chapter VII

T HEY TRIED FORCING HER TO EAT, AND THEY TRIED denying her food. It made no difference; Artemisia remained obdurate. They tried promising her treats, offering to buy her pets and jewels, even a trip to the races, for which she’d been agitating for months, but to no effect. Her mother considered threatening to cut off her hair—that had worked once—but it would spoil the wedding. Lord Ferris sent flowers, and daily notes inquiring after her health, which, after what she did to the first one they showed her, they kept to themselves.

When her good friend Lydia Godwin came to inquire after her, they very nearly turned her away. But Lydia was glowing with joy at her recent engagement to Armand Lindley, and perhaps, thought Lady Fitz, the girl could talk some sense into her.

When she saw Lydia’s sweet face come through the door to her room, Artemisia melted altogether. She flung herself into her friend’s arms, and wept there without a word. Strongly moved, Lydia wept, too. It was not until they both stopped to look for handkerchiefs that Lydia asked, “My dearest Mi, whatever is the matter?”

Artemisia seized her friend’s hand. “Your father,” she said tremulously, “Lord Godwin, he knows the law, does he not? Might you—might you ask him for me whether a girl is compelled to marry if her parents wish it, even if she does not? Even if she has given her word in betrothal—but now, she does not wish to?”

“Of course I will ask him, sweetest one. But surely your parents will not force you against your will? Even they cannot be so hopelessly old-fashioned.”

“They will, I know they will—they are at me every day, and no one understands!”

“Dearest Mi, whatever has happened to you? What has Lord Ferris done, for you to take him so violently in dislike?”

For a moment, Artemisia considered telling her friend everything. But she knew that her dearest Lydia was a very conduit of news about all their friends’ doings. And so she knew that, despite their great love, it would be next to impossible for Lydia to keep the sensational news of her ruin to herself. Artemisia wisely contented herself with crying out, “I cannot marry him! I would rather die!”

Lydia did her best to explain that, from her experience, true love and mutual understanding, such as she shared with her gentle Armand, were enough to conquer all impediments. But her words had little effect. Artemisia pressed her hands to her mouth and would not look at her.

Lydia sat and gently stroked her friend’s hair. It was worse than she had thought. She’d seen Artemisia in a passion before, especially when she was trying to scare her parents. But never before had she refused to open her heart to her dearest friend—and never before had her eyes been quite so red, her face so taut, her breath so ragged. Lydia thought best how to divert her, that she might regain some comfort and composure.

“Mi,” she said, “do you remember when we went to the theatre to see The Empress, and you had nightmares after?”

Artemisia shuddered. “That terrible woman, putting all those men to death. Why, is it playing again? I declare I would love to see it now, indeed I would. I understand her perfectly, now.”

“It’s not playing again, no; but the same splendid actress who was so proud and fierce in the role of the Empress, the actress they call the Black Rose…what will you think when I tell you that her company has commissioned a new play, for her to play the part of Stella!”

“You mean—” Artemisia caught her breath at the thought. “They are going to perform The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death—in a theatre?”

“It’s already been played! Lavinia Perry and Jane Hetley both have seen it, for Jane’s birthday.”

“And?”

“Lavinia says that Henry Sterling as Fabian is a pale and feeble joke, though Jane says she’d marry him in an instant. But Lavinia has hardly a good word to say for the piece; she’s vexed that they’ve left out the entire bit about the hunting cats, though I can hardly see how they’d play that onstage. Jane says it doesn’t matter, because Mangrove’s repentance at the end is even more affecting than it is in the book. But Lavinia thinks it is not true to the spirit of the novel.”

“I never thought he was truly penitent. It’s all a ruse, to confuse Stella to the last.”

“That’s what Jane says, too. She says you want to kill him yourself, he is so very wicked. Deliciously, she says.”

“What about Tyrian? Is he handsome?”

“Oh, as for that, it hardly signifies. They’ve got a girl playing Tyrian.”

“A girl? The same one who played the hero’s friend in The King’s Wizard? I bet it is. My brother Robbie was greatly taken with her. Still, a girl playing Tyrian…”

“They say her swordplay is very dashing.”

“Does she kiss Stella, though?”

“They didn’t say.”

“What, after all that time we all spent practicing kissing with Lavinia, she didn’t say? Rubbish.”

“Well, we must go, then,” Lydia said cheerfully, “and see it together and find out for ourselves.”

Artemisia drew back. “I cannot.”

“You cannot stay locked up in here forever!”

“I won’t go out; I can’t go out until I am free of this marriage.”

“I’ll tell you what, then!” Lydie tended to bounce when pleased, and she did so now. “We can sneak you out in secret. You can go masked—”

“No! No! No!” Artemisia’s hands were over her ears. Lydie drew back in alarm, but then she chided herself for a false friend. She approached Artemisia cautiously. “Dearest darling, can’t you tell me what is wrong?”

“I cannot marry him,” Artemisia repeated. “I shall never marry anyone. It is too horrible to contemplate.”

“Mi,” Lydia said delicately, “has your mama perhaps said something to you about the married state that, perhaps, might frighten you or strike you as distasteful?”

Artemisia looked wonderingly at her. Was this the same Lydia who had helped her hide The Couch of Eros under her last year’s hats? But she only said, “Mama speaks much of gowns and jewels and houses in the country. And,” she added meanly, “of how marrying Lord Ferris means I should take precedence over you, no matter who you marry.”

Lydia drew back. “Does she?”

“I hate her!” Artemisia exploded. “I hate her, I hate you all!”

To her eternal credit, Lydia Godwin weathered the storm. Indeed, she brought her friend nearly all the handkerchiefs in her box, one by one, saying cheerfully, “I shall have to speak to Dorrie about keeping your box well filled.”

“Robbie says I am a watering-pot. I hate him, too.”

“Robbie is often hateful. But I hope you know I would never do anything to injure you, my darling.”

More tears, then, and vows of eternal friendship. And in that sweet moment, Artemisia thought of something. “Lydia,” she said, “do you remember when Stella is in the country and Mangrove’s minions are all around her and she doesn’t know who to trust? And she needs to get a message to Fabian that would kill him if it goes awry? Well, there is a letter I need you to carry for me—just carry it out of the house, no more, and give it to someone to deliver.”

Lydia’s eyes opened wide. “Artemisia Fitz-Levi,” she said, “do you have a lover?”

“Don’t be disgusting, Lydia. What would I do with a lover? No, it’s just a friend. But don’t you understand? I’m a prisoner here. They guard me from all visitors but you, my darling, and of course they read my mail. I’m running out of things to bribe Dorrie with—I need you to do this!”

“I see….” Lydia twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Give me the letter.”

“Here.” Artemisia lifted up one corner of her pink-flowered rug. “The maids only sweep under it once a week, lazy things.”

It was addressed to KT, Riverside House. Lydia tucked it in her apron pocket, and Artemisia gripped both her hands, staring into her face with a desperate fury not unlike that of the Empress when ordering her favorite to the sword. “Now swear!” she said. “Swear by your precious love for Lindley that you will tell no one. Not your mama, not your papa, not even him who your soul adores. No one. If you will do this for me, Lydia, then someday I will dance at your wedding, though I can never hope myself for such joy as you possess.”

S OMETIMES AT BREAKFAST, IF SHE KEPT QUIET ENOUGH, Lydia’s parents would forget that she was there. It was one reason she did not often breakfast in her room. She ate her toast very slowly, and listened to her mother telling her father, “Tremontaine is at it again. Dora Nevilleson told me her husband told her his valet saw him at the Rogues’ Ball. Of course you know Nevilleson was there himself and just won’t own up to it. The number of valets who were there, it must have been a convocation of nothing but gentlemen with clothes brushes, to hear the husbands tell of it.”

“Funny.” Lydia’s father, Michael, Lord Godwin, buttered a piece of toast and sat watching the butter melt into the crispy bread. He was very particular about his toast. “My own valet did not attend. Or if he did, he’s not saying.”

“Good,” said his wife. “Then you know nothing about this putative niece? The girl with the sword, who fought Todd Rippington there?”

“Of course I’ve heard about the niece, Rosamund, what do you take me for? I’m the Raven Chancellor. If the Duke Tremontaine has trained up some girl with a sword, and she’s a relative, and she’s begun to fight duels, it’s going to come up before the Council of Honor sooner or later. It’s our business to know. We don’t want to look too alarmed when it does.”

“Why should that alarm you?”

“The privilege of the sword is one of the rights of the nobility. The privilege only, and not the sword itself. That, we leave to professionals.”

She touched his hand. “I know one noble who did things differently, once.”

From the way Godwin returned his lady’s look, Lydia was afraid her parents were going to head right upstairs for one of their little talks, leaving breakfast unfinished and her curiosity unsatisfied. But Michael Godwin just said, “That man took up both blade and privilege only once, and for a very worthy prize.”

Was this the notorious duel her father had fought over her mother? She held her breath, waiting for details. But even her silence was too loud. Her mother returned to the debate.

“So,” Rosamund persisted, “a young noblewoman with a blade who could fight for herself if she chose is very different from that young man?”

“Possibly.” Lord Godwin sighed. “You have no idea what a muddle the rules and traditions of the Court of Honor is. Does the privilege even extend to women, or does it merely derive from their male relatives? There are precedents for one, and for the other, case by case and year by year, as the members change by fate and election. The dukes and Arlen have the only permanent seats, which is supposed to give it all some stability—and you’ll know what that means when I remind you that the Duke Tremontaine is one of them!” His lady nodded wryly. “‘Honor’ appears to be a maze of unwritten rules and fiercely defended traditions. In the end, what is this girl? What’s her legal status, and even her social one? Does she pass back and forth from noble to sword at a whim? And if so, whose whim?”

“Her uncle’s, I imagine. Unless she kills him first.”

“She can’t kill him. Not in honorable challenge, anyway; the Court permits no one to profit from challenge within their own family. If she kills, she does it on his behalf.”

“Or her own.”

“It’s all pretty alarming.”

“I see. And what will you noble lords do about it now?”

“We watch and wait.”

“I cannot like it, Michael. If this truly is his sister Talbert’s child, then it’s disgraceful for the duke to be encouraging her to run wild like that. A noble’s daughter should be gently raised and properly cared for. Someone should do something.”

“Tremontaine is the head of the family, and the family has not complained—not in Council, anyway, where it might do some good. I hear Greg Talbert’s locked himself up with a serious head cold rather than answer any questions.”

“She’s only a girl, they say, no older than Lydia here.”

“Well, sometimes I do wonder,” Michael Godwin said, “if I should not have taught Lydia the sword. I won’t always be around, you know, and if that goatish Lindley tries anything once they’re wed…”

“Oh, Papa!” It hadn’t been funny the first time, and had grown less so with every repetition since.

Her mother rushed in to the rescue, asking “How is your friend Artemisia, Lydie? I heard she was ill. Did you visit her yesterday?”

Her mother was so sensible and kind, not at all like Lady Fitz-Levi. It wouldn’t be breaking her word to her friend to tell her mother how unhappy Mia was. “She’s not so much ill as heartsick, Mama. She does not want to marry Lord Ferris at all, and they are going to force her. She weeps and weeps and will not eat, and is truly pitiful. Oh, is there nothing we can do?”

Her mother, who had ample experience of young Lady Artemisia’s temperament, said cautiously, “Do you know what made her change her mind about her intended, dearest?”

“She will not say. But she is wretched, Mama. I’ve never seen her so distraught—well, almost never. Not for so long, anyway.”

Her father gave her mother a look across the table. “My word on it,” he said, “she’s found out about the Black Rose.”

“Michael,” Lady Godwin warned, “perhaps this is not the time….”

“Rosamund, I think it is very much the time, with Lydie about to be married herself and launched into the world. I’ve been meaning to speak to her about it, in fact.” He turned to his only daughter. “Lydia, dearest, what do you know about women who…Lydia. Let me begin again.” Lady Godwin sighed audibly, but did not offer her husband assistance. “Men, as you know, have certain interests in life, and these interests sometimes lead them to do foolish things. Things their wives would not approve of. And I hope that if you see your husband doing anything foolish, you will not stand by without calling him to account for it.”

