Page 18 of The Lovers
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to rush you. I’m sure you have your own process, but surely you must have a starting point.”
Quinn was annoyed by the twinkle in his eyes. He was having fun at her expense, enjoying her discomfort. He clearly liked to be in charge, and he’d totally hijacked the situation and turned it to his advantage, making her feel as if she were interviewing for a job and listing her qualifications like some recent grad resigned to taking the lowliest position just to get their foot in the door. She didn’t have to answer his questions, not before he made her any kind of offer or discussed the project with her in a professional environment. This impromptu interview was at an end.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan, but I really must be going,” Quinn said as she gathered her things. She pulled two ten-pound notes and threw them on the table. “Cheesecake is on me.”
She saw the amusement on Rhys’s face as she left the bakery and headed toward Paddington Station. She suddenlywanted to go home. Not only did his questions unsettle her, but she also felt a burning desire to find out more about Elise. Her situation had been unique, even for the seventeenth century, and Quinn was curious to see how the young woman went from being a young, disillusioned bride to a forgotten skeleton slumbering for centuries below the streets of London.
TWELVE
JANUARY 1665
London, England
A thick, soupy fog swirled off the river, enfolding everything in its path and reducing visibility to just a few inches. Buildings materialized out of the fog as one got closer, but their upper stories were lost, invisible. All sound seemed to get swallowed up by the thick blanket spread over the city, and it was eerily quiet for a weekday. The morning was cold, the damp seeping through the layers of clothing and right into the very bones. James kept close to the walls of the houses despite the imminent danger of having a chamber pot upended on his head. It was better than being run over by a draft horse, the driver unable to see a solitary man through the mist.
James heard the splash of water as oars sliced through the murky waters of the Thames. He felt pity for the men who depended on the river for their livelihood; it was no place to be on a day like today. He finally found the corner he’d been searching for and turned into a narrow lane, which was ominously silent. Glowing orbs of light floated out of the fog, reminding James that people were inside their homes, the candles still lit at this time of the morning. James peered at the houses on the left side, searching for the right one. A little girl opened the door when he knocked, her face breaking into a smile as she invited him in and hastily closed the door behind him, afraid that the fog would float right into the house.
“For you, my sweet Mercy,” James said as he conjured up an orange from the pocket of his cloak.
“Is there one for Elizabeth?” the child asked as she caressed the orange with her small fingers. Mercy didn’t like to share.
“Of course, there is. Is she here?”
“Nay. She’s helping Father in the workshop,” Mercy replied as she pocketed the orange. “She sweeps the wood shavings and such.”
“Where’s your mother, then?”
Mercy glanced upward. “She’s feeding ’Arry. You can go up; she won’t mind.”
“And what are you doing?” James asked, smiling at the girl. She had such an air of practicality about her, like a grown woman trapped in a child’s body.
“I’m doing the washing up from breakfast,” Mercy answered with a frown. “I’m almost finished. Then I must start on preparing dinner.”
“I’m sure your mother is glad of the help.”
Mercy shrugged. Unlike her sister, Elizabeth, who liked to help her parents and glowed with pleasure at being thanked or praised, Mercy didn’t do anything voluntarily. She was a spirited child who didn’t like being told what to do, especially when it involved housework. James petted Mercy on the head and turned to go upstairs.
Molly sat in a low nursing chair by the hearth, her eyes closed, and her head thrown back in sleep as the babe at her breast sucked lazily. She looked tired and pale, her normally smiling mouth downcast. Molly woke with a start, surprised to find someone watching her.
“Oh, it’s ye,” she said as she glanced down at the child who held the nipple in his mouth but didn’t seem to be actually nursing. Molly adjusted her bodice and pulled the blanket tighter around the sleeping child.
“How is he, Moll?” James asked as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. There was nowhere for him to sit other than the bed, which didn’t seem appropriate, and a trunk beneath the window.
Molly shook her head miserably. “’Arry’s holding on, but ’e’s not thriving, James. I fear I’ll lose ’im.”
“Don’t give up hope, Moll. Look, I’ve brought you something.” James removed a bloody muslin-wrapped package from his leather satchel and held it up for Molly to see.
“What’s that ye got there?” she asked, her eyes opening wide with surprise.
“Beef. Perhaps you can make some beef tea for Harry, and your own milk will be more nourishing if you eat better.”
“Did ye take that from ’is kitchen?” Molly asked, her voice laced with disgust. “I want nothin’ from the likes of ’im.”
“No, Moll, I purchased it. You’ve made your feelings plain, and I wouldn’t go against you.”
“I thank ye, then,” Molly replied as she sighed wearily. “I ’ear the old goat’s gone and gotten married. A girl less than ’alf ’is age. So, what’s she like?”
“I don’t really know,” James mumbled, his eyes sliding away from Molly, who gave him a suspicious look.
