She smiled brilliantly at the home’s manager.
Mr. Makepeace cleared his throat. “Yellow also becomes dirty very easily. In my experience, children, especially boys, tend to run about and make a mess of themselves.”
“Oh, pooh!” Lady Penelope pouted. “Can’t you just keep them inside?”
Everyone looked at Lady Penelope. It was hard to credit, but she seemed quite serious.
Isabel felt a grin tug at her lips. She widened her eyes at the manager. “Yes, Mr. Makepeace, tell us why you can’t simply lock the little dears in their rooms?”
He shot her a quick, dark look that made her catch her breath.
“I’m sure Lady Penelope understands the impossibility of keeping small boys immobile and clean at all times,” Amelia murmured. “If that is all, Mr. Makepeace, we will not keep you further from your duties.”
“Ma’am. Ladies.” He bowed.
He was almost at the door when Lady Hero suddenly seemed to remember something. “But where is Mrs. Hollingbrook? I thought to see her today.”
Mr. Makepeace didn’t change expression, his body didn’t jerk or stiffen, but somehow Isabel understood that the comment had given him pause.
He glanced over his shoulder. “My sister is no longer residing at the home,” he said coolly and left the room before Lady Hero could make further comment.
Lady Penelope’s high, silly voice broke the silence. “Goodness! Surely he isn’t thinking of running the home all by himself? A woman’s touch is so important with children, I think, especially since Mr. Makepeace is a bachelor gentleman.”
Several other ladies offered their opinions, but Isabel let the conversation flow about her as she bent her head in thought. Mr. Makepeace’s gaze had met Isabel’s in the second before he turned away, and she’d realized something in that instant: Mr. Makepeace might not show it, but there were strong emotions churning under that cold exterior.
His eyes had been black with anger.
SILENCE SQUARED HER shoulders that night outside the dining room door. She’d left Mary Darling happily playing with Moll, the maid from the kitchen, with Bert as guard, and now she was about to join Mickey O’Connor for dinner. After all, he’d asked this time instead of ordered. There was still that small part of her that was convinced she was making a mistake. But then she reminded herself that it had been he who had made the first move, had held out the hand of peace.
Surely that counted for something?
She pushed open the door before she wasted another five minutes pacing and dithering. The room within was long and, not surprisingly, gaudily decorated. Watered silks lined the walls in purple, deep blue, and green. Silence snorted under her breath. How appropriate: Charming Mickey had covered the walls of his dining room with the colors of a peacock.
Down the middle of the room several long tables had been set end-to-end, almost like what she supposed a medieval dining hall might have looked like. Mickey O’Connor himself lounged at the far end of the table in a crimson velvet chair. He hadn’t looked up at her entrance, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking he hadn’t noticed her.
Silence began making her way down the line of tables. This end of the room seemed to be comprised of Mickey’s crew, quite a rough-looking lot. She’d gingerly passed the first couple of seated men when some type of signal was given. Suddenly all the pirates rose rather alarmingly, some so hastily their chairs crashed to the floor.
Silence blinked. “Ah… good evening.”
“Good evenin’, ma’am,” the closest man said gruffly. Belatedly, he snatched the greasy tricorne from his head.
Each man greeted her in turn as she walked past them, and even though they were all rather murderous looking, Silence smiled shyly at them. She found a seat just past the pirates. It was across from Harry and next to a little man with spectacles who she’d seen before in Mr. O’Connor’s throne room.
As she drew out the chair, the little man stood. “Not here, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry?” she asked, confused.
“He’ll want you with him,” the little man said nervously.
“That’s yer place,” Harry said and nodded his chin toward the head of the table.
Silence looked at the head of the table and of course Mickey O’Connor was watching her. They were all watching her.
Silence lifted her chin and made her way up the table, conscious that all eyes were upon her, until she stood beside the empty place at the right hand side of Mickey O’Connor. For an awful moment she thought he would ignore her, but then he uncoiled his long limbs and stood, pulling out her chair for her.