Lydia tried to look very adult and trustworthy. “You need have no fears on that account, Papa. Armand and I have vowed always to tell each other everything.”

“Just so,” said Lord Godwin. “Of course, unmarried men are allowed to be a little foolish sometimes. It gives them something to improve upon, and their wives as well. So I hope you will not be altogether surprised if you learn, someday, that one of your friends’ young husbands before his marriage was, ah, friendly with certain women of the town, hostesses and actresses and such, and became their protector. Most men, in fact, have such a past.”

“But never their wives?”

“Oh, never the wives.” Eyes downcast, her mother smiled. “Women have no past, just a grand and glorious future.”

Lydia kept her face schooled to look as if all this was news to her. “The Black Rose is an actress,” she said helpfully. “Is Lord Ferris her protector?”

“Was,” said Michael Godwin. “She’s a magnificent piece, just the sort of high-ticket, high-profile item Ferris goes for, and he went for her. It wasn’t easy, either. The Rose is very picky. Easily bored, she says, and considering how many ‘protectors’ she’s turned away, it must be true. But he likes a bit of a challenge, does our Crescent.”

“Michael.” His wife’s voice carried a hint of steel.

“Just common knowledge,” he added doucely. “It didn’t last long, though. They had a bit of a row.”

“A bit?” her mother said with relish. “I heard he had her thrown out of his house in the middle of the night like a common thing, with only the shift on her back.”

Lydia gasped. “If Artemisia did something he disliked, would he have her thrown out in the snow, too? No wonder she doesn’t want to marry him!”

“Certainly not, darling. No nobleman would dare to treat his wife that way. It would get back to her parents and her brother, and he would pay dearly for it. No, don’t worry, it’s surely not anything like that.”

“Think about it, Lydie,” her father said. “Your friend has a great deal of pride. She heard about the affair, and she wants to make him sorry. You must admit, she always does like to have the upper hand.”

Lydia knit her brow in thought. It was true that Mia had been most interested when the Black Rose’s name came up. And, to be fair, Mia had never liked being upstaged by anyone. “But if Lord Ferris has already left his mistress, then why should Mia mind so?”

“Because,” her mother explained crisply, “it all happened around MidWinter. He was courting them both at the same time, that’s why.” Lydia let out a low whistle. “There!” Lady Godwin accused her husband. “That’s what all this vulgar talk leads to. Lydia, no whistling in public, you know better.”

“If you knew about Lord Ferris and the Black Rose, then surely her parents did as well. Why didn’t anyone say anything?”

Lord Godwin said, “Artemisia’s father is, ah, a man of the town. Even if he did know about Lord Ferris’s affair with an actress, he surely knew it would blow over. He wouldn’t let it interfere with a good marriage contract.”

Lydia sat slowly digesting all this knowledge. Artemisia had never really loved Lord Ferris, she knew that. Maybe she was right not to marry him. Her parents could not force her, surely. This matter would prove to be just another long contest of wills, such as were not unknown in the Fitz-Levi family. She vowed to visit Mia again soon with a box of her favorite chocolates and some diversion.

“The Black Rose is in a new play,” Lydia said, “and all my friends have seen it. May I go?”

“Oh, dear,” sighed her mother, “it’s that awful piece of trash about the swordsman lover, isn’t it? My friends were mad for that book when we were young.”

“It’s not trash,” her daughter said. “It is full of great and noble truths of the heart. And swordfights.”

“I’ll have to read it,” her father said brightly, but no one paid him any attention.

“I so want Mia to see the play,” Lydia said. “If I can assure her that Lord Ferris will not be there—”

“He won’t,” her mother chuckled. “The Black Rose denied him entry to the theatre the morning after, and he hasn’t been back since.”

“Well, there you have it,” Michael Godwin said to his daughter. “Actresses are spiteful creatures. You be sure you tell your Armand that he should be very cautious when he chooses a mistress.”

A year ago, Lydia might still have giggled when he talked like that. But love had turned her serious, at least where love was concerned. “Oh, Papa,” she said. “You know Armand never would.”

“Of course not,” her father said. “He knows I’ve got my eye on him.”