The Devil You Know (17 page)
Rose started quietly at the history faculty. She took a spot in the back of the class, listened politely to the professors, and took notes. She never bothered to ask questions. What would be the point of that? She understood what they were saying. Rose cared more about getting out and taking the bus back home, walking around her neighbourhood and looking for more properties.
‘Miss Fiorello.’
Rose stopped, startled. Professor Bartlett was calling her. She
paused on her way out of the lecture hall. Had she done something
wrong? He’d seen her taking notes. She never talked in his class.
‘Yes?’
‘Come here, please.’ Bartlett was in his late forties, a crisp, neat
and rather effeminate man, with a manicure and a piercing stare. He
was also her favourite lecturer. Rose never missed even one of his
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talks on the Renaissance. t,eluctantly, she walked up to the front of
the hall, where he was standing by the podium. ‘You have an appointment? A job to go to?’ ‘Not exactly,’ Rose said.
‘I’m having a symposium tonight. Various students will be attending. It’s a discussion group on Elizabeth I. I would like you to come.’
‘I really-‘
‘It’s an invitation-only group,’ Bartlett said. He shrugged. ‘If you are not interested, it’s not compulsory. This is extra work, without credit of any kind. There’s nothing in it for you except academic interest.’
Td love to come.’ 1Kose smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Professor.’
‘We’ll be meeting in my rooms at five-thirty.’ He gave her the directions and turned back to gathering up his notes.
Rose walked out of the lecture hall and headed to the library. She could sit and read there without having to spend a dollar on a cup of coffee. Also, nobody could bother her. Rose didn’t like to wait around for guys to hit on her. Ever since William 1Kothstein, and
then Mike Chastain, she’d avoided boys.
“
All they wanted to do was tfuck her, use her. She guessed that “)ne
day she’d meet a ‘nice’ man, whatever that was - somebody like r
father, just a little smarter. Rose blushed with disloyalty at the
thought, but she instinctively knew that intelligence was the single
most important thing for her. She shared a culture, a faith and a
childhood with her parents, but what she didn’t share was genes.
She was cut from a different cloth, and it wasn’t simply a matter of
her dusky skin and ice-blue eyes, her slanting cheekbones and the
tall, slim frame that could not have come from her mother. Her
father was hard-working, but he had no dreams, no ambition. All of
which, and the brains to achieve them, were millions of miles from
Paul and Daniella. Not from their daughter.
But there would be time to find this nice guy after she’d got
where she needed to go. When she was a millionaire and had ruined
lKothstein Realty, then she could get married. Right now, Rose
wasn’t even looking.
She pored over her notes on the Papal States Until.five-twenty,
then grabbed her papers and headed off to Professor Bartlett’s rooms.
Rose might have mistrusted the invitation, but she was pretty sure
Bartlett swung from the other side of the plate. Anyway, she loved
his lectures.
Rose grudgingly guessed that since she was at Columbia, she
might as well get a real education.
She knocked on the door.
‘Who is it?’ demanded Bartlett’s soft, rather breathy voice. ‘Rose Fiorello.’ ‘Come in, please.’
The door opened and IKose found herself in a room which would have been spacious were it not for the books everywhere - stacked in piles on the table, on chairs, on the floor, looking as though they multiplied themselves when people weren’t watching, like Tribbles in Star Trek. There were two couches and two chairs ranged on a rare book-free stretch of floor, and students were already sitting perched upon them.
There were eight in total. Marion Watson was bookish and always asked Bartlett questions; Rose wasn’t surprised to see her here. Apart from herself, Marion was the only woman. The others were all kids whom she regarded as ‘keen’ - library hounds and lecture hogs who signed up for courses they weren’t even studying, just for fun: Keith Jones, Tommy Crawford, Hank Javits, Peter Blake, Brad Oliver. Two others she didn’t recognise; one was small and skinny, the other taller than herself, and muscular. He had brown hair and hazel eyes fringed with dark, thick lashes, and a square, masculine jaw with a touch of five o’clock shadow. Rose noticed his confidence - his arrogance - first. Then her eyes flickered over the suit and the shoes. She had seen suits like those before - in the front windows of Saks.
Her gaze darted to his wrist. Yeah, there was a 1Lolex there. How predictable, Rose thought.
