit to this, I was not in the best mood upon my return to Somershill.
The small tub was filled with warm water. The soap was sweet-smelling of musk and cloves. I intended to soak my feet and peruse the grubby manuscript that I kept under my mattress for such solitary moments. I had expressly forbidden anybody to enter the chamber, so when Becky flew in without knocking, I will admit to being particularly irritated. I told the girl to get out and leave me alone, but she begged to stay, swearing on her dead mother’s grave that she needed to hide from her latest suitor—a boy who had been hanging about the house like the smell of boiling cabbage.
He was called Robert Wolfenden, and he was a particular pest—always finding some excuse to stay for supper or to join the family on a hunt. Sometimes his behavior was merely comic, and Mary and I laughed secretly about his hopelessly lovesick antics, but on other occasions his obsession with Becky became so maddening that we were rude to his face, though he rarely took even our boldest of insults as a blow. In the previous weeks, Robert had become increasingly maudlin, bemoaning a marriage that was being forced upon him by his father, to a girl so unspeakably plain that he would rather throw himself from a cliff than join her in the marriage bed. These laments were repeated with such overplayed self-pity that I was tempted to ride with him to West Dean and show him the white cliffs myself.
The day was hot. My head was beginning to thump, and I lost the energy to ask Becky to leave. I was only soaking my feet, after all. And the manuscript under the mattress could wait until later. While I stared at the strange, quivering shape of my toes in the water, Becky sat on a stool beside me, and decried her own beauty in such florid terms that I was driven to smile for the first time that day. What a nuisance it was, to be so beautiful. How tiresome it was to have so many men in love with her. How she longed to be ignored by the world and given some peace. The girl had become ridiculously vain and self-centered in the preceding months, so my mocking suggestions that she could always lock herself in a tower or volunteer to become a novice at the convent of St. Margaret went completely unheeded.
Instead she looked up at me quizzically, before dropping her eyes and then regarding me through trembling lashes. It was a practiced move that had no effect upon me—other than to provoke a certain sadness, a regret that Becky was no longer the dirty-faced child who kept pet rabbits in a box and liked to scamper through the fields, playing at sword fights with her sister. But this was wistful and sentimental. I put it from my mind, for we must all grow up. This world is not a courtyard of children’s games.
I was surprised then, when the girl rose silently to her feet, stood behind me, and placed her hands upon my shoulders. “Would you like me to rub your neck, Uncle Oswald?” I did not care for the use of this epithet. I was her uncle only in the loosest terms. The brother of her stepmother. There was no blood tie between us, so I had always requested that the sisters simply call me Oswald. But then I realized why I truly did not like the way she used the word. It reminded me of those used by the girls who stood outside the stews and brothels of Southwark, particularly the youngest ones, asking if the passing men wanted to be their “daddies.”
I should have told her to go away, used my sharpest tones with the girl, for now she was rubbing her breasts against my back and kissing my neck. Oh God. I will admit this, and only here. The feeling was sensual. It was more than that. It was arousing, and I had been starved of the female touch for a number of years, choosing not to visit the local inn where a gaggle of pockmarked girls plied their trade. I let Becky continue for longer than I should have done. It was a weakness. A mistake. For when I happened to look to the door, there was a face watching us. It was dark and thunderous. Steeped in condemnation and disgust.
It was the face of the girl whom I loved. It was Becky’s sister, Mary.
Chapter Seventeen
After my encounter with Vittore in the alley, I lay on my bed for a while, deciding what to do next, and knowing that I needed to make more progress with the investigation—especially now threats had been made against my mother. Taking out my pamphlet from its hidey-hole, I read over my notes regarding the two main strands of my investigation and the extent of my discoveries this far. I had had no success in finding Enrico’s lover, though I could not discount him as a suspect following Margery’s garbled testament regarding the man’s tendency toward violence. I had had more success with
my investigation into Adolpho Bredani, if finding his dead body can be called an achievement. I could place Bredani near or at the scene of Enrico’s murder, and he had been in possession of an unexpectedly large amount of money at his death—so he and his associates had to be my main line of investigation. The trouble was that I knew so little about Bredani. So far, my questioning had elicited only that he was a handsome and dissolute young man who couldn’t really be trusted. Nobody could tell me where he went after hours, nor with whom he mixed. The man remained a mystery.
