Kit felt a flash of anger at such boorishness. He saw that Adam had drunk too well to mind the Duke’s grossness, but he need not have feared for the lady at his side.
Celia curtsied and put out a hand to the dish on the table to take a sweetmeat from it, refusing the wine which the Duke’s servant offered her. ‘Why, Your Grace,’ she murmured, before she bit into the sweetmeat, ‘we did but speak of the plague and specifics against it. Sir Christopher was of a mind that an herb might be found, and so we spoke on. And of the King’s society, too. The flowers were not outfaced, I think. Was not that so, Sir Christopher?’
Kit made her a great leg, in respect for her wit, and the Duke gave a great shout.
‘Oh, the astrologer’s daughter is a pearl of great price!’ He turned to Adam, who was beaming at the compliment. ‘Why, man, when you bring my election to Court when thou hast finished it, bring thy daughter, too. Pearls are to be admired by all, not only by such lucky dogs as Kit and myself.’ And he threw back his head and laughed, the drink strong in him.
‘If you so command,’ replied Adam, too dazzled by such condescension to think of the dangers to his daughter of being seen by the denizens of Whitehall’s labyrinthine corridors.
Kit Carlyon’s reaction to the Duke’s carelessness was extraordinary. For a moment he felt a cold rage on the girl’s behalf, that she should be exposed as prey to those who might feed on her. After that came the thought, like cold water thrown over him, and what are thy intentions, Kit, friend of this whoremaster? What of the bet? What makes that of you?
He looked at her, smiling a small smile, a goblet in her hand from which she was drinking lemonade. He repressed his feelings. She’s but a woman after all, no better nor no worse than the rest, and he said again what he had said to himself on the day of his bet—she must take her chance, as we all must. If she be chaste, why, she’s in no danger, for I’ll never force her. I’ve never forced a woman yet.
Now why did Sir Christopher Carlyon walk through her head? He had nothing to do with her—she must forget him, which was difficult. He was with her when she rose the morning following the Duke’s visit and he walked with her on her chores about the house. He was a haughty ghost who bent his head and spoke kindly to her as few men had ever done.
Adam had a bad head, rose late and broke his fast lightly—food nauseated him, he said. He decided to work after noon, when his head might have cleared. He had had second thoughts about the Duke’s visit and, sober now, regretted that he had promised to take Celia to Whitehall. So far she had kept herself clear from that world, and he regretted even more that he had not persuaded her to marry and forget that she was the astrologer’s daughter.
‘You will receive Master Renwick when he comes, will you not, daughter?’ he asked her as she prepared to go shopping. ‘And you will be a good daughter, I know, and give him the answer he—and I—wish to hear.’
What could she say to that? He had been a kind father and she did not want to distress him but, talking to Kit Carlyon, brief though their speech had been, had made her even less inclined towards a marriage with Master Renwick. He was not an unkind man, she knew that without needing an astrological chart to tell her so, but he was not the man for her. Perhaps there was no man for her and, if so, then Amen to that. Except that her father did not want to hear that particular Amen!
‘I like Master Renwick as a friend,’ she said gently, her head bent a little, ‘but I do not wish to marry, Father. You know that. Not him or any man.’
She thought that she spoke the truth but, for a moment, was there not such as man as he had seemed to be yester afternoon whom she might wish to marry? She straightened up and looked her father full in the eye, for she would have refused to marry Robert Renwick even if the Duke had never visited them and brought his haughty friend with him.
‘Say not so, daughter, before you speak with him.’ Adam uttered no threats, no words such as, You will do my bidding, daughter, or be thrashed and remain in your room until you agree to the marriage. It was not his way. Besides, he had done an election, soon after rising, and the election had told him that his daughter would marry, and that her marriage would be long and blessed. It did not tell him whom she would marry, but reason said that Renwick was the man—for who else could there be? No need, then, to act as most men did towards their daughters when they flouted their authority. Time and chance were on his side.
‘Very well, Father. I will listen to Master Renwick, speak him fair, but I warn you, I do not think that I shall change my mind.’
Adam was pleased to take this as a half-submission and said, ‘Go to, then; go to. Do this day’s duty. And should he chance to come today, why, then do that duty, too.’
All the way down the Strand Celia walked, not with Robert Renwick, that decent man whom her father wished her to marry, but with Sir Kit. Oh, it was not just the fashion in which he had spoken to her which entranced her, but it was the whole man. So tall, so proud, the green eyes flashing at her and his voice, that seducing voice when he sang.
What a fool I am; how many women has that beautiful voice seduced? Why should that voice not wish to seduce me? Why should he see me as any different from the other women he had known? Celia suddenly walked with a pride as great as his. I am no court light of love, I am Celia Antiquis—and if I do not wish to be Robert Renwick’s wife, neither do I wish to be Kit Carlyon’s whore, for that is all I should be. Great men do not look at such as I am for other than a passing entertainment. But a girl may dream of other things, so long as she understands that dreams and daily life may never meet!
Willem thought his mistress a little more distant than usual that morning as she bargained with the mercer over stuff for a new gown. A pretty wench, Mistress Celia, but cold. Robert Renwick would be taking an icicle to his bed.
Robert Renwick came that afternoon. Celia and Adam were working on the Duke’s elections, for he had made several. Neither father nor daughter was to know that the true reason for Buckingham’s visit had not been the elections, useful though they might be to him, but to introduce Kit to Celia, to start the consequences of the bet on their way.
Buckingham was mischievous. It would be as good as a play to watch Kit lure Celia Antiquis into his toils. It might even make a play for him. Who knew what the future held for any of them?
Robert Renwick thought that he knew. He was a goldsmith and saw men and women as an extension of his craft, particularly women. They were malleable, could be bought and then bent to the whim of the craftsman or the master. He knew his worth and thought that both Antiquises did. He had spoken often with Celia, and she pleased him. Modesty always pleased a man and Celia was truly modest, save only that her father had unfortunately chosen to treat her as his acolyte. No matter. Her nature, woman’s nature would mean that she would become Robert Renwick’s acolyte and, in so doing, would relinquish what her father had taught her.
He stood in the parlour where Buckingham and Kit had stood the day before. He admired it, particularly the presses. He thought that one day, perhaps not long distant by Adam’s looks, they would grace his home and grace it well.
He ignored the view of the garden through the window. Gardens were for women and his sole thought of it was that Celia might make such a one for him. She entered and was before him.
Celia had thought and thought what to say to him. She neither liked nor disliked him. He was someone with whom her father had supped and spoken. She had known Nan Barton, his first wife, and liked her. She had grieved at her death in childbirth, had watched with pity Robert’s grief at his loss. He was a good man, she thought, but not a good man for Celia Antiquis to marry.
He was finely dressed and, although the day was warm, he had put on his best murrey-coloured doublet with the fur collar. He wore one of his own gold chains and carried a pair of fine gloves in his strong craftsman’s hands. He was not as tall as Kit Carlyon, but broader. His eyes were not flashing