by Dima Zales
“Wait here,” Emory said. Seconds later he returned with a heavy cloak that he threw around her shoulders. It smelled of leather and cloves.
Emory stopped beneath an arbor, swearing beneath his breath. “Chambers saw me when I retrieved my cloak. I hope the mask had been ample disguise.”
Rose buds dotted the thorny vines climbing the trellis. In a few weeks the buds would blossom, but for the moment, they were pinched closed, each a promise. Heady-scented honeysuckle spread over the soggy ground. Petra swallowed as a dark figure in a swirling cape emerged from the manor’s wide double doors and paused on the steps. He looked over the garden and Petra saw his porcupine eyebrows and the long shadow he cast over the stone walk. She took a deep breath and clutched Emory’s arm.
“Follow me,” she whispered, pulling at Emory’s sleeve. She raised the hood of the cloak and hurried around the manor, unaware if Emory had followed. Careful to keep her footing on the uneven bricks, she stopped at the kitchen garden’s picket fence. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Emory right behind.
Emory pulled her to him as she lifted her skirts and attempted to step into the garden. “There’s a fence for a reason,” Emory said.
“Yes, to keep out rabbits.” Petra shook off his arm.
Emory tightened his hold, forcing her to straddle the knee-high fence which snagged her skirts and exposed her ankles. He watched Chambers and then turned back to Petra.
Petra climbed to the far side of the fence and Emory followed. Keeping her face averted from the approaching Chambers, she whispered, “Tell me what happened in Hampton Court. You went, didn’t you?”
“You there!” Chambers called from across the grounds. “A word!”
With her head turned she whispered, “You should see what he wants. He might get suspicious if you don’t.”
“He already is suspicious. We met at Hampton Court.”
Petra’s jaw and stomach dropped. “What will you do?”
“As I have previously planned. The true question is, what will you do?”
“Me? Why?” Petra asked, nerves jangling. “Is our being together in the dark garden, how did you say it, damaging to my reputation?”
Emory released her elbow and pulled the hood of the cloak to cover more of her face. Tucking her hair into the hood, he asked, “You would rather I leave you alone in the dark?”
Petra waved her arm in the general direction of the crowd emerging from the manor’s double doors. The moon beneath the clouds had risen to its zenith. The hour was late, and departing guests trooped down the broad steps and lingered on the walk. Carriages stood waiting in the moonlight, horses shook their harnesses and stamped their hooves, impatient to leave. “I’m hardly alone.”
Suddenly from inside the manor came a clamor of bells and the beating of a drum. Chambers, who had stood on the edge of the departing crowd, disappeared in the crush.
“What’s going on?” Petra asked, watching the villagers rush into the manor.
“There must be an announcement.” Emory took her arm and guided her toward the stables. “Come.”
Petra shook off his hold and started toward the ballroom, but he captured her hand. “I thought you wanted to hear about Hampton Court,” he said.
She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I do, but aren’t you curious?”
“Perchance, but I would not risk another meeting with Chambers.”
When cheers and applause erupted from the manor, Petra felt like she’d missed the final touchdown of a close football game.
“We will never have a better opportunity to speak,” Emory said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Really? Why not just break into my room again and we can talk there.” She smiled when he started. “Who else would return my quilt?”
He flushed, and turned.
“Did you eat the food as well?”
Emory studied the moon, but after a few moments, he replied, “Tam ate the food.”
“Tam the gypsy?” She moved to stand in front of him.
He folded his arms. “They prefer to be called Roma.”
The music and the noise of the crowd rose to a deafening level. Petra cocked her head at the manor and asked, almost yelling, “Don’t you want to know --”
Emory shook his head, frowning. “I believe I already know.”
“You do? What is it?”
“Young Falstaff’s announced his engagement.”
Petra stared at the manor wishing she could see inside. She had an image of a crumpled Anne lost in a dark corner, pompous Garret standing on the platform with the plain and rich Miss Bevan. “Poor Anne.”
