observed in the Chaucer household.
She's done what's expected of her.
There's no reason for him to feel sad, he tells himself, even if she's going, and even if he hasn't seen the children. She has her work. They have their lives. This is how things are done in the courtly world. Perhaps it's only being back among merchants, today, and remembering his own childhood, brought up closer to his parents than any courtier's son could dream of, that's making him chafe...
If only the carts weren't rolling quite so loudly through the gate under his feet. If only he hadn't drunk that third cup of wine. Or was it the fourth?
He's slumped at the table, finishing off what's in the bottom of the cup, listening to the servants behind the door, banging and talking as they clear up the trays and plates, with the sense of anticlimax and disappointment gathering strength inside, as the shadows thicken, when there's a knock.
He's astonished to see Alice's face around the door.
She smiles brilliantly, and the shadows retreat. 'I thought I'd drop by for five minutes while my men are picking up the platters out there. I'd ask you for supper at my house...but you've probably had enough already, haven't you?' She twinkles at him. Hastily, he straightens up. 'You'd rather sleep, I expect...'
He's on his feet before he knows it. 'The kindness ,' he hears himself chirrup, excitedly, sounding far too eager. 'The thought-fulness... finding the time to bring so much...your generosity... I can't begin to tell you how overwhelmed I was...'
She doesn't say anything. She looks straight into his eyes, almost tenderly. She shakes her head. After a moment, she says, 'I've been thinking about you...About how strange it must have felt, for you, today - to be coming back to where you grew up.' She takes his hand, not flirtatiously, more like a sister. 'After everything else you've seen in your life.' Her voice trails away, inviting confidences. 'I could hardly imagine doing that, myself.'
A wave of emotion sweeps him. No one else has understood.
He's felt so alone with those thoughts, until now. Suddenly he longs to pour out all the troubles in his heart. 'A beautiful day,' he begins gratefully; 'I have so much to thank you for. Then: 'I'm only sorry my children weren't here to see it.' He stops. It would have been an even greater pleasure, he's been going to say, if Philippa hadn't kept the children away. But he's not quite a fool, even in his cups. He shouldn't be sharing his troubles. 'They went hunting instead,' he adds hastily, choking off the self-pitying confidence he's nearly shared, and trying to sound proud of his children's courtly friendships. 'At Sheen, Philippa said.'
It must be the memories of his own father that being in London today has awakened - that sudden recollection of a world in which a son's place is at his father's shoulder, learning his business, for all those formative years - that's making him feel this sadness, almost grief, for his own absent children. Or it's the drink. At any rate, Alice is giving him the casually concerned look of someone who doesn't understand the pain he feels. He doesn't think she has children of her own. For a moment he feels almost envious of the freedom from hurt that must represent; she can't be expected to feel the twisting in his heart. He knows he's talking too much.
Mildly, she says, 'And there was me thinking you were going to tell me what it was like travelling in Italy.' She laughs. He feels she's expecting more. But he doesn't know what.
'I'm sorry,' he says. 'Must be a little bit drunk.' She doesn't seem to mind. Her silence goes on being warm and inviting. It's a relief to have been able to confess something so innocuous.
After a pause, she says, 'Oh, well, who isn't, after a splendid dinner like yours? I felt a little tipsy myself.'
Still fuzzily, Chaucer now remembers that he's asked quite a lot of people in this room, since his earlier exchange with Alice by the window, about her
She's done what's expected of her.
There's no reason for him to feel sad, he tells himself, even if she's going, and even if he hasn't seen the children. She has her work. They have their lives. This is how things are done in the courtly world. Perhaps it's only being back among merchants, today, and remembering his own childhood, brought up closer to his parents than any courtier's son could dream of, that's making him chafe...
If only the carts weren't rolling quite so loudly through the gate under his feet. If only he hadn't drunk that third cup of wine. Or was it the fourth?
He's slumped at the table, finishing off what's in the bottom of the cup, listening to the servants behind the door, banging and talking as they clear up the trays and plates, with the sense of anticlimax and disappointment gathering strength inside, as the shadows thicken, when there's a knock.
He's astonished to see Alice's face around the door.
She smiles brilliantly, and the shadows retreat. 'I thought I'd drop by for five minutes while my men are picking up the platters out there. I'd ask you for supper at my house...but you've probably had enough already, haven't you?' She twinkles at him. Hastily, he straightens up. 'You'd rather sleep, I expect...'
He's on his feet before he knows it. 'The kindness ,' he hears himself chirrup, excitedly, sounding far too eager. 'The thought-fulness... finding the time to bring so much...your generosity... I can't begin to tell you how overwhelmed I was...'
She doesn't say anything. She looks straight into his eyes, almost tenderly. She shakes her head. After a moment, she says, 'I've been thinking about you...About how strange it must have felt, for you, today - to be coming back to where you grew up.' She takes his hand, not flirtatiously, more like a sister. 'After everything else you've seen in your life.' Her voice trails away, inviting confidences. 'I could hardly imagine doing that, myself.'
A wave of emotion sweeps him. No one else has understood.
He's felt so alone with those thoughts, until now. Suddenly he longs to pour out all the troubles in his heart. 'A beautiful day,' he begins gratefully; 'I have so much to thank you for. Then: 'I'm only sorry my children weren't here to see it.' He stops. It would have been an even greater pleasure, he's been going to say, if Philippa hadn't kept the children away. But he's not quite a fool, even in his cups. He shouldn't be sharing his troubles. 'They went hunting instead,' he adds hastily, choking off the self-pitying confidence he's nearly shared, and trying to sound proud of his children's courtly friendships. 'At Sheen, Philippa said.'
It must be the memories of his own father that being in London today has awakened - that sudden recollection of a world in which a son's place is at his father's shoulder, learning his business, for all those formative years - that's making him feel this sadness, almost grief, for his own absent children. Or it's the drink. At any rate, Alice is giving him the casually concerned look of someone who doesn't understand the pain he feels. He doesn't think she has children of her own. For a moment he feels almost envious of the freedom from hurt that must represent; she can't be expected to feel the twisting in his heart. He knows he's talking too much.
Mildly, she says, 'And there was me thinking you were going to tell me what it was like travelling in Italy.' She laughs. He feels she's expecting more. But he doesn't know what.
'I'm sorry,' he says. 'Must be a little bit drunk.' She doesn't seem to mind. Her silence goes on being warm and inviting. It's a relief to have been able to confess something so innocuous.
After a pause, she says, 'Oh, well, who isn't, after a splendid dinner like yours? I felt a little tipsy myself.'
Still fuzzily, Chaucer now remembers that he's asked quite a lot of people in this room, since his earlier exchange with Alice by the window, about her
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