He propped an elbow on the table and rested his head against his hand, staring suggestively at me. “Did you know much of Ovid’s work is considered wanton and highly erotic?”
Gulp. “Nay, I did not,” I choked out.
“That is why your brother cautioned me against using the Amores or Ars Amatoria in my instruction.” He lifted his head and inclined it in my direction, moving a little closer to me. “Mayhap he’s forgotten that the Metamorphoses can be just as amorous as Ovid’s other work.”
I played naïve. Easy, since I’d never read any Ovid. “Truly?”
“Oh, aye,” he said. “You are coloring, mistress. I am embarrassing you.”
“A little.”
“You look quite lovely with your cheeks pink and your eyes a bit glazed.”
Excuse me, my eyes are not glazed. He couldn’t even see my eyes, since I wasn’t looking at him. I was staring straight ahead, too self-conscious to look at his face. I was beginning to suspect that Will was a first-class flirt.
His voice came in a low whisper. “May I steal a kiss, Olivia?”
I turned toward him then, and he took that as a yes. Bending down, he pressed his lips to mine and kissed me sweetly. I felt his fingers tangling in my hair, then caressing my scalp. Ah. I’m kissing Shakespeare, my hero. My idol. I opened my eyes and looked straight into his gray ones. That shocked me back to reality. Full-blown making out in the library wasn’t appropriate, at least not in this century. I pulled away.
“Ovid. We should begin, sir.”
Will laughed. “Aye.” He practically leaped off the bench and began prowling around the room, all the time lecturing about the great Latin poet. His life, his work, how he got in trouble with the emperor Augustus and was banished to some far-off port city, where he ended up spending the remainder of his life, pretty much a broken man.
“What caused the trouble?” I asked, when I could get a word in.
Will gave me a sensual grin. “The Ars Amatoria. The Art of Love.” He strode back over to me and brushed his fingers down my cheek. “You see, it is a manual of seduction.”
“Oh.” I could use a copy.
“Augustus was attempting moral reforms, and he was not pleased. There was no doubt more to it than that, but the Ars played a part in Ovid’s downfall.”
I thought we needed to move on. “Which are your favorites of these stories?” I asked, holding up the Metamorphoses.
“I am fond of them all.” He let out a sharp breath. “They are not happy stories, yet somehow they please me. The characters make mistakes. They do not choose well, and must suffer the consequences. ’Tis an interesting time to study the human character, is it not?”
“You mean when we are in turmoil over something?”
“Aye. Sometimes we destroy the thing we want the most or love the best.”
A funny little whimper burst out on a rush of breath. Othello. Lear. Hamlet. Even some of the comedies. “Will you read me one?”
“I’ll read you the story of Apollo and Daphne, from the first book. Do you know it?”
I shook my head. Of course, I knew they were part of Greek mythology—I just wasn’t sure what part, exactly. This time, Will seated himself across from me. He read and I listened, mesmerized by his voice, the characters, and the simple fact that it was Shakespeare reading to me.
A god named Apollo falls for Daphne, a nymph. She doesn’t love him back; in fact, his declaration of love creeps her out. The more she resists him, the more he wants her. A big turn-on for him, apparently. One day he literally chases her, hoping to get her to change her mind, but instead he scares her senseless. Proving that guys, even gods, have always been idiots.
Daphne runs, her glorious hair streaming out behind her. She calls to her father, a river god, to save her, and on the spot he transforms her into a laurel tree. Apollo, when he catches up to her, places his hand on the trunk and feels her heart still beating. He’s crushed. At least he doesn’t have to be a tree for all eternity.
Will finished, and the room was still. “Couldn’t he see how frightened she was?” I asked.
“He knew it, but was powerless to stop. He let himself believe he could win her, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
“But if he’d just approached her in a reasonable way, maybe she would have changed her mind.”
“Do you not see he was incapable of doing so?”
“He was an idiot. A fool,” I said, maybe a tad too loud.
