Silken Threads (13 page)

In the afternoons, le Fever would often hold
court in his sitting room for visitors, other mercers presumably,
who came to transact business with him; documents would change
hands, and sometimes silver as well.

The apothecary’s red-haired daughter, Olive,
delivered her phial of tonic to Mistress Ada every
afternoon
—
she was there now
—
walking from her Wood
Street shop to the back door of le Fever’s house by way of the
alley. Graeham had taken to shuttering the alley window after
nones, to prevent her glancing inside and seeing him there.

Joanna had spoken the truth when she’d
warned him that folks liked to look in the windows. For the most
part he didn’t mind this intrusion into his privacy; in fact, his
conversations about literature and history with the leprous Thomas
Harper had become highlights of his interminable days. Even Leoda,
for all that she was an aging two-penny whore, had a certain
rough-edged charm that Graeham found diverting when she stopped to
chat with him. He didn’t worry about Thomas and Leoda seeing him
there, for they knew nothing of him or his reason for being in
London. Olive, on the other hand, had been in le Fever’s home the
day he’d come for Ada. God knew what she’d heard or
surmised
—
or whom she’d share it with. He must not let her
see him.

Ada le Fever hadn’t shown herself, although
the past few days had been unusually warm and sunny, drawing her
neighbors
—
including Joanna
—
out of doors to plant
their kitchen gardens as they shared jests and gossip. The windows
of Rolf le Fever’s solar, which presumably served as his wife’s
sickroom, were perpetually shuttered. At dusk, faint light would
glow from within, as from a single candle or oil lamp, to be
extinguished when the bells of nearby St. Mary-le-Bow rang
curfew.

A distant thud, as of a door closing, drew
Graeham’s attention back to le Fever’s house. Olive, having
delivered Ada le Fever’s medicine, was crossing the stable yard on
her way to the gate in the low stone wall. Graeham shrank back a
bit from the rear window, although she had no reason to look in his
direction and probably wouldn’t notice his shadowy form even if she
did.

Petronilla jumped onto his bed, rammed her
head against his hand and looked up at him, as if to say,
“Well?”

“Voluptuary,” he muttered, and turned back
to the window to watch Olive duck into the alley.

“Olive,” came a young man’s voice from the
alley. Graeham saw shadows through the slats of the window
shutters.

“Damian,” she replied softly. “What are you
doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

Petronilla head-butted Graeham again,
yowling, “Now.”

Olive gasped.

“‘Tis but a cat. Olive, I must talk to
you.”

A pause, then, “You oughtn’t to do this.
What if someone sees you? What if your father sees you?”

“
Now.”

Damnable creature.
Grudgingly Graeham
scratched the cat’s head.

“I care naught what my father thinks,” he
said.

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Perhaps I am. But what he wants...what he
demands...it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but you.”

“I’m not...” She drew an unsteady breath.
“I’m not what you think I am. There are things about me I could
never tell you.”

Gravely he said, “I have eyes and ears,
Olive. There’s naught you can tell me that I haven’t already
surmised.”

“Oh, God,” she murmured, her voice
breaking.

“I love you anyway,” he said, so softly
Graeham could barely hear. “I love you, Olive.”

“Oh, God,” she said, her voice thick with
tears. “Oh, God, you can’t know. I don’t believe it.”

“It matters not. Olive, nothing matters but
us. I love you.”

“Nay...nay...we can never be together. Don’t
you understand?” She was weeping in earnest now. “Let go of
me.”

“Olive, no! Don’t go
—
please.
Olive!” Rapid footsteps receded down the alley toward Wood Street.
Presently there came an extended sigh and a muttered curse,
followed by footsteps headed in the opposite direction. From the
rear window, Graeham saw a figure in a black mantle and felt hat
heading toward Milk Street.

* * *

“Look!” Joanna held out the candles Mistress
Hulda had given her as she entered the storeroom; Petronilla jumped
down from Graeham’s cot to writhe against her legs. “I sold a
kerchief to the chandler, and she paid me in candles. Just tallow,
not wax, but they’re a far sight better than a rush stuck in a lump
of fat.”

“Excellent,” Graeham said distractedly. He
wasn’t looking at her, but beyond her to the front of the house.
Joanna turned and followed his line of sight to the shop window.
Her attention was immediately commanded by a young woman sprinting
across Wood Street. The hood of her green mantle slipped down, a
cloud of coppery hair waving as she ran. She ducked into the
apothecary’s and disappeared from view.