Emory looked grim. “Indeed. She’ll have a hard time of it.”
Anger flashed through Petra. Why would Garret spend the evening dancing with Anne when he knew he would marry Miss Bevan? Why would he lead her on, buy her tarts, commission her tapestries when his marriage to the Bevan estate was a signed and sealed deal? “I guess his dad will be happy.”
Emory looked surprised. “No. He’ll be furious, which is exactly why Young Falstaff acted during his father’s absence.”
“Do you mean he’s marrying Anne?” Petra’s voice nearly squeaked. “How can he, they just barely --”
“When an earl, or in his case, an almost earl, decides what he wants, he generally gets it.”
Petra closed her open mouth. It sounded so like herself. “But she’s so sensible; I’m surprised she said yes.”
Emory barked a small laugh. “Do you suppose he asked for her hand?”
“Wait. What? He didn’t ask? He just assumed she’d say yes?”
“If he’d asked her, as you said, perchance she’d refuse.” Emory took her hand and led her to the side of the manor where it was quieter. Away from the crowd’s clamor she heard crickets, a hoot owl, and animal noises coming from the stables.
“Young Falstaff had to act quickly while the timing worked in his favor. How opportune to have his father and her father away at the same time. He’ll have the bans at the church drawn up before their return.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing. I know it’s quick, they must hardly know each other, and they are very young.”
Emory looked out over the manor’s lands. “His family, particularly his father, not to mention the neighboring gentry and friends will cause her hell and she’ll be cut off from her own people.”
Petra waved at the manor. “The neighbors sound happy – extremely happy.”
“I am sure Falstaff uncorked his father’s wine cellar in celebration. Be sure, my lady, Anne’s days of trial will come.”
“Well, if he loves her --”
“He has spent a total of ten minutes of conversation with her, how can he know if he loves her?”
A dead feeling crept over Petra. “He should marry whoever he wants,” she said.
“Some matches are impossible.” Emory looked bleak, and Petra wondered if he were no longer talking of Anne and Garret.
“Improbable, not impossible,” she said, quoting Laurel. She touched his hand. “I’m going to assume they’ll be happy. Being happy is a head game.”
During her mother’s illness, Grammy Jean had taken her to a counselor to “help you make sense of your changing world.” Doctor Hartman, a middle-aged motherly sort with a mustache and a fondness for peppermints, liked to speak in platitudes. Petra, though only eleven, had rewritten a few. She who dares wins became she who tries dies, and seize the day turned to sneeze the day.
Back then, she had hated visiting Hairy Hartman. She had much better things to do with her after-school hours than chat up with some old, weepy woman. Odd that now, in another time and place, Doctor Hartman would suddenly make sense. She shook herself out of the memory, determined not to give in to the mopes—another of Hartman’s phrases—or the dopes.
She turned to Emory. In the gentle starlight, he was beautiful and he was here. And so was she. True, she didn’t know how long she’d stay. She knew she couldn’t take him wit
h her when she left, but according to Hartman, she should be happy right here, right now, doing something she knew was important to the world, not just in her world, but the world in general… meaning everyone.
“What happened at Hampton Court?” she asked.
He moved away from her. She knew he didn’t want her involved in his save the Bible crusade. Well, too bad.
“They had trouble getting the kegs in the cellar, but eventually they did.”
“You just watched?”
Emory stiffened under her implied criticism. “The King needs to discover the plot and those involved. We have to wait for the right moment.”
Petra sniffed.
“Unfortunately, I believe Chambers saw me.” Emory shrugged.
“But if he really thought you were a threat, he would have come after you.”
Emory took a deep breath. “Not necessarily. It is likely that the Earl will hold Chambers at least partly responsible for Young Falstaff’s engagement. I would hazard a guess that at this moment Chambers is furious with Young Falstaff. Of me, he may have suspicions, but of Young Falstaff he has concrete reason for anger.”