“Perhaps. But his foolish actions make a powerful story, eh?”
Chasing someone until she’s forced to morph into a tree just seemed downright depressing to me. But I was looking for the happy ending. Will, on some level, was delving into human emotion and laying the groundwork for his future role as the world’s greatest storyteller. I could almost see the pinwheels spinning inside his head. “Read me another,” I said.
So he did. Pyramus and Thisbe, the classical version of Romeo and Juliet; and Ceres and Proserpina, featuring another lovesick god who kidnaps the woman he lusts after.
By then it was late afternoon. Bess would be wondering where I was, I knew, since it was time to dress for dinner. “Thank you, Will. This has been most … instructive.”
He gave me his arm and we walked upstairs together. “I hope we can do it again.”
“I would be disappointed if we did not.” I gave him what I hoped was a teasing smile and turned off into my chamber. But he pulled me back, bending over and kissing my fingers. I kept my eyes fixed somewhere above his head, and I sensed rather than heard his soft laugh.
The next morning, when I was trying to decipher Ovid in the ladies’ withdrawing room, Elizabeth approached me, a kindly look on her face.
“Olivia, dear, I am so pleased to see you reading.” Her hands were folded in front of her skirts, as they usually were. “Ovid, I see. ’Tis always good to study the classics.”
“I, ah—”
Apparently a response wasn’t required. “Sadly, our cousin Jennet does not know how to read. She lately confessed this to me when I called upon her to read a passage from the Bible. I have asked Master Will to teach her.”
“Aye, she told me.”
“You did not bring any needlework with you?”
I felt my cheeks flush. “Nay, Aunt, I—I forgot it.”
“Come, I have chosen a project for you.” She led me to the chest where she kept her embroidery threads and fabrics. “A lady’s hands must never be idle. While I am happy to see you improve your mind by reading, I fear you neglect other skills.” Speaking of hands, I noticed that Will had been right about hers. They were definitely a few sizes larger than mine, with long, tapered fingers.
I forced a smile, even though I felt sick inside. I’d never embroidered—or even sewn anything—in my life, and I didn’t think I could fake it. “What would you like me to do?”
“An altar cloth is always needed, and you would honor our Lord with your work.” She handed me a basket. In it was a length of soft fabric of some sort, threads, needles, scissors, a thimble, and a frame. “Now you will be able to spend part of each day plying the needle.”
“Thank you, Aunt. I’ll begin this afternoon.”
She smiled benevolently at me. “I am glad we are in accord.” She paused a moment, as though gathering her thoughts. “I shall be leaving for a time, my dear. My brother’s wife is gravely ill, and he has summoned me to help care for her.”
“I hope she will recover, Aunt.”
“I fear not. She had influenza, and it has gone to her lungs. But mayhap I can help ease her passing.”
“Safe journey to you, then,” I said, stepping forward to kiss her. There would be no antibiotic and no doctor who knew how to treat this poor woman’s disease. But Elizabeth would be there to do all she could. Caring for the sick and dying must have been a major part of a woman’s life in this time. Elizabeth seemed to bear it stoically.
After lunch, I decided to prowl the passageways and check out some of the rooms I’d yet
to see. Elizabeth was supervising Jennet in the stillroom, Will was with his students, and I had no idea where Stephen was.
I heard a faint clacking noise and followed the sound to a room down the hall from the minstrels’ gallery. When I glanced in, I found Stephen bent over a table, lining up a cue with a ball, ready to take his shot. So this was the billiard room. It also must have functioned as an office, since a desk and a chair were nestled together at one end and bookshelves held tall volumes that looked as if they might be account books.
The billiard balls were wooden, and the table, covered with felt, seemed about the same size as one in modern times. Stephen’s ball missed its target, and I heard him mutter his favorite curse, “God’s breath!”
He circled the table, scoping out his next shot. When he glanced up I blinked, catching my breath. He’d shaved his beard and mustache. Flashing a mischievous smile, he looked more like a teenager than a twenty-year-old. And totally hot.