“That’s Olive,” Joanna said. “The
apothecary’s daughter.” With a knowing glance at Graeham, she
added, “Pretty girl.”

His look of concentration faltered; he met
her gaze and smiled. “Is she?”

“Is that not why you’re staring after
her?”

“Actually, no. She’s...upset.”

“Upset.”

“I heard her in the alley, talking to some
fellow
—
a prospective suitor, from what I could tell, but
she was resisting him. She became overwrought.”

Joanna arched an eyebrow. “Is that how you
amuse yourself all day, serjant? Earwigging on strangers’
conversations?”

“It passes the time.” His expression
sobered. “She ran away crying.”

“Oh, dear.” Joanna turned and peered at the
apothecary’s shop. “Life hasn’t been easy for that girl lately. I
must find the time to talk to her. Perhaps tomorrow morning, before
the fair.” And before Olive’s mother, who slept till nones more
often than not, was up and about.

“Fair?”

“Aye, tomorrow’s Friday
—
they’ll be
having the market fair at Smithfield. Hugh’s arranged to have your
palfrey brought over from St. Bartholemew’s
—
he’s going to
sell it for you.”

“I’ve put your brother to quite a bit of
trouble, haven’t I?”

“He doesn’t mind. He grows bored and
restless during his furloughs.” She smiled conspiratorially. “And
the busier you keep him, the less time he has for his wine and his
dice and his...easy women.”

Somehow Graeham suspected that nothing could
keep Hugh from his easy women. “You’re going with him to the
fair?”

“Aye.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to leave
the shop closed up for a whole day.”

“A week ago I wouldn’t have. I couldn’t have
risked losing any business that might have wandered by. But your
four shillings have eased my circumstances a bit, and Hugh....he
thought it would be a chance for me to get away from the shop for a
while.” And to renew her acquaintance with the old friend he hoped
to betroth her to.
I’ll have Robert meet us at the fair,
Hugh had suggested.
I can’t very well bring him by the shop now.
What would Graeham think, you entertaining a suitor while your
husband is overseas? Wear something pretty Friday, and remember,
don’t cover up that hair.

She would have to bathe tonight, but
Graeham’s presence here made that problematic; perhaps after he was
asleep...

“I used to love Smithfield,” Graeham said,
somewhat wistfully. “We used to go almost every summer
afternoon
—
the boys from Holy Trinity. Brother Simon, our
prior, he liked to say it wasn’t just our minds and souls that
needed nourishing, but our bodies. We’d play ball against the boys
from St. Paul’s and St. Martin’s. And on Sundays we’d go and watch
the jousting there.”

She smiled, trying without success to
envision this virile soldier as a boy. He would have been lanky and
rather ungainly, she guessed; men of his stature tended to go
through an awkward period as youths, before those rangy bones
filled out with muscle.There was nothing awkward about him now,
certainly
—
nor did a hint remain of the derelict she’d
thought him to be that night she’d found him in her storeroom,
caked with grime and reeking of wine. He’d shaved every day since
he’d been here, probably more out of boredom than an obsession with
grooming. His hair was always combed, his face clean. He had the
most extraordinary, intently blue eyes she’d ever seen on a
man
—
on anyone. His masculine beauty unsettled her. She
didn’t like to look directly at him, fearful that her appreciation
would show in her eyes.

His manner was always polite and respectful.
Although she knew his days were filled with tedium, and she often
sensed that he would like for her to linger when she brought him
his meals or tidied up the storeroom
—
and, in fact, she was
frequently tempted to do so
—
he never pressed her. She had
a shop to run, after all, and chores to tend to.

And he unnerved her terribly, all scrubbed
and handsome in Prewitt’s clothes, watching her, always watching
her. Yes, he was courteous, the consummate gentleman. But she could
not accustom herself to his languid, strangely probing gaze.

And she could not forget the lingering glide
of his fingers over her breast that first night, when she’d come to
him after awakening to him groaning in pain. What had started as an
inadvertent brush of his hand had become, in the charged and silent
darkness, a breathless and purposeful caress. She could still feel
the heat of his touch, as if his fingertips had scorched her very
flesh. It filled her with a strange agitation, a turmoil of the
senses that was both frightening and exhilarating.

