Rape of the Lock . That sounded improper. John Donne? Hadn't he been a clergyman? Ben had some memory of someone reading Donne's poem Death to him, perhaps after his father died. That certainly wouldn't be a pleasing gift.
Shakespeare? There were volumes of his sonnets. Sonnets were generally sweet, pleasant verses, weren't they? He opened it. The first was about Caesar, and the next seemed to be a reproach to a beauty. He thrust it back on the shelf and turned to more familiar books. He found a well illustrated herbal and rang the bell.
When John entered, Ben gave him the book. "Take this up to Mistress Gifford with my compliments."
John took it, but with that disapproving face.
"She's a decent woman, John, fallen on hard times. It is our Christian duty to be kind to her and her children."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but the world's full of such hard cases, and have you thought that the longer her children live here the harder will be their future?"
Ben hadn't. "That's why I have to find a good future for them, don't you see?"
"What I see, sir, is that she's angling to hook you for her supper!"
Ben stared at the footman in astonishment. "What do you mean by that?"
John was flushed with anger and embarrassment. "I shouldn't have said it, sir."
"Perhaps not, but what did you mean? Out with it! Are you still hinting that she's a thief?"
"Not that, sir, no, except of your tranquility. She aims to marry you, sir."
" Marry me?"
"You see how foolish it is, but women like that have a way with them. Sometimes a man ends up doing things he shouldn't have."
"I won't do that, John, don't you worry. Off on your errand now."
When the footman had left Ben, collapsed into his big leather chair, trying to think clearