Love's Labyrinth (15 page)

A gentle knock on the door startled her. She slid out of bed, reached for the light woolen robe that, like most of their clothing, was a hand-me-down from Nicholas and Geoffrey’s mother, and padded to the door, the smooth wooden boards cool beneath her bare feet. “Yes?” She opened the door a crack and saw Janet, with a tray, and two of the younger maids, each with a large bucket of steaming water.

“Breakfast, mistress. And Lord Nicholas thought ye’d like to bathe afore your journey. He ordered up a bath.”

A bath, thought Olivia with a sigh. Bless Nicholas. She’d seen at once how labor-intensive it was to bathe. Buckets and buckets of hot water had to be hauled up from the kitchens, and in the five days since they’d appeared in the sixteenth century, the two women had only washed their hair once, and taken sponge baths. She opened the door wider and the maids marched in, followed by Janet and her tray. Behind them, she heard heavy pounding on the stairs.

Janet placed the tray on the table. “That’ll be the tub, mistress,” she said, nodding toward the door. The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the door flew open and two men, struggling with a large wooden tub, staggered in. Olivia glanced at Alison, who was still sleeping as soundly as ever. Alison would welcome a bath as well.

She stood aside while the men carried in the tub and placed it before the empty hearth. A low wooden screen was next. A procession of maids carried in bucket after bucket of hot water, while Olivia ate her breakfast of coarse brown bread and softened cheese. Finally, Janet added a packet of scented herbs to the steaming water. When the tub was nearly full, she brought in several linen towels and a rough bar of soap and placed them on the table. “The bath’s ready, mistress,” she said, her round face earnest. If she thought to question the sudden appearance of the two women, she was too utterly loyal to both Talcott brothers to breathe a suspicious word or to ask a potentially unsettling question.

Olivia slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the hot water. The water closed over her shoulders, and she settled back against the wooden tub with a sigh. Suddenly she’d never felt so dirty in all her life. She raised one leg out of the water and surveyed it critically.

From the other side of the screen, she heard Janet gathering up the breakfast tray. “I’ll come back in a few minutes to help ye dress, mistress. Is there anything else ye require?”

Olivia hesitated, considering. “
Yes,
” she said on impulse. “A razor.”

“A razor?” Janet peered around the screen, incredulity winning over modesty. “Did I hear ye say ye want a razor?”

“If one’s available?” Olivia asked, deciding to brazen out her request. There might be plenty of things she could miss about the twentieth century, but she wasn’t going to give up shaving her underarms and legs if at all possible.

Janet nodded, clearly mystified. “I’ll—I’ll just go see if I can find one from his lordship or Master Geoffrey.” The old woman carried the tray out, still wearing a puzzled expression.

Olivia ducked down beneath the water, separating the long strands of her hair with her fingers. She surfaced, reached for the soap and, working up a satisfactory lather, managed to wash her hair. She rinsed, just in time to see Janet peering around the screen once more, a straight-edged razor in her hand.

“Lord Nicholas sent this with his compliments, mistress.” Olivia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the woman’s dubious expression. Loyal as she might be, this was clearly one request she’d never heard.

“Thank you, Janet.” Olivia reached for the razor with all the nonchalance she could muster. She closed her fingers cautiously over the blade, and smiled a dismissal at Janet as if she handled straight-edged razors every day of her life. “That’s all.”

“Ye’ll be wanting nothing more, then, mistress?”

“Not at the moment.”

“I’ll come back to help ye dress, then.” With another shake of her head, the older woman was gone.

Olivia took a deep breath and placed the razor carefully on the edge of the tub. She picked up the soap and worked it into a lather beneath her right arm. She gingerly picked up the razor and was about to apply it to her underarm when Alison’s voice made her jump.

“Liv! Where on earth did that bath come from?”

She looked up to see Alison peering over the screen, and carefully lowered her arm. “They brought it in while you were sleeping.”

“Could I use one of those! Think they’ll mind bringing more water up for me?”

“I wouldn’t think so—especially since they have the bath all set up. And look—look what I have.” Olivia held up the razor.

“That’s a razor? You’re going to use that to shave your legs? Geez, Liv, that looks more like a murder weapon. Be careful with that thing, huh?”

