by Karen Brooks
Casting a smug look in Sir Everard’s direction, Paul followed. ‘Quite right, dear,’ he said, catching up, patting his wife’s forearm. ‘Rosamund’s no dell to be bought with coin. She’s a good, hard-working girl, beloved daugh—’
‘Cease your prattle, husband,’ said Tilly, rounding on Paul, eyes blazing. They stood staring at each other, Paul’s mouth opening and closing like a fish brought to land, his neck turning a deep shade of puce, his fists clenching. With an audience, he dare not act. Rosamund knew this and so did Tilly. Satisfied he’d nothing further to add, Tilly spun on her heel and, with Rosamund in tow, continued. Tilly paused briefly to beckon the guests, who’d long ceased to talk.
‘Hope you enjoyed the little performance, done in honour of the King’s special day: his nuptials and homecoming.’ This time, she stressed her haitches.
Paul was quick on the uptake, bowing and scraping. ‘Aye, aye. A mighty jest; has not the King bought himself a bride? Only his came with Bombay and Tangiers.’ Weak chuckles met his poor quip. ‘Now, if you’ll just follow me to the taproom, we have some refreshments for you to enjoy.’ He jerked his head towards the twins, indicating they should run around the back and ensure what he promised was available.
Widow Cecily, Sissy, Dorcas and Avery made themselves scarce.
Tilly graciously accepted dubious congratulations for the dramatics, offered in a combination of falsetto and sardonic tones. From the looks exchanged as they entered the inn, few of the guests were gulled; nonetheless, they played along. Paul led them inside and could be heard directing them to sit and ordering the maids, Lucy and Rosie, to pour drinks. Much to Rosamund’s chagrin, most sat in the front window, determined not to miss anything else that might unfold. She felt curious eyes upon her; no longer was she simply the serving wench or pitied daughter of the establishment, she was a Tomkins of Bearwoode. Landed gentry or the closest thing to it, according to Tilly, and that made her one of them or possibly even better. Unless of course it was all a delicious fiction.
As the last of the guests tried to linger, two women with large hats and fans obstructed the doorway, each refusing to concede to the other. Tilly pushed them through the door, ignoring their outraged squeals. Rosamund cast a despairing glance in Sir Everard’s direction, and resisted her mother’s efforts to squeeze her indoors one last time. Their eyes locked just as Tilly went to shut the door.
‘Wait,’ called Sir Everard for the second time that day.
Taking a deep breath, Tilly slowly spun around. ‘Aye, milord?’ She pulled Rosamund to her, shut the door and leaned against it.
Sir Everard was only a few paces away.
‘You have something to say?’ asked Tilly calmly. She reached for Rosamund’s hand and gripped it tightly.
Sweating freely now, Sir Everard patted his forehead and upper lip with his damp kerchief before his hand dropped to his side. ‘I’ve something to ask.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Tilly.
‘Is the girl legitimate?’ asked Sir Everard.
Tilly opened her mouth.
‘I want the truth.’
She closed it again and shook her head.
‘She can read?’ he asked.
‘Like a nun in a cell.’
If anyone thought the allusion inappropriate, they didn’t say.
‘And write?’
‘Better than a lawyer’s scribe,’ said Tilly.
Rosamund couldn’t help it, she laughed.
Sir Everard studied Rosamund for a full minute, then, taking a deep breath, made up his mind. ‘Very well. If that’s what it takes to secure your daughter, then yes.’
Jacopo made a strangled sound. Tilly inhaled sharply. ‘Beg pardon, milord?’
‘I said,’ Sir Everard stood as straight as his infirmity allowed, ‘I’ll marry your daughter.’ His voice was clear this time, a clarion that shook the torpor of the day. He began to chuckle. ‘Why not.’ He flung out an arm. ‘I’ll marry her and give her an opportunity like no other.’ He brought his hands together on his stick and looked at Rosamund directly; time stood still.
As his words sank in, a wave of warmth spread across Rosamund’s breasts and up her neck before manifesting in a huge smile. Her eyes sparkled like uncut jewels. Another laugh escaped. Hers. It was a small bell: pure, sweet.
Sir Everard laughed harder. Tilly winced.