“Mrs. Hollingbrook,” he murmured. “I’m that pleased ye’ve come down.”
She nodded nervously and accepted the chair. She could feel his heat behind her as his hands took the sides of the chair and moved it forward to properly seat her. The scent of frankincense and lemons floated in the air, sensuous and somehow alarming. She thought she felt the brush of his fingers on her shoulder, but when she looked around he was already back in his seat.
He made a gesture and Tess and two other maidservants came in laden with trays of food. Incredibly—decadently—rich food. There were platters of thinly sliced pheasant, roasted rabbits, fish in wine, pigeon pie, fresh hothouse fruit, and enormous serving dishes heaped with oysters.
Mickey O’Connor seemed to sense her faint disapproval as one of the serving maids placed a bowl of oysters before them. He cocked a black eyebrow at her. “I’m proud of me table, Mrs. Hollingbrook. I like good food and me men work better for it.”
She pursed her lips. “The price of those oysters could feed a St. Giles family for weeks, maybe months.”
He smiled lazily. “Would ye rather I dined upon bread and water?”
“No, but—”
“Come,” he said in his deep, black velvet voice, “the oysters are already cooked and they don’t keep at all well. ’Twould be a pity to let them go to waste.” He picked up a shell and pulled the pearly, succulent flesh free with his fingers, holding it out temptingly.
Silence’s stomach growled and she flushed.
The corner of his mouth curved with roguish charm. “Tisn’t a sin to enjoy good food.”
“A special treat once in a while is one thing,” she said severely, “but you spend your life in constant excess. Does it not become boring after a bit?”
He smiled wolfishly. “Never.”
She reached for the oyster he still held, but he moved his hand back out of her way.
She looked at him coolly. “I’ll not eat out of your hand.”
His bold mouth compressed—he didn’t like her refusal, but all he said was, “As ye wish, me darlin’.”
He placed the oyster on her plate.
She bit into the savory oyster and contemplated telling him that she wasn’t his darling, but it seemed a waste of breath. Besides, the oyster really was terribly delicious. She licked her lips and glanced up. Mickey O’Connor was watching her, his black eyes narrowed, a corner of his mouth faintly curled. For a moment she felt caught in his gaze, her heart beating faster.
Then Tess bustled over with a tray of tiny tarts.
More dishes were set in front of Mickey O’Connor and without asking he served her something from each and filled her glass full of what proved to be sweet red wine. Silence ate and for several minutes she was quiet, her entire being concentrating on the food and filling her empty stomach, for although she’d had a lovely breakfast it hadn’t quite sated her after more than a day without food.
When she looked up again, she met Mr. O’Connor’s gaze. He was leaning back in his chair, his own food untouched, apparently content just to watch her eat.
She swallowed. “It’s all quite good and I enjoyed it very much, but…”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Your food seems very rich.” The pirates were still busily shoveling in their meal. Harry had got up and left the room, and now he was replaced with Bert. “It can’t be
good for your constitution to eat such rich foods regularly. Aren’t you afraid of gout?”
Mickey O’Connor grinned and ran his hand down his flat stomach, his rings flashing on every finger. “Never occurred to me, to tell the truth.”
She shook her head. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t. You do like to revel in excess, don’t you?”
He raised a mocking eyebrow.
She tilted her chin toward his hands. “Those rings, for instance. They’re so gaudy and they must be worth a fortune.”
He spread his hands before him, fingers wide. “Oh, two fortunes at the very least, but I only started wi’ one ring.”
She peered at them curiously. His extravagant, jeweled rings seemed such a part of Mickey O’Connor that she couldn’t imagine him without them. “Which one?”
“This.” He held up his right index finger. A round ruby so dark it was nearly black sat in a worn gold ring. “Got it on a raid with me first crew. In point o’ fact it were me only part of the raid, it were worth so much. I forfeited me portion o’ the gold for this here ring.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why didn’t you take the money instead?”
