men, and without a word signaled to them both that no further inquiry was to be made.
Both good servants, they clearly understood and commenced a subtle retreat. Still she detained them, anxious to present a calm front. "A request, if you will," she began kindly. "Would one of you be so good as to go to the kitchen court and inform Mrs. Swan that I will be down in a quarter of an hour. If she'll have the books ready, I would appreciate it. And inform the servants that I will be in the house warden's office for three hours for the purpose of greeting them personally."
The stewards bobbed their heads, clearly appreciative of her ladyship's attention. The earlier disturbance coming from behind the library door forgotten, they bowed and started off in tandem across the Great Hall.
Then she was alone with an agony that could not be postponed much longer. She knew she possessed neither the strength nor the will to climb to the privacy of her third-floor chambers. Yet she also knew that she needed privacy as desperately as she'd ever needed it in her life. Thus she moved hurriedly along the outer corridor which skirted the Great Hall, heading toward the small cloakroom to the right of the central arch, a never-used chamber except on those occasions of large entertainments.
As she walked, the sickness continued to rise in her throat. She lifted her head and tried to draw a long breath. And just in time she reached out for the cloakroom door, jerked it violently open, slipped into its safe darkness and leaned over, vomiting.
It lasted for several moments, until there was nothing more to bring up, and still it continued in racking convulsions which left her eyes moist, her sides aching.
Shuddering, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The one aspect of the incident that frightened her most was that she couldn't predict for certain what she would do if he made such a demand of her again.
Now she felt for the letter crumpled in her pocket and grasped it eagerly, as though seeing a lifeline. The young man. Edward's son. How she longed for a glimpse of that face.
She vowed then that before she slept that night, she would write to Morley Johnson. She still felt a strong compulsion to know the boy's true identity, though she hoped that the search would never end. Let Johnson search forever and find everything or find nothing. It mattered little. It was her firm intention to bring the boy up out
of the grim odd-boy cellar, to cleanse him, to dress him as handsomely as possible, to assign him to her son as friend and companion, and to assign him to herself as well.
In the excitement of the moment, she remembered fragments of Johnson's letter, ". . . the prostitute, Elizabeth . . . came pom the Lakes . . . a distinguishing mark on his chest in the form of d sear, in shape resembling the letter B . . ." In an instant of perception, she saw a clear image of Edward's face before her.
Astonishing, how strong she felt now. She felt surrounded by the very atmosphere of youth, so deeply familiar, and yet so legendary.
A quarter of an hour, she'd said. It had been that easily. Quickly she folded the letter from Morley Johnson and tucked it in her pocket.
Now with an excitement that she couldn't readily grasp, she hurried across the deserted Great Hall with a genuine sense of mission, smiling gently at the thought of how angry James would be tonight to see a young Edward seated at his table.
With immense relief John felt the rusted jagged metal cut through the bottom of his bare foot. For effect, he gave one sharp yell and grabbed the injured member, hopping about, doubly pleased to see his own blood oozing between his fingers.
At the end of the stables, he saw Samuel, the overseer, look up, pitchfork in hand. "What in the hell. . ." the old man shouted.
Now John feigned a collapse into the manure he'd heaped to one side. He twisted in the brown slime and groaned effectively, all the while keeping his eye on the thundering
Both good servants, they clearly understood and commenced a subtle retreat. Still she detained them, anxious to present a calm front. "A request, if you will," she began kindly. "Would one of you be so good as to go to the kitchen court and inform Mrs. Swan that I will be down in a quarter of an hour. If she'll have the books ready, I would appreciate it. And inform the servants that I will be in the house warden's office for three hours for the purpose of greeting them personally."
The stewards bobbed their heads, clearly appreciative of her ladyship's attention. The earlier disturbance coming from behind the library door forgotten, they bowed and started off in tandem across the Great Hall.
Then she was alone with an agony that could not be postponed much longer. She knew she possessed neither the strength nor the will to climb to the privacy of her third-floor chambers. Yet she also knew that she needed privacy as desperately as she'd ever needed it in her life. Thus she moved hurriedly along the outer corridor which skirted the Great Hall, heading toward the small cloakroom to the right of the central arch, a never-used chamber except on those occasions of large entertainments.
As she walked, the sickness continued to rise in her throat. She lifted her head and tried to draw a long breath. And just in time she reached out for the cloakroom door, jerked it violently open, slipped into its safe darkness and leaned over, vomiting.
It lasted for several moments, until there was nothing more to bring up, and still it continued in racking convulsions which left her eyes moist, her sides aching.
Shuddering, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The one aspect of the incident that frightened her most was that she couldn't predict for certain what she would do if he made such a demand of her again.
Now she felt for the letter crumpled in her pocket and grasped it eagerly, as though seeing a lifeline. The young man. Edward's son. How she longed for a glimpse of that face.
She vowed then that before she slept that night, she would write to Morley Johnson. She still felt a strong compulsion to know the boy's true identity, though she hoped that the search would never end. Let Johnson search forever and find everything or find nothing. It mattered little. It was her firm intention to bring the boy up out
of the grim odd-boy cellar, to cleanse him, to dress him as handsomely as possible, to assign him to her son as friend and companion, and to assign him to herself as well.
In the excitement of the moment, she remembered fragments of Johnson's letter, ". . . the prostitute, Elizabeth . . . came pom the Lakes . . . a distinguishing mark on his chest in the form of d sear, in shape resembling the letter B . . ." In an instant of perception, she saw a clear image of Edward's face before her.
Astonishing, how strong she felt now. She felt surrounded by the very atmosphere of youth, so deeply familiar, and yet so legendary.
A quarter of an hour, she'd said. It had been that easily. Quickly she folded the letter from Morley Johnson and tucked it in her pocket.
Now with an excitement that she couldn't readily grasp, she hurried across the deserted Great Hall with a genuine sense of mission, smiling gently at the thought of how angry James would be tonight to see a young Edward seated at his table.
With immense relief John felt the rusted jagged metal cut through the bottom of his bare foot. For effect, he gave one sharp yell and grabbed the injured member, hopping about, doubly pleased to see his own blood oozing between his fingers.
At the end of the stables, he saw Samuel, the overseer, look up, pitchfork in hand. "What in the hell. . ." the old man shouted.
Now John feigned a collapse into the manure he'd heaped to one side. He twisted in the brown slime and groaned effectively, all the while keeping his eye on the thundering
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