‘Now we are all assembled, I’ll make the introductions,’ Professor
Bartlett said. ‘Everybody, this is 1Lose Fiorello.’
There was a chorus of greeting.
‘I know everybody,’ Rose said, ‘apart from these two … gentlemen.’
‘This is Stanley Young,’ Bartlett said, indicating the weedy kid, ‘and this is Jacob 1Lothstein.’
‘Hi,’ Stanley said. Jacob nodded at her, his dark eyes examining her in the way men usually did.
‘Of 1Kothstein Realty?’ Rose joked.
Jacob looked annoyed. ‘I prefer not to talk about that, if you don’t mind.’
Rose sat down sharply. A flush of shock had hit her, creeping
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from her neck right up to her hairline. Her heart started to race and she felt a sheen of sweat hit her skin.
We
entire group caught her reaction.
‘Ihdidn’t mean to embarrass you,’ Jacob said.
Rose just managed to catch her breath, with a supreme effort of
will. ‘You didn’t. It was - a - a - head-rush.’
‘This week’s meeting is on Elizabeth I of England,’ Bartlett said.
‘Last week I asked the symposium to consider how Elizabeth’s
childhood affected her policies as Queen.’ He turned to Rose. ‘You
are our new member, but you’ll pick it up. You can learn a good
de,i,fmrOm these meetings.’
sure,’ Rose said softly.
‘Mr Rothstein,’ said Bartlett. ‘Why don’t you start?’
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‘I feel therefore that this sense of danger, of being hunted, remained with the Queen throughout her reign and that the diplomatic skills she learned during her various confinements were put to full use in the avoidance of marriage.’
Jacob Rothstein stopped speaking, setting a sheaf of neatly typed notes to one side.
The room gave a collective sigh and leaned backwards in their seats. Rose saw that they had been spellbound by watching Rothstein talk. He had a soft, even voice, very confident, she would even say polished. He had made eye contact with each one of them, including the Professor, drawin.g them in to his argument, binding them to him. He was obviously quite used to public speaking. She had to force herself to keep looking away, so that nobody saw her staring at him with loathing.
Jacob P,.othstein spoke like a man entitled. Entitled to their attention, to their respect, to commanding this room.
‘Jacob, that was wonderful,’ Marion Watson purred. Rose watched with disbelief as Marion fluttered her eyelashes at him. Marion Watson, who hardly seemed to know men were alive!
Well, Rothstein was goodlooking, 1-Zose conceded privately, if you liked that obvious sort of thing.
She didn’t. Rich Columbia jocks were two a penny.
‘Yes, fascinating,’ Keith agreed.
‘I disagree with your conclusions,’ Rose snapped.
Everyone blinked and looked at her. Professor Bartlett raised a neatly plucked brow.
‘Ah, Miss Fiorello; I was hoping a more informal setting might bring you out of your shell. You have an alternative viewpoint?’
Rose nodded, holding Jacob Rothstein’s gaze as he looked at her. Evidently he wasn’t used to being challenged here.
‘I think Mr lothstein, and historians in general, are looking for
II6
neat little facts to fit neat little theses,’ she said, coldly. ‘But real life doesn’t fall into such patterns; or very rarely. And not in the case of Elizabeth.’
‘I believe,’ Jacob said, equally coolly, ‘that the facts I have presented support my conclusions.’
‘So do I.’ Rose gave him a polite smile that did not reach her eyes. ‘But what about the facts you did not present? If Elizabeth had such a sense of fear, why did she react as she did to the preacher at Mary I’s funeral, who said, “Better a dead lion than a live dog?” If her dance around suitable princes was evidence of such incredible diplomatic tact, honed by years of sucking up to her father and brother and sister, how come she put on madrigals insulting the French and Spanish, and in her lifetime gained a reputation for sleeping around?’
Bartlett was now staring at her, fascinated. His eyes began to twinkle gleefully.
‘What of the Queen being suspected of the murder of the wife of one of her favourites? When the Countess of Essex was killed by a suspicious fall down the stairs, people thought Elizabeth was behind it. This level of cavorting at Court - which, after all, endangered her crown when the Irish rebellion was raised by Essex - does not;tend to your view of a frightened monarch, desperately calling on all er reserves of diplomacy.’
lose took a deep breath and settled back in her seat. The clas gazed at her, as though they were watching a train wreck. She instantly understood that Jacob was the big star of this group. Her pale blue eyes challenged him.
