Silken Threads (22 page)

Graeham pondered this as he ate another
orange slice. “I suppose...”

“But...” she prompted, eyeing him
astutely.

He shook his head. “That’s not quite what it
sounded like to me.”

“What did it sound like?”

“As if...as if Olive’s secret had to do with
her
.”

“If her mother’s gone mad and she’s left
running the shop, I think that has very much to do with her.”

“Yes...I’m sure you’re right.” He handed her
another slice of orange.

“No, you’re not.” She smiled at him as she
ate the fruit.

* * *

Later that evening, as Graeham was readying
himself for bed, he heard a tapping on the closed shutter of the
alley window. “Serjant?” came the feminine whisper.

He unlatched the shutters and opened them.
“Good evening, Leoda,” he said softly; Joanna was still awake,
working on her embroidery in the shop.

The whore smiled; she was prettier at night,
younger-looking. “I missed you today. I was at the Friday
fair.”

“So I gathered. Did you do well?”

“Made sixpence, but I’ll never get my kirtle
clean. I hate doing it in the woods.” She smiled seductively. “How
about a bit of company again tonight?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Leoda.
That won’t happen again.”

“I’ll be quieter coming in. She’ll never
know.”

He took her hand in his. “It’s really not
wise for you to keep coming around, Leoda.”

“Even during the day?” she asked forlornly.
“Just to talk?”

“Even during the day. I’m sorry about it,
too. I’ve enjoyed our talks.”

“You don’t want her to see me about.”

“Before last night, it wouldn’t have much
mattered if she had. But now, I’d feel...” He shook his head.

“You’re worried she’ll toss you out on your
ear if she sees me.”

Oddly, that hadn’t even occurred to him,
although she probably would. “I’m worried about her feelings,
mostly.”

“Her
feelings
.” Leoda smiled
knowingly. “Ah, it’s about feelings, is it?”

Absurdly, Graeham felt a rush of heat in his
cheeks. “Nay, it’s...not that way between us. She’s a wedded
woman.”

For a long moment Leoda contemplated her
hand in his, her conflicted expression gradually giving way to one
of determination. Looking up, she said, “Joanna Chapman’s no wedded
woman, serjant.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s a widow.”

“Nay, you just think that because her
husband’s never about. He spends most of his time abroad.”

“He was stabbed to death last summer by some
Italian whose wife he’d been diddling. Sir Hugh told me himself,
just the other day.” She smiled a little sadly. “He asked me not to
mention it to you.”

Graeham stared at her blankly, recalling
hints and implications, things he’d heard and dismissed...
I was
that sorry when I found out what happened.

Of course. Of course.

Leoda squeezed his hand. “I thought you had
a right to know.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sure she has her reasons for keeping it
from you. You shouldn’t be cross with her over it.”

“I’m not,” he said honestly
—
for how
could he fault her for her prevarications when he was guilty of the
same sin himself? He’d fabricated his reasons for being in London
and wanting to stay in her home. He’d lied to her outright dozens
of times in an effort to conceal the secret of Ada le Fever’s
parentage. Joanna’s one simple deception was relatively benign by
comparison.

“I promised Sir Hugh I wouldn’t tell you,”
Leoda said, adding despondently, “He’ll not be payin’ me any more
of his afternoon visits
—
he’ll be that vexed at me.”

“I won’t tell him you told me. I won’t even
tell him I know.”

Her eyes lit up. “Truly?”

“‘Twould ill repay you for confiding in
me.”

“You
are
a good man. I knew it from
the first.” She stroked his cheek with her free hand. “I’ve been
pleased to know you, serjant.”

“And I you.” He kissed her hand and released
it.

She sauntered away, blowing him a kiss over
her shoulder.

* * *

“Mind if I join you?” Graeham limped into
the shopfront, where Joanna had repaired, as usual, after
supper.

“No...no, of course not.” She hung a lantern
on the chain dangling over her linen-draped embroidery frame and
took a seat on the little folding stool in front of it. “There’s no
place for you to sit, though.”

