“Lord Rothbury.” Phoebe came slowly down the stairs. “I bid you welcome.”
“Ah, Phoebe.” The surprised flash in his eye was unmistakable, as was the instant of swift and approving appraisal. “Lady Granville,” he said, and bowed with grave deliberation.
Phoebe’s head lifted. She glanced at Portia, who was grinning wickedly. Olivia gave her an infinitesimal nod of encouragement even as her dark eyes shone with curiosity as she waited for her father’s reaction to Phoebe’s stunning entrance.
Cato turned slowly. Briefly he closed his eyes and his fingers fleetingly brushed his mouth, before he said, “I trust we can persuade Lord Rothbury to break bread with us before he resumes his journey, Phoebe.”
“Yes, indeed.” Phoebe, with regal grace, swept past Cato to curtsy to her guest.
Cato gazed at his wife’s back with astonishment. The hooks at the back of Phoebe’s latest revelation were missing several connections, and those they had made were not all correctly paired.
Cato slipped a casual arm around her. “If you’d excuse us for a minute, Rothbury…” He moved Phoebe away, his hand sliding to the small of her back as he steered her towards the library, concealing the middle of her back view from the occupants of the hall.
Phoebe shivered at the easy intimacy of his touch. She had no idea what he was about, but she was not complaining.
In the library, out of direct sight of the hall, Cato put his hands on her shoulders, keeping her back to him. “Why didn’t you get your maid to help you with these hooks?”
“Why? What’s the matter?” Phoebe peered over her shoulder.
“It’s more a question of what’s right,” he said, beginning to unhook the gown from the top.
Phoebe felt the air stir the thin cotton of her shift. “Oh dear, are they done up wrong?”
She stood on tiptoe as she continued to peer over her shoulder as if the extra height would enable her to see better. “I was afraid they might be,” she added dolefully. “It’s very difficult if you don’t have arms like an octopus.”
“Which is why you have a maid,” Cato pointed out.
“I was trying to hurry. I knew Lord Rothbury was coming; I saw him on the road when I was coming back from the village, and I wanted to be able to greet him dressed properly.”
“As against dressed for digging up cabbages,” Cato said sharply. “For God’s sake, girl, why can’t you find a happy medium? This gown is as inappropriate as the blue vel-that other one.”
“But it’s very elegant,” Phoebe pointed out.
“It depends who’s wearing it,” Cato said with a hint of savagery. He finished fastening the hooks and placed his hands on her hips as he checked that he hadn’t missed one.
Phoebe felt the imprint of his hands on her skin beneath the silk. Each finger seemed to burn against her flesh. She stood very still.
Cato’s hands dropped from her hips. “So,” he inquired, “how many more of these sartorial surprises am I to expect?” The sardonic edge was again in his voice.
“I don’t have any more money,” Phoebe said simply.
“On which subject.” Cato reached into the pocket of his britches and drew out the three rings. “If you ever visit a pawnbroker again, madam wife, you will rue the day.”
“You redeemed them?”
“Of course I did. You think I would permit some thief of a pawnbroker to hold my property?”
“I thought they were mine,” Phoebe said softly. “They belonged to my mother.”
“And neither will I permit a pawnbroker to hold your property,” Cato said acidly, tossing the three gem-studded silver circlets onto a sidetable. “If you let them out of your possession again, you will forfeit that possession. Understand that.”
He left the library and after a minute Phoebe scooped up the rings and dropped them into her bosom. It seemed she had her currency returned.
The Rothbury clan was ready to leave within the hour as Portia had promised. The countess of Rothbury was accustomed to military maneuvers and could marshal a brood of children and nursemaids as efficiently as she could a troop of soldiers.
Phoebe held her in a tight embrace and whispered urgently in her ear. It was her last chance for concrete advice.
Portia murmured, “If you can’t tell him what you want, duckie, you’re going to have to show him.”
“How?” Phoebe whispered with the same urgency as before.
“Use your poetic imagination,” Portia responded, her green eyes alight with mischief.
“Easier said than done.” Phoebe gave her one more convulsive hug, before stepping back to give Olivia room for her own farewells.
Chapter 8
“Are you working on your play, Phoebe?” Olivia looked up from her books at the table in the square parlor. She realized that Phoebe hadn’t spoken a word in a very long time, which was unusual.
The house seemed very flat in the wake of the Rothbury party’s departure. Ordinarily Phoebe, who had little patience with moping, would have made an effort to lighten things, but she was so absorbed in her work that she’d barely raised her eyes from the page for several hours.
“How far have you g-got?” Olivia persisted.
“It’s not a play anymore, it’s a pageant,” Phoebe said, nibbling the end of her quill. “It’s to be a midsummer pageant, I’ve decided.”
“What about?” Olivia closed Catullus over her finger.
“Gloriana. Scenes from her life.”
“Queen Elizabeth, you mean?”
“Mmm.” Phoebe’s voice grew more animated. “In verse, of course. I’d like to stage it on Midsummer Eve, if I can have it written by then,” she added, looking down at the scrawl of lines in front of her. “There are so many parts. But the three important ones are Elizabeth, Mary, Queen of Scots, and Elizabeth’s lover, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester.”
“Who’s to take them?” Olivia got up and came over to the window seat where Phoebe was sitting cross-legged, heedless of the creases in the red silk.
“Oh, all of us, of course, and for the minor parts members of the household and the village. I have it in mind to include as many people as possible. The village children and of course your little sisters. I hope it’ll cheer people up, give them something other than gloom and doom and war to think about. Oh, and you’re to be Mary, Queen of Scots, and…”
“Am I to lose my head?” Olivia clapped her hands to her head in mock horror. “Shall I g-go around with it under my arm?”
“You could, I suppose,” Phoebe said doubtfully. “But I hadn’t thought to stage the execution. It might be a bit too difficult to do convincingly.”
“Well, who’s to play Elizabeth? It had better be you, don’t you think?” Olivia sat on the window seat and picked up a sheet of vellum already covered in Phoebe’s black writing.
“Although Portia has the right c-color hair…Oh, I like this speech of Mary’s! You’re so talented, Phoebe.”
She was about to declaim when Phoebe snatched the paper from her.
“It’s not finished,” Phoebe said. “I’m not satisfied with it yet. You can’t read it until I am.”
Olivia yielded immediately. She knew what a perfectionist Phoebe was over her work. “Well, are you going to play Gloriana?” she repeated.
Phoebe shook her head. “Hardly. I’d be a laughingstock. I’m too short and plump and I don’t scintillate. The virgin queen was dignified and elegant and she definitely scintillated.”
“When you’re not untidy, you c-can be elegant,” Olivia said seriously.
“Well, thank you for those few kind words,” Phoebe said. It seemed like a backhanded compliment to her.
“It’s true, though,” Olivia insisted. “People aren’t the same, Phoebe. You know what they say: one man’s meat is another man’s poison.”
“I suppose so,” Phoebe said, suddenly remembering her conversation with Meg. “Have you ever heard of women who like women more than men?”
“Oh, you mean like Sappho on Lesbos,” Olivia said matter-of-factly. “Although the Greeks were mostly known for men who liked men, or boys. It was part of the c-culture.”