He sat back and eyed her and she realized suddenly that his playfulness had vanished. He was quite serious now. “Because a poor man don’t wear a ring like this. Everyone who saw me wear this could tell: Charmin’ Mickey’s come into his own.”
Silence stared down at a lone pear remaining on her plate, thinking about his words. How odd. She’d never been rich—certainly not as rich as Mickey O’Connor was now—but she’d never really desired great wealth. Certainly there had been times when she’d looked longingly at a fan or heeled slippers in a shop window, but those were mostly fancies. Her everyday needs had always been quite satisfied. In contrast, Mr. O’Connor, by his own admission, had spent his childhood in poverty. Perhaps that then was his basic reason for flaunting the wealth he had. Once one had longed for something—hungered after it day and night—would that well of want ever truly be filled?
She shivered at the thought and looked up. “And the rest of your rings?”
“Oh, picked up here and there. This one”—he waggled his left pinky where a great black baroque pearl sat—“I found in the chest o’ a ship’s captain. He had a bit o’ a reputation, that one. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d got it piratin’ from the Frenchies.”
Mickey O’Connor grinned and popped a hothouse grape into his mouth.
She looked hastily away from the sight of him lounging like a sultan, and saw Fionnula sitting a little way down the table with Bran beside her.
“She worships Bran does our Fionnula,” Mickey O’Connor said quietly, following her gaze.
“Does he worship her, as well?” she asked, sharper than she meant.
Mickey O’Connor cocked his head, considering the matter. Then he shook it once. “I very much doubt it. Bran worships power and money and little else.”
“Not so very different than you, I suppose.” She wasn’t sure why the information that Fionnula’s sweetheart didn’t love the girl as much as Fionnula did him troubled her, but it did.
“Did ye look upon yer William like she does Bran?” he asked so quietly she nearly didn’t hear him.
Silence drew in her breath. He hadn’t the right to speak William’s name—he should know that. But she lifted her chin and met Mickey O’Connor’s black eyes. “I suppose I did.”
She’d thought to provoke him, but he merely leaned his head on his hand, studying her. “How did ye meet him, this paragon o’ a husband?”
She smiled at the memory. “He saved my shoes.”
“How?”
“I was out shopping with Temperance, my sister, and I’m afraid I got caught behind—I was staring in a shopwindow.”
His lips twitched. “At gloves and lace?”
“At a cream cake, if you must know,” she said with dignity.
He breathed a chuckle and she felt a flush start on her neck. “Father didn’t approve of sweets so we only had them on special occasions—Christmas and the like.” He was still smiling so she hurried on. “Anyway, I was rushing to catch up with my sister. I mustn’t have been watching because all at once there was a great miller’s cart right in front of my nose. If William hadn’t grabbed me about the waist and pulled me back, my shoes would’ve been quite ruined.” Silence sliced off a bite of the pear. “There was a puddle, you see.”
He reached for his ruby-red wine. “Sounds more like Will saved yer life rather than yer shoes.”
“The cart wasn’t that close.” Silence wrinkled her nose, because the cart had been rather close and the first thing William had done upon setting her on her feet again was to give her a scolding. Not that she was about to tell Mickey O’Connor that.
“I thanked him,” she continued, “and went off with Temperance and thought never to see him again. But then the next day, he came calling to ask Father for permission to court me.”
“And what did yer da say?” Mickey O’Connor asked as if he were greatly interested.
“Father was not at first pleased.” Silence saw a look cross Mr. O’Connor’s face and hastened to add, “William was a bit older than me, you see.”
“How much older?”
Silence poked at the half-eaten pear. “Fourteen years.”
She looked up to see Mickey O’Connor watching her and for the life of her she could not read his black eyes.
“It’s not such a great age difference as all that,” she said and heard the defensive note in her own voice.
“How old were ye?”
“Eighteen,” she muttered, then said louder, “He sailed very soon thereafter, but before he left he brought me a posy of violets.”
“He didn’t get ye the cream cake ye were moonin’ over in the bakery window?”