“This will do.” He sat on a large chest
tucked beneath the shuttered front window, stretching his splinted
leg out to the side so he could lean back against the wall.

In the three weeks he’d been living here,
he’d rarely set foot in this part of the house. During the day he
was wary of being seen, especially by Olive, whose apothecary shop
was directly across the street. At night he generally retired to
the storeroom to read by candlelight before turning in, while
Joanna worked on her embroidery.

He’d always felt a little hesitant about
imposing himself on her while she was occupied with such a
solitary, creative pursuit. And, too, he’d never been one to depend
on the company of others, a trait he’d grown smug about over the
years. But that smugness evaporated when it came to Joanna Chapman.
He savored her company, reveled in it, craved it. Tonight he fell
damned near starved for it.

She lifted the linen dust cover from her
embroidery frame, revealing an untouched length of white silk twill
waxed around the edges and lashed tight to the wooden struts. A
basket sat on the little work table next to her. Pulling it closer,
she sorted through its neatly packed supplies
—
needles on a
parchment card, various fringes and braids, brushes, a measuring
rod, clay jars, quills, a number of short sticks wound with
colorful silken threads, and for some reason, a feather duster.

Joanna chose a goose quill and a piece of
willow charcoal from the basket. She broke off about an inch of the
charcoal, pared down one end with a penknife, and inserted it in
the tip of the quill.

“Clever,” Graeham said.

“One of Lady Fayette’s little tricks.” With
this ingenious charcoal pen, Joanna began sketching a design of
curved lines and circles onto the silk. He watched her in profile,
her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked.

She had removed her veil before coming in
here to work, not realizing Graeham would follow her. The amber
lamplight ignited the gold in her hair, tendrils of which had
sprung loose from her single braid to curl around her cheeks and
nape. She wore her violet linen kirtle tonight, which was as plain
and patched as her two woollen gowns, but a bit more pleasingly
snug around her breasts and waist and hips. Graeham contemplated
the elegantly sensuous curve of her back as she leaned over her
work.

Two weeks had passed since the Friday fair
and the revelation about Joanna’s widowhood
—
a fortnight of
interminable days and long, lonely nights on his solitary little
cot. Sometimes, after Joanna climbed the ladder to the solar at
night, he would lie very still in the dark, listening for the groan
of certain floorboards as she trod upon them, the faint squeak of
the bedropes
—
apparently directly above him
—
as she
lay down and shifted to get comfortable.

After giving it some thought, he’d decided
not to tell her that he knew about Prewitt’s death, not just for
Leoda’s sake, but because he understood and sympathized with her
determination to pass herself off as a wedded woman. Undoubtedly
the pretense made her feel better about his staying here; insulated
by her presumed matrimony, she could keep him at a
respectable
—
and safe
—
distance.

Curious as to what pains she’d taken to
maintain her deception, Graeham had several times casually
mentioned Mistress Joanna’s husband to Thomas Harper, whereupon the
leper had swiftly changed the subject, clearly discomfited; no
doubt she’d asked Thomas not to reveal her widowhood to Graeham,
just as Hugh had asked Leoda. Suspicious of everyone now, Graeham
had even broached the subject of Prewitt Chapman with young Adam,
who’d taken to coming around from time to time, but the boy had
clearly never even heard of the man, nor met Joanna.

Deep inside, Graeham wanted her to tell him
the truth, to look him in the eye and say, “I’m a widow
—
no
man has a claim on me.” His heart wanted this, ached for this...but
he was old enough to know better than to trust the impulses of his
heart. His rational mind knew far better. Joanna had constructed
this subterfuge for a reason, and a good one. She was well advised
to keep Graeham at a distance; as an unlanded soldier, he could
only worsen her already dire prospects. As for Graeham, he’d best
remember that he was, for all intents and purposes, a betrothed
man. He had no business cultivating an infatuation with Joanna
Chapman when he would soon be wed to someone else
—
a
wedding he mustn’t jeopardize, lest he forfeit the estate that came
with the lady Phillipa’s hand.

