beating hollow in his throat. He was
warm, and solid, and reassuring, and just being held so began to still the
tremors that ran through her. "Cold," he said firmly, and pulled the
blankets over them both again, and began to rub her back. And her breathing
began to steady, and her heart to settle, and she was on the verge of sleep,
yawning fit to crack her jaw.
"Bout time
we slept in a proper bed again, Zee," he mumbled into her hair.
"Still got lodgings in London. If you wish it?"
2
SPARK
19
Thomazine sat down on the lumpy, homely
bed in her first proper lodgings as a married woman, smiled nicely at her
landlady, and waited until the door was closed before she flopped backwards,
with a groan.
It was a bare
sixty miles from White Notley to London. Sixty miles, a couple of days' ride,
even in January. And it had taken them a week .
To be fair, it
had taken almost two months of painstaking correspondence, of drafting
carefully-worded letters and awaiting replies, of appointments with
mantua-makers and shoemakers and, under duress, tailors, before they were
anything like ready to travel anywhere. It had driven her stark mad. Every time
she had seen her husband, he'd had inky fingers, and had had one eye on the
road over her shoulder, in case of any inward-bound responses.
Her mother had
been rather taken with Thomazine's new wardrobe, even though Thankful had
looked askance at it being only the finest Essex had to offer. And, in
all honesty, though Thomazine was not a vain girl she had to admit that the
long, clean lines of the new fashions suited a girl of her height and
slenderness, and that her husband had a good eye for line and colour. Would
wear none of it himself, mind, for fear of drawing the eye, but would see her garbed like a peacock.
She carried her
tiny rabbit with her, though, in her little hanging pocket, under her skirts
against her thigh.
It was a
reminder that her husband was exactly the same man as she had known for twenty
years, and not quite so fixated on presentation and propriety as he seemed to
have become, lately. By a mutual and unspoken agreement, they had returned to
her parents and said nothing of that peculiar defamation that had seen them
driven from Four Ashes. Because in the daylight, when you took it out and
looked at it, it was a ridiculous, contemptible thing, a coward's whisper, to
malign a man who wasn't there to defend himself. It would blow over, when the
next scandal-broth came their way. But for the meantime - she thought of the
grim Gillespie prowling the ruins with a brace of loaded pistols through the
dark, and shuddered.
He had changed,
though, since that night. He'd not taken as much care over their marriage, as
he had with those letters to and from London, before Christmas, or with his
choosing of the cut and style of her new wardrobe.
And he had not
taken such care with their lodgings, either, she noticed. His old
bachelor-lodgings, in Aldgate, he said, with a respectable widow. She'd
expected some plump, white-haired old beldame. She got Jane Bartholomew, who
must have been barely five years older than Thomazine, who was neat, plump,
becomingly timid, and very pretty, and who had a plump little baby at her
skirts. (And where, Thomazine thought grimly in her pettier moments, might that
plump little baby have come from, with Thankful comfortably ensconced in the
attic at the time?)
And London was a
seeping wet disappointment. It was not full of exotic sights and smells, unless
you happened to count the stink of far too many unwashed bodies in too small a
space exotic. And shit. It smelt of shit. A lot. She suspected that of the many
fascinating modern developments of this age, the ability to empty a jakes more
than once a year in this part of London was not amongst them.
They put men's
heads on spikes, and that was just barbaric. Thankful had refused to take her
where they said Cromwell's head was exhibited as a warning and a terrible
vengeance by the
warm, and solid, and reassuring, and just being held so began to still the
tremors that ran through her. "Cold," he said firmly, and pulled the
blankets over them both again, and began to rub her back. And her breathing
began to steady, and her heart to settle, and she was on the verge of sleep,
yawning fit to crack her jaw.
"Bout time
we slept in a proper bed again, Zee," he mumbled into her hair.
"Still got lodgings in London. If you wish it?"
2
SPARK
19
Thomazine sat down on the lumpy, homely
bed in her first proper lodgings as a married woman, smiled nicely at her
landlady, and waited until the door was closed before she flopped backwards,
with a groan.
It was a bare
sixty miles from White Notley to London. Sixty miles, a couple of days' ride,
even in January. And it had taken them a week .
To be fair, it
had taken almost two months of painstaking correspondence, of drafting
carefully-worded letters and awaiting replies, of appointments with
mantua-makers and shoemakers and, under duress, tailors, before they were
anything like ready to travel anywhere. It had driven her stark mad. Every time
she had seen her husband, he'd had inky fingers, and had had one eye on the
road over her shoulder, in case of any inward-bound responses.
Her mother had
been rather taken with Thomazine's new wardrobe, even though Thankful had
looked askance at it being only the finest Essex had to offer. And, in
all honesty, though Thomazine was not a vain girl she had to admit that the
long, clean lines of the new fashions suited a girl of her height and
slenderness, and that her husband had a good eye for line and colour. Would
wear none of it himself, mind, for fear of drawing the eye, but would see her garbed like a peacock.
She carried her
tiny rabbit with her, though, in her little hanging pocket, under her skirts
against her thigh.
It was a
reminder that her husband was exactly the same man as she had known for twenty
years, and not quite so fixated on presentation and propriety as he seemed to
have become, lately. By a mutual and unspoken agreement, they had returned to
her parents and said nothing of that peculiar defamation that had seen them
driven from Four Ashes. Because in the daylight, when you took it out and
looked at it, it was a ridiculous, contemptible thing, a coward's whisper, to
malign a man who wasn't there to defend himself. It would blow over, when the
next scandal-broth came their way. But for the meantime - she thought of the
grim Gillespie prowling the ruins with a brace of loaded pistols through the
dark, and shuddered.
He had changed,
though, since that night. He'd not taken as much care over their marriage, as
he had with those letters to and from London, before Christmas, or with his
choosing of the cut and style of her new wardrobe.
And he had not
taken such care with their lodgings, either, she noticed. His old
bachelor-lodgings, in Aldgate, he said, with a respectable widow. She'd
expected some plump, white-haired old beldame. She got Jane Bartholomew, who
must have been barely five years older than Thomazine, who was neat, plump,
becomingly timid, and very pretty, and who had a plump little baby at her
skirts. (And where, Thomazine thought grimly in her pettier moments, might that
plump little baby have come from, with Thankful comfortably ensconced in the
attic at the time?)
And London was a
seeping wet disappointment. It was not full of exotic sights and smells, unless
you happened to count the stink of far too many unwashed bodies in too small a
space exotic. And shit. It smelt of shit. A lot. She suspected that of the many
fascinating modern developments of this age, the ability to empty a jakes more
than once a year in this part of London was not amongst them.
They put men's
heads on spikes, and that was just barbaric. Thankful had refused to take her
where they said Cromwell's head was exhibited as a warning and a terrible
vengeance by the
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