“I wasn’t mooning,” she said indignantly. “And, no, whyever would he buy me a cream cake? It’s a gift for a child.”
“It’s what ye wanted,” he retorted.
“Violets are much more suitable.” She frowned. “While he was away at sea he sent me wonderful letters from his travels, with all sorts of descriptions of the foreign places he saw. Then when he came home he would call upon me. It was so lovely,” she said dreamily. “William would take me to fairs and puppet shows.”
“And then?” His voice was expressionless.
She shrugged. “I married him. I was one and twenty by that time so Father would not have been able to stop me. But I wanted his blessing and he gave it to us. He said that William had shown his devotion for three years and that he was satisfied that he’d make me a proper husband.”
She paused, but Mickey O’Connor didn’t say anything.
She looked down at her plate. She’d eaten the pear as she talked and she no longer felt hungry. The empty desperation was gone—all that was left was the vague queasiness from having overindulged. Some of the pirates were laughing now as they finished their meal, while Mr. O’Connor’s little secretary had opened a book beside his plate and was making notes as he ate.
“We were happy,” she said slowly. “We lived in Wapping, by the ships. I would go to the docks and watch the tall ships come in, looking for the Finch, even when I knew she wasn’t expected back for months. And when she did dock”—she closed her eyes, remembering—“William would come to see me first thing. I always ran into his arms. We were happy. So happy.”
“And yet when ye needed him most he didn’t believe ye,” she heard him murmur. “He didn’t listen to ye.”
“I only needed him to believe me because of what you’d done,” she pointed out, but her voice lacked heat.
He didn’t reply.
She wiped her cheeks. Where last night she’d felt rage, now all she held inside was a deep sadness. “Is that what you think? That because he didn’t believe me, because he didn’t listen to me, he must not have loved me? That our happiness was but a sham?”
She stared at him, but he merely took a drink of his wine,
watching her.
Had her happiness been a sham? At the time she hadn’t thought so. Life with William had been perfect, it seemed. He was away for long periods, true, but when he did come back it was like a honeymoon every time.
She frowned, troubled by the thought. What would her marriage have been like if William hadn’t been a sea captain? If they’d lived together day in and day out like most married couples?
Silence heaved a sigh and looked around the table. No one was paying them any mind—although she suspected that was more because of Mickey O’Connor’s presence than that they hadn’t noticed her tears.
She turned back to Mr. O’Connor. “Where are your women?”
His mouth curved slightly. “What women?”
She waved a hand, wondering if she’d drunk too much wine with her meal. “The women you always have. Your… your whores.”
He took a sip of wine and set down his glass. “Gone.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Oh.”
“Are ye disappointed?”
She bristled. “What do you know of how I feel or think?”
“I don’t know,” he said as he waved a youth over. The boy held a tray of sweets. Mickey O’Connor’s hand hovered over the selection before he chose something with a candied cherry on top. He turned back to her with the sweet in his hand. “That’s the fascinatin’ thing about ye, Silence, m’love. I know what me men will think afore I tell them we’re raidin’, what me whores will think at the end o’ a night, even what Lad will think about tomorrow—mostly me bed and a nice stew bone. But ye—ye I cannot fathom. I look into yer pretty green-brown-blue eyes, and I haven’t the tiniest idea what yer thinkin’ about. What ye truly feel.”
Silence stared at him in wonder, then blurted, “Why should you care?”
“That,” said Mickey O’Connor, holding the sweet to her lips, waiting while she accepted it into her mouth, then smiling almost as if he could taste the melting sugar on her tongue himself, “is a very good question.”
Chapter Seven
As soon as dark fell in the king’s garden, a bird’s song filled the air. Three notes and the other two nephews were nodding their heads, but Clever John had his ears stopped so he could not fall under the spell of the sweet birdsong. As soon as the king’s nephews were asleep, a wonderful bird alit on the cherry tree. Its feathers were every color of the rainbow. The bird began pecking at the king’s cherries. But up jumped Clever John and seized the bird by its delicate neck.
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