James didn’t know much of Edward’s politics, or politics in general, but assumed that his father was not a supporter of Oliver Cromwell and his ill-fated Commonwealth. Master Dawson was a staunch Royalist who fought in the Civil War and had been severely wounded in the leg. He would have died had he not been nursed back to health by a farmer’s daughter who came across him in a field. Master Dawson rewarded his savior by marrying her, so the arrangement worked out nicely for them both. He spoke to James often, especially when in his cups, of the people’s desire to restore the rightful king to the throne. Perhaps James’s father felt the same.
“Do you know how to wield a sword, James?” Edward asked. James didn’t, but he wasn’t about to say so. He’d learn. He was a quick study.
“You will be instructed in the art of swordplay. I think you’ll do quite well. What say you?”
“Thank you, your lordship. I’m happy to accept your offer,” James replied, feeling a surge of hope. His father wanted him by his side, and if James proved himself, perhaps they might forge a relationship after all, and he and Molly would have someone to rely on besides themselves. Their father paid the Dawsons to have them looked after, so perhaps now that they were nearing adulthood, he would finally treat them as his kin.
Edward must have guessed something of James’s thoughts, or maybe he’d anticipated the sense of hope that his offer would inspire in his bastard son. He took James by the chin and forced the boy to meet his gaze. “I am offering you a place in my household, but you must remember your place, James. No one is to know of your relationship to me, least of all my wife, and to ensure that, you must never speak of it. Servants gossip, and if you tell a single soul, and I discover your perfidy, you will be cast out. Make no mistake.”
Edward let go of James and stood back, head tilted to the side as if he were gazing at a painting, hard-pressed to decide whether it pleased him or not. “You do have the look of your mother about you,” he finally said. “She was a lovely girl. Taken too soon.”
That was the most personal thing his father ever said to him and probably the longest speech he ever directed at James. He treated James the way he treated all the other men in his employ—with utter indifference. Whatever hope James had harbored that he would be singled out because of his relationship to his father was squashed within the first few days, but despite his bitter disappointment, James still tried to win the approval of the man who sired him. Perhaps it was a matter of pride or some stubborn need to prove that he was worthy of Edward’s notice, but he worked hard in the hope that he would become indispensable.
James learned not only to fight but also to read, write, and speak like a gentleman. He had a desire to better himself, and this was his chance. Much had been expected of him in those years before the Restoration. Lord Asher schemed and plotted as the Commonwealth crumbled, and the people, who were tired of the tyranny of Oliver Cromwell, finally saw the wisdom of returning to a monarchy. James had been called on to protect his master more than once and had the scars to prove it. He took it all in stride, hoping that one day his father would realize his worth and see the value of his service.
Edward never asked about Molly, nor did he ever acknowledge James as his son, not even during the months after his riding accident when he’d relied solely on James. Edward had lost the use of his legs, and James had been called upon to carry him up to bed, lift him off the chamber pot, and help him into his carriage. James was always at his father’s side during that time, and their relationship evolved somewhat. Bedbound, Edward had no one to talk to, and James, starved for affection and curious about his parents, took every opportunity to learn what he could.
In time, he’d even asked about his mother. He had a mental image of her since he was a little boy. She was gentle and kind, an angel with long golden curls and eyes of sky blue. He liked to think that his mother watched over him, especially when he was ill or upset, and it made him feel slightly less miserable to believe that he wasn’t entirely alone. He never shared his fantasy with Molly, who was the most practical person he’d ever known. Molly would have ridiculed him and told him to stop being such a child. Speaking to someone who’d actually known Jane Coleman was a gift he never expected to receive, and he soaked up the details like bread soaked up broth.
