The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman
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might also destroy her dear Miguel.
Miguel was her distant cousin but her brother in spirit. He’d never been a lover of women. Yet he was also a dutiful son. If their fathers wished them to wed, they would wed. And what a mockery that would be.
There was a knock on her door, her mother’s whisperings. Rebecca forced herself upright, unlocked the door, then fell back atop her counterpane. Sarah Lopez, clad in her bedclothes, entered the bedchamber and sat on her daughter’s mattress. A moonbeam fell across her face, turned her cheeks ghostly white. Her eyes looked so sad, but Rebecca had never remembered a day when they had looked happy. Sarah brushed her waist-length gray hair off her shoulders and touched Rebecca’s hand. It was rigid and cold.
“Under the covers, Becca,” Sarah ordered gently. “I’ll not allow you to grow ill from the frigid air. Tis a tomb inside here—dark and wintry. I’ll call the chambermaid and have her rekindle the hearth immediately.”
Rebecca squeezed her mother’s hand. “How can I allow myself warmth and comfort when Raphael sits for eternity in an icy bed?”
Sarah pulled back the bedcovers. “Inside, little one, I prithee.”
Rebecca slithered underneath the down blanket. Sarah drew the spread up to her daughter’s chin.
“I’m not half the clever wordsmith that you are, Becca,” spoke Sarah. “I’ve stayed up for hours trying to find proper words of solace, yet my mind is as empty as a newborn babe’s. Tell me what to do to comfort you.”
Rebecca didn’t answer. Her mother’s voice, though soothing, sounded so weary. It saddened Rebecca to think that she’d brought any more woes to her mother. She embraced her mother and told her she loved her.
Sarah said, “You are my joy, Becca. All I desire is happiness for you and Benjamin.”
Rebecca knew this to be the truth. She’d never seen her mother engaged in idle play. Sarah’s life revolved around Father and his activities, around her and Ben.
Rebecca asked, “Has Father made mention to you of my future?”
“He has yet to return home from Uncle Jorge’s.” She sighed. “I suspect he’ll spend the night there. By and by you’ll know of Father’s intention. He’s never been one to hide from you his plans.”
“I wish he’d leave me in solitude.”
“That is impossible, dear Becca,” Sarah said. “While you’re still somewhat young, the years do pass by quickly. Best to have children while your womb is strong.”
“I wish—” Rebecca realized how quiet was the night and dropped her voice. “I wish our religion allowed us nunneries.”
“Black is a color ill-suited for your complexion,” Sarah said. She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Have you said your proper prayers for … for Raphael?”
Rebecca nodded.
Sarah said, “God will hear them.”
Rebecca asked, “Have you told Grandmama about Raphael?”
“I didn’t tell her, yet she knew,” Sarah said. “Sometimes I think my mother a witch rather than an addled old woman.”
“She is neither,” Rebecca said. “She is a marvelous woman.”
“Tis most inappropriate for you to doubt my love and affection for my mother, Becca.”
Sarah’s voice held a wounded note. Rebecca picked up her hand and kissed it.
“I apologize, my gentle mother.”
Sarah squeezed her daughter’s hand and said,
“Grandmama shows no fretting over the news. She keeps her tears inside. Yet we both know she feels deeply. Raphael had been kind to her.”
“May I spend my mourning in Grandmama’s room?”
Sarah thought for a moment. “Father would never permit it. Guests will come to comfort you—”
“They come to eat.”
“Nonetheless, you must be visible and behave appropriately. Accept their platitudes of sorrow as if they meant something to you.”
“Playact, aye?”
Sarah sighed. “Yes,” she said. “Playact.”
“At least may I pass my nights with her?”
Her mother lowered her head and said, “Father prefers to keep you away—”
“Father errs,” Rebecca interrupted. “Father thinks Grandmama’s an old harpy with a head full of mush. You know that’s not so.”
“Rebecca, my obligations come first to my master, second to my mother and children. You must learn that else you’ll make a poor English gentlewoman and wife.”
“I’d rather become not an English wife but an English spinster,” Rebecca blurted out. “I’ve no desire to marry!”
She expected to hear reproachment from her mother. Instead Sarah patted her hand in sympathy.
“Time will alter your desires,” she said.
Rebecca noticed for the first time how her mother trembled from cold. She held open her cover for her, bade her to come inside. Sarah shook her head.
“I must get back to my chambers. Father will be furious if he finds me sleeping with you. He thinks I’ve spoiled you beyond redemption.”
“In sooth, his assessment is not far from wrong.”
Sarah smiled. “Do try to sleep.”
“Mother?”
“Aye.”
“Can you request of Father to allow me to sleep with Grandmama? I’d find it most comforting.”
“I’ll pose the question to him. But I think you’ll mislike the response.”
“Plead with him.”
“I’ll do what I can, Becca.”
Rebecca hesitated, then said, “I’m being selfish, Mother. Plead not with him. Ask him most noncommitally. Don’t risk his wrath for my sake.”
Sarah kissed her daughter. “I’ll do what I can,” she repeated. “Should I call the chambermaid to rekindle the fire?”
“Not necessary,” Rebecca said. “I’m very sleepy.”
“Well then,” Sarah said. “Good night, Becca. Things will be better come the morning light.”
Rebecca nodded, watched her mother’s shadow disappear from the room. Her mother, the hours of her life divvied up by Father and his work, by her and Ben, by Grandmama. But never a moment for herself. Sarah had once told her that she thought of herself as an extra arm for the members of her family. Rebecca also remembered when her mother had confided her reveries as a young girl—how one day she’d live in the clouds made of spun sugar, fly upon the back of a golden eagle and touch the sun. Where did those dreams go? Her mother—her heart in the sky, her muscles saddled with duty.
Shakespeare knew he was lost. He’d passed the same bridge-shaped rock an hour ago. Madness to come up North alone, trying to retrace a dead man’s last steps, chasing revenge as elusive as the wind. He should have insisted to Margaret that the trip would accomplish nothing. But something had propelled him forward, something more than a widow’s pleas.
Past images. A costume and a scroll being shoved under his nose as he tended the horses of the playgoers. Harry slapping him on the back …
Fiacre Nits, who plays the watchman in the second