“No, actually I was going to stop by my office to pick up a few papers, but that can wait. A cup of coffee would be lovely.”
“Come on, then, there’s a little Italian bakery not far from here. They make excellent cappuccino, and their cheesecake is a particular weakness of mine.”
“Lead the way,” Quinn said as she picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. Some residue of Elise’s anguish still swirled in Quinn’s mind, but she would have to return to Elise later, when she was on her own and could begin to make sense of what she’d seen. At this moment, Quinn was more interested in the meeting between Gabe and Rhys Morgan, especially since whatever they’d discussed seemed to involve her.
The bakery was a five-minute walk from the institute and was surprisingly crowded. Quinn and Rhys settled at a small table by the window that had just been vacated by an elderly couple. Gentle autumn sunshine illuminated the Formica tabletop, where a laminated menu stood propped up by the sugar bowl. Mouthwatering smells of baking and freshly ground coffee filled the small space, and Quinn was suddenly glad she’d come. A cup of strong coffee was just what she needed, and given her recent foray into the seventeenth century, a bit of modern-day company couldn’t hurt either.
“A double espresso and an almond biscotti, please,” Quinn said to the young waitress who approached their table. The woman wrote down Quinn’s order, but her lively dark eyes never left Rhys’s face.
“No cheesecake?” Rhys asked with mock disappointment.
“Too rich for my blood.”
“Well, maybe you can try mine. It’s not to be missed. I’ll have a slice of strawberry cheesecake and a cappuccino, Giovanna,” Rhys said to the girl, who beamed at him, pleased that he remembered her name.
“Gabriel Russell tells me you’ve just returned from the Middle East,” Rhys said as he silenced his phone and put it in his pocket, a gesture Quinn appreciated. She hated it when people constantly looked at their phones and felt the need to read every e-mail and reply to every text in the middle of a conversation, as if they were so urgent that they couldn’t wait until later. Luke always placed his phone next to his plate when they went out to dinner and left it on the nightstand during the night despite Quinn’s objections. She gritted her teeth every time it pinged, alerting Luke to a new text or notification. Sometimes he even reached for the phone while they were making love, leaving her boiling with outrage. Quinn found his behavior to be rude, but Luke laughed it off, telling her that she needed to march boldly into the twenty-first century and accept that technology was an integral part of everyday life. So was having manners, in Quinn’s opinion.
“Yes, I’ve been back for just over a week. I hate to admit it, but I think I’m still a bit jet-lagged. It seems to get worse every time I travel.” Quinn was giving Rhys a roundabout explanation for her earlier lapse, to which he nodded, understanding and moving on.
“I’d seen the documentary about your incredible find. You spoke about that Roman soldier as if you’d personally known him. It made some obscure foot soldier who died thousands of years ago really come alive for the viewers. How were you able to learn so much about him?” Rhys asked.
“It wasn’t that I knew so much about him, per se. I suppose I imbued him with certain qualities and characteristics that I based on previous research into the standards of the Roman army and the type of young man he might have been. Some of it is fact, some just educated speculation.”
“Which is exactly what I intend this new program to be, and I would like for you to research and narrate it. We want to make these people seem real and relevant, and creating a dramatization based as much on fact as supposition turns them from forgotten skeletons into living, breathing people once again. Who’s to say that it didn’t happen just as we envision it, eh? What do you say, Dr. Allenby? Are you onboard?” Rhys asked, taking Quinn by surprise. Gabriel had mentioned the BBC’s interest, but she hadn’t expected to get an offer so soon, and in such an informal setting. She was interested, of course, but she wasn’t ready to commit, not until she’d had a chance to review the proposed compensation and conditions of the contract.
“Forward me your offer, and I will get back to you as soon as I’ve had a chance to look it over,” Quinn replied, hoping that he wouldn’t start talking shop right there and then. He seemed to notice her reluctance and nodded in agreement, instantly returning to the previous topic to put her at ease.