“What do you think?” He rubbed his bare chin.
“I—I approve. Very much so. Do you mind if I stay? I can continue my exploring if you’d rather be alone.”
“Do keep me company, pray. I’ve asked for some spiced ale to be brought up.”
I stepped closer to the table and only then noticed there were no pockets. “How do you play this game?”
He handed me the cue. “Aim for the cue ball. The idea is to strike one of the other balls in such a way that the cue ball will bounce against the side and rebound into another ball.”
I bent over the table, concentrating. I’d played pool a couple of times at friends’ houses, but had never been any good. I drew the cue back and rammed it willy-nilly into the ball, with no thought of where it would go or what other ball it might strike.
“Well done, Olivia!” Stephen exclaimed when it slammed into another ball, caromed off the side, and rolled back, smashing into yet a different ball.
I curtsied. “I’m very skilled, I assure you.” We both laughed. Stephen’s eyes were warm, and I thought maybe we could patch up our relationship. “I need help with something,” I blurted out. “Actually with two things, but you can only help with one of them.” Somehow, I didn’t think Stephen would be much good with the needlework emergency.
He lifted a brow. “You know I will do whatever I can.”
“I can’t read the script in the printed books in the library. With Shakespeare instructing me in the classics, I should learn. And since I’m practically dying of boredom … will you teach me?”
Moving around the table, cue in hand, he answered. “Certainly, I will teach you. What about handwriting?”
“I read the mysterious note, but that was less than ten words. I probably need help with that, too.”
“I had difficulty with both in your time,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I understand how you must be feeling.” After taking a shot he added, “What else do you need help with?”
I told him about Elizabeth and the embroidery project.
“Mayhap you should approach Mistress Jennet about that. It may provide a good opportunity to learn more about her.”
“Good idea.”
Just then, a servant entered the room with a tray holding a pewter jug and tankard. Stephen took the tray and I followed him to the window seat, where he set it down between us. An aroma, a little like pumpkin pie baking, drifted my way as Stephen poured. “We’ll have to share, unless you want me to send for another tankard.”
“I don’t mind sharing.” I accepted the mug from his outstretched hand and swallowed a giant sip. Big mistake. The pungent drink burned my throat, and it tasted like Satan had dreamed up the recipe. “Oh God, this stuff is horrible!” I thrust it back into Stephen’s hands and jumped to my feet, coughing so hard, my eyes watered. When he held out a handkerchief, I grabbed it and dabbed at my eyes and nose.
Stephen rose. “Are you well, Olivia?” he said, his mouth quivering.
“Oh, go ahead and laugh. You know you want to.” He did, but restrained himself from being totally obnoxious about it.
“You knew that would happen,” I said. Croaked, really.
“Pray pardon me for laughing. Only you cannot know the number of times the same thing happened to me when I was in your time. Especially when I tasted your Coca-Cola drink.”
Stephen took a long sip of the evil brew while I got myself under control. He offered it to me. “You’re joking,” I said. Every time we looked at each other, we cracked up.
“You resemble your mother, do you not?”
I quit laughing abruptly. Why did he have to ruin things by bringing up my mom? And how did he know what she looked like? Maybe he’d seen photographs of her when he was in the present.
“Some people think I do, I guess.”
He peered at me over the rim of the cup. “Your hair is dark like hers? Your eyes a deep blue, your nose straight, and your mouth is …”
“Is what?”
He studied me for a moment, his eyes settling on my lips and making me squirm.
“Just say it. Big. Isn’t that what you mean?”
“Olivia, do not be so sensitive. Your mouth is lovely and expressive. I would never make sport of your mouth.”
“Ha!” I said, feeling stupid. “I may look like my mother, but I’m not like her at all. She has an ego the size of … of the Earth. Which she thinks revolves around her.”
“Is she that bad?”
