Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
If you ever have the opportunity to pry open a tomb (à la Romeo, the Friar, and practically everyone else in that play), or you need to pry an offensive portrait from the wall, I recommend a useful implement called an iron crow.
Men are pigs,” Ophelia announced. “I don’t want one of my own. I’d prefer bookstores, museums, and the theater to a ballroom.” She stood up, clearly considering the topic concluded. “Let’s unbolt the portrait and fetch the will.”
Godric frowned, but she cut him off before he could speak.
“I’m not afraid of my father. I’m not a twelve-year-old boy; if he tries to punish me, he will be very sorry. See what Colette gave me?” The spike that Colette had intended to use against a wolf was pinned to Ophelia’s bodice.
(Remember what I said about Hamlet? If the prince had accused my Ophelia of being a bawd, she would have poked him in the eye and settled the question.)
“You can stab a wolf, but not your father,” I said, laying down the law, the way a mother should.
“Unless you need to for your own safety,” I revised, changing the rule as soon as I made it.
“I cannot be party to destroying a legal document,” Godric stated, laying down his own law.
Ophelia sighed. “You are both obviously not from Burnsby’s bloodline. Luckily, I am. If the man has disinherited Lance, the way Mima said, then the will must be burned. It’s simple.”
“Under the law of primogeniture, which rules England and Scotland, the eldest son inherits all entailed property, which in this case would mean the abbey, the London townhouse, and the Scottish estate, with all its lands. Burnsby cannot disinherit his son,” Godric said.
Ophelia shrugged. “Trust me. He’s found some way to give it to Sophonisba. We should burn that bloody portrait and, if necessary, the will as well.” She crossed her arms, staring down at us.
I let out a soundless sigh, imagining Ophelia once she met the man she wished to marry. I had an uneasy feeling that it would be as hard to dissuade her from someone unacceptable as it would have been to steer me away from Burnsby.
“If there’s no reason to destroy the will, I’ll put it to the side,” she added with a patently false air of innocence.
I stood up. “I want the portrait removed, if only because you and Lance should never see it again, Godric.”
“I’ve sworn to uphold the law,” he reminded us, rising.
“You’re so lucky to know me,” Ophelia told him. “You could wait for us here. Evie and I can figure out how to unbolt a portrait from the wall.”
“In Romeo and Juliet, the friar brings along an iron crow to pry open Juliet’s tomb,” I said. “There’s one leaning against the wall next to the buttery, together with the shovels.”
In the end, “bolted to the wall” proved an exaggeration. Ophelia climbed onto a chair, yanked up the bottom of the frame and reported it was nailed to the wall at the top. Godric stepped forward, but I shook my head and picked up the iron crow.
“Removing the portrait feels like something I should do on behalf of my fellow wives.” I slipped the implement between the wall and the bottom of the portrait.
After one good wrench and an unladylike grunt, the portrait came away from the wall, toppling into Godric’s hands with a splatter of plaster dust.
“The will is pinned to the back,” Ophelia reported. She plucked off a folded piece of parchment.
“I’ll take that,” Godric said, holding out his hand.
Ophelia reluctantly handed it over. “You’re no fun,” she complained.
He tucked it away in his coat.
“You aren’t reading it?” she cried.
“I’ll give it to Lance. He may wish to remind his father of the laws of primogeniture. No man’s will can overturn the statutes of England.”
“Ophelia, will you please fetch your mother’s portrait?” I asked. “What shall we do with Sophonisba’s?” I asked Godric, after she ran from the room.
He strolled over to me and ran a finger down my cheek. “Dust,” he explained. “Are you tired?”
“No. I don’t have a ladylike constitution,” I explained. “When the whole household came down with influenza, I was fine. My chapel adventure feels as if it happened a week ago.”
Godric kissed me with his lips open, his eyes lidded and suggestive. His mouth was demanding and soft, both at once. I didn’t understand what he was asking for until his tongue slipped between my lips.
That kiss woke a part of me that had been deeply asleep. I let out a sound like a whimper, and then flinched from embarrassment. He didn’t mind. His eyes glowed, and he drew me closer.