Jacopo gave a long exhalation and shook his head in what to Rosamund appeared to be sorrow. She wanted to reassure him, take him by the hands and dance across the yard. This was no time for sadness. Beside her, Tilly swallowed, her fingers tightening painfully upon Rosamund’s.
There was a faint squeal before Rosamund became aware of a commotion at the taproom window. Faces were pressed to the glass; fingers pointed, mouths opened and closed as chatter flew thick and fast. They were a spectacle after all.
The door behind them flew open as Paul stumbled outside. ‘You can’t,’ he cried. He looked in desperation at Tilly, then Rosamund.
‘He be a gent,’ sniffed Tilly quietly. ‘He can do what he likes.’
‘She has no dowry,’ said Paul.
Sir Everard’s eyes narrowed. ‘As you said yourself, Mr Ballister, I’m an august personage. I’ve no need of a bride’s dowry. On the contrary, I’m offering you coin, only this time it will be for Mistress Tom— Ballister’s hand.’
‘You were right the first time, milord. Her name be Tomkins,’ said Tilly sharply. ‘Rosamund Tomkins, and don’t you forget it. You neither, Rosamund.’ She turned to her daughter.
Rosamund had never noticed before how clear her mother’s eyes could be. They were the colour of a dove’s wing.
‘Now, girl,’ said Tilly, taking her hand. ‘Go to your room and gather your belongings, wash and dress in your finest. Sir Everard and I have a great deal to discuss. We’ll talk while your stepfather here —’ (she remembered her haitches again) ‘fetches the reverend.’
‘I’ll do no such thing,’ protested Paul. ‘This is madness. Surely you don’t expect him to marry her now? Here?’ His arm swept the inn.
‘Why not?’ She rounded on Sir Everard. ‘Do you object, milord?’
Sir Everard shrugged. ‘Waiting will make not a whit of difference to me; not once I’ve settled upon a plan.’
‘Then that confirms it,’ said Tilly, slapping her hands together. ‘He’s not taking her nowhere without I know she’s wed. A gentleman’s word has as much value as a palliard’s to me. A real gent’s worth lies in his actions. No offence, milord.’
‘None taken,’ said Sir Everard.
Tilly nodded. ‘Husband, fetch the reverend.’ She pointed towards the church.
Paul looked from one to the other with growing dubiety. ‘Madoc’ll never agree. What about the banns?’
Sir Everard flapped his hand. ‘A trifle. I know the bishop, he’ll waive those for a fee. They needn’t concern you.’
Rosamund couldn’t remember the last time she saw her mother really smile. Ever since she’d come to the Maiden Voyage Inn, she’d been so wrapped up in her own change of circumstance, her loss of happiness, she hadn’t realised her mother might suffer from a dearth of it as well. Even with teeth missing, she looked quite lovely. It was clear Sir Everard thought so too, the slow way he returned a conspiratorial grin.
Paul hadn’t moved but stood looking at them as if they’d transformed into the Hollanders he so despised. Trying to get their attention, he stamped a booted foot.
‘This is nonsensical. I won’t have it, you hear? This… this ancient cripple,’ he gestured to the walking stick, ‘can’t just appear and take away our Rosie.’
Tilly’s gaze would have turned the Medusa herself to stone. It unnerved her husband. ‘Our Rosie? I don’t think so. She be all mine, Paul Ballister, as you’ve been swift to remind me on many an occasion. And, as mine, I say she is going with Sir Everard Blithman, ancient cripple or no — no offence, my lord —’
‘None taken.’
‘— to be given the
opportunity to become a lady and nothing, especially not you, is going to stand in her way.’
Rosamund wondered who this woman was with the strong voice and firm convictions who so readily defied her bully of a husband.
‘This is outrageous —’ Sweat poured from beneath Paul’s hat and ran down his face.
‘I’ll tell you what’s outrageous, Paul Ballister, and that’s what you did during the wars. If you even try to prevent this, I’ll tell…’ Tilly stared at him. They regarded each other for a long moment before Paul’s shoulders drooped and he turned away. With a desperate look at Rosamund and one filled with loathing and rage at Sir Everard, he kicked the door of the inn. There was a resounding crack and a cry of both pain and impotence escaped.
‘You’ll regret this, wife. As God is my witness, you’ll regret this.’ He shook his fist at her. ‘You too… Rosamund.’
Tilly held her head higher. ‘Maybe. But not as much as if I don’t ensure my Rosamund takes this chance.’
Paul turned on his heel and stomped down the road. ‘Get the fuckin’ reverend yourself.’ The chickens squawked and parted. He never looked back.
They watched him; the sun reflecting off the sheen of his coat, the dust from his boots raising small eddies that spiralled and dispersed. The breeze married the calls of gaiety from the river with the sound of a lute. It broke the trance.
‘Rosamund,’ said Tilly, suddenly business-like. ‘Go; ready yourself. There be a man of the cloth staying at the Cock and Bull. I’ll send the twins to fetch ’im.’
Afraid this was but a dream caused by the blow to her head, Rosamund gave a small curtsey and, casting Sir Everard and Jacopo a look of incredulity, obeyed. As she darted up the stairs, she saw no-one, but hesitated at the door to her bedroom.
She could hear muffled voices from the taproom, ribaldry and the clank of tankards and goblets as if they’d already begun celebrating her marriage. Her marriage! The very idea. Earlier that day she’d been pondering His Majesty’s nuptials and here she was, on the brink of her own. Marriage and, it seemed, departure. Once again she was to commence a new life with strangers, only this time she would call one of them husband. A real-life knight who was going to take her to the city and a fresh beginning. Surely what lay ahead couldn’t be worse than what she was leaving? Only: Sir Everard didn’t understand that he was being cheated. By mother. By me. If she was a decent girl, a good girl, she would run straight back down those stairs and tell Sir Everard the truth. Confess her weaknesses, how soiled she was, expose her mother’s forked tongue, and allow him to ride away without the encumbrance of a barely literate wife whose virtue was in tatters. Hesitating, she half-turned towards the stairs.
She couldn’t. Not when escape was being offered, when she was being promised an opportunity ‘like no other’ — whatever that meant.
Dear God in Heaven, Grandmother, Father, may I never disappoint him.
She opened the door and gazed around her room, expecting everything to have been transformed. But no, there was her small pallet with its worn blankets, the pillow still bearing the imprint of her head; here the battered chest which held her Sunday best, some shirts, bodices, collars and skirts as well as stockings and coifs. Her one hat sat on the stool by the window. She picked it up and glanced outside. Through the thick glass she could just discern the outline of her mother and Sir Everard deep in conversation. As she watched, Sir Everard gestured for Jacopo to join them.
She opened the window slightly and could hear murmurs, but not what was being said. Sir Everard was listening intently to her mother, who was gesticulating and talking rapidly. Rosamund wondered what she was saying. What had possessed her to offer her daughter in marriage? What in God’s good heaven had possessed the gentleman to agree? What manner of man was he that he could afford to disregard his reputation and take her to wife?
He even had a tawneyman. This Jacopo was more than a servant; Rosamund could see that. What had Sir Everard called him? A factotum. Was that a synonym for slave or friend? Perhaps both? Did the gentleman make a habit of buying creatures whose lives he pitied and putting them under his roof? For what purpose? Did he give them all opportunities? Or did he indeed intend to use her, even as a wife, in the manner Tilly first alluded to? Whatever his schemes, the very notion he was buying a bride was madness.
Utterly preposterous.
Rosamund sank down onto the stool and perched her hat on her head.
It was also bloody marvellous.
Closing her eyes, she sent another swift prayer to her grandmother, her father and God Almighty, thanking them for finally answering her prayers and making her wish come true. It might have taken almost ten years, but at last they found the means to rescue her from her stepfather, Paul Ballister, and she thanked them with all her beating heart.
And she thanked them for Sir Everard Blithman. Whoever and whatever he might be.
FOUR
In which a newcomer is made to feel most unwelcome
From the moment the carriage arrived in a flurry of dust and sweating horses in the courtyard of the large three-storey house in Bishopsgate Street, and an aching and only half-awake Rosamund (who, much to her disappointment, had slept the last part of the journey to London) alighted, nothing was as she expected. Not the orange smoke-filled air, the calamitous noise and pungent odours of the surrounding lanes, the tall, gloomy house, the assembled servants holding torches and lanthorns, nor her husband’s behaviour. She might as well have been a Hollander for all the welcome she received. While Rosamund wasn’t entirely sure what she expected, it wasn’t the suspicious looks, barely concealed hostility or shocked silence that greeted Sir Everard’s announcement to the curious household: ‘This is your new mistress, Lady Rosamund Blithman.’
