answer for her deeds.
“Yes, Father. What is it?” she managed to ask.
His round red face broke into a broad smile. “A miracle, daughter, that’s what. Didn’t I always say that there would come a time when I would be rewarded for my labors?” He thrust the paper in front of her eyes, tapping it with his stubby fingers. “See this! An order for cloth from our new queen herself. Imagine that.”
Heather took the letter from her father’s hands, scanning it quickly. She wanted to laugh aloud, to tell him that he had her to thank for his good fortune, but she held her tongue, fearful that to do so would raise too many questions. There was still Richard Morgan to think of. Although under her watchful eye and tender care he was regaining his strength, she still could not risk his being discovered hidden away in the stable.
“Of course they would want the queen dressed in the finest cloth. Everyone in London knows that Thomas Bowen’s cloth is the finest for miles around.” His chest was puffed out in pride, reminding Heather of a peacock, proud and strutting. She smiled to herself, thankful for his good fortune. His jovial mood would definitely make it more pleasant around the house.
“Yes, Father. Everyone knows that you are London’s leading merchant,” she said, rising to her feet. She had to go to Richard, to see that he was all right. Perriwincle had promised to watch over him, but it wasn’t the same as her being there to see for herself that he was well. And besides, after last night there was so much she needed to say to him, to ask him.
“Sit down, girl!” his voice thundered in her ears. “If I am to be the queen’s own merchant, there is much that needs to be done.”
“But…” It was useless to argue. With a sigh of disappointment Heather returned to the task at hand, her eyes barely seeing what was written on the paper, her ears scarcely hearing her father’s voice calling out his sums. Only Tabitha’s entrance a half-hour later pardoned her.
“Master Bowen,” the flaxen-haired servant girl began, shyly lowering her eyes as she always did when talking to the head of the household. She was tall and thin, her actions more those of someone small and petite, making her appear awkward as she bowed.
Thomas Bowen grunted in answer, but when she did not speak, turned around to look upon her with eyes blazing. “Well, speak up. If you are going to interrupt me, be about your business and be quick about it!”
The girl’s square jaw tightened, her face reddened, and as always, Heather’s heart went out to this timid young woman who was certainly no match for her father’s temperament.
“His….his grace. The….the Duke of Northumberland.” She stood wringing her hands in nervous agitation.
“Yes?”
“He…he’s here!”
Thomas stood up, scattering the ledgers to and fro. “He’s here? Why didn’t you say so sooner? You silly chit.” He gestured wildly to Heather. “Set the table. Fetch our best wine! Put out the silverware. God’s blood, how I wish I’d had some warning.”
Heather could find no words to answer her father; her voice was choked with fear. Northumberland! Richard’s enemy was hers now too. What was he doing here? That he would find Richard was her greatest fear.
Thomas Bowen’s face was bright with anger. “Well, go on, daughter! Away with you.” He looked at Tabitha, who stood rooted to the spot. “You too, girl. Am I surrounded by idiots?”
With Tabitha close behind her, Heather did as she was bid, running up the stairs so fast that she was panting to catch her breath. She had to get word to Perriwincle so that just in case there was any danger, he could hide Richard. Feeling like a cornered rabbit, she sought a means of escape, to flee out to the stables for only a moment, but her father’s corpulent form blocked the doorway as he supervised the proceedings. She could hear his booming voice ordering Blythe Bowen to greet their
“Yes, Father. What is it?” she managed to ask.
His round red face broke into a broad smile. “A miracle, daughter, that’s what. Didn’t I always say that there would come a time when I would be rewarded for my labors?” He thrust the paper in front of her eyes, tapping it with his stubby fingers. “See this! An order for cloth from our new queen herself. Imagine that.”
Heather took the letter from her father’s hands, scanning it quickly. She wanted to laugh aloud, to tell him that he had her to thank for his good fortune, but she held her tongue, fearful that to do so would raise too many questions. There was still Richard Morgan to think of. Although under her watchful eye and tender care he was regaining his strength, she still could not risk his being discovered hidden away in the stable.
“Of course they would want the queen dressed in the finest cloth. Everyone in London knows that Thomas Bowen’s cloth is the finest for miles around.” His chest was puffed out in pride, reminding Heather of a peacock, proud and strutting. She smiled to herself, thankful for his good fortune. His jovial mood would definitely make it more pleasant around the house.
“Yes, Father. Everyone knows that you are London’s leading merchant,” she said, rising to her feet. She had to go to Richard, to see that he was all right. Perriwincle had promised to watch over him, but it wasn’t the same as her being there to see for herself that he was well. And besides, after last night there was so much she needed to say to him, to ask him.
“Sit down, girl!” his voice thundered in her ears. “If I am to be the queen’s own merchant, there is much that needs to be done.”
“But…” It was useless to argue. With a sigh of disappointment Heather returned to the task at hand, her eyes barely seeing what was written on the paper, her ears scarcely hearing her father’s voice calling out his sums. Only Tabitha’s entrance a half-hour later pardoned her.
“Master Bowen,” the flaxen-haired servant girl began, shyly lowering her eyes as she always did when talking to the head of the household. She was tall and thin, her actions more those of someone small and petite, making her appear awkward as she bowed.
Thomas Bowen grunted in answer, but when she did not speak, turned around to look upon her with eyes blazing. “Well, speak up. If you are going to interrupt me, be about your business and be quick about it!”
The girl’s square jaw tightened, her face reddened, and as always, Heather’s heart went out to this timid young woman who was certainly no match for her father’s temperament.
“His….his grace. The….the Duke of Northumberland.” She stood wringing her hands in nervous agitation.
“Yes?”
“He…he’s here!”
Thomas stood up, scattering the ledgers to and fro. “He’s here? Why didn’t you say so sooner? You silly chit.” He gestured wildly to Heather. “Set the table. Fetch our best wine! Put out the silverware. God’s blood, how I wish I’d had some warning.”
Heather could find no words to answer her father; her voice was choked with fear. Northumberland! Richard’s enemy was hers now too. What was he doing here? That he would find Richard was her greatest fear.
Thomas Bowen’s face was bright with anger. “Well, go on, daughter! Away with you.” He looked at Tabitha, who stood rooted to the spot. “You too, girl. Am I surrounded by idiots?”
With Tabitha close behind her, Heather did as she was bid, running up the stairs so fast that she was panting to catch her breath. She had to get word to Perriwincle so that just in case there was any danger, he could hide Richard. Feeling like a cornered rabbit, she sought a means of escape, to flee out to the stables for only a moment, but her father’s corpulent form blocked the doorway as he supervised the proceedings. She could hear his booming voice ordering Blythe Bowen to greet their
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