No!” came a shout.
Rosamund twisted at the sound, in time to see her mother, forgetting all propriety, break away from the group she was escorting and start running toward her. On her heels were Fear-God and Glory. Upon seeing Rosamund they slowed, confusion and guilt drawing them together. Glory had her slippers in his hands and quickly hid them behind his back.
“Ah, you must be Mistress Ballister,” began Sir Everard, taking off his hat and bowing. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am—”
“I don’t care who you are, sir.” Tilly halted before him, huffing and puffing, perspiration running in rivulets down her face, taking the poorly applied powder and patches with it. Looking him up and down, she all but sneered. “My daughter can’t be bought and sold like a slave at a market”—she glared in Jacopo’s direction—“or a horse at a fair. How dare you. I’ll have you know we be no pinchbecks.” She marched over to Rosamund and pulled her close. Rosamund made an effort to free herself, then gave up. Tilly would not be gainsaid.
Joining his wife and stepdaughter in front of the inn, Paul smirked at Sir Everard. “Well, milord, you heard my wife. In fact, she took the words right out of my mouth. Rosie’s not for sale.” Inserting himself on Rosamund’s other side, he placed an arm around her waist, his eyes on the purse in Sir Everard’s fist. “Though an offer of compensation still be on the table.”
By now the guests had caught up and stood in the shade of the trees, watching events unfold. The women made use of their ostrich-plume fans, waving them back and forth and whispering to one another behind them. One of the men lit a pipe.
Uncaring of the audience, Tilly continued. “If you want her so badly—” She slapped Paul’s arm off her daughter and took Rosamund by the wrist, dragging her toward Sir Everard. “If you want her so badly you can bleeding well do the right thing. You can marry her.”
There were gasps. One of the women tittered. Rosamund stared at her mother. The heat must have affected her. She’d taken leave of her senses.
“Don’t appear so shocked, sir,” cried Tilly. “What’s a wife but the property of a husband? What’s marriage but a business transaction? She’s as good as a chattel, eh? Even if she be spoiled.” She was referring to the mark on Rosamund’s forehead, but the bitter look she cast was directed toward Paul.
When Sir Everard didn’t answer immediately, Tilly came even closer, lowering her voice. “I haven’t kept her beneath my roof this long to have her given over to some knave so he can have his way. I don’t want her coming back ’ere with a belly full of sprog, leeching off me. You want ’er, you can buy ’er all right—as a bride. Otherwise, you’d best say good day, sir.”
Rosamund knew Tilly was upset. She was dropping her haitches as well as her decorum.
“But, Tilly, wife . . .” Paul stumbled toward them, wringing his hands. “You don’t mean that.” Wearing a silly smile, he nodded toward the guests, half bowing toward Sir Everard.
Tilly’s mouth twisted as she leered at him over her shoulder. “Don’t I?” Her look was a shot from an arquebus. “I’ve never meant anythin’ more in me life.” Ignoring her husband, she faced Sir Everard again. “What will it be? Will you make an ’onest woman of me daughter? I’ll have you know, though ’er clothes ’ave seen better days and she could do with a wash, good blood flows in ’er veins. More than that, she be a boon to us ’ere and will be a sore loss. Why, if you be the canny merchant you appear, what better than a wife who can read, write and is possessed of as fine a business ’ead on those pretty shoulders as you’d find in the Royal Exchange?” She lowered her voice. “You’d not be shortchanged in this bargain, milord. Not on any count. Why, look at ’er.” She stepped away from Rosamund, inviting his gaze.
Rosamund’s cheeks grew hot. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her right there and then. Tilly was behaving like a street vendor selling hot pies, and she was telling pork ones as well—bold-faced and as loud and public as you like. Exaggerating her abilities, pretending she possessed skills she hadn’t practiced in a long time, let alone mastered. She might understand and even have improved the running of the inn, but reading and writing fluently were beyond her. Knowing she should protest, Rosamund stayed mute. Aware of Jacopo’s remarkable blue-green eyes upon her, she wanted to squirm with shame. Was it not a sin to lie? Yet she could not call a stop to this transaction. She wanted to see where Tilly’s sudden boldness led. Rosamund was filled to the brim with needlelike anticipation. It poked and prodded, making it difficult to stand still. Around the corner of the inn peered Widow Cecily, Sissy, Dorcas and Avery, their eyes wider than the skirts on the ladies’ dresses.
Recognizing the deal was not yet dead, Tilly stood behind Rosamund, clasped the girl’s shoulders and thrust her forward. “Just so you know what you be gettin’, she might look like a dirty drab, but she be a Tomkins of Bearwoode Manor in Durham.” Addressing Sir Everard over Rosamund’s right shoulder, she continued. “Daughter of Sir Jon no less, she was raised by the Lady Ellinor herself—a proud royalist to the core, in case you’re wonderin’—until such time as the old woman cark— I mean, passed into the Lord’s arms. It’s not like you’d be plighting your troth with common muck an’ all.”
It took all Rosamund’s control not to let her mouth drop open. Not once had her mother ever acknowledged the relations whose blood, as she described it, flowed in her veins. The fact she was a bastard aside, here she was being forthcoming about them and in a voice that carried. It was as if she wanted Sir Everard to take her; Tilly, who’d never put herself out for anyone, least of all her daughter—not since she carried her away from Bearwoode that wretched, rain-filled day so many years ago.
Beyond Sir Everard, the women ceased waving their fans and appraised Rosamund, craning their necks to study her boldly. Aware of their scrutiny, Rosamund’s chin lifted. Even the men straightened and cleared their throats noisily, one spitting, others averting their eyes as if to compensate for the manner in which they’d appreciated her assets that morning. Like she was common muck an’ all.
Everyone waited with bated breath for Sir Everard to respond. First replacing his hat, he plucked a kerchief from his waistcoat and slowly dabbed his forehead.
“Bearwoode . . . a Tomkins . . .” he said quietly. He studied Tilly’s apparel, her face, before his eyes slid to Rosamund. For the first time in months, Rosamund wished she’d washed that bit harder, spent more time scrubbing her neck and hands—only, any time she did, she paid a hefty price.
“When I suggested I . . . er . . . um . . . buy . . . your daughter,” said Sir Everard, “I’m afraid you misunderstood my intentions. I sought no mistress nor a wife, but to take her under my wing, like she was my . . . my . . . my own daughter.” He glanced toward Jacopo.
“Daughter? Ha! Think I haven’t heard that kind of confeck before? I know what you’re offerin’ all too well,” said Tilly, earning a snigger from Paul and some of the men.
Sir Everard ignored them. “I never meant to imply my offer was less than honorable—”
“Well,” interrupted Tilly, waving a hand to silence him, “if that’s the case, our business ’ere is concluded. We’ve nothing to discuss. You’ll not be takin’ ’er anywhere, ’onorable intentions or no. She’s not for sale, not without surety, and, in this case, that be a ring and your name. Daughter my arse. She be my daughter and that be it. May God give you good day, sir. Come, Rosamund.” Swinging Rosamund around, she tucked her arm through hers and pulled her away, head held high, her back straighter than the fine piece of wood upon which Sir Everard leaned.
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, hardworking 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 honor 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 toward 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 color 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 offense, milord.”
“None taken,” said Sir Everard.
Tilly nodded. “Husband, fetch the reverend.” She pointed toward 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 realized 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 offense, 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 spiraled 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 businesslike. “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 were 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 toward 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 marvelous.
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.