“...and I’d take off my clothes,” he was
saying, “and wade in, and let the water envelop me. ‘Twas
heaven.”

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry, I...”

He chuckled. “I was telling you how I used
to sneak away from Holy Trinity late at night in the summer to go
swimming in the horsepool at Smithfield. ‘Twasn’t a very engaging
story, I suppose.” His smile was tentative, almost bashful. “I’m
just trying to keep you here talking to me. When I took it into my
head to stay here, I’m afraid I didn’t count on being quite so
insufferably bored.”

“I’m sorry.”

“‘Tisn’t your fault. You’ve your own affairs
to attend to.”

“Yes, well...”

“I’m not a guest, after all, merely a
border. And you put up with a great deal from me as it is.”

“Nonsense. You’re no trouble.”

He smiled dubiously. “You’re a singularly
poor liar.”

Heat rose in Joanna’s cheeks. She edged
toward the doorway. “Yes, well. I should be getting back to the
shop.”

He nodded, expressionless. “You’ll be gone
all day tomorrow, then?”

“Until vespers or thereabouts. I’ll leave
food and ale for you.”

“Thank you.”

She paused in the doorway. “You’ll be even
more bored than usual, I suppose. I’m sorry.”

He smiled and shrugged his big shoulders. “I
can hardly expect you to stay here just for me.”

Joanna fiddled with the string that bound
the candles together. “Yes. Well.” She turned and started back
toward the shop stall.

“Are you happy?”

Slowly she spun back around, her candles
clutched to her chest.

He was sitting forward, looking at her with
that keen-eyed gaze that sent warm shivers coursing through
her.

“‘Tis a presumptuous question,” he said.
“I’ve gotten into the habit of asking them of late. Perhaps it’s
the boredom.”

She nodded warily.

“Are you?” His white shirt trembled just
slightly as his chest rose and fell.

“Serjant, I...I don’t know how to answer
that.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the shop. “I really
must be getting back to
—
”

“I’d like to eat supper with you
tonight.”

“Supper?” she said inanely.

“Aye, I’d like to eat with you at the table
there instead of having you bring my meal in to me. I’d like to eat
all my meals there, in fact
—
from now on.”

“But your leg...”

“It’s much improved.” Reaching for his new
crutch, he stood it up and hauled himself to his feet,
grinning
—
although it seemed to Joanna that his teeth were
perhaps just a bit tightly clenched. “I can get about well enough
to make it to the table at mealtimes.”

Supporting himself with the crutch, he took
a few halting steps in her direction. She rapidly backed up.
“You’re supposed to stay in bed. Master Aldfrith
said
—
”

“My body will waste away if I languish in
bed for two months. Come
—
let me eat with you.” Quietly he
added, “I promise not to ask you if you’re happy.”

* * *

“Are you very unhappy?” Graeham asked as he
broke off a piece of hearty barley bread and dipped it in his lamb
stew.

Joanna cast him a censorious look from
across the table. “I thought you weren’t going to ask
me
—
”

“Whether you’re happy,” he finished. “I
never said I wouldn’t ask you if you’re
un
happy.”

“You
are
presumptuous.” She refilled
their wooden cups from the ewer of wine that sat on the table
between them, a luxury, like the lamb, that he insisted on
having
—
and paying for.

He regarded her for a thoughtful moment as
he ate the broth-soaked bread. “Well, are you?”

“Do I seem unhappy?”

“Nay
—
but there are those who have
the gift of persevering with remarkable grace in the face of
adversity. I’ve been watching you.”

She looked at him as she took a sip of wine,
then quickly dropped her gaze. Her cheeks might have heated to a
deeper pink, or perhaps it was just a trick of the candlelight. Her
hair was veiled, as usual, and she wore her ugliest kirtle, the
brown one. The wool was threadbare, with a neat little patch near
the neckline, above which peeked about an inch of white linen
shift. There was often a hint of dishevelment about her, as if she
were simply too busy to keep herself put to rights, and tonight was
no exception; the shift’s drawstring had come undone, the two cords
hanging over the brown bodice of her kirtle. The loosened shift
exposed the merest tantalizing swell of upper breast; he’d
struggled all through supper to keep his gaze from straying
downward as they conversed.