A Broom at the Masthead (The Drowned Books Book 1) (11 page)

He stared at her
for a second. And then he inclined his head with an icy courtesy, and snatched
his coat up off the floor, and stalked past her.

"Then I
have no more to say to you, madam. I bid you a good day."

He was half way
down the stairs, and every line of him said that he wasn't coming back.
Thomazine was torn between an urge to launch the chamber-pot at the back of his
head, and a sudden, childish, frightened need not to let him go, because she
did not mean those things, any of them, and more than that she did not want to
be alone in this place -

"Apple!"

It was her old
childhood name for him, from when Hapless had been his old troop nickname and
she could not say Hapless, but only, Apple. She had not meant it to be a spur,
or yet a leash, but he whirled on the stairs and came thumping back up two
steps at a time. She put her hands to her mouth and looked up at him, and she
wanted to say that she was sorry and she wanted to demand an explanation and
she wanted to call him any number of rude names. All at once. Instead, she
looked up at him, and he was furious and indignant and utterly wretched all at
once, and her eyes prickled. "Oh, Thankful," she said, and her voice
wobbled. "I love you."

"Do you?"

She nodded.
"That's about the one thing I am sure of."

He heaved a deep
sigh. "Tibber, it is about the
only
thing I am sure of."

She did not
apologise for her words, though, and he did not apologise for his. He stood on
the threshold of their quarters, looking like a masterless dog, until she stood
aside for him to come back inside, and then he carefully put his hands on her
waist and she equally carefully put her arms round him, so that their bodies
were not, quite, touching. "I promise you," he said, "I swear to
you, Thomazine, on my hope of heaven, I had nothing to do with my sister's
death. And you may trust my word, or not trust my word, as you choose."

She moved a step
closer, so that her head fitted under his chin, and rested her cheek against
his beating heart. Still carefully, he lifted a hand and stroked her loose,
bed-tangled hair.

"And the
widow?" she said.

21

This time, he laughed. "You are
persistent, mistress. And I am flattered that you think women have been falling
at my feet for years, but - no, tibber, it was always you and only ever you.
And with that you must rest content. Mistress Bartholomew is the widow of a good
man, and a man I knew - moderately well, not an intimate, but he was a decent
man. He was a sea-captain, and he died when a Dutch man o' war sank his ship a
year ago for bearing an English flag in their waters."

"They did -
what?" Thomazine said faintly. "Over a
flag
?"

"Well, the
Dutch were supposed to salute it," he said, and he had that hopeful note
to his voice that meant he hoped she wasn't going to keep asking questions.
"That was what was agreed in the Treaty of Westminster, when the first war
ended. And, ah, well, obviously, they didn't. And Captain Bartholomew took what
you might describe as a degree of national pride in his flag. So he decided
that if they wouldn’t salute his, he wouldn’t salute theirs. And it - yes.
Well. Matters grew a little heated, and the
Commonwealth Maid
did not -.
Ah. It was rendered unseaworthy. Permanently."

"What a
remarkably
stupid thing to do. I imagine Mistress Bartholomew was somewhat vexed by
that, especially when she was put to the trouble of burying him."

"She wasn't,
Zee. He was, uh, fifteen miles off the coast of West Africa at the time. There
wasn't a lot to bring home."

"Thankful."
She stepped back from his embrace, and smiled up at him, with what she meant to
be a sweet, wifely expression. "Are you telling me that we are currently
resident in the house of a pirate's widow?"

"No
precisely, tibber. Say, rather, um, a state-licensed privateer."

"And that
you, often, associate with - state-licensed privateers."

"Matthew
Bartholomew was a good Parliament man," Thankful said primly, sounding so
suddenly and absolutely like her father's zealous young lieutenant that he
hadn't aged a day in twenty years, and she had to stuff her fist into her mouth
not to burst out giggling at the unlikeliness of it. "He was with Cromwell's
navy, in the first war against the Dutch, and -"

And that stopped
her laughing. "Thankful, you keep saying the
first
war, as if there
is more than one?"

"Thomazine,"
her husband said firmly, "you won’t have tried coffee, dearest. Would you
care to?"

22

"See?" he said smugly. "I
told you that fur wrap was no extravagance." He pulled the length of
creamy fur snug about her shoulders, and kissed the end of her nose. "It
is a raw morning, and a long walk. Perhaps -"

"Warm
stockings," she said, and lifted her heavy woollen skirts to expose one
stoutly-shod foot, "and dry boots."

`And he smiled.
"Indeed, wife. I should say, a good half hour's walk through the City.
Shall we?"

"Where
-" but she wasn't sure that it mattered, very much. Thomazine was beginning
to suspect that London was not an organised, orderly place, where life
proceeded in a quiet fashion as it did at home. Say, rather, a place where you
lived in a crooked house with a pirate's widow and ate your meals sitting
cross-legged on the bed at odd hours of the day and night, like gypsies. She
tucked her hand under his elbow. "Shall we, then?"

Fleet-Street was
a bustling, noisy place, filled with bowing gallants who looked for all the
world like an avenue of pigeons, their iridescent breasts pouted as they
strutted and cooed at each other.

There was also,
she noted, a remarkable deficiency of -

"There are
women," Thankful said firmly, looking down his nose at one particularly
dumbfounded youth. "There are other women in this place. I can see them,
sir, I do have eyes in my head. There's one there, by the kitchen."

"Dear, I
don’t think -"

"She may be
a whore, Thomazine, but she is of the appropriate gender! There are female
servants in this place and there are whores, sir, so there is a precedent for a
female presence. I see no reason why a respectable gentlewoman should be barred
entry, if there are others of her sex present!"

