Silken Threads (21 page)

When he looked back up, she was studying her
fingertips, resting on the table. “I know that you’re...lonely for
female companionship. But this is my home, and
—
”

“It was wrong,” he said earnestly, taking a
step toward her and capturing her gaze. “It doesn’t matter why it
happened. I knew better, but I did it anyway, and now
you’re...we’re...” He raked his hair out of his face in
frustration. Why did his gift for words flee him in her
presence?

He took another few halting steps in her
direction. “Tell me what to say to make it all right,” he implored,
abashed at the faltering edge of desperation in his voice, the
tightness in his chest. She was going to make him leave. He didn’t
want to leave. He wanted to stay here, with her. “Tell me and I’ll
say it.”

She wouldn’t look up.

“Joanna...”

She looked up then. He’d never called her by
her Christian name before. Her eyes searched his. He didn’t even
try to school his features, though he knew he should. Let her look
into the empty place inside him, let her see the terrible void.
But please, God, don’t let her make me leave.

Lowering her gaze, she reached out slowly
and lifted the orange from the table. Hesitantly she said, “I...got
this at the fair. Robert
—
Robert of Ramswick, a friend of
Hugh’s
—
he gave it to me. I haven’t had one since
Montfichet.” A little shyly, she looked at him and asked, “Would
you share it with me?”

The air left Graeham’s lungs in a shaky
exhalation; relief galloped through him. She wasn’t going to make
him leave. He could stay. “Yes. Yes. Yes, I’d love to share it with
you.”

She smiled tentatively. He grinned like an
idiot.

A knocking came at the back door. “Mistress
Joanna! Mistress, it’s me
—
Olive.”

“Ah, Olive,” Joanna said. “I told her I
wanted to speak to her. She must have seen me come back.” She set
the orange on the table and started toward the back door.

Graeham picked up one of the candles and
hobbled back to the storeroom. “She mustn’t see me.”

Joanna paused at the entrance to the
hallway. “Whyever not?”

Fool.
Thinking fast, Graeham said,
“Too many people know I’m staying here as it is. ‘Tisn’t good for
your reputation for it to be obvious you’ve got a man living with
you.”

“A week ago, you argued that my reputation
wouldn’t suffer from your being here because you were crippled, and
just a boarder. Have you reconsidered, serjant?”

Propitiously, Olive chose that moment to
resume her knocking. “Mistress? Are you there?”

“You’d better let her in,” he said, and
ducked into the storeroom, drawing the curtain behind him.

He found Petronilla on the chest, dining on
the remains of the cheese. “Scat!” She leapt down and darted out
through the curtain. To his surprise, when he came farther into the
room, he saw Manfrid sitting on the windowsill. “At least you’ve
got some manners,” he muttered, lowering himself to the edge of his
cot and setting his candle down.

From the back door came muffled
voices
—
Joanna greeting Olive
—
followed by
footsteps heading into the salle. Through the leather curtain he
heard Joanna say, “Let me take your mantle, Olive. Have a seat.
Would you like some wine?”

“Nay, nothing for me, mistress. I just...I
don’t mean to impose on you.”

“You’re not imposing. I asked you to
come.”

“It’s just that...my mum...I can’t talk to
her. She’s gotten even worse of late.”

“I know.”

There came a pause. “Begging your pardon,
mistress, but what’s that?”

“It’s an orange. Have you never seen an
orange before?”

“Nay. Is it for eating?”

“It’s a fruit. They grow them...well, I’m
not sure where they grow them. Somewhere very far away. Smell
it.”

After a moment, Olive said. “Oh. Isn’t that
lovely. There’s an herb that smells a little like that.”

Graeham pinched a bit of cheese off the
block and tossed it to the floor by the window. Manfrid jumped
down, ate it, and looked at him expectantly.

He tossed another piece a little closer to
himself. The cat hesitated, then padded over to it and ate it, as
well.

Olive was telling Joanna how much she
appreciated having her to talk to. “You’ve been so kind to me,
mistress. You always have time for me. And you always know what to
tell me. You always know what’s what.”

“Not always.”

“Aye, I’ve never known a woman so wise in
the ways of things. I wish my mum was more like you.”

“Well...”

“I wish I was more like you. I wish I was
strong like you.”