I sighed, feeling on the edge of a major freak-out. I hated talking about my mom. Our relationship was complicated, and sometimes, I felt, hopeless. “I hate her.”
“Nay. You do not.”
“I love my mother, but …” Stephen looked smug until I finished the thought. “But she hates me.” Now, after all the laughing, I felt like something had grabbed hold of my heart and twisted.
“Surely you are mistaken. Hasn’t she taught you her craft, trained you, encouraged you?”
“Sometimes. But other times, I’m convinced she wants me to fail. She doesn’t want me to be a better actor than she is.” I gave a choked laugh. “No worries there. I’ll never be as good, let alone better.”
“What has she done to make you think this?”
I thought a minute. “Every summer, she and my father hold a workshop with young actors on Cape Cod. Until recently, she wouldn’t even let me go.” I remembered last year, when she and my grandfather had gotten into a huge fight because of it. In his view, a young girl who was separated from her parents as much as I was should be included in any summer plans. He prevailed, and I got to go.
“Continue,” Stephen prodded.
“She let me come along, but only to help with props, wardrobe, and that kind of thing. I begged her to let me have a small part—it was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, so there were plenty to go around—but she wouldn’t allow it.”
“And what reason did she give?”
“I wasn’t ready, I didn’t have enough experience, I’d embarrass myself and her. Whatever. It didn’t really matter.”
“Maybe she was right. Have you ever considered the possibility?”
Anger pressed against my chest, but I fought it down. I didn’t want to lose it with Stephen. “She could have let me understudy! Or I could have acted in some of the rehearsals. Something special, just for me.”
“Perhaps she is afraid for you. Afraid you might not succeed.”
I glowered at him. “The great Caroline Graham? Those feelings are beneath her. She just wants to control me and my acting career. And keep me in my place.”
“Then you must not allow it to be so,” he said, reaching out for my hand. “You are not a child any longer, but a young woman, capable of thinking for herself and deciding her future.”
“And that’s why I decided to quit acting. It’s her thing, not mine.”
“Are you certain this decision was not made to spite her? To spite both your parents?”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand.” My anger had dissolved, disappointment taking i
ts place.
“Olivia—”
Before the tears could come, I hurried into the corridor. Not caring who saw me, I ran through the passageways back to my room.
I COULDN’T STOP THINKING about what Stephen had said, although it was making me crazy. Was he right? Did I want to quit acting to spite my parents? That was definitely part of it. There was no doubt they’d be disappointed and hurt. But if I believed that, wasn’t it contradictory to believe my mother was jealous of me?
Something else about that conversation kept flickering around the corners of my mind. Stephen’s kindness. The way he’d taken my hand and reassured me. I was positive he’d been sincere and not just trying to get on my good side. He had looked at me with soft eyes, his mouth gently curving around his comforting words. I was touched by his concern, even though in the end he’d infuriated me with his statements about my mother.
By bedtime, so many competing thoughts were spinning in my head that I had trouble falling asleep. I spent a restless night, never relaxing into a deep sleep, and woke up groggy and irritable. When
I heard Bess’s quiet footsteps, I threw the coverlet over my head and groaned.
“I’ve brought your breakfast, mistress. You’ll want to eat it while it’s hot.” With a little more prodding, I dragged myself out of bed, splashed water on my face, and plopped down on the settle by the fireplace. I ran a hand through my tangled hair while Bess covered my shoulders with my wool cloak and spread a blanket over my lap. Distracted, I began to spoon bites of pottage into my mouth. Didn’t they ever eat anything else for breakfast? This stuff was something we’d eat for dinner. What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of cornflakes.
“Mistress? Pray, what are these strange garments?”
With a sinking feeling, I spun around, nearly dropping my bowl. An odd look on her face, Bess was holding out my Victoria’s Secret bra and panties. Oh, shit!
For a crazy moment, I thought about making up some ridiculous story about what they were. Putting the bra on my head, cups over my ears, and pretending it was some kind of hat.
“Mistress?”
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