Rothstein squared his shoulders and regarded her.
‘You cannot try to deny that Elizabeth was able to string her various suitors along in a masterly way, before they finally gave up hope. And, furthermore, this … tease,’ he said, deliberately looking her over, slowly, his glance travelling up her legs and flickering over her breasts before rising to meet her stare, ‘was applied not only to foreign courts but also to the pressure from her ministers at home, who looked for an heir.’
‘I do not deny that,’ P,,ose said.
Jacob shrugged. ‘Well, then.’
“I
challenge the causation you are trying to establish,’. Rose went
on. ‘You assert that this skill was the result of the privations of her childhood, and all the loyal protestations she had to make to her father and siblings in order to keep her head on her neck. However, it seems more likely that this skill was simply innate. If she’d felt
II7
‘I feel therefore that this sense of danger, of being hunted, remained with the Queen throughout her reign and that the diplomatic skills she learned during her various confinements were put to full use in the avoidance of marriage.’
Jacob Rothstein stopped speaking, setting a sheaf of neatly typed notes to one side.
The room gave a collective sigh and leaned backwards in their seats. Rose saw that they had been spellbound by watching Rothstein talk. He had a soft, even voice, very confident, she would even say polished. He had made eye contact with each one of them, including the Professor, drawin.g them in to his argument, binding them to him. He was obviously quite used to public speaking. She had to force herself to keep looking away, so that nobody saw her staring at him with loathing.
Jacob 1Kothstein spoke like a man entitled. Entitled to their attention, to their respect, to commanding this room.
‘Jacob, that was wonderful,’ Marion Watson purred. Rose watched with disbelief as Marion fluttered her eyelashes at him. Marion Watson, who hardly seemed to know men were alive!
Well, Rothstein uas goodlooking, Rose conceded privately, if you liked that obvious sort of thing.
She didn’t. Rich Columbia jocks were two a penny.
‘Yes, fascinating,’ Keith agreed.
‘I disagree with your conclusions,’ Rose snapped.
Everyone blinked and looked at her. Professor Bartlett raised a neatly plucked brow.
‘Ah, Miss Fiorello; I was hoping a more informal setting might bring you out of your shell. You have an alternative viewpoint?’
Rose nodded, holding Jacob 1Kothstein’s gaze as he looked at her. Evidently he wasn’t used to being challenged here.
‘I think Mr Rothstein, and historians in general, are looking for
II6
neat little facts to fit neat little theses,’ she said, coldly. ‘But real life doesn’t fall into such patterns; or very rarely. And not in the case of Elizabeth.’
‘I believe,’ Jacob said, equally coolly, ‘that the facts I have presented support my conclusions.’
‘So do I.’ Rose gave him a polite smile that did not reach her eyes. ‘But what about the facts you did not present? If Elizabeth had such a sense of fear, why did she react as she did to the preacher at Mary I’s funeral, who said, “Better a dead lion than a live dog?” If her dance around suitable princes was evidence of such incredible diplomatic tact, honed by years of sucking up to her father and brother and sister, how come she put on madrigals insulting the French and Spanish, and in her lifetime gained a reputation for sleeping around?’
Bartlett was now staring at her, fascinated. His eyes began to twinkle gleefully.
‘What of the Queen being suspected of the murder of the wife of one of her favourites? When the Countess of Essex was killed by a suspicious fall down the stairs, people thought Elizabeth was behind it. This level of cavorting at Court - which, after all, endangered her crown when the Irish rebellion was raised by Essex - does not’tend to your view of a frightened monarch, desperately calling on all “her reserves of diplomacy.’
Rose took a deep breath and settled back in her seat. The class gazed at her, as though they were watching a train wreck. She instantly understood that Jacob was the big star of this group. Her pale blue eyes challenged him.
P,.othstein squared his shoulders and regarded her.
‘You cannot try to deny that Elizabeth was able to string her various suitors along in a masterly way, before they finally gave up hope. And, furthermore, this … tease,’ he said, deliberately looking her over, slowly, his glance travelling up her legs and flickering over her breasts before rising to meet her stare, ‘was applied not only to foreign courts but also to the pressure from her ministers at home, who looked for an heir.’
