Lopez heard a knock upon the door. He asked who it was and his daughter identified herself. He allowed her to enter.
Rebecca stood for a moment underneath the frame of the door. Roderigo was surprised to find her still dressed in black. He would have thought she would abandon the dark clothing as soon as her shiva—her first period of mourning—had finished.
Mourning. It had only intensified her beauty, and that worried Roderigo. She had become as jumpy as a kenneled hound, and God only knew what would happen when she was freed from her obligatory month of grieving. An appropriate suitor had to be found lest he find himself the grandfather of a bastard. In his mind, Miguel was still the preferred son-in-law, despite his … whatever it was. He couldn’t imagine marrying her off to anyone but kinsmen. Perhaps there existed an appropriate suitor in the Low Countries or the Levant. He’d speak at length with Solomon and Sarah. They would know who the available men were. Another detail to arrange. He sank down into a padded armchair and called to Rebecca.
“Come to me, daughter.”
Approaching with a coy smile, Rebecca took a soft velvet pillow and sat at her father’s feet, her overskirt and petticoat billowing over the floor. She curled up against his leg. He reached down and entangled his fingers in her thick, black hair, then stroked it as he would the fur of a lapdog.
“Has the Queen summoned you yet, Father?”
“You can answer your own question,” Roderigo said. “You seem to know much about my affairs.”
“You’re angry at me for telling Dunstan the words of Philip’s letters to you,” Rebecca said. “So be it. Punish me if you desire, but I did it out of love. I’m worried for Miguel’s safety. For yours as well. Essex is clever and vicious.”
Roderigo stroked his daughter’s cheek. He felt saddened by the burden that the mission had imposed upon her.
“Don’t worry about me, Becca. Worry instead about your lack of husband.”
“I need not a husband.”
“Bah.”
She said, “There’s none suitable who bids my calling.”
“Lord Holderoy?”
“You can’t be serious, Father. He’s too fat and too old. His seed is no doubt less than copious.”
“The Earl of Nottingham?”
“A pompous snot.”
“Marquis of Cumberland?”
“Father! He is a Papist!”
“He is also rich and mad for you, daughter.”
“I will not marry a Papist!”
“Aye, you truly are your father’s daughter,” Roderigo said. “Filthy swine are the Catholics. They burn relapsed conversos as readily as firewood. And the Protestants are no more gentle. Luther, who openly courted the Jews at first, became angered by their refusal to convert. The serpent recanted his praise and went on to blame all the ills of the Continent on the recalcitrant Semites. They all disgust me, the Gentiles. And yet we are completely dependent on their mercy. As much as I plot and plan, it all comes down to the good graces of a tolerant monarch. As of this moment I sit here powerless. I can do nothing until Her Grace beckons me to court.”
“Poor Father,” she cooed. “Chafing at the bit while the evil Essex schemes.”
Roderigo said, “I scold you for repeating my words, and still I talk too freely to you. Don’t mind my affairs.”
“But I care for you. As you care for me. That’s why you’ll not insist that I marry just for marriage’s sake. Besides, I’m still young—”
“Not so young anymore. Your mother had borne me three children afore she was twenty.”
“And the Lord took them all before their majority—God rest their souls. A young womb yields unripe fruit. Better to wait until the tree grows strong.”
“Bah,” he sneered once again. “Don’t prattle about unripe fruit. You desire freedom.”
“No,” Rebecca protested. “Only the proper bridegroom.”
“Which means no husband at all,” Roderigo said. “You’re true to your stars, my child. A Scorpio with the moon in Gemini—a fatal sting that’s mercurial in nature.”
“Nonsense,” Rebecca said, giving him a playful slap.
“A bellyful of children should calm you down.”
“Again nonsense. A bellyful of children will only make me fat and contemptuous to my husband. You wish not that for me, do you, Father?”
“I wish you to be happy. And a gentlewoman cannot be happy without a husband.”
“But—”
“What would you do without a husband?” Roderigo asked.
“I’d have much to do just being your daughter.”
Roderigo smiled. “That is not a sufficient position in life.”
“It is all the position I need.”
“You need to be a gentleman’s wife.”
“I should like to continue to help you with your patients. Spend valuable time ministering to the ill. Haven’t you said that I am your extra set of hands—skilled hands?”
Roderigo kissed those hands. “I cannot reason with you on this issue of marriage. You distract me with silly talk about your hands. If you force me to become a tyrant, I will, Becca. You will marry when I see fit, and now I’ll hear nothing more to the contrary.”
Rebecca said nothing. Silence was her best weapon against her father’s obstinacy. It had worked in the past, and it seemed to be working now. Roderigo’s face softened. He asked her how she spent the last days of her second period of mourning.
Rebecca replied, “The hours are long when one is weighted down with boredom.”
“I asked you not whether you spent your hours contentedly,” Roderigo replied. “Answer my question.”
“I sew and read.”
“And do you do what your mother requests?”
Rebecca paused a moment, puzzled. “I do all that Mother asks of me.”
“And you’ve almost completed your tasks?”
Rebecca’s face lit up with understanding.
“Marry, you mean the forged papers—”
“Quiet,” Roderigo interrupted. “Keep your voice low.”
Rebecca whispered, “I’ve finished one set and am busy penning another.”
Roderigo smiled and stroked her cheek. “Well, then. And your music?”
Rebecca replied that Grandmama said she wasn’t allowed to play music until the thirty days of her second period of mourning were over. She told her father she only had six days left, trying to sound casual, but the relief in her voice was too evident. Her father had noticed it and arched his eyebrows in disapproval.
She added, “Aye, Father, a month of mourning officially for Raphael, but for years he will live in the heart.”
Rebecca sensed that she had said the wrong thing. Her father tensed.
“Raphael was a wonderful man,” he said.
“Aye.”
“He deserves a true mourning, not simply an official one.”
“I understand,” Rebecca answered.
“I think not.”