“Ophelia might return any moment,” I said, shocked by the thirsty sound of my own voice.
He stepped back, the look in his eyes making me boneless. “Later.” If my voice was thirsty, his was low and gravelly.
“I don’t suppose we could throw that paper in the fire now, while Ophelia’s gone?” I asked, forcing myself to stop thinking about his lips.
Unsurprisingly, Godric shook his head. “If he wishes, Lance may toss it onto the fire in his bedchamber.”
“I could read it before throwing it in the fire,” I suggested.
“That would invite Burnsby’s wrath. You asked me once if Sophonisba had affected my marital choices, remember?”
I nodded.
“My childhood visits to this abbey did affect me. I litigate cases in which wives have faced marital cruelty. Women like Hecuba.”
“You fight for abused women?”
He nodded. “You are the reason I came here for Christmas.”
I gaped at him.
“If I merely wished to meet Lance’s bride, I could easily have traveled from London to Paris. I would have done so, eventually—but when I learned Burnsby’s new wife would be visiting the abbey for the first time, I turned my practice over to my associates.”
“You didn’t . . . Why? I’m not—”
“As I told you, I was in the abbey when Burnsby’s second and third wives first visited.
There was nothing I could do to help Hecuba; our attempt to destroy the portrait didn’t work.
We heard her sobbing every day, all the way through the Christmas holiday.
So even when I believed you a fortune-hunting woman taking advantage of an old man—”
I scowled at him, and he broke off with a laugh.
“I was wrong. Very wrong.”
“Not really, but thank you,” I said with dignity.
“My point is that I came to the abbey not to meet Colette, but to see whether I could help you. I just didn’t imagine you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You, Evie. The way you are.” He ran a finger over my right eyebrow. “Are these truly drawn in charcoal?”
“Darkened,” I answered. “They’re lighter than my hair.”
“They are the only false thing about you,” Godric said, his voice low.
“Don’t be absurd! I am nothing more than a collection of learned behaviors.”
“You are loyal, loving, and true. You make amusing attempts to be proper, but your expressions betray you. I wish I’d seen you in a London ballroom, your eyes flashing with rage as you pretended to simper while reviewing architectural designs in your head.”
My lips curled into a reluctant smile. “It’s not a bad description, but I assure you that no one except Rosie has ever noticed my bad temper.”
“I hate the way you squashed yourself into a ladylike shape, even if it was to help your sister. Loyal and loving, Evie. And human.” His lips brushed over mine. “May I?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I breathed, curling my hands around his arms to keep him close. I was trying to adjust to a dizzyingly erotic experience when a voice came from behind us.
“The nursery has an illustrated book about Astley’s Circus,” Ophelia remarked. “You resemble two seals holding up a ball with their noses.”
I would have moved away, except Godric’s arms held me close. “My favorite seal,” he said, kissing my nose.
“A seal?” I asked dazedly.
“A sea creature who can be trained to walk on land,” Ophelia informed me. “Shall we hang this portrait of my mother over the mantelpiece?”
“Absolutely,” I said, and this time Godric let me move away.
I didn’t want to summon Crumpsall at this hour, and moreover, it was better for the household staff if the portrait exchange was achieved behind their backs. Luckily, Hecuba’s portrait was so large that leaning it on the mantelpiece covered the damaged portion of the wall.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Ophelia asked.
Hecuba had been painted in a lace-trimmed brown velvet gown, her hair thickly powdered. She had a sweet mouth and a triangular face. She resembled her daughter but without the strength of character that radiated from Ophelia.
She was a lady who should have been adored by her husband, but at the back of her eyes I saw sorrow.
“You could be sisters,” I said, making Ophelia smile.
“I thought the two of you would dispense with Sophonisba’s portrait while I was gone, but it seems I have to do everything myself,” she remarked. She tucked the plumed monstrosity under her arm and went out the door, flapping her hand. “Happy almost Christmas!”
After the door closed behind her, I groaned, dropping my forehead onto Godric’s shoulder. “She saw us kissing. I’m married to her father.”