“I’ll try.” Gritting her teeth, Olivia gently stroked the sharp edge across her skin, and was gratified to see the short hairs disappear. “Well. It works.”

“Just be careful,” came Alison’s voice from the other side of the screen.

“Don’t worry.” Working as carefully and as quickly as she could, Olivia managed to shave her legs and her underarms. She washed and rinsed herself all over and stepped out of the tub, reaching for one of the linen towels. She wrapped it around her hair, as Alison handed her the other. “I did it,” she said as she wrapped her robe around herself. “No nicks or scrapes. I feel like a new woman.”

Alison opened her mouth to reply when a knock at the door forestalled further conversation. “Come in?”

Janet peered around the door. “Mistress Olivia? Are ye finished wi’ yer bath, then?”

“Yes,” Olivia answered, “and I’m ready to get dressed. Would it be too much trouble to bring up a bath for Mistress Alison?”

“I have the maids heating up the water now, mistress. Lord Nicholas said he thought she’d like a bath, as well.”

“My, my,” murmured Alison, with a wink at Olivia. “So the handsome prince can be charming, after all.”

“He lent me his razor, too,” Olivia replied over her shoulder.

“Lord Nicholas’s seeing to the horses, mistress. He means to leave wi’in the hour, if you please.”

“Then let’s dress.” Olivia slipped out of her robe and into the linen smock Janet held up. Alison watched as the dressing was accomplished in less time than Olivia had expected. Janet, who’d been Lady Talcott’s maid, was obviously an expert at dressing a lady of her supposed station.

Over the smock, Janet laced on the bodice, a tightly fitted, sleeveless garment of dark green wool that combined the functions of bra and corset all at once. Next, a padded roll was laced around Olivia’s hips. This would provide something close to the fashionable shape created by a hooped farthingale, but without the restrictions of movement that the farthingale would create. Next, two petticoats, one of russet, the other of the same dark green as the bodice, were laced into place. Over the embroidered sleeves of the smock, Janet laced two sleeves of dark green lined with russet, which had been slashed to allow the embroidery on the smock to show through. As a final step, she helped Olivia garter her russet stockings, and lace on ankle-length riding boots of polished black leather. The boots fit a little loosely, having been purchased from a cobbler in a shop in Sevenoaks, the nearest village. But, thought Olivia as she smoothed her petticoats and sat down to allow Janet to braid her still damp hair, they would have to do. Janet placed a white coif around her braids and set a felt hat of dark green, with a russet feather, at a jaunty angle on Olivia’s head. She rose and turned to Alison, who’d been watching silently as she’d munched her breakfast bread-and-cheese, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“Well, what do you think?”

Alison shook her head slowly, still chewing. She swallowed. “Honest to God, Liv, you look—you just look great!” She shot an apologetic glance at Olivia, realizing at once that she sounded much too twentieth century. They had agreed that Alison would try to restrict her speech as much as possible in the presence of anyone other than Nicholas or Geoffrey. She swallowed hard again, and added, much less emphatically, “You look very nice, Liv. Really.”

“Thank you.” Olivia winked.

“I’ll be telling Lord Nicholas ye’re ready,” said Janet, gathering up the bath things. “Mistress Alison, the girls have started heating up the water for your bath—they’ll be up directly to fill it.”

Alison smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” she said, her manner far more subdued.

Olivia waited until Janet had closed the door, then burst into giggles. “Allie, you’d better watch yourself.”

“Thank God I’m not going along on this trip, huh? I’d have poor old Nicholas hung in no time.”

“Don’t even joke like that,” Olivia said. She wrapped her arms around herself and gave a mock shiver. “But really—you think I look okay?”

“Liv, you look like the real thing. You look great. You look just like that picture in the pub. Remember?” Alison wagged her finger. “I’m telling you—that picture was you.”

“I’d better go.” Olivia leaned over and hugged her friend. “You be good now. You hear?”

“’Yes, Mom.”

The two friends exchanged a long look, and Olivia knew that both of them realized this could, possibly, be the last time they saw each other. “I’ll see you.”

“Count on it.” Alison winked.

With another quick hug, Olivia left the room, wiping away a surreptitious tear. She was being silly. Of course she’d see Alison again. Of course they’d be together. How could they not? She went down the steps, consciously composing her face.