Striving to keep his mind off Joanna,
Graeham had spent the past fortnight maintaining his vigilant
surveillance of Rolf le Fever’s house, an effort that seemed more
futile with each passing day. Ada le Fever’s sickroom window
remained shuttered, while her husband came and went as if naught
were amiss. One night he’d spirited a woman through the back door
and up to his bedchamber, not bothering to shutter the window while
he’d coaxed her out of her sable-trimmed mantle, jeweled cap and
opulent tunic; her beauty had been marred by pockmarked cheeks, but
she’d been buxom, with striking white-blond hair. She’d laughed as
he’d tied her to the bedposts
—
at which point Graeham had
shuttered his own window, ashamed of having watched as long as he
had.

He wondered if the guildmaster ever climbed
the stairs to the solar, where Ada le Fever passed her days and
nights. When was the last time he’d actually seen his ailing wife
in the flesh?

Joanna’s drawing was taking form as a tree
with gracefully drooping branches on which were suspended a dozen
or more weighty spheres.

“A fruit tree?” Graeham inquired.

“An orange tree.” Her shoulders rose in a
small shrug. “I’ve been thinking about oranges of late.”

He smiled; for some reason, that pleased
him. “What is it going to be when it’s done?”

“A scarf.”

“You draw beautifully,” he said, leaning
closer for a better look. Her lines were light, fluid, and executed
with a dexterity born of long practice.

She glanced at him from beneath her dark
lashes. “Thank you.”

“Do you always create your designs this
freely? Just...thinking them up and sketching them out like
this?”

“Oh, no
—
generally I use a pattern.
I’ve been collecting them for years. Some I made myself and others
were gifts from Lady Fayette. They’re in that box on the floor.”
She smiled. “Would you care to choose a border for this scarf?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Go on
—
open the box and
take a look.”

Graeham lifted the box
—
a large,
flat document chest
—
onto his lap and flipped open the
leather-hinged lid. Stacked on top were a number of stencils cut
from white silk.

“The borders are underneath,” she said.

Setting the stencils aside, Graeham found
sheets of parchment scraped extraordinarily thin and oiled to make
them transparent. Each one had a repetitive image inked onto
it
—
flowering vines, networks of circles, interwoven knots,
grape clusters, fleurs-de-lis, scrolls, circular medallions,
stylized leaves and various geometric patterns. Holes had been
pricked along the outlines of the images; traces of chalk and
charcoal clung to the templates.

“That
—
” she nodded toward the wall
hanging above her “
—
will give you an idea of how those
borders will look once they’re stitched.” The banner of ivory silk
was embroidered in a variety of different designs. All the borders
were represented, as well as a number of animals
—
a bird
with a nestful of young, a rampant lion, an eagle, a squirrel
collecting acorns, a frolicking monkey, a peacock spreading its
tail and a dragon spewing fire. There were crosses, saints, angels,
lovers, beasts, flowers, a king and queen, and, interestingly, a
woman bending over an embroidery frame.

“What is that hanging for?” he asked. “Why
did you make it?”

“‘Tis a sampler of my work,” she said, still
sketching away. “If a customer wants something special, she can
pick the design and I’ll embroider it.”

“You take commissions?”

“No, not really. I mean, I do. I have. I
made a very elaborate pair of cuffs for Alderman Huxley last year,
and a purse for his wife. But most of my customers aren’t in the
market for more than a new pair of garters or a hair ribbon. And
even if they were, they couldn’t afford my prices. Work like that
is time-consuming, and I charge good coin for it.”

“Then it could be very lucrative work for
you
—
more lucrative than the shop
—
if you could
cultivate the right customers.”

She glanced at him. “A while ago
—
it
was during the Friday fair, actually
—
I got to thinking
about the time I visited the Tower of London as a girl. There were
beautiful embroidered cushions on all the chairs and benches, and
decorative hangings on the walls. The queen and her ladies had the
most exquisite panels and bands sewn onto their
tunics
—
satin stitched in gold with hundreds of pearls and
garnets and silver plaques sewn in. And they all had such lovely
girdles and purses.”