The Rogue's Princess (12 page)

‘Well, aye, Mercy told me. Surely she’s told you the same?’

‘Too late to save her reputation. This player,’ he spat the word like a curse, ‘confronted us at church. There will be none ignorant of her shame before the evening service.’

‘Mercy, is this true?’ whispered Rose, hand at her throat.

‘For the love of God, sir, I but kissed her – once and most innocently,’ exploded Kit. ‘She is untouched, any fool can tell!’

John Hart pointed to the still open door. ‘Out! Out, you blaspheming wretch!’

‘What have I done now?’ cried Kit. ‘I love your daughter, sir. That is my only crime.’

‘You took Our Lord’s name in vain.’ John Hart cast about him for some way of forcibly ejecting the tall actor. ‘Edwin, put the man out!’

Edwin paled, but manfully dashed for his rapier that hung by the fireplace. He waggled it in the direction of the door. ‘Get thee gone, player.’

Exasperated beyond what he could bear, Kit threw up two hands in despair. ‘Peace, peace. I’ll go.’ He clenched a fist, one finger pointing accusingly at Edwin. ‘But don’t you dare blame your sister for any of this. If I hear you’ve made her cry one tear over this sorry affair, I will demand satisfaction from you!’

Mercy scrubbed a wrist across her eyes. ‘Kit, please go.’

Unable to leave her like this, surrounded by hostile relatives, Kit hastened to her side, ignoring the blade in Edwin’s hand. Daring them with a look to stop him, he hugged her to his chest, brushing her tears away with his thumb. ‘Please believe me when I say I only meant to honour you, to woo you like you should be wooed. Forgive me for bringing trouble upon you – it was not my intent.’

She nodded against his chest.

‘Unhand my daughter, sir!’ spluttered John Hart.

Kit gently set her aside and walked stiffly out of the door without another word.

The family stood in silence for a few awful moments.

‘Sister Rose,’ began John Hart, clearing his throat against the emotion that had lodged there, ‘I offered you sanctuary after your unfortunate lapse, thinking you genuinely repented of your error, but it seems I was wrong. Your actions took
my daughter to a place of dissolute company, exposed her to insults and furthered the pretensions of that … that man.’

Rose let her hands drop to her side, her smart blue felt hat falling to the floor. ‘What are you saying, John? You blame me?’

‘Perchance you did not intend any of this, nor did I when I gave permission for her to go, but nonetheless your example has weakened my daughter when the Devil came calling. She would not have even thought to venture to such places without you putting the idea in her head. These are dangerous years for girls of her age – a time of temptation and trials of the flesh. I cannot allow her to fall through lack of vigilance. I think it is time you found yourself another lodgings.’

‘What?’ gasped Mercy. How had this become about Rose when it had been her own behaviour that brought Kit to their door? Her father couldn’t do this to her aunt – not because of her!

‘I will give you money, of course,’ continued John Hart, ignoring his daughter’s cry.

Rose swallowed, not having the luxury of being able to refuse his charity. ‘I see. I will look for a new place immediately.’

‘Please, Father, it’s all my fault!’ begged Mercy. ‘I was the one who encouraged Kit – not her!’

John Hart’s face was set. ‘Do not interfere, child, this is between your aunt and myself. She knows her presence here is a problem for more than just you.’

‘But you can’t … please! I’ll be good – so very, very good, I promise!’ Tears dampened Mercy’s ruff, making the neat folds sag. She sank on her knees to grab the hem of her father’s doublet, feeling as if, like a tallow candle, she was melting away in the heat of his anger. ‘Please don’t send her away.’

Rose clucked her tongue, knelt beside her and folded her sobbing niece into her arms. ‘Don’t take on so, Mercy. You are not to blame.’

‘But I am!’ Mercy’s shoulders heaved in hopeless sobs. She had tried so hard, but as always she had failed and she couldn’t even remember why or how. Had it been the kiss? Or the singing? Or her appearance attracting the advances of horrid men? Whatever the cause, she had been found not good enough and now this earthquake had been sent to shake their family apart.

