Merrick tilted his head and studied her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Just a farmer who writes? In this case, it’s not what he writes about that is important, it’s that he writes at all.’
The import of it struck her with a shocking clarity. In her hurry to translate the document she’d forgotten to look beyond the words on the page and into the context of the times in which it had been written. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘A farmer who is literate most likely isn’t only a farmer or a tenant renting fields, he’s probably of some status in the community.’
Merrick smiled. It was a different smile this time, one full of enthusiasm. ‘What’s the date of the document?’
‘My guess is mid-thirteenth century, about 1230.’
‘Post-Magna Carta,’ Merrick mused more to himself than to her. ‘Perhaps he is a self-made man, an early instance of the gentry class, not a noble or beholden directly to a king, but a man who has determined his own worth.’ He sounded almost wistful as he voiced his thoughts.
‘In pigs.’ Alixe smiled. ‘Don’t forget the pigs.’
Merrick chuckled. ‘Show me the pigs. After all your mentions of them, I want to read about them for myself.’
Alixe passed him the pages on the pigs and he fell to reading them with surprising thoroughness, one long finger moving across the lines one word at a time, his eyes following. Within moments, he was completely absorbed in the reading and Alixe turned her thoughts to the pages in front of her, aware in the back of her mind that something astounding had occurred: she was working on her translation with Merrick St Magnus, London’s most talked-about male. More than that, he’d shown himself to be more than a handsome face. He’d been interested, intelligent and insightful. Amazing.
Truly, it was nothing short of miraculous. No one would believe her if she told them. She was starting to see why a friendship had sprung up between Merrick and Jamie at school. Like her, Jamie loved history and Merrick understood its sociological aspects.
Merrick laughed suddenly, breaking the compatible silence that had sprung up. ‘It’s not his pigs he writes about, Alixe.’ His eyes were dancing with good humour. ‘It’s his wife.’
Alixe furrowed her brow. ‘I don’t believe you.’ She reached across him without thinking for the page. ‘There …’ She pointed to a line. ‘That is very clearly the word for pig. More specifically, “sow”.’
Merrick nodded. ‘It is. But you’re forgetting the use of “like”. It’s a simile. I think you were reading it as “she is a big sow”. But we should be reading it as “she’s as big as the sow”.’ Merrick reached around her. ‘Show me the later pages. I want to bear out my hypothesis that his wife is expecting a child in the very near future.’
‘Yes!’ Merrick crowed a few moments later. ‘He’s writing about his wife. Have a look, Alixe.’ He pushed the page towards her and leaned close, one arm on the other side of her to brace himself as they studied the page together.
‘You’re right.’ Alixe enthused, her excitement evident. Her mind rushed forwards. ‘I wonder if there would be parish records. I wonder if we could find him. If we could, we might be able to determine where his land was. We could find out how the story ends, if his baby is born safely.’ Alixe bit her lip, realising what she’d done. She’d said ‘we’. ‘I’m sorry, I’m getting carried away. We’ll probably never know what happened to him.’
Merrick smiled. ‘Maybe we will. I’ll be here for two weeks. Surely that’s enough time to puzzle out how your farmer’s story ends.’ For all purposes, he looked as if he was genuinely enjoying himself. He looked as if he wanted to be here with her instead of downstairs playing billiards.
Alixe looked down at her hands, regretting some of her earlier thoughts about him. ‘I must apologise. I didn’t think it could be like this.’
He covered her hands with one of his own where they lay on the table. It was a gentle gesture and his hands were warm and firm. She didn’t think it was meant to be a seductive gesture, but that didn’t stop a frisson of warm heat from shooting through her arm at the contact.
‘It or me? You didn’t think it could be like this or that I couldn’t be like this?’ Merrick spoke in low tones, his gaze holding hers.
‘You,’ Alixe replied honestly, meeting his gaze. ‘I didn’t think you could be like this. I misjudged you.’
‘I’m glad to have surprised you,’ Merrick said softly, his voice igniting the tiny space between them with a sharp awareness of one another. Their eyes held and in the cocoon of the moment the briefest of thoughts occurred to Alixe: he’s going to kiss me.
That was exactly the same idea voiced seconds later when Archibald Redfield burst into the library with an angry, newly awoken Earl of Folkestone in his wake, still belting his robe and all but bellowing the traditional words of horrified fathers everywhere when discovering their daughters in compromising situations. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
To which Alixe managed the most unoriginal of answers, ‘It’s not what it looks like.’ But she knew what it looked like—Merrick sitting so very close to her, his sleeves rolled up, and she in her nightclothes.
To which Archibald Redfield countered unhelpfully with an arrogant smirk, ‘It’s precisely what it looks like. St Magnus wagered several gentlemen in the billiards room not an hour ago that he’d steal a kiss from a lady before the night was out’, then went on to add as if it would improve matters, ‘I have witnesses.’
Alixe groaned. He’d bet on stealing a kiss. She should have left the room when common sense had demanded it.
‘No, no witnesses, please.’ Her father held up the hand of authority. He had his robe belted now and was in full command of the situation. ‘We are all men of honour here,’ He looked pointedly at St Magnus as he said it. ‘We can sort this out and do what must be done in a quiet manner. There is no need to make an unnecessary fuss.’
Alixe had never seen her father so angry. No one else would guess the depths of his anger. He was one of those men whose voice became more controlled when angered. Then he spared a glance for her, taking in her completely inappropriate attire. There was more than anger in his gaze. There was disappointment, which was worse. She’d seen it before when he looked at her. It seemed she’d spent an inordinate amount of her life disappointing him. But this time would be the last time. She could see in his face he’d decided it would be so and that frightened her very much.
Her father jerked his head at her with a dismissing nod. ‘Go to your room and stay there. We’ll speak in the morning. As for you, St Magnus, I’ll settle with you right now. Put your jacket on and make yourself presentable.’
Alixe shot a parting glance at St Magnus, although what help she thought she’d find there she didn’t know. He’d never been truly interested in her or her work. She’d merely been his most convenient target. He would have kissed whoever walked into the library. He had no reason to help her and, right now, he’d be more worried about trying to help himself.
St Magnus had risen, arms folded, eyes narrowed and burning like hot blue coals. He was a formidable sight, but he spared not a glance for her departing form, she noted. All his attention was directed at Archibald Redfield.
Chapter Five
Who would have thought the road to nowhere in particular led straight to the Earl of Folkestone’s library? Granted the journey had taken the better part of ten years, but right now that only served to make matters worse.
Merrick shifted ever so slightly in his chair. It was one thing to be called on the proverbial carpet by a stuffy peer when one was a young buck about town. It was another when one was