The drably dressed citizens of the drenched capital reminded him of a flock of very sorry blackbirds: feathers matted, sogged to the skin, and miserable with it. The rough board shops and merchant stalls crowding the margins of the road-the tailors and tanners, brewers and barbers, dyers and drapers, fullers and fishmongers, and all the trading ilk-were splashed to the gunnels with mud, and forlorn faces of shopkeepers stared out from darkened interiors at the unhappy cavalcade passing by their bespattered premises.
Daylight was rapidly dwindling when Giles at last expertly steered the coach onto the great London Bridge and the wide stone-paved street; Kit breathed a sigh of relief-but, alas, the pace did not quicken. If anything it slowed even more as the waterlogged population funnelling onto the bridge conspired to bring traffic to a crawl. Kit abandoned any hope of reaching Clarimond House before nightfall and stared dully out upon the wet, wet world. By the time the coach rolled through the gate of Sir Henry’s manor, torches were being lit in front of the larger houses on the street.
They clattered into the yard, and a footman came running to help unhitch the horses and lead them into dry stables. Giles climbed down from the driver’s seat to open the door of the carriage for Kit, saying, “Get yerself inside and get yerself warm, sir.”
“You come, too, Giles.”
“I will follow along as soon as the coach is put up.”
“Can it not wait?”
“No, sir, it cannot,” came the reply.
Kit accepted this and made a dash for the house and was soon standing in the rear vestibule, shaking water from his coat. A tall servant in a red doublet appeared with a clean linen cloth and passed it to him without a word. Kit wiped his face and rubbed his damp hair, then passed the cloth back with his thanks. The servant then addressed him. “You will be hungry, sir.”
“Yes, indeed-famished,” replied Kit. “Kill the fatted calf. We’ve had nothing good to eat for two days.”
The servant merely nodded, then announced, “I will inform the cook.”
“Great. Fine,” agreed Kit.
“Am I to understand that Sir Henry and Mister Livingstone have departed on their travels?”
“Oh, yes. They are well away,” replied Kit, uncertain how much to say. “Giles and I came back alone.”
“As I see.” The servant turned, then hesitated. “Do you require anything before dinner, sir?”
“A change of clothes-if that is not too much trouble,” said Kit. “These will need washing.”
“Of course, sir. I will have something brought to your room. Anything else?”
“Just one more thing,” Kit said. “What is your name?”
“Sir?”
“What should I call you?”
“I am Sir Henry’s steward, sir. You may call me Villiers.”
“Thank you, Villiers.”
The servant smiled thinly, dipped his head, and moved off.
Kit found his way up the stairs to his room; little light filtered through the tiny, thick-paned windows, and a definite chill had settled in. He was casting about, trying to find a way to light the candles, when there was a knock at the door and one of the younger servants announced, “Your clothes, sir.”
Kit opened the door and retrieved the bundle. He thanked the servant and asked if he would mind lighting the candles. While the fellow busied himself with this task, Kit spread out his change of clothes on the bed. The breeches were knee-length and the shirt immense, with a long floppy-sleeved waistcoat of blue brocade, buttoned to the waist, and with pockets the size of saddlebags either side. It was the fashion of the day, he reminded himself, as shivering, he removed his damp clothes and put on the dry things, impressed all over again with the unreality of his situation. A fish out of water, that was him all over, he thought, drawing on his thick wool socks. He tied the stockings at the knee and stuffed his feet into the big, boatlike shoes. Then, remembering his apostle spoon, he slipped it into a pocket and clumped down the stairs in search of a warmer room. He settled in Sir Henry’s study, where a fire burned merrily in the hearth. A large brown leather wingback chair was drawn up near the fire. On a small round table next to the chair rested a crystal decanter and a small pewter cup. An iron holder with eight tall candles stood nearby.
“This is more like it.” Kit sighed, sinking into the deeply upholstered chair. He stretched his legs and put his feet toward the fire, then turned to address the decanter. It was filled with a fragrant liquid that, Kit decided after a sniff, was probably brandy. He poured a little into the cup and took an ill-advised gulp. The virulent stuff burned his throat and scalded his gullet and threw him forthwith into a coughing fit-which hurt his sore ribs and made his eyes water.
Pouring the contents of the cup back into the decanter, he rose and went to examine the bookshelves lining one side of the cosy room. The books were uniformly large and blocky tomes bound in heavy brown leather. Kit had seen the kind before-under lock and key at his university library. Yet here they were, free to roam about. Intrigued, he fetched the candle stand and brought it closer so he could read the words on the spine. They were all in Latin, and all with incomprehensible titles like: Principium Agri Cultura… and Modus Mundus… and Commentarius et Sermo Sacerdos… and the like.
Kit’s Latin was scant, if not utterly absent, but he could work out a few of the titles. He ran his fingers over some of the spines, tracing the titles and pronouncing the words to himself. “Ars Nova Arcana…,” he said aloud, and became aware that he was no longer alone in the room.
Thinking Giles had joined him at last, he turned to find himself under the intense scrutiny of a young woman standing in the doorway. “Are you a robber?” she demanded, stepping smartly into the room. “A thief? A blackguard?”
“Uh, no-I, um-”
“What manner of rogue are you? A housebreaker?” She fixed him with the most defiant, daring, and challenging stare Kit had ever seen on the face of another living human being. “Well? Speak up! Are you a footpad?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why are you here in Sir Henry’s study? Why are you skulking about? Who gave you leave to enter?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” Kit answered lightly. “I hardly know which one to answer first.”
That was the wrong tack to take. She grew even more irate. “Impudent rascal,” she charged. “I will have you thrashed and thrown out.” Without taking her eyes off him, she called for the steward. “Villiers!”
“Please,” said Kit, “I am none of the things you said. In fact, I don’t even know what a footpad is.”
“Then who are you? Tell me the truth and be quick about it.”
“I suppose you could say I am a guest of Sir Henry Fayth…”
She took another step, coming a little more into the light, and Kit beheld what was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen up close in the flesh. Her softly-rounded form was encased in a gown of sky blue satin with shimmering silver embroidery; a row of tiny black ribbons decorated each lustrous satin sleeve all down the long line of each slender arm. The heavy boning of her bodice accentuated the delicious curve of her waist, flattening her stomach and rising to a gently mounded flurry of translucent lace. Her long, elegant neck was adorned by a string of delicate black pearls. But the most striking thing about her was the clarity of her keen brown eyes; her sensual, full-lipped mouth; the fine line of her jaw; her high, smooth brow; the way her long, dark russet curls made tiny waves at the temple…
In truth, there were so many exquisite features Kit took in all at once that he could not decide which was the best of an extraordinarily stunning lot. All he knew was that he was in the presence of a rare vision of loveliness, a goddess, a transcendently radiant creature whom he was wholly unworthy to address. Yet, address her he did. She insisted.