Rosamund experienced a frisson of panic when she heard her title. The moment they left the inn, she had wanted nothing more than to ask Sir Everard what might be awaiting her once they reached the capital. But as the door of the carriage closed, before she could even formulate a question, Sir Everard propped first his stick, then himself in a corner of the carriage, tilted his hat over his eyes, folded his arms and, with a quiet chuckle, promptly fell asleep.
After she overcame her admiration for his ability to doze through the equivalent of being tossed about like hay at the end of a pitchfork, Rosamund wondered if he feigned slumber to avoid her company. Before they’d even left the shire she had convinced herself he already regretted his hasty decision. Who could blame him? There was no doubting he had struck a poor deal, yet everything about him, from his clothing to his manner and his men, suggested this was not someone accustomed to making bad decisions. Casting sidelong glances at her husband (the word was something she’d have to get used to, as one did a new pair of clogs), she was able to study him at her leisure. She noted the way the sunbeams roved over his rather solid form, revealing long-fingered hands which had slid from their initial position to relax across his lap. The fingernails were scrupulously clean and positively pink. The golden shafts made the bristles that limned his jowls glint. In repose, he had a strong face. The heavy brows and pouched, deep-set eyes, hidden now by the wide brim of his hat, were complemented by broad cheeks and a large chin. His legs, which were encased in fine hose, stretched out before him, showing no sign of the limp which disfigured his walk. She wondered what had caused it, and what he and her mother had so earnestly discussed. Even if he’d been inclined to conversation she doubted she’d have the courage to ask.
Contemplating her mother elicited a long, sad sigh. Was Tilly giving her daughter a second thought or was she, as Rosamund suspected, glad to be rid of the child she’d always regarded as a burden? Eager for Rosamund to leave the inn before Paul returned, Tilly had swept her and Sir Everard out of the taproom even as final blessings were being bestowed. Planting a kiss on her daughter’s cheek, she whispered in her ear, then all but shoved her into the carriage before pulling Sir Everard aside and again speaking urgently. Rosamund tried but failed to hea
r what was being said. She did, however, see Sir Everard wave Jacopo over and deposit a heavy purse in Tilly’s outstretched hands. Without hesitation, Tilly slid the money into her pocket. As they rolled away from the inn, Rosamund issued a small cry of protest. Tilly jumped to life and ran alongside the carriage, leaping every so often to catch a glimpse of her daughter.
‘Don’t forget what I said, Rosamund,’ she cried. ‘Don’t forget!’
Reclining in her seat, she was relieved her new husband was already asleep; she didn’t want to admit what her mother had said was, ‘Don’t say I never do nothin’ for you. Just don’t you never come back, you hear?’ It had been a stinging decree, but one Rosamund vowed to obey. She never wanted to be anywhere she wasn’t wanted. Her eyes had slid towards Sir Everard… He wanted her. Not only had he paid a goodly sum to wed her, he’d promised her an ‘opportunity’. The words lodged in her centre as she wondered what they meant. Surely, being the wife of so fine a man was opportunity enough?
As she gazed out the window, holding tight to the sill, the sky transformed from periwinkle to a deep violet, striated with bruised clouds. That’s how she felt —bruised inside and out. It wasn’t only her body that had received a pummelling, but her soul as well. Deep down she knew why her mother had acted the way she did: Tilly had asserted herself and told such dreadful lies to give her daughter a future. Having abandoned her once, Tilly had done so again. Long ago Rosamund had decided that this was what Tilly did best: distant devotion. She prayed this second effort would yield similar, if not better, results than the first. Surely that’s what her callous words really meant.
Did it erase the years of neglect? The wilful blindness to what was going on beneath her very roof? Rosamund waited for a sense of attachment towards her mother to descend like a cloak over her shoulders. Instead, she felt a combination of despair and a little nub of anger that her mother had waited all this time to defend her daughter and assert her rights. What she couldn’t understand was why, if Tilly had cared so much, she had gone out of her way to appear so impervious for so long. From the moment she’d collected her from Bearwoode, it had been as if her daughter was the least of her concerns.