‘Mercy, cease this unseemly display and go to your chamber,’ barked John Hart, his short temper a sign that he was uncomfortable with the harsh judgement he had just passed on his sister-in-law. ‘I want you to spend the remainder of the day reflecting on your behaviour and pray to God that he will save your good name in the eyes of our fellow believers.’

‘Oh, John, is that all you can think of?’ asked Rose mockingly, helping Mercy to her feet. ‘Her good name when you’ve broken her heart?’

‘To your room, Mercy!’ bellowed her father.

Not wishing to anger him further, Mercy nodded and slid from her aunt’s embrace, taking the stairs to her room like a thief to the gallows.

Kit stood at the river’s edge at the Southwark end of London Bridge looking back at Mercy’s house, which, like the others, seemed too heavy for the structure to hold up – a row of fat-bottomed merchants seated on a spindly bench. How had that meeting gone so wrong so quickly? He had convinced himself in the solitary contemplation of his bedchamber that if he
approached Hart on the neutral ground of a church, appealed to his Christian charity and found out what he needed to do in order to earn the right to court Mercy, then all would be well. But rash, so rash! Instead he had caused his lady much suffering and been barred from the door.

The rising tide licked at his boots. The evil-smelling shore was undergoing one of its twice-daily scourings. All to the good, for the river was the receptacle of all that was foul in London. Yet for John Hart no amount of washing would make this player clean enough for his daughter. Kit moved back before the leather of his boots was ruined, clambered up the muddy bank and climbed the short flight of steps at the top. A party of card-playing boatmen watched him, wondering if he was a prospective fare, then lost interest when he made no sign of engaging their services.

Should he give up? He was no idealist, having been raised in a hard school where blows had far outnumbered loving touches. The cynical part of his character reminded him that it was foolish to trust powerful feelings created by so brief an acquaintance – they were akin to a violent illness, striking overnight and carrying off the victim by morning. Not used to this sensation of self-doubt, Kit sat on the low wall at the top of the steps, staring at the back of Mercy’s house, seeking some sign, some guidance that what he felt was not insane.

A window on the top floor opened and a white-coifed head appeared in the gap, leaning on folded arms, heedless of the cold day. Kit felt a stab in his gut. It was Mercy, still sobbing, but hoping none would hear her if she took her tears outside. Oh God, this was not fair. He would give his right arm to be allowed to comfort her.

‘Oi, master, are you going to sit there all day or leave space for our customers?’ challenged one hairy specimen of a boatman, eyebrows like a tortoiseshell butterfly caterpillars on his pale cabbage of a face.

Kit offered him in return the traditional finger of a Londoner. Dismissing the men, Kit turned his back on them. He knew what he should do. He jumped down the steps and grabbed a stick from the shore. The tide was not yet so high as to cover the mud – he had canvas enough for what he intended.

‘What’s the daft gallant doing?’ laughed another of the card players, his features resembling one of those mischievous monkeys kept as pets by court ladies.

‘Writing something.’ The boatman threw down his cards to watch.

‘What does it say?’

The man shrugged. ‘Can’t read. Can you?’

‘Only my name.’

The boatman slapped his friend on the back. ‘Well, mate, I’ve got news for you: I don’t think he’s writing your name down there, not with all those curly folderols and hearts.’

Kit blocked out the mocking voices of the boatmen to concentrate on his message. There was something soothing about running the stick through the sandy mud, creating perfect patterns.

My thoughts are wing’d with hopes

My hopes with love.

He didn’t want to shame her further by writing her name on mud for all London to see, but if she looked up and read it she
would know it was for her. Unfortunately the tide was rising, threatening to obliterate his careful pattern, and she still had her head buried in her arms. This wasn’t working as well as it would do in a play. There the maiden would by chance look up and see the lover’s message; today he would have to take more drastic measures.

‘Mercy Hart!’ he bellowed through cupped hands over the sounds of the city. He was helped by the relative peace of Sabbath, which meant fewer carts were thumping over the bridge.

Mercy sat up and wiped her eyes on a sleeve, looking in every direction but the right one for the source of the cry. He smiled despite himself: someone really needed to look after that girl.

‘Mercy Hart!’ Kit began jigging on the shore, waving his stick. ‘Over here!’

Finally his maiden turned the right way, two hands covering her mouth as she gasped with surprise.