Nicholas was waiting in the hall, speaking to his agent, Miles Coddington. Both men looked up as she entered the hall. A surprised look crossed Nicholas’s face, and it occurred to her that this was the first time he had ever seen her wearing the real accouterments of a woman of his own time, not to mention his mother’s recut dress. His ideas of what was attractive were shaped, of course, by the time and place of his upbringing. But her metamorphosis into an Elizabethan lady seemed to have touched some entirely different place in him, for his eyes met hers with a new and deeper light, and his voice, as he addressed her, had a new and richer timbre. “Mistress—” He stopped, paused, smiled, and said, “My lady.” He bowed.

Olivia gave a short laugh and curtsied. “My lord.” She walked over to the two men. “Master Coddington.”

“Mistress Olivia.” Miles Coddington was a middle-aged man, in his late forties to mid-fifties, Olivia judged. It was difficult for her to guess a person’s age in this time, because she assumed that people generally aged faster in the past than they did in the future. His broad face and light blue eyes were open and direct. “My lord’s told me about your helping him by pretending to be his wife, mistress. He’s doing a worthy thing, and bless you for helping him to do it.” He tugged his forelock.

“Thank you, Master Coddington.” She knew this was someone who could be trusted. Nicholas had explained that Miles Coddington was a veteran of many battles, having served on a number of privateer vessels and, most recently, with Leicester’s men in the Low Countries. Nicholas had met him there and been impressed with his gallantry and innate nobility. When the war ended, Miles had been wounded and impoverished. Nicholas had offered him the position of agent at Talcott Forest, and Miles had turned his hand to running the estates with the same efficiency he’d run a privateer ship. A slight limp was the only evidence of his injuries. How much Nicholas had told her about the way of life here, she thought with a start, as she met his dark blue eyes. It was the best history lesson she’d ever received.

Nicholas was looking at her with that new intensity and, unnerved, she momentarily lowered her lashes. “I’m ready.”

“So I see.” He smiled at her again and took her hand with a sudden casual gesture that seemed so natural she was startled once more by its very easiness. “I agree with you, Miles, on what to do with the lower forty. See that those fences are mended, and hire as many as you need to get the harvest in. It looks as if we’re in for a fair spell of weather—I’d like to see as much done by St. Bart’s day as you can manage.”

He turned once more to Olivia. “Shall we be on our way, then, madam?” He smiled a farewell to Miles over her head as he led her away and, for a moment, Olivia had the unnerving feeling that he was treating her exactly as he would were she, in fact, his wife. Her heart beat faster, and a little voice in her mind whispered:
Stop it. You’re behaving like a silly adolescent. Where do you think this could lead?
With a sigh, she forced herself to heed the voice of her more sensible side. As they reached the threshold of the house, Nicholas paused and turned to face her.

Her heart once again beat faster, but his words fell like a shock of icy water on her flushed cheeks and fluttering lashes. “Let me look at you.” It was said with the same terse disdain he’d used just a few days ago, less than an hour after her arrival with Alison in the sixteenth century. She raised her face slowly and met chill blue. She must’ve been dreaming, she thought. There was no more interest in Nicholas’s gaze than if she’d been the milch cow he’d first made her feel like.

“You’ll do very well, mistress. I must say, I am impressed at old Janet’s efforts. Now, you do remember all I’ve told about this trip? Our names are Master Stephen Steele, esquire, and his wife, Mistress Katherine Steele. We’re on pilgrimage to Notre Dame in Paris, and we receive a message that causes us to turn back to home.”

“Why?” She met his eyes with a look of cool determination. She would show him that while she may well be a stranger in a strange land, she was not without wits.

He blinked. “Why what?”

“Whyfore are we on our way to Paris, my lord husband? What boon do we beg? What cure do we seek? Is’t an old war wound of yours, sir? Or perhaps something that prevents the growth of your seed in my womb?” She raised her chin and cocked her head, eyes dancing.

A glint of humor made his lips quirk, and momentarily she thought she saw that new look glimmer in his eyes, but whatever flame there was, was immediately dashed. “Point scored, mistress. We’ll say… an old war wound of mine that makes me incapable of planting a seed in your womb.” Another fleeting smile lifted the corner of his mouth.