“She was patently not shocked by a mere kiss. She has grown up in this abbey,” Godric reminded me.
He was right.
“If anything, it will be healing, as is the affection she sees between Lance and Colette. You and I—”
I shook my head. “Don’t, please. I’m still married.”
“Genevieve, your marriage is unconsummated. It is not legitimate in England or Scotland,” Godric said gently.
“I said vows in a chapel,” I told him. “Until I’m granted an annulment, I am married, and adultery is wrong.”
I could see he was torn.
“I said vows,” I repeated. “It’s not as if I’m planning to murder Burnsby—”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, flashing his rare smile.
“But I don’t want to commit adultery, either. I vowed to be faithful. My husband said the same, to many women, and blithely lied each time. I cannot lower myself to his level. Do you see what I mean?”
Godric groaned, the sound rumbling in his throat, sending desire chasing down my spine. “I understand, and I appreciate your decision to respect your vows. But,” he said, taking my hands in his, bringing them to his lips, “I still wish to kiss you.”
He started to kiss each of my fingers, making my heart hammer.
“I—I want . . . I want that, too, Godric.” The words tumbled from my mouth in a hushed whisper. “But I worry about your judgeship. What if I’m notorious after divorce or annulment? You could not marry me.”
He shook his head. “With the backing of the king, your annulment will be virtually unnoticed—a matter for bishops, not lords.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I went willingly when he gathered me into his arms. I fit there as if we were made for the purpose of pleasuring each other (an extraordinarily bawdy idea). Yet he wasn’t looking at me only with desire.
His gaze was tender. I was thinking about that when his head bent to mine, and our tongues met.
By the time he broke away with a groan, my eyes were surely wild and my hair wilder. His hands had tousled the curls that Tess had painstakingly brushed into smooth ringlets.
I didn’t feel like myself; my knees were weak. I managed to say (intelligently), “My goodness.”
Godric’s eyes were lingering on my lips. “So I may kiss you while you’re married to Burnsby?”
“In the evenings,” I clarified. “Not all day long, the way Lance and Colette do.”
“There are other things we could do, if you would like.”
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I shook my head. “Ladies kiss gentlemen before marriage,” I explained. “But they don’t do other things . . . whatever they are.”
Godric was grinning, flat-out grinning. Sober, condescending, legal Godric. Barrister to the crown. Et cetera.
He laughed, dropping a kiss on my cheek before gathering me up in his arms again, his body hard and hot against mine. “I could teach you, if you’d be willing. But if you will allow only kisses, Evie, then I will happily kiss you for years.”
I pulled back from where my head rested on his shoulder. “You would kiss me for years, if I’m married that long?” I asked, my eyes searching his face.
“For years,” he vowed. “Burnsby can’t live forever. Someday I’ll kiss you at the altar. After you make vows a second time, to me.”
“You mayn’t kiss me where anyone can see us,” I said, laying down another law.
“Evie, darling, that ship has sailed.” That scarred eyebrow of his was in the air again.
“I’ll speak to Ophelia.”
“Hoping she won’t share her clever seal metaphor with Colette? Good luck. May I escort you to your chamber, my lady?” He held out his elbow. At my door, he bowed and kissed my hand, his lips lingering.
“Good night,” I said.
“I can’t wait until we’re married,” he said.
“You’re putting the cart ahead of the horse,” I observed. “My husband is elderly but not decrepit. In light of my marital status, you can’t ask me to marry you.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but I shook my head.
“Tomorrow is Christmas,” I told him, backing into my room. He stayed in the doorway, watching me. “Did you glance at Burnsby’s will while Ophelia and I were arranging her mother’s portrait?”
“Yes.” He stepped forward and dropped a kiss on my lips before I could stop him. “Merry Christmas, darling.”
Darling?
“Sweet dreams.”
(I know you’re wondering if we began kissing again. The answer is yes. I would defy any woman to resist the invitation in his eyes.)
I fell asleep without worrying about Burnsby.
(I kept my poker at hand, but wouldn’t you?)