“That sword was magnificent,” Rhys said as he swallowed a forkful of his cheesecake and rolled his eyes in ecstasy.
“Try it,” he insisted. Quinn felt a little awkward eating off a plate of a man she’d just met, but she obediently tried a piece of cake. It really was extraordinary.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Rhys asked enthusiastically, glad to see her reaction. “Baking is a hobby of mine. I started out with bread after my sister-in-law got me a bread machine for Christmas one year. She said it would help me relax.”
“And did it?”
“Surprisingly, yes. There’s a certain sense of satisfaction in producing something from scratch, especially when it brings people pleasure. I graduated to more complicated recipes only recently.”
“Cheesecake?” Quinn asked with a smile.
“Yes, but I just can’t get the consistency right. It’s always too thick, not light like this one.”
Quinn suddenly wondered if he was having her on. She’d never met Rhys Morgan in person before, but she’d heard stories. He was one of the toughest producers in the business, a sadistic perfectionist who routinely made his assistants cry. She’d expected him to be older and stodgier, but the man sitting across from her couldn’t be more than forty-five. He was casually dressed in jeans and a dark-blue V-neck jumper that set off his amazing eyes. They were by far his best feature, wide and thick lashed. His chestnut hair fell into his eyes and brushed the collar of the jumper, and his morning stubble gave him a slightly disheveled appearance. He hardly looked like the hard-boiled exec coming from a business meeting.
“So, how are you going to do it?” Rhys suddenly asked, cheesecake forgotten.
“Do what?”
“Find out who ‘the Lovers’ were. Gabriel said that if anyone could unravel this mystery, it would be you.”
“I appreciate his vote of confidence,” Quinn replied, mentally sending Gabe a heartfelt thanks.
“I’ve actually already come up with a tentative title for the series: Echoes from the Past. What do you think?” he asked, watching her over the rim of his cup. It seemed that he wasn’t quite finished discussing the project.
“It’s a fitting title for an archeological program,” Quinn agreed.
“I thought that ‘the Lovers’ might be the subject of the first episode. So, have you anything to go on? Even conjecture must be based on something,” Rhys asked, his tone now speculative and brusque.
Quinn shrugged. “I have a few ideas.”
“Like what?”
It was a perfectly legitimate question, but Quinn felt herself bristling. She thought they were just having a coffee, but suddenly it was a business meeting, one she wasn’t prepared for. She could hardly tell him that she hoped to obtain the information directly from the source and then try to manipulate it in such a way as to fit with scientific research supported by facts.
“I’ve only just come from the morgue,” she replied defensively.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to rush you. I’m sure you have your own process, but surely you must have a starting point.”
Quinn was annoyed by the twinkle in his eyes. He was having fun at her expense, enjoying her discomfort. He clearly liked to be in charge, and he’d totally hijacked the situation and turned it to his advantage, making her feel as if she were interviewing for a job and listing her qualifications like some recent grad resigned to take the lowliest position just to get their foot in the door. She didn’t have to answer his questions, not before he made her any kind of offer or discussed the project with her in a professional envi
ronment. This impromptu interview was at an end.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan, but I really must be going,” Quinn said as she gathered her things. She pulled two ten-pound notes and threw them on the table. “Cheesecake is on me.”
She saw the amusement on Rhys’s face as she left the bakery and headed toward Paddington Station. She suddenly wanted to go home. Not only did his questions unsettle her but she also felt a burning desire to find out more about Elise. Her situation had been unique, even for the seventeenth century, and Quinn was curious to see how the young woman went from being a young, disillusioned bride to a forgotten skeleton slumbering for centuries below the streets of London.