“You’re strong, Olive.”

“Nay, I never could have gone through
everything you’ve been through and kept my chin up like you have.
Especially after you found out your husband was
—
”

“Olive, we...we don’t need to talk about
me.”

“Did I say something wrong, mistress?”

“Nay, of course not. I just
—
”

“Is it because I said that about Master
Prewitt? I didn’t mean to stir up sad memories. I was that sorry
when I found out what happened.”

“Olive, please...”

The girl groaned remorsefully. “There I go,
me and my mouth. I’m sorry, mistress. Sometimes I don’t know when
to hold my tongue.”

Something tickled Graeham’s bare
foot
—
Manfrid’s whiskers. Graeham broke off another crumb
of cheese and held it toward the cat in the palm of his hand.
Manfrid stared at it as if he could make it leap off Graeham’s hand
by sheer force of will.

“Olive,” Joanna said, “why don’t you tell me
what’s troubling you?”

Manfrid gazed at the cheese. Olive lapsed
into silence. Graeham sighed.

“There’s this man,” Olive said, so softly
Graeham could barely hear her. “I can’t tell you who he is.”

“Why not?”

“There’d be trouble if it was found
out...what’s transpired between us.”

“What
has
transpired between you,
Olive?”

When Olive finally spoke, her voice was damp
and hoarse. “I love him, mistress. And...and he loves me.”

“That shouldn’t be cause for tears,” Joanna
said gently. “Here
—
dry your eyes.”

Olive muttered a watery thank you.
“‘Twouldn’t be cause for tears, if only...” She sighed heavily. “If
we could marry.”

“Why can’t you marry?”

“We can’t.” The girl broke down, her words
consumed by sobs. “We can’t, we can’t.”

“There, now. Shh...It’s all right.
Everything will be all right.”

“I know I should forget him. Nothing can
come of my feelings for him. I try. I do try, I really do, but
every time I see him, it’s as if...as if my heart’s being squeezed
tight by a fist. That sounds very fanciful, I know, but I’m not
clever with words. I don’t know how else to say it.”

“You said it just fine. I know exactly how
you feel.”

“You do?”

This time it was Joanna who took her time
answering. Graeham looked toward the leather curtain, waiting for
her to speak. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, I do.”

Manfrid nudged Graeham’s hand with his wet
nose, and he realized his fingers had curled into a fist around the
bit of cheese. He opened his hand and the cat ate the tidbit, then
licked Graeham’s palm with his raspy tongue.

Olive sniffed. “I must go. Mum doesn’t know
I’m here. Thank you, mistress.”

“I’ve done nothing.”

“You listened.”

“But I didn’t help you.”

“There’s no help for me,” Olive said, calmer
now, “unless I can manage to put him out of my mind. But you let me
talk, and that’s something. If it weren’t for you, my troubles
would just fester inside me, like...like a bad tooth that never
stops aching. You can’t imagine what it’s like to have no one to
turn to.”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “I can.”

Graeham heard footsteps as Joanna escorted
Olive to the back door and let her out. He pressed himself into the
corner until the girl had passed outside both windows, then grabbed
his crutch and stood.

Manfrid mewed.

“Help yourself to the rest of the cheese,”
Graeham said magnanimously, and made his way back out to the
salle.

Joanna was sitting at the table, puzzling
over the orange. “I can’t remember how to get the peel off. I
suppose a servant always did it.”

“Give it here.” Sitting opposite her,
Graeham took the fruit and pierced the skin with his teeth, then
loosened a section of its rind with his thumb and peeled it
away.

Joanna closed her eyes and inhaled as the
orange released its exotically sweet fragrance. Graeham was
reminded of how she’d looked last night, transfixed with pleasure
as she breathed in the herbal steam rising from her bath. He
wondered if she looked that way when she was making love.

Christ, man, that’s the last thing you
should be wondering about.
Hadn’t his unruly imaginings caused
enough trouble already? He’d best keep his passions firmly tethered
during his stay here. There would be plenty of time to unleash them
once he was wedded to Phillipa.

“His name is Damian,” Graeham said as he
methodically stripped away bits of peel and white pith, which rose
in a little pile on the table in front of him.

“Whose name is Damian?”