He blew her a kiss. ‘I love you, Mercy Hart!’ He stepped aside to point to his message word by word. He could see she was mouthing each word with him. Throwing his arms wide he acted out the sentiment:

‘
My thoughts …
’ He tapped his head.

‘
Are wing’d …
’ Here he flapped like a bird, laughing as she began to smile.

‘
With hopes …
’ He threw his arms wide and went on one knee, the posture of a supplicant.

‘
My hopes with love.
’ His laughter died and he clasped his hands to his heart.

The boatman behind him chuckled. ‘Aye, if the maid don’t
want him, I think we should put him on stage. He’s almost as good as a play.’

The other card player squinted at Kit as he picked his nose with a stubby finger. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen him there already. My daughter’s been in a flutter about a man very like him.’

‘That’d explain it. Only a theatre lad would make such a spectacle of himself.’

But they were wrong. To his delight, as he watched, Mercy copied his actions, first touching her head, then fluttering her arms, and finally pressing her hands to her heart. She did not shout that she loved him, but there was no need: he understood what she could not say.

‘I will find a way!’ he called over the water. ‘I promise you – I will.’

Mercy watched until the very last letter of Kit’s message was washed away by the tide. He had long since gone, leaving her with a flock of kisses blown to her window. She had pretended to catch each one and put them to her lips to his cheers of approval.

The tide reached the steps and Mercy closed the window. Taking out her journal, she made note of the day’s events with a single word.
Disaster
. She added her spiritual thought.

Dear God, I love Kit Turner.

Then she tallied up her score for the day.

Scripture verses read: 65
(the lesson at church had been a long one).

Prayers said: 1
(she had been repeating the same one: ‘Please let me find a way to love Kit and stay a Hart).

Sinful thoughts: too many to count
(she had been breaking the
commandment to honour thy father and mother with almost every other thought).

Slapping the book shut, she put it back under the mattress, then strode about the room, caged with her turmoil. Maybe she wouldn’t keep a journal any more. There was little point as she could see no improvement, only a record of her continuing failures. Soul-searching may be good for most God-fearing folk, but for her it was an endless spiral down, not the purifying experience she had been promised.

A strange feeling bubbled up inside her. If she had to put a name to it, she would call it ‘rebellion’. Her father was in error. For the first time in her life Mercy questioned his judgement. Oh, he could scold her for her faults – she had too many to enumerate – and she would accept the correction, but he had been plain wrong to eject Kit without a hearing and to tell Aunt Rose she had to find a new home.

‘Father is mistaken.’ She whispered the words daringly, half expecting a bolt of heavenly displeasure to strike her. Nothing happened. She said it a bit louder. ‘Father is wrong.’ See, even God agreed because He had not punished her.

The heavy tread of boots on stairs warned her of her father’s approach. She had been expecting his visit for a while now; he would want to make sure she was drawing the right conclusions from her time of spiritual reflection.

He opened the door. Mercy remained standing with her back to the window, holding on to the sill behind her. The full light fell on him, revealing the white hairs threading his chestnut locks, two paler streaks in his beard either side of his mouth. She had not realized that he was getting old; he had always seemed the still point round which everything else in
the family revolved, unchanging and unquestioned.

‘Father.’

‘Mercy, my dear, we need to talk about what passed below.’

She nodded.

John Hart closed the door and stood, leaving the expanse of the room between them. ‘I know you think I am angry with you, but this is not the case.’

He could have fooled her.

‘You are very young still. You could not be blamed for falling into error. Much more experienced women than you would have done the same, as I think your grandmother, in her own special way, made clear.’

This was the problem about crossing her father’s will: he always sounded so reasonable. He didn’t beat his children or lock them away with only bread and water to eat as other parents did; he heaped his love on them like burning coals. Jesus had had it right when he said the best way to respond to enemies was to forgive them.

John Hart ran his fingers over her writing desk, absent-mindedly tracing the outline of the inkstand and pen. ‘I imagine you have no idea what depths of sin such a one as Turner must have plumbed in his life – I pray you never find out. The only way for a God-fearing girl to behave when confronted by one such as him is to separate yourself from the source of temptation.’ He pushed the ink further away from the quill, fearing to see the white feather soiled by the contact.