“We should go to Hampton Court.”
Emory shook his head. “My lady, there is no ‘we’, and I am not in any danger.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re Mr. Immunity.”
He smiled and borrowed one of her phrases. “Something like that.”
“But how are we going to stop Chambers?”
“You must watch Chambers and let me know when he leaves again.” He pulled her to the side door and lifted her hand. Gently, he kissed the inside of her palm. “I will stop Chambers. Until then, goodnight, Petra.”
He turned to leave, footsteps scrunching on the pebbles that led down the path. In the dark moonlight, the world seemed quiet and still on this side of the manor, but on the other side of the manor there would be the crowd of villagers. And Chambers.
“Wait, no,” she called after him. “How will I let you know?”
“You may send a message through Anne,” he said over his shoulder.
Petra scowled. Anne again. Why did Anne get to play go-between? “Where are you going?”
Turning back, he reached around her to push open the kitchen door and then he pushed her inside. “To bed, of course,” he said, shutting the door behind her.
19
An engagement or betrothal, seventeenth century style:
A legally binding contract.
Parental permission required for anyone under the age of 21.
Penalty, fines and a trip to the church court could result if anyone got cold feet and tried to renege.
—Petra’s notes
Mary bustled into her room, and pulled back the drapes with a flourish. If she’d been an actor in a musical she would have burst into song.
“You’re happy about the engagement,” Petra guessed, watching Mary dance around the room.
Mary shook a yellow dress at Petra, motioning for her to hurry.
“Am I going somewhere?” Petra ran her tongue over her teeth, longing for a toothbrush.
“You have a visitor, my lady.” Mary’s voice had a new trill. “Tis Mistress Anne.”
“Already?” Petra swung her feet to the floor and stretched. Mary came to pull the nightgown over her head. It still felt odd to have Mary dress her, like she was a life-size doll or a store mannequin.
Mary practically threw her clothes on her and then began attacking her hair with a comb. “Do you know why?” Petra asked.
“Well, if I was her, I would use the excuse to spy out my new home.” Mary used the comb to pull Petra’s hair.
“She’s been here before.”
“Not as the future mistress,” Mary said, smiling, twisting Petra’s hair into long coils.
“Mary, do you think Anne and Lord Garret will be happy together?” Petra asked.
“Happy?” Mary poised a pin above Petra’s head.
“I know you’re happy about Anne, but do you think Anne will be happy?”
Mary looked as if she’d found flowers sprouting from Petra’s head. “Why would she not be happy?”
“Will people be nice to her?”
Mary lowered the comb, confusion creasing her forehead. “I thought you disliked Mistress Anne?”
Petra took a deep breath. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, you were not sunshine and happiness when you met. You discouraged Lord Garret from purchasing her tapestry.”
The first time she’d met Anne, Anne had drugged her, poked through her things and had called her stupid.
“And when we went to her cottage, you were…” for once Mary seemed to be considering her words, “telling her what to do.”
She’d been bossy. Being bossy in some situations was a good thing. It made her good with animals, it made her a good editor of the Royal Oaks high school newspaper, but probably not a good friend.
“I want people to be nice to Anne. I…” she faltered. “I wish I’d been nicer.”
Mary didn’t look up from Petra’s buttons. “You’ll be kind to her, won’t you Mary?”
Mary snorted.
“Of course you will. You can’t afford to lose your job.” How sad if her only “friends” were people who were paid to be kind to her.
“Mary, are you sure Anne is here to visit me? Perhaps she’s here to see Lord Garret.”
Mary, who’d been bent over the buttons, straightened. “A lady would never presume to call upon a gentleman.”
“Even one she’s going to marry?”
Mary lifted her eyebrows. “Besides, Lord Garret has gone to London to speak to his father.” Mary gave Petra a broad, encouraging smile and pushed her toward the door.
“Well, that’ll be interesting.” Petra wondered what kind of man he was. He probably wasn’t horrible because Garret wasn’t horrible.