“Olive’s secret lover.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard her with a man in the alley,
remember? She called him Damian.”

“Damian...” Joanna gaze became unfocused.
“There’s a priest at St. Olave’s named Damian.”

“A priest!” Graeham remembered the
black-cloaked man walking away from the alley after his clandestine
meeting with Olive. “I suppose he could be a priest. They have
their human weaknesses like anyone else.”

“And that would account for why they can’t
marry. But I just can’t see a man of Father Damian’s age taking up
with a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“How old is he?”

“Of middle years. Perhaps as old as
fifty.”

Graeham shook his head. “This Damian, he
sounded young.”

“It’s not him, then. Ah
—
there’s a
young man in the neighborhood, Lionel Oxwyke’s son. Master Lionel
is a money changer. He’s one of the wealthiest men in West
Cheap
—
in all of London, for that matter. He lives in that
big stone house on Milk Street next to le Fever’s.”

“The one that was built from paving
stones?”

“That’s the one. No doubt you’ve heard them
screaming at each other.”

“Those fights are one of my major sources of
entertainment.” Graeham removed the last of the peel, split a
section off and handed it to Joanna.

She held it in front of the candle’s flame,
her shimmery brown eyes taking his breath away. “It looks like a
jewel,” she said.

Don’t stare at her, for pity’s sake.
Graeham loosened a section for himself. “I seem to recall Olive
saying something about Damian’s father. I got the impression he
would disapprove if he knew about them.”

“I’m quite sure he would. Who
knows
—
perhaps that’s what they’ve been fighting about.
Those spats only started up a few weeks ago.” Joanna brought the
orange section to her mouth and lightly licked it, her expression
one of rapturous anticipation. She closed her mouth over it, juice
trickling over her lips as she bit it in half.

Jesu, don’t stare.
Graeham looked
down at his own orange section, only to find he’d crushed it in his
hand. He shoved it into his mouth and chewed; seeds crunched
between his teeth.

Joanna plucked a seed from between her lips
and placed it daintily on the table. “Damian is Lionel Oxwyke’s
only son, and his betrothal was negotiated years ago. Master Lionel
contracted for him to marry the daughter of another money changer,
the only one who’s even richer than he is, outside of the Jewry.
The girl is only nine, though, so they have to wait another three
years before the Church will permit her to marry.”

“But this Damian is formally betrothed to
her?”

“As far as I know. Damian’s father would be
livid if he proposed to marry someone else. And Master Lionel is
not the type of man one likes to anger. He’s of a choleric
temperament, much like my own sire. They say he suffers from an
excess of yellow bile, which keeps his stomach too hot, and that’s
why he’s got such a foul disposition.” Joanna slid the other half
of the orange section between her lips.

Don’t stare, don’t stare.
“That’s it,
then.” Graeham pulled off another wedge and handed it to her,
cursing the adolescent thrill that coursed through him when their
fingers touched. “That’s why Damian and Olive can’t marry.”

He ate another section, frowning as he tried
to recall the conversation he’d overheard in the alley that day.
“There was something else...something she didn’t want him to know,
but that he already knew. It seemed to distress her greatly.”

“Her mother’s madness?”

“Is her mother mad?”

“Not mad, perhaps, but...in the grip of a
powerful melancholia. Sometimes even...bereft of her senses, it
seems.”

“Has she always been this way?”

“Nay, only in the past year or so. Olive
thinks her mother had been involved in an unhappy love affair,
which I suppose is possible. Elswyth is a handsome woman for her
years
—
or she was, before she let herself go to pot.”

“And you think that’s what Olive wants to
keep hidden? That her mother is unbalanced?”

“I know she wants to keep it hidden. When
she first confided in me about Elswyth, she begged me not to tell
anyone
—
and not just because of the shame of madness. As an
apprentice, Olive is only supposed to assist her mother in
preparing the tonics and elixirs and so forth, but for months she’s
been doing it all herself
—
her mother’s unfit to do it, and
she’s long since lost interest. She sleeps till midday, then
scratches about in the medicinal garden out back
—
even in
the middle of winter, when nothing’s growing. If that came to
light, they could lose the shop. Naturally it would upset her for
Damian to know about her mother. She’d have to wonder who else
knew.”