Chaloner shook his head. ‘I want to see Metje.’
‘Yes,’ said Thurloe, regarding him oddly. ‘That is probably a good idea.’
Chaloner frowned, knowing there was more to the comment than he understood. Was Thurloe relieved to have him gone, so he could be with real friends? Or was there something else? ‘I do not–’
‘We should not stay here,’ said Leybourn. ‘Bennet might come back, and while Thomas seems awash with demonic energy, I have had enough. An afternoon with roasted chestnuts and a glass of spiced wine sounds more appealing than you can possibly imagine.’
Sarah agreed. ‘We will take a carriage, and hang the expense. It is Christmas, after all.’
Chaloner returned to his rooms, intending to rinse the stench of smoke from his hair and change his clothes, hoping Metje would agree to spend a quiet hour with him. He was sore from his jump, his leg ached, and he wanted to lie down and talk about their future – although, he admitted ruefully, just lying down would suffice. He climbed the stairs slowly, and was pleasantly surprised to find her already there. She was standing in the window, which Ellis had ‘repaired’ with the cover from an old book. She held the lamp in her hand and, when he opened the door, he was taken aback when she turned suddenly and hurled it at him. He ducked instinctively, and it smashed against the wall.
‘What are these?’ she demanded, brandishing Sarah’s hat and wig.
He glanced at the bed, and saw she had been in the process of changing the linen. ‘They belong to Thurloe’s sister,’ he said, one ear cocked for Ellis coming to investigate the noise. ‘Mrs Dalton.’
‘And what are they doing behind our bed?’
Several stories presented themselves to him as possible explanations before he recalled that there was no need for prevarication, because she knew what he did for a living. ‘There is a man in Kelyng’s retinue who wants to kill her, because she brained his partner. I helped her escape by donning her headwear.’ Even as he related the tale, he knew he would have been better off with a lie.
‘Then what about this?’ demanded Metje, tears starting in her eyes. She waved another wig, this one a luxurious brown affair, which had arrived in a box bearing Monsieur Jervas’s mark. It was the same colour as the hair he had found in the Tower, and he sincerely hoped it was not Praisegod’s.
‘Kelyng promised to send me one,’ said Chaloner. ‘I thought he was just talking.’
‘Kelyng,’ she said flatly. She did not believe him. ‘Kelyng bought you an expensive wig, and Mrs Dalton’s personal effects are hidden behind our bed because you saved her life.’
‘The problem with the truth is that it is sometimes more difficult to believe than a lie.’
‘Your truths certainly are,’ she said tartly. ‘I thought we had reached an understanding, and that fibs were a thing of the past. I would be better off with …’
‘With what?’
‘With Mr North and his family. They have decided to return to Ely at the end of the month. Temperance has asked me to go with her, and I think I will.’
‘But you are expecting our child.’ He was appalled she should consider leaving him. ‘And North will know it in a few weeks.’
She rubbed her eyes. ‘I am so confused, I do not know what to do. People throw things at me in the street because I am Dutch. Then I learn you are a spy – and a penniless one, at that. And if there is a war, I shall be lynched, because you cannot buy the protection I need. My other … my other …’
Chaloner stared at her, thinking about Thurloe’s veiled references over the last week – mention of ‘wavering affections’, and advice to go to Holland or spend time with her. His stomach churned as he began to understand what the ex-Spymaster had been trying to tell him. ‘Your other what? Lover?’
She stared at her feet. ‘I was frightened, Tom. And you were always out, going about strange business that you declined to share with me. I needed to be with someone I could trust.’
Chaloner regarded her in dismay. ‘Who is it? North?’
‘Do not be ridiculous. But it does not matter anyway, because I went to see him today and he was with a woman – his wife. He could not be trusted either, so now I have no one. Do not look accusingly at me, when you have not been faithful, either. At least you can go to Mrs Dalton now.’
Chaloner went to stand by the hearth, his thoughts in turmoil. Had his secretive behaviour really driven Metje into the arms of another man, or would she have gone anyway?
‘Someone is coming,’ he said, hearing footsteps. ‘Probably Ellis, wanting to know what broke just now. What do you want to do? Hide under the bed? Or shall we let him see us together?’
There was a soft tap on the door.
‘I do not know,’ said Metje tearfully. She still held Sarah’s wig. ‘He–’
‘Mr Heyden?’ came Temperance’s voice. ‘Are you there?’ Chaloner went to let her in, while Metje stood next to the window, hairpiece dangling from her fingers. Temperance was surprised to see her in a man’s bedchamber, alone and with the door closed, but was too polite to comment on it.
‘Metje tells me you are going to live in Ely,’ said Chaloner, offering Temperance a chair.
Temperance winced as she sat. ‘I do not want to go. It is full of pirates, who sail through the Fens at full moon and abduct young ladies for wicked purposes. And I will miss you.’
Chaloner was still too stunned by Metje’s revelation to offer any words of comfort. ‘What can I do for you, Temperance? I will not kill the turkey, if that is why you came.’
‘The turkey is no longer with us. But I came to invite you to dine with us anyway.’
‘Thank you, but not today,’ he said, sorry when her eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Please,’ she said in a low, choked voice. ‘There will not be many more occasions, because father says we shall leave in a matter of days. He thinks it is too dangerous here.’
‘You should accept, Tom,’ said Metje, not looking at him. ‘Mr North has always been good to you, and who knows, perhaps you will be his neighbour in Ely.’
‘Will you?’ asked Temperance, hope bright in her eyes.
‘I doubt it,’ said Chaloner. He saw Temperance’s smile fade, and chided himself for being such a misery. How would he see his daughter unless he travelled? ‘But anything is possible, I suppose.’
Chaloner flung off his smoke-soiled clothes, rinsed the stink of burning from his hair, and donned his Sunday best, knowing it would be expected of him, although he was careful to temper his costume with his plainest collar. Also in deference to the Norths, he left his sword behind, along with the dagger he wore in his belt. The one from his sleeve was lost somewhere outside Dalton’s mansion, but the one he wore in his boot remained in place. He did not like the notion of being totally defenceless.
Each time he considered Metje’s betrayal, a pang shot through his stomach, and he wondered how far his occupation was responsible for the collapse of their relationship. Because they had spent two carefree years in Holland, he had not expected anything to change when they moved, but of course it had. She had told him she was lonely and frightened, and he should have anticipated she might seek solace from other quarters if he did nothing about it. She had not trusted him to look after her, and he had given her no reason to think otherwise.
So what happened now? Could he forgive her? And what about the child? Was it his or the other man’s? He supposed he might know the answer when it was born, if it possessed some feature identifiable as his own, but he would have to make a decision sooner than that, and so would she. However, they were not compelled to make it that afternoon, and he supposed it would be wise to let a few days pass first, so that neither would commit to hasty agreements they would later regret.