Tom, she thought. O Tom, now what do I do, what am I supposed to do?
But of course the doing was hers.
To him.
She had no idea what her horoscope or his was on this date, but she thought that it must be disaster, and she fingered the little fishes which she wore still in her decolletage for His Honor Richard Collier to see.
And she waited, to bend as she had learned to bend; only. . . she began to think with the versatility of the old Bettine. . . never give up an advantage. Never. She went in and washed her face and put on her makeup again, and stopped her crying and repaired all the subtle damages of her tears.
She dressed in her handsomest dress and waited.
And toward sundown the call came.
"Bettine," His Honor said. "Have you thought better of it, Bettine?" She came and faced the screen and stood there with her lips quivering and her chin trembling because weakness worked for those who knew how to use it.
"I might," she said.
"There's no 'might' about it, Bettine," said Richard Collier, his broad face suffused with red.
"Either you do or you don't."
"When you're here," she said, "when you come here and see me yourself, I'll tell you."
"Before I come."
"No," she said, letting the tremor become very visible. "I'm afraid, Richard; I'm afraid. If you'll come here and take me out of here yourself, I promise I'll tell you anything I know, which isn't much, but I'll tell you. I'll give you his name, but he's not involved with anything besides that he had a silly infatuation and I was lonely. But I won't tell anything if you don't come and get me out of here. This has gone far enough, Richard. I'm frightened. Bring me home." He stared at her, frowning. "If I come over there and you change your mind, Bettine, you can forget any favors you think I owe you. I won't be played with. You understand me, girl?" She nodded.
"All right," he said. "You'll tell me his name, and you'll be thinking up any other detail that might explain how he could have gotten to that office, and you do it tonight. I'm sure there's some sense in that pretty head, there's a girl. You just think about it, Bettine, and you think hard, and where you want to be. Home, with all the comforts. . . or where you are, which isn't comfortable at all, is it, Bettine?"
"No," she said, crying. She shook her head. "No. It's not comfortable, Richard."
"See you in the morning, Bettine. And you can pack, if you have the right name."
"Richard—" But he had winked out, and she leaned there against the wall shivering, with her hands made into fists and the feeling that she was very small indeed. She did not want to be in the Tower another night, did not want to face the ghosts, who would stare at her with sad eyes and talk to her about honor, about things that were not for Bettine Maunfry. I'm sorry, she thought for them. I won't be staying and dying here after all. But Tom would. That thought depressed her enormously. She felt somehow responsible, and that was a serious burden, more serious than anything she had ever gotten herself into except the time she had thought for ten days that she was pregnant. Maybe Tom would—lie to them; maybe Tom would try to tell them she was somehow to blame in something which was not her fault. That frightened her. But Tom loved her. He truly did. Tom would not hurt her by anything he would say, being a man, and braver, and motivated by some vaguely different drives, which had to do with pride and being strong, qualities which she had avoided afl her life. She went through the day's routines, such of the day as was left, and packed all but her dress that Richard said matched her eyes. She put that one on, to sit up all the night, because she was determined that Richard should not surprise her looking other than beautiful, and it would be like him to try that mean trick. She would simply sleep sitting up and keep her skirts from wrinkling, all propped with pillows: that way she could both be beautiful and get some sleep. And she kept the lights on because of the ghosts, who were going to feel cheated. Had he really died that way, she wondered of the Roman, the young Roman, who talked about battles from forgotten ages. Had he really died that way or did he only make it up to make her listen to him? She thought about battles which might have been fought right where this building stood, all the many, many ages. And the lights faded.
The children came, grave and sober, Edward and then Richard, who stood and stared with liquid, disapproving eyes. "I'm sorry," she said shortly. "I'm going to be leaving." The others then, Anne and Robert, Anne with her heart-shaped face and dark hair and lovely manners, Essex tall and elegant, neither looking at her quite the way she expected— not disapproving, more as if they had swallowed secrets. "It was politics after all," asked Anne, "wasn't it, Bettine?"
"Maybe it was," she said shortly, hating to be proved wrong. "But what's that to me? I'm still getting out of here."
"What if your lover accuses you?" asked Essex. "Loves do end."
"He won't," she said. "He wouldn't. He's not likely to."
"Exemplum,"said a mournful voice. "O Bettine, is this yours?"
"Shut up," she told Marc. He was hardest to face, because his sad, dark gaze seemed to expect something special of her. She was instantly sorry to have been rude; he looked as if his heart was breaking. He wavered, and she saw him covered in dust, the armor split, and bloody, and tears washing down his face. She put her hands to her face, horrified.
"You've hurt him," said Anne. "We go back to the worst moment when we're hurt like that."
"O Marc," she said, "I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you. But I want to be alive, you understand.
. . can't you remember that? Wouldn't you have traded anything for that? And you had so much. .
. when the sun was young and everything was new. O Marc, do you blame me?"
"There is only one question," he said, his eyes melting-sad. "It's your moment, Bettine. Your moment."
"Well, I'm not like you; I never was; never will be. What good is being right and dead? And what's right? Who's to know? It's all relative. Tom's not that wonderful, I'll have you to know. And neither's Richard. And a girl gets along the best she can."
A wind blew, and there was a stirring among the others, an intaken breath. Essex caught at Anne's slim form, and the children withdrew to Anne's skirts. "It's her,"said young Edward.
"She'scome."
Only Marc refused the panic which took the others; bright again, he moved with military precision to one side, cast a look back through the impeding wall where a tiny figure advanced.
"She didn't die here," he said quietly. "But she has many ties to this place. She is one of the queens, Bettine, a great one. And very seldom does she
come out."
"For me?"
"Because you are one of the last, perhaps."
She shook her head, looked again in bewilderment as Anne and Robert and young Richard bowed; and Edward inclined his head. Marc only touched his heart and stepped further aside.
"Marc," Bettine protested, not wanting to lose him, the one she trusted.
"Well," said the visitor, a voice like the snap of ice. She seemed less woman than small monument, in a red and gold gown covered with embroideries and pearls, and ropes of pearls and pearls in crisp red hair; she had a pinched face out of which two eyes stared like living cinder. "Well?"