Chapter 12
January 1665
London, England
A thick, soupy fog swirled off the river, enfolding everything in its path and reducing visibility to just a few inches. Buildings materialized out of the fog as one got closer, but their upper stories were lost, invisible. All sound seemed to get swallowed up by the thick blanket spread over the city, and it was eerily quiet for a weekday. The morning was cold, the damp seeping through the layers of clothing and right into the very bones. James kept close to the walls of the houses despite the imminent danger of having a chamber pot upended on his head. It was better than being run over by a draft horse, the driver unable to see a solitary man through the mist.
James heard the splash of water as oars sliced through the murky waters of the Thames. He felt pity for the men who depended on the river for their livelihood; it was no place to be on a day like today. He finally found the corner he’d been searching for and turned into a narrow lane, which was ominously silent. Glowing orbs of light floated out of the fog, reminding James that people were inside their homes, the candles still lit at this time of the morning. James peered at the houses on the left side, searching for the right one. A little girl opened the door when he knocked, her face breaking into a smile as she invited him in and hastily closed the door behind him, afraid that the fog would float right into the house.
“For you, my sweet Mercy,” James said as he conjured up an orange from the pocket of his cloak.
“Is there one for Elizabeth?” the child asked as she caressed the orange with her small fingers. Mercy didn’t like to share.
“Of course, there is. Is she here?”
“Nay. She’s helping Father in the workshop,” Mercy replied as she pocketed the orange. “She sweeps the wood shavings and such.”
“Where’s your mother, then?”
Mercy glanced upward. “She’s feeding ’Arry. You can go up; she won’t mind.”
“And what are you doing?” James asked, smiling at the girl. She had such an air of practicality about her, like a grown woman trapped in a child’s body.
“I’m doing the washing up from breakfast,” Mercy answered with a frown. “I’m almost finished. Then I must start on preparing dinner.”
“I’m sure your mother is glad of the help.”
Mercy shrugged. Unlike her sister Elizabeth, who liked to help her parents and glowed with pleasure at being thanked or praised, Mercy didn’t do anything voluntarily. She was a spirited child who didn’t like being told what to do, especially when it involved housework. James petted Mercy on the head and turned to go upstairs.
Molly sat in a low nursing chair by the hearth, her eyes closed and her head thrown back in sleep as the babe at her breast sucked lazily. She looked tired and pale, her normally smiling mouth downcast. Molly woke with a start, surprised to find someone watching her.
“Oh, it’s ye,” she said as she glanced down at the child who held the nipple in his mouth but didn’t seem to be actually nursing. Molly adjusted her bodice and pulled the blanket tighter around the sleeping child.
“How is he, Moll?” James asked as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. There was nowhere for him to sit other than the bed, which didn’t seem appropriate, and a trunk beneath the window.
Molly shook her head miserably. “’Arry’s holding on, but ’e’s not thriving, James. I fear I’ll lose ’im.”
“Don’t give up hope, Moll. Look, I’ve brought you something.” James removed a bloody muslin-wrapped package from his leather satchel and held it up for Molly to see.
“What’s that ye got there?” she asked, her eyes opening wide with surprise.
“Beef. Perhaps you can make some beef tea for Harry, and your own milk will be more nourishing if you eat better.”
“Did ye take that from ’is kitchen?” Molly asked, her voice laced with disgust. “I want nothin’ from the likes of ’im.”
“No, Moll, I purchased it. You’ve made your feelings plain, and I wouldn’t go against you.”
“I thank ye, then,” Molly replied as she sighed wearily. “I ’ear the old goat’s gone and gotten married. A girl less than ’alf ’is age. So, what’s she like?”
“I don’t really know,” James mumbled, his eyes sliding away from Molly, who gave him a suspicious look. “Were you not invited to the wedding?”
“No.”
“But ye have seen ’er?” Molly persisted. “Ye must ’ave.”
“Yes, I’ve seen her.”
“What is it, James? Ye are not usually so tight-lipped. What’s ’appened?”
