Beneath the damage done by Mary’s unsteady hand, Catherine’s stately design was still everywhere in evidence: a brief allée of trees, pleached into two walls and entwined to form an arch; urns of fragrant plants, an elegant illusion to distract the mind and senses from the fact that there was but a circular gravel path to tread, round a bit of greenery roofed by the drifting smell of the tanneries and the needling sounds of cart traffic from just beyond the wall.
Ahead, along the perimeter of the garden, strode Bescós. John, Ester saw, had determined to walk with her. They stepped slowly along the path. After a moment she turned to him, found him watching her, and looked down again—but a moment later his soft, sudden laugh lifted her gaze.
With a gesture he directed her attention toward a bush of silvery cotton lavender that had been trimmed into a neat globe. There, tucked in the shadow beneath the plant’s stout curve, lay a small embroidered pillow with a design Ester had seen not three minutes earlier. The pillow had been cut open and one panel carefully removed, the wool stuffing left exposed. Beside the pillow, in the dirt under the bush, lay a small silver scissor.
How deliberately, how delicately Mary must have worked to unstitch just enough of that panel to make it appear to be her own handiwork—mounting the cut panel onto a tent frame, setting a needle upon the thread, and laying it atop the virginal as though she had only just paused in her work upon Thomas’s arrival. A labor of deceit to rival the labor of the embroidery itself.
John was laughing with his mouth open and his shoulders gathered: a gentle mirth, his cheeks pinked, his eyes bright. Only when he fell silent, concern flooding his face, did she realize that she herself hadn’t been laughing, but rather staring at him.
But now his consternation over her solemnity was absurd—she couldn’t control her face. As if striking a silent agreement, they laughed together: a soft conspiracy among the strict hedges and tamed herbs of the garden. Her voice sounded out above his, high and girlish.
What was it that made him seem so unburdened? His eyes were clear of suffering, of grievance. She’d never seen such clear eyes, a rain-washed brown, with room to take in all that they saw.
She bit down on her lip until she tasted iron. “You mustn’t try to know me,” she said.
His brows arched high. “Why?” he said.
How to explain that for just an instant he’d reminded her of carved wooden angels she’d seen here and there in London, set high in lofty arches or on the posts of grand entrances—creatures whose faces shone with a mesmerizing trust? And each time she glimpsed such angels she felt certain that, should she but touch them, their innocence would dissolve.
She stood opposite John, wanting to turn away and wanting the feel of his hand on hers once more. “If you knew me,” she said, “you’d run from me.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “you think so only because you don’t know me.”
He stood before her, arms loose at his sides. It seemed to her that he’d just issued a challenge, though whether to her or to himself she didn’t know. She felt there was something she ought say in response. Then she saw that what was required was that she say nothing.
A moment passed. Another. Something between them turned.
Bescós was coming. She broke her gaze from John and walked.
“Tell me,” she said, as though they’d been discussing the matter all along. “Did your friend Thomas truly learn nothing at Oxford?”
John fell into step beside her. “During the siege of Oxford, he was among the students who studied with Harvey.”
“The anatomist? The author of De Motu Cordis?”
“Yes,” said John, surprised. “Harvey had a great following among the students moored there during the war.”
“Yet your friend shows few traces of cherishing his education.”
“I fear that’s true,” said John, as Bescós reached them. “I believe the only lesson Thomas took from Oxford was that he detested schooling. And the only lesson he drew from Harvey was after Harvey’s most brilliant work had been damned for contradicting Galen. Harvey declared, then, that humankind was but a collection of mischievous baboons.” He grimaced. “I believe Thomas has lived since then to prove Harvey correct.”
Bescós was smiling a small, satisfied smile. “Thomas and I are united in one thing, at least,” he said. “We believe Harvey was correct about humankind.” He looked past Ester, and fixed his gaze on John. “You, on the other hand, take a daintier view of the human spirit.”
“A kinder one,” John said.
“No,” said Bescós, a sudden edge in his voice. “’Tis kind to tell the truth rather than pretty falsehood. ’Tis kind to wring a runt’s neck, put the weak and deformed out of their misery, recognize that some of humanity is lesser and dispatch with it. You think you have a tender heart, John, but you lie to yourself. Those who hold your precious view of humanity only lengthen the suffering of those ill-fitted for this world. Harvey was too generous in his estimation—the baboon at least demonstrates some sense regarding its fellow creatures. It cannot be said of mankind.” He turned, and disappeared into the house.
Only when he was gone did Ester realize she’d risen to the balls of her feet while he spoke, as though to flee.
An unhappy expression passed across John’s face. “He and I spoke earlier of my opinion that soldiers who turn deserter amid hopeless-seeming battles should be spared execution. I argued that many are pressed into service yet not of a temperament to be heroes. You may guess Bescós’s response. I try to forgive him his ferocities.”
She shook her head slowly.
“I’m sorry,” John said. “He’s a creature of blunt thoughts and no courtesy.”
“Then why do you name him a friend?”
He looked surprised. “Bescós is Thomas’s friend, not mine.”
“Yet you keep his company.”
“When I must. And in truth Bescós does no harm despite his bluster, and at the inn where we board I’ve seen him buy supper for poor students while men of more seeming-refined manners and greater means turned their backs. His generosity is of a rough sort, as are the opinions he holds. But I know him to be guilty of nothing more than restlessness—and in that, I fear, he’s no different than most who come to this city in pursuit of their future.” He thought a moment. “Do you keep Mary’s company out of true friendship? You seem little alike.”
From the house, the faint sound of Mary’s giddy laughter.
Surprising herself, she looked directly at John. “Mary pays me for my presence here today.”
John laughed his surprise. Then he said, “Allow me to try to make your hours of employment pass lightly.”
But she wasn’t ready to join his laughter. “Mary, unlike your companion”—she indicated the door where Bescós had disappeared—“doesn’t disdain any for the faith he was born to.”
John absorbed this. Quietly he nodded.
She led him back into the house, in time to see Thomas and Mary tumbling like children from some back passage—Thomas’s lips cherry-red, Mary giggling in a merry register. Thomas, his face flushed from more than wine, bowed his way cheerily out the door before turning to the street with a sated expression. There Bescós awaited him. As soon as Thomas appeared, Bescós turned his back and began to walk away.
“A moment for farewell,” John called.
Bescós stopped midstep. Slowly he turned back. “John, my friend,” he said. But his expression had nothing in it of friendship. He stared for a moment at Mary, then at Ester. “Surely you know I give courtesy where it’s necessary. None is necessary here.”
Mary looked confused, as though she’d heard the words yet didn’t know what they signified.
John shook his head. He bent to kiss Mary’s hand. She received the gesture numbly. He did the same, swiftly, with Ester, his eyes lighting on hers for only a troubled instant. Then he left, striding swiftly to catch his companions. When the three turned the corner, Ester saw John was addressing Bescós earnestly.
Ester watched them go. At length she turned back to Mary. If naught else, she’d say what she saw. “Mary. Your father wronged your mother, and he wrongs you now. Yet you mend little by—”
“You know nothing,” Mary countered dangerously.