I turned my face to the bolster and gave a groan of frustration into the feathers, when an idea occurred to me. There was somebody within this very household who could tell me more about Adolpho—his sister, Filomena. This thought only provoked a second groan, since it was difficult enough to speak to Filomena under usual circumstances, let alone in the hours after she had given birth. I threw the bolster aside and got to my feet. I needed to try.
After breakfast, I sat in the piano nobile, on the chair nearest to Filomena’s door, pretending to read a book while hoping to find an opportunity to creep inside her bedchamber when there was nobody else in attendance. This was a poor plan however, since there was a constant stream of visitors for the new mother, from the midwife to the scullion, and it seemed Filomena was never going to be left alone. Not even for a moment. In the meantime my insistence at staying in the piano nobile had not gone unnoticed, in fact I would say it had aroused suspicion. More than once Mother had tried to induce me to accompany her to the Rialto market, claiming that she needed to buy more Treacle of Venice. It was not until I had refused to join her for the fifth time that she finally left me alone.
No sooner had I lost Mother’s company, than Giovanni appeared at my side, leaning over my shoulder to look at the book I was pretending to read. “So, Oswald,” he said, when I deliberately turned a page that he appeared to be interested in, “how are we to proceed with our investigation?”
“I just need to sit here quietly and think through the facts,” I said, hoping Giovanni would leave at this point, but instead he drew a chair up next to mine. “There’s no need for you to join me,” I said, turning another page. “This might take a while.”
Giovanni smiled and bowed his head, but still did not take the hint. Thankfully he did not try to talk to me again, but instead he condemned me to a slower torment, by toying with the keys at his belt, running his fingers up and down their iron shanks before lifting them one by one and allowing them to fall back against the others with a sporadic clank. This was a deliberate test of my patience, but nevertheless it was a small battle that I was determined to win, and win it I did—for eventually Giovanni sauntered away, peeved by my fortitude at ignoring him.
I was feeling rather pleased with this small victory when Mother reappeared for her next offensive. “Oswald,” she hissed in a loud whisper from the staircase that led to our bedchamber. “Please. You must come and speak with me. There’s something that I need to tell you.”
“You can come here and say it,” I said. She would not unseat me so easily.
Mother’s whisper became hoarser and more urgent. “Please. Oswald. I cannot say this in front of the others.” I looked about the piano nobile to see Bernard and Margery leaning against the open window at the other end of the room and looking down nervously into the street. They seemed preoccupied by their own concerns, and had not even turned to take notice of Mother’s performance. With some great reluctance, Mother then crossed the room and sat down upon the same chair that Giovanni had only just vacated.
She drew close and whispered into my ear. “There’s something I need to tell you, Oswald. It’s about Monna Filomena.”
“Oh yes?” I said, turning a page and affecting disinterest.
She looked about the room nervously, waiting for a servant to pass, before she once again whispered into my ear. “You know I’ve spent some time in the kitchen here?”
“Yes. You’ve taught them how to cook soup, I believe?”
She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “Well. If you’re going to take that tone, then I won’t say another word.”
I turned a page. “Please yourself.”
This answer caused her to wriggle with frustration, before she gave in and pinched my arm. “Oh you will be very pleased to know this, Oswald. I can guarantee it.” She whispered into my ear. “I would say it’s vital to your investigation.”
She had intrigued me a little—but only a little. “Very well then,” I said. “What is it? This great revelation.”
She suppressed a small squeal of victory. “The father of Monna Filomena’s child is not John Bearpark.”
“Says who?”
“Everybody in the kitchen.”
I shook my head. “Well, that’s nonsense.”
“No, it’s not,” said Mother, in a shrill protest. “Everybody’s saying it.”
I drew in my breath and tried to remain unruffled. “That means nothing. And anyway, how can you deduce what they’re saying? You don’t speak their language.”
