The rebel heart

His jibe had gone home. Jane coloured up again, but she still had guts enough to respond.

'Not money for myself, my Lord. Money for the Library.'

'More money for the Library?' said Gresham. The realisation that he had been unfair to her was making him even more annoyed and vindictive. 'You have a small fortune to spend on this cursed house as it is. What need have you of more?'

Gresham hardly needed the money. He was one of the richest men in London, thanks to his father who had built The House. And he paid nothing to Jane for acting as housekeeper and saving him a steady fortune.

'I believe, my Lord, that I save a small fortune on this house.' Good God! She was reading his mind now. 'Unless you were happy with your servants feeding every vagabond in London and half the villages around it!' Jane was getting angry now.

Here we go again, thought Mannion. They're off. It was better than a play. Gresham could make another fortune by charging for tickets to watch.

'Well, you of all people should know about poor villages. And vagabonds.'

Her face registered the unfairness of the comment, but she clung to her point.

'My Lord! That is so unjust! This Library, the state of so many of the books in it, is… is a disgrace.*

'As you now claim to run The House, why have you allowed this to happen? If indeed it is true.'

'It is true, my Lord,' said Jane. 'Just look, here!' She turned to one of the dark, oak shelves and pulled out a book, one of those still with dust all over it. A small cloud shot forth in the beams of sunlight, as if angered to have its rest disturbed. 'See? The binding is going here… and here… and here… if I open this work fully the spine will crack and the pages will fall out. It will be ruined.'

'Here. Give it to me.' He took the book rather less gently than she had handled it. He opened the cover, suddenly remembering and slowing down so that he did not rip the binding from the pages. He had no intention of proving her point. The Revenger's Tragedy. There was no author. It was a cheap, hurriedly put together edition. Gresham knew. He had paid for it. The author, Thomas Kyd, now long since dead, had been one of nature's victims, subjected to torture and caught up with the truly dreadful Marlowe. Gresham had helped him out by paying for the book to be published, to give Kyd something to sell. He baulked at giving the man money, which would simply be converted straight to drink. Would the world suffer if this new pot-boiler was lost to posterity? Well, people were now producing new editions of Kyd's plays, claiming they had written them. But this book, with no author listed, would not solve that problem. And it would have fallen apart in five years, anyway.

'It's just a play,' said Gresham. ‘Not even a very good one. All blood and thunder and not much poetry. What will it cost to repair and preserve this… light reading?'

'A few pence. The content of the book isn't the point. Books are

… for posterity.' She was prim now, like a schoolboy reciting a passage he had learnt by heart. 'What we discard, later generations might revere or worship. We mustn't judge. We must preserve so others can judge.'

'Fine speech,' said Gresham cuttingly. 'Where did you read it? But if later generations worship rubbish like this you won't find me going to church.'

'You don't, actually,' said Mannion from the doorway. 'Go to church, that is. At least, not as when you can avoid it.'

'Did I ask for your comment?' Gresham whirled round and glared at him.

'You never do,' said Mannion.

'Though it never stops him giving it!' guffawed George, who was clearly failing to see how serious the situation was.

Jane was not backing off. 'Please, my Lord', she said, though it clearly cost her deep, 'the worms will have these unless we do something soon. It would be an act of blasphemy to let so much knowledge go to waste.'

Now was the time to play his trump card.

'You had Armytage, the old bookseller, in here last week? Yes?'

Jane was caught unawares. Was this a criticism? What had she done wrong? Did he think she was selling her favours to the old man in order to purchase more books?

'Yes, my Lord. I-'

'I need no explanation. I passed him as he was leaving, invited him up here. These continual requests for money for the Library have to stop. So I asked him to estimate how much it would cost. For the whole lot. To get them mended, de-wormed or whatever you have to do. I've agreed a figure with him. He will do the work. And now will you stop pestering me with these requests? You have what you wanted. You may leave us.'

'My Lord, how much did Armytage ask?'

Gresham had hoped she would ask. The size of the figure proved conclusively how generous Gresham was, the lengths to which he would go to meet his ward halfway. He named the figure, trying not to sound smug.

Her response caught him totally unawares. Jane turned scarlet, and exploded, 'That's outrageous! A ludicrous sum! A third of that and Armytage will be able to repair all the volumes here and keep his wife and children in state for a year!'

'Are you complaining at my generosity?' Gresham yelled, pushed now beyond his limits.

'I'm complaining at your stupidity!' Jane shouted back. She thought about adding 'my Lord' but decided not to. 'It's criminal to waste money! It's amazing you have any to spend if you can be fooled by an old man!'

'How dare you talk to me like that!' roared Gresham. 'What's happened now to the "my Lord" this and the "my Lord" that? Well?'

'You told me not to call you "my Lord" because you were only a knight and not a proper Lord at all,' said Jane, She was still flushed, but back in demure mode now, hands joined in front of her, eyes downcast.

'Then why do you still carry on doing it?' asked Gresham boring in for the kill. 'Except, that is, when you're being grossly impertinent?' God, what must it be like to be a father like George, and have more than one of these wild young animals to cope with.

She looked up then.

'Because whether I choose it or not, you are my Lord,' she said simply. Then she burst into tears, and left rapidly.

Damn! That was her in her room for another two days at least! False tears? Genuine tears? How in heaven was a man meant to know the truth behind a woman's tears? Did she know the difference? And what did it matter? And what did this stupid girl matter to him anyway? He had actually been quite proud at getting the brooks sorted out. Despite the front he put up, the scholar in him hated to see a book being ruined by time. The trouble with these books was that they had belonged to his father. At one stage he had half decided to move the whole library to the new one he was funding at Granville College, Cambridge, the recipient of more and more of his time and money. Had it been the thought of the effect on the girl that had stopped him? No. Of course not. It had been the thought of his favourite room in The House lying bereft of the books that were its true furniture.

'She's right,' said Mannion, moving forward to pour the second flagon of wine he had brought. 'That old bugger Armytage must 'ave seen you coming. You could buy the Vatican Library, and get the Pope thrown in as a free gift, for that much.'