James gave up his position by the wall and sat down on the trunk, suddenly tired. Molly was the only person in the world he could share his troubles with, but they were nothing compared with her own. She’d lost a baby boy only a year ago, and now Harry seemed to be showing the same symptoms. The girls were hale and hearty, but the boys were weak and lacking in appetite. James knew that Molly was a lot more frightened than she was letting on. Here, in Blackfriars, there wasn’t a family that hadn’t lost a child or two, but knowing that others had endured the same kind of suffering didn’t make it any easier when it happened to you.
“Come, Jamie. Tell me.” Molly only called him by that name when she wanted to remind him of her status as big sister, even though she was only two years older than him.
“I’ve lain with her,” James finally choked out, too ashamed to look Molly in the face.
“Who?”
“Father’s new wife.”
“What?” Molly stared at him open-mouthed, unsure of whether to be amused or horrified by this bit of news. “Why would ye do a thing like that?”
“He asked me to. He wants a son.”
“’E has a son,” Molly replied bitterly. “You are ’is son.”
“I’m a bastard, Moll. He’ll never recognize me as his own.”
“Ye know my opinion on the subject,” Molly replied curtly. She’d voiced it often enough.
“Yes.”
“So, he expects ye to lie with ’is wife, get ’er with child, then just step aside and pretend the babe ’as nothing to do with ye? How convenient. But then, that’s what ’e’d done all those years ago, so it must seem natural to ’im.”
“He took care of us, Moll.”
“’E farmed us out the day after our mother died and never enquired as to ’ow we were. ’E never even bothered to name ye or have ye baptized. For nearly thirteen years, neither one of us knew we ’ad a father, until ’e decided ’e might have some use for ye after all.”
Molly was still bitter after all these years, but James didn’t blame her. She’d been only two when their mother died bringing him into the world. No one had spoken to Molly or comforted her besides the elderly cook, who took pity on the child, but there was no kin for the children to go to, so Molly and James might have been left to perish had it not been for Edward Asher. James knew the truth; their mother had pleaded with Edward as she lay dying that he would look after his children. James supposed that Edward was too afraid to go back on his promise to a dying woman for fear of offending God, but he never so much as said a word to his daughter or looked at his son.
The children had been sent off to Kent to Cook’s childless cousin and her husband, who took them in and raised them, glad of the added income that Lo
rd Asher provided for the children’s upkeep. He sent money once a year but never made contact with his children, not until James turned thirteen, and even then, he’d only been interested in the boy. Molly had been turned out, being of an age to marry or find employment. She married Peter, the carpenter’s son, and they moved to London in the hope of a better life. There wasn’t much work for two carpenters in the small village where they lived. Peter was a talented man, and now, more than a decade later, he’d made a name for himself and even enjoyed commissions from the palace.
Molly hated their father with a vehemence born of rejection and indifference, and she chided James every time she saw him for allowing Edward to manipulate him. James nodded and agreed for the sake of keeping the peace between them, but Molly didn’t quite understand his predicament as well as she thought. By the time their father had finished paying for their upkeep, Molly had Peter had already been courting. She was nearly sixteen and of marrying age. James strongly suspected that she’d already been carrying Elizabeth by the time the two said their vows in the village church. He had just turned thirteen and was facing an uncertain future. Master and Mistress Dawson had been kind to him and Molly and had provided them with security and stability when they needed it most, but they had no obligation to him beyond that which they’d been paid for.
Edward had never made provisions for apprenticing James, nor had he made any monetary arrangements for his future. On Master Dawson’s instructions, James made his way to London and presented himself to Edward, who’d been expecting him. His father sized James up as he stood meekly in front of him, praying that the man wouldn’t throw him out into the street to fend for himself. James had always been taller and bigger than most boys his age, and for once, his size worked in his favor.
“I have need of a man-at-arms, James,” his father said thoughtfully. “These are uncertain times, and a man is never too cautious to seek protection, especially when he finds himself at odds with the politics of his country.”
The Lovers Page 9