She pursed her lips. “I understand enough Venetian, thank you, Oswald.” She lifted her nose in the air. “As it happens, I’ve spent rather a lot of time with the servants over the last few months, seeing as your company has been so poor.”
I ignored this gibe before asking the next, and inevitable, question. “So, who is the father of the child then, according to your new friends in the kitchen?” I attempted to pour a note of scorn upon my voice, to demonstrate how little weight I attached to this fanciful tale.
Mother either ignored my disdain or it simply didn’t register, for her face beamed with delight at my question. “That’s what is so interesting about this story, Oswald. That’s why I wanted you to know.” She looked around to ensure that Bernard and Margery were still at the other end of the room before she dropped her voice to the tiniest of whispers. “The father is Enrico Bearpark. John’s own grandson. Can you imagine the betrayal?”
I shut my book firmly and got to my feet. “As I said before, Mother. The story is nonsense.”
“Oh yes. And how do you know?” she said, jumping up from her chair and following me across the room.
“I just do!”
I had reached the stairs, but she stood in my path. “Apparently Enrico Bearpark used to spend a lot of time with Monna Filomena.”
I laughed. “When? Nobody is allowed to spend time with her. Bearpark and his clerk make sure of that.”
I tried to push past, but Mother blocked my path with determination. “I’m told that the girl sneaked into his bedchamber, especially when she was first married to his grandfather.” She drew a breath. “And Enrico was a very handsome young man, wasn’t he? I’m sure he was a great success with the young women of Venice.” She pinched my arm. “And just think, Oswald. At least any child that they conceived together would look like a Bearpark.”
This time I succeeded in passing her. “I’m telling you again, Mother. It’s not true.”
“But how do you know?” she called after me.
“I just do!”
As I slammed the door to my room, I wanted to laugh at Mother’s story, but instead a low, churning disquiet was building in my stomach—for was this such a tall tale after all? Had I not wondered, even doubted, that Bearpark could still father a child at his great age—and yet a child would be expected from his marriage to Filomena, no matter at the disparity in their years. If none were conceived, then Filomena would bear the blame—for such failings are never the fault of a man. Under such circumstances, it was quite possible that she had taken a lover, though I could say, for certain, that it wasn’t Enrico.
This succession of thoughts only made me feel uneasy. I felt pity for the young woman, but there was another emotion poking its unwelcome finger into my heart. Something that made me feel uncomfortable. Jealous even. I threw some water onto my face and then quickly returned to the piano nobile. More than ever, I needed to speak to Filomena.
Chapter Eighteen
Despite my vigil near Filomena’s door, it was the evening of that same day before she was finally left alone, and I was able to take my chance. I knocked and then entered the room to find Filomena sitting on a stool next to the fireplace. Her complexion was ashen and her eyes were tired, but even so her beauty managed to take me by surprise.
“May I speak with you for a moment, Monna Filomena?” I said quickly, embarrassed by my reaction, and hoping she could not see me flush.
“Does my husband know you are here?” she said, looking over my shoulder to check that nobody had followed me into the room.
I shook my head. “No. I needed to speak to you alone, without his interference.” This statement only increased her apprehension, so I added, “I promise there’s nothing untoward, and I will be very quick.”
She hesitated for a moment, and then invited me to sit down on the stool beside her. “Very well, Lord Somershill,” she said, allowing herself to relax a little. “You may stay awhile.”
It felt odd to be addressed by my title, especially as she had come to my salvation only two days earlier. “Please,” I said, “you must call me Oswald.”
She inclined her head. “Then you must call me Filomena.”
I looked at her for a moment, feeling the heat of embarrassment crawl across my cheeks again. “I haven’t had the chance to thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“For coming to my aid, of course.” I paused, knowing that this was hardly an accurate description of what had happened between us. “I should say that I wish to thank you for saving my life.”
She smiled shyly. “Are your spirits restored now, Oswald?” she asked, before a look of apprehension crossed her face. “Or has your shadow returned? Is that why you wish to speak with me?”