“Oh, she was something, your mother,” Edward said with a rueful smile, his gaze fixed on some distant spot beyond the window where the first buds of spring were just beginning to burst into leaf. “Jane came to us just about the time I married Ellen. There was a girl I was in love with, Caroline, but she rejected me despite the life I could offer her and married a man who had neither title nor wealth. My mother was pleased, that I can tell you. Caroline came from good stock, but her family was impoverished, and my mother, romantic soul that she is, never put much stock in marrying for love. So, I married a woman of her choosing. Ellen was pretty enough, wealthy, and docile—the perfect wife, except that I couldn’t abide being in the same room with her. She was meek, distant, and completely lacking in wit. She was like a marble statue: pleasant to look at but just a hunk of stone on the inside.”
Edward took a sip of wine and leaned back against the pillows. “Jane wasn’t nearly as comely as my wife. She was plump, with unruly black curls and eyes the color of a winter sea—deep gray, just like yours—but I was happy when I was with her; she made me laugh, and she made me feel.” Edward sighed. “And she wasn’t afraid to love, despite the fact that she knew our relationship could never be more than it was. She gave herself to me without reservation, and never asked for anything in return. She understood the rules.”
“Did your wife know?” James asked, shocked to learn that his father had actually felt something for Jane Coleman. He might not have loved her, but he felt affection toward her, and clearly still thought of her fondly. How could he be so indifferent to the children he’d had with her, especially Molly, who must be the spitting image of their mother? But Edward wouldn’t know that; he hadn’t laid eyes on Molly since she was two.
“I think she did, but she didn’t care. The less time I spent in her bed, the happier she was. Once I got her with child, I never visited her bedchamber until it was time to try again. And try I did. I wanted a son. Ellen bore two stillborn boys—and Barbara,” he added bitterly. “I have no son.”
Edward didn’t notice the hurt in James’s face as he made that statement. He was completely indifferent to his feelings, viewing James as just someone to unburden himself to in his hour of need. He didn’t regard James as his flesh and blood, not even after all this time. Lord Asher was a nobleman, a man who tailored his life to fit society’s expectations. He might have enjoyed his relationship with Jane, but he had no use for her baseborn children; they were a burden and an inconvenience. Had Jane not begged him to take care of her babies, he likely would have forgotten all about them.
It was that conversation that finally forced James to acknowledge that Edward saw him as nothing more than a servant, someone who was dispensable and utterly unimportant. He meant to leave his father’s employ, but a few days turned into a week, weeks turned into months, and he was still at Asher Hall. He supposed what made him stay was the fact that he had nowhere to go, and at Asher Hall he was close to Molly and her growing family.
It wasn’t until his father’s wedding night to Elise de Lesseps that Edward Asher finally called him “son” out loud, a fact that blinded James to what was being asked of him. He’d lain awake half the night, remembering the look of fear on the girl’s face. She’d been frightened enough at the thought of performing her wifely duties, but being defiled by a servant while her husband watched was more than any sheltered young girl could be expected to bear. And now he had to do it again. He’d given his word. He supposed there was some poetic justice to the situation. Edward refused to acknowledge him, but he would acknowledge James’s child as his own. It was payback of sorts, but was it worth the price to his soul?
Chapter 13
February 1665
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br /> London, England
Elise wrapped her cloak closer about her to keep out the cold as she stepped out into the garden. The sky above was just turning a lovely shade of pink, the lavender clouds lazily floating overhead, signaling that a new day had come. The air smelled fresh, as if some invisible hand had washed everything clean during the night. She loved this time of day, a time when everything was coming to life after hours of slumber and the day was still full of promise. There had been a dusting of snow the night before, but spring was definitely on its way. Several purple smudges dotted the pristine snow by the far wall—the crocuses refusing to be discouraged by a little snow. They raised their cup-shaped heads toward the sun, undaunted by the cold. Elise stopped and smiled at the little flowers. They were survivors, unlike the other flowers that couldn’t survive a frost. She liked to believe that she was a survivor as well, but the past few weeks had done nothing to restore her spirit.
After six weeks of marriage, Elise’s life had settled into a routine. Her husband was always solicitous and polite, but he rarely spoke to her or spent an evening at home. He was a great favorite of the king, having campaigned vigorously for his return from exile, and his presence was expected at all the countless entertainments that the palace hosted night after night. The Dowager joined Elise for supper every night but retired to her room immediately after, leaving Elise to spend the evenings alone. Elise tried to make inroads with Barbara, but the girl, although always happy to be acknowledged, had the mental faculties of a three-year-old. Elise felt desperately sorry for her, but there wasn’t much she could do to help. Perhaps, had a tutor been engaged years ago to try and cajole Barbara into learning something, she might be further advanced. But since she’d been treated like a baby due to her mental disability, she still acted and thought like one.
Maybe she was better off, Elise mused. Realizing that she was deficient and often ridiculed by her own family would only hurt her. As it was, Barbara seemed content to spend hours on her crewelwork. She preferred to work in bright colors and only embroidered flowers that all looked exactly the same. She usually hummed a monotonous tune to herself while she sewed, a half smile on her face, completely lost in her own world. Barbara spoke in short sentences when she needed something and enjoyed being read to, but Elise wasn’t sure if she grasped the gist of the story or only liked the soothing cadence of the reader’s voice. Elise had been surprised to come upon James and Barbara several times, James reading to her quietly while Barbara stared out the window of the library, her gaze completely vacant. Elise never stayed but left them to it, loathe to spend even a moment in James’s company.
The only person she actually spoke to was Lucy, but Elise had to be careful of what she shared with the maid for fear of revealing too much. Instead, Elise encouraged Lucy to talk and pass on household gossip and news of the outside while she brushed out her hair and helped her prepare for bed. But the conversations didn’t last long. Lucy was only too eager to finish her duties for the day and retire to her chamber on the top floor, where she could have an hour of private time before going to sleep. She awoke before dawn, in time to wait on Edward’s mother, who had trouble sleeping and refused to wait till the sun came up to get dressed and come downstairs.
James came to Elise several times a week, entering through her husband’s bedchamber and leaving the same way, so no one would know of his clandestine visits. He rarely spoke, and their coupling was quick and impersonal. He seemed as reluctant as Elise, and she might have felt sympathy for him if she didn’t despise him with such passion. At least he didn’t mistreat her. He wasn’t precisely tender, but he did nothing to hurt her or cause her discomfort. He simply went about his business as if she were asleep.
“Good night, my lady,” James often mumbled after he pulled on his breeches and headed for the connecting door.
It is now, Elise thought once the door closed behind him. But was it? There were no more good nights, just restless ones. Elise was plagued by hopeless dreams, and wishes for a future that could never be.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
If turnips were watches, I’d wear one by my side.
If “ifs” and “ands” were pots and pans,
There’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.
Elise sighed. Her mother used to tell her that rhyme when she was little, and Elise laughed, picturing all her childish wishes turning into beautiful white horses that would spirit her away to a world of magic and wonder. There was no magic now, just endless despair. She was a prisoner in this house. Lord Asher didn’t like his wife wandering outside on her own, so even if she left the hall from time to time, she had to be accompanied by Lucy, who was only too happy to get away from her endless chores and take a walk. But the outings were rare, especially since Elise received no invitations nor had any friends or family to visit on this side of the river. Even her father hadn’t been to visit her. She missed Amy and Anne desperately, but it was as if she were no longer a part of their lives or her father’s. Who would even care if she were gone?
Elise stopped dead. Who would care if she were gone? That was a good question. She’d obeyed her husband and had lived by the rules he’d set out for her for nearly two months, but who even noticed? Perhaps it was time to take matters into her own hands. Elise glanced back at the silent house behind her. The servants were already up, but Lady Matilda had caught a chill and had taken to her bed yesterday. Lucy brought her hot bricks for her feet every two hours, but the old woman was doubtless still asleep. And even if she weren’t, she would remain abed today, given her illness.
Edward had come in only an hour ago. Elise heard him crashing about in his bedroom before he finally grew quiet. He would be asleep for hours and awaken in the late afternoon, just in time to eat, bathe, and head back to the palace, where he likely felt like an important man and not a useless, impotent cuckold on the cusp of old age.
She rarely saw James during the day. She had no idea what he actually did with his time, but it didn’t matter. As long as he wasn’t interested in what she did with hers, she was safe. Elise whipped about and headed back into the house. She climbed the stairs on silent feet and entered her room, breathless with excitement. She needed to put on her walking shoes since the slippers she was wearing would be covered in muck in no time and get soaked through. And she needed money.
Elise pressed her ear to Edward’s door, but all she heard was rumbling snores coming from the other side. She eased the door open and entered the darkened chamber. She couldn’t see Edward behind the drawn bed hangings, but she could hear him. He was in deep, alcohol-induced sleep. Elise crept toward the chair where Edward had discarded his clothes, careful not to trip over his boots. His purse was in the pocket of his breeches—she was sure of it.
Elise carefully extracted the leather pouch, making sure the coins didn’t jingle, and pulled out a few coins. Edward would never notice, but the money would make all the difference to her. Elise replaced the purse and tiptoed out of the room, breathless with victory. She quickly changed her shoes, pulled on her gloves, and made her way down the stairs and back out into the garden. There was a door built into the wall, so no one would see her leave. The fluffy snow of the morning was already beginning to melt, turning into slush underfoot. Her footprints would vanish with the melting snow, which was an added bonus. Elise slipped through the door and closed it behind her, breathing the air of freedom for the first time since the wedding.
Elise pulled on her hood and walked briskly toward the river. Not many people were about just yet, but the city was coming to life: shops opening, farmers making deliveries now that the gates to the city were open, and wives and servants heading out to buy supplies for the day. Elise took a deep pull of fresh morning air. It felt wonderful to be out, especially on her own. She was as good as invisible, and the freedom of anonymity was intoxicating. She’d never given much thought to freedom before, but now that she was a virtual prisoner, it took on a whole new meaning, and she
understood why men were willing to die for it. Having say over one’s own life and future was worth everything—even one’s life.
Elise stepped into a boat and took a seat in the stern. “Take me across, please,” she said to the ferryman, who grinned at her, happy to have a fare so early in the morning. His lantern swung behind him as he pushed off and rowed them toward Southwark.
“Ye’re out early,” he commented as the boat sliced across the still waters. A hazy mist rose off the water, offering an extra layer of protection from prying eyes. Somewhere, a bell began to chime, and then several others joined in. It was eight o’clock.
“So are you,” Elise countered.
“Well, I’ve got to earn me living,” he replied. “A family don’t feed itself, if ye know what I mean.”
Elise nodded, not interested in pursuing the conversation. She felt exhilarated and reckless as the boat nosed its way toward Southwark. She only hoped it wasn’t a wasted journey. Elise paid the ferryman and stepped onto shore. For a moment, she considered visiting the girls, but if her father found out that she had been wandering about on her own, he’d put a stop to her outing right quick. Instead, she headed in the opposite direction toward Borough High Street. The area where her family lived was still considered respectable, but this part of Southwark was anything but. There were many inns that catered to travelers, and the area was famous for its gaming stews, brothels, and various other base entertainments. Elise glanced toward the bulk of King’s Bench Prison but hastily turned away and hurried along the street and past the Tabard Inn. She’d never actually seen the inn close up but had read of it in the Canterbury Tales, which she had “borrowed” from her father. The historic inn had served as a meeting point for pilgrims setting out for Canterbury.
Hugh de Lesseps would have had her whipped for reading such bawdy and irreverent balderdash instead of tracts more appropriate for women, but Elise had quite enjoyed the tales. A passage came to mind as she hurried past the sprawling inn and turned onto St. Thomas Street.
The Lovers Page 10