But he did have a torture chamber in his basement.
And he had hired Chambers. Hadn’t he?
Anne stood in the first parlor, wringing her hands, eyes red. She rushed toward Petra and caught her in a hug.
“Good morning, my Lady Petra,” she said loudly enough for the servants to hear.
Then she whispered in Petra’s ear, “Friar Rohan has been arrested. I would not have come, because I hate to disturb you, but I cannot find Master Emory.”
Petra stepped away, taking Anne’s hands in her own, wondering which of the questions flying through her head to ask first. Where is Rohan? Why was he arrested? Why are you looking for Emory? Where have you looked? Do you often look for Emory?
Anne moved to the table and placed a hand on Petra’s purse. “I’ve returned your things. I believe you must have left them at my house the other morning.”
Petra opened the purse, not expecting to find answers, but for something to do with her hands. When an answer came, it surprised her. The phone, Zoe’s Girl Scout Gadget, the lipstick—they reminded her of a faraway world. Her world. In time, would she be more at home in 1610 than 2014? She thought of her family and felt sad. “Would you care to walk in the garden?”
When Anne nodded, Petra took her hand and picked up the purse. “Follow me,” she said, drawing her to the French doors.
Not a great day for walking, Petra decided when she opened the doors and a bank of fog rolled in. Cold moist air hung between them. When they passed the rose trellis, away from the ears of the servants, Petra asked, “Where have you looked for Emory?”
“Everywhere!”
A twinge of jealousy pricked. It bothered Petra that Anne, engaged to Garret, worried about Emory enough to look everywhere for him. She shivered, remembering the torture chamber. “Do you know where Rohan is?”
“In a cell at the edge of town.”
Petra relaxed a fraction. A cell at the edge of town sounded much kinder than the rack and pulleys in the chamber. She reminded herself that Rohan seemed to have amazing healing abilities. “Do you know why?”
Anne shook her he
ad. “I’m sure it has something to do with the trip to Hampton Court yesterday.”
Emory had said Chambers had seen him. Had he also seen Rohan? “They can’t just throw someone in jail for going to Hampton Court.”
Anne looked at her blankly. “Of course they can. My Lord Garret is away, and that leaves Chambers in charge. He can do as he sees fit. He usually does.”
Petra thought. Anne had Garret tied around her finger, and Garret had more weight than Chambers. “We just need for Rohan to be safe until Lord Garret returns.”
Anne wrung her hands. “We don’t know when that will be.”
“Not long, though, right? Hampton Court isn’t far.”
Anne looked bleak. “Perchance ‘tis long enough.”
Long enough? Court cases in the twenty-first century took eons, but maybe not so in the seventeenth.
“If Emory were here, he could free Rohan.” Panic tinged Anne’s voice.
Petra wondered exactly how Anne’s brother had been killed.
We don’t need Emory, Petra decided. She took Anne’s hand and pulled her back to the manor. “We’ll get him out,” Petra said. “I’ve got an idea.”
Raiding Anne’s father’s chest of clothes gave Petra an odd sense of déjà vu. It reminded her of when she and Robyn had put on their old prom dresses for the Renaissance fair. They’d been dressing up, playacting, then too, although the stakes had dramatically changed. Now, just four days later, it seemed silly that she’d thought a date to the prom had been so all consuming important. Anne’s brother had died trying to protect the translators of the Bible. Rohan had gone to jail, and Emory had disappeared. The prom seemed trivial in comparison.
Anne tossed out breeches and shirts. “You cannot guess what has become of Master Emory?”
Petra shook her head, wondering if Anne was in love with Emory. The thought gave her a sick feeling, even though she knew she couldn’t have a future with him. Whatever her future was. A cottage with milk cows? The suburbs with a minivan? A city with a briefcase? Did Emory fit in any scenario other than the one with a cottage and cows? She didn’t even like cows, and she really didn’t like bulls.