Mr Farr, of the
formerly-respectable coffee-house known as the Rainbow, looked up at the
irritated gentleman on his threshold, and his mouth twitched. "I think you
just answered your own question, sir. Because the other - females - present,
are servants and whores, and she is a gentlewoman. And because we don’t have
women in coffee-shops, sir, it'd make the other customers feel
uncomfortable."

"Would
it," Thankful said dryly. "So far as I can tell, the wench in the
window is making that gentleman very comfortable indeed. So you are happy to
admit the meaner sort of female, but not an intelligent, respectable woman
accompanied by her lawful husband?"

"Since you
put it like that, sir -"

"Since we
are assured of our creation in the image of God," Thomazine said sweetly,
"and of an interest in Christ equal unto men, as also of a proportionable
share in the freedoms of this commonwealth, we cannot but wonder and grieve
that we should appear so despicable in your eyes as to be thought unworthy to
-"

"Her father
was a Leveller," Thankful added by way of explanation, and then, "an
Agitant, sir. As I was myself, in the late wars. You may be assured, Mr Farr,
that the ladies of my wife's household have as an equal interest with the men
of this nation as those divers well-affected women who presented their petition
to Parliament, those many years ago."

"A man of
principle," Farr said, and Russell smiled grimly.

"With a
history of taking up arms in defence of those principles. My wife would like to
try your coffee, Mr Farr. Make it so."

Farr bowed.
"You will, I have no doubt, be as passionate in your enthusiasm for my
coffee-house as for your principles, sir? Being, as I perceive, a man of some -
influence in the world?"

It might have
been the new suit. (Which had been
bloody
expensive, despite the
plainness of its cut. Which was dark, and sober, and which made Russell
resemble an extremely elegant raven.) It might have been that, amongst the
brightly-coloured,  embroidered, beribboned gallants, and the workmanlike
tradesmen, he looked like a falcon amongst starlings.

That, or it
might have been the unreadable expression that was so customary on his scarred
face, but whatever it was, Farr had him pegged as dangerously unpredictable,
clearly.

"Are you
trying to
bribe
my husband, sir?" Thomazine said haughtily, and
Farr raised an eyebrow at her, as if she might be a talking dog.

She smiled at
him - as balefully, she hoped, as her husband, though she had not the advantage
of his marred cheek. "If you
are
, Mr Farr, I would suggest that
admittance alone to your coffee-house may not be adequate. I might even go so
far to say that of the females who gain admittance, one or two armed with a mop
and bucket might be of greater service. If it eases your conscience, I may kilt
up my skirts and scrub your floors, because I declare, your premises stand in
need of some attention. Now. Coffee, Mr Farr. And though your floors do not
pass muster -"

"His bakery
does," Russell said, with a happy sigh. "Coffee, Mr Farr, for two.
And a dish of spiced wigs, if you would be so kind. And - we will sit as far
from the windows as may be. We are here to observe, not to
be
observed."

23

"You are a hard woman to bargain
with, Mistress Russell," her husband said contentedly, through a mouthful
of breakfast.

"Now that
is from mama's side of the family. Stop changing the subject."

Farr had been as
good as his word. He had found them the darkest, pokiest, smokiest table, as
far from the great bow window that faced onto the street as he could manage,
and Thomazine was able to sit with her back against the grubby plaster by the
chimney breast and observe the fascinating inner workings of a print shop and
coffee shop combined.

The first thing
she noticed was the
smell
. Coffee, or ink, or both combined, but it
managed to be both bitter and oily at once, and it caught at the back of her
throat and made her gag slightly. And the people, and the noise! Such a
combination of prentices, and gentlemen, and tradesmen; all kinds of men
together, wigs and polled heads and balding heads and greasy heads all bent
together over gossip and news and cups of that bubbling black brew. She could
see why such democracy might appeal to an old Leveller like her husband, but
before God, the roar of ardent conversation combined with the thump and clatter
of the printing press upstairs, and the thump and clatter of the kitchens
behind them, was fit to give a decent woman the headache of her life.

He shrugged,
looking ridiculously elegant. (He was very handsome in decent tailoring, she
thought smugly. One or two of the kitchen wenches had already spotted him, and
she took in great joy in twining her feet with his, under the table.)

"As of
about a week ago, tibber - yes." Her husband smiled his funny, lopsided
smile. "People talk such nonsense in here, maid. If you listen a minute,
you'll hear all sorts of conjecture. Who's in favour with whom, and who's
fallen from grace this week. If you listen very hard, you'll hear the same
names, too." He leaned across the table and snagged a slab of the warm
sliced bread from her plate, licking his fingers neatly of crumbs.
"Arlington. Robert Holmes. Smyrna."

She shook her
head, not understanding.

"Our fleet
attacked the Dutch fleet at Smyrna in December," he said, still dabbing
intently at her plate. "De Ruyter's men have taken to returning the
favour, this last week past." He raised his eyes to her face. "That
part is common currency. Everyone knows it."

A slow, shivery
feeling spread down her spine, as if cold water was trickling down her shift.
"Thankful, when you said the first war, you meant -"

He blinked, just
once. "Any time now, my tibber."

"Husband,"
she said coolly, "if you are hoping to impress me with this -
gossip
-?"

"Hm? Oh no,
love." He leaned across the table and quite absently took the last wedge
of her breakfast from under her very nose, buttering it neatly. Looked up from
his work, saw the look on her face, cut the spiced bread in half and set it
back on her plate. "I find the fresh air gives me something of an
appetite," he said, which was as close as she was likely to get to an
apology from that quarter.

"I'm
glad," she said, and meant it, for he looked - if not, precisely, joyous,
considerably brighter than he had looked last night. Which was possibly the
effect of having defeated an officious coffee-shop keeper and got outside most
of a loaf of very fresh bread, both in remarkably short order. "But
Thankful, what has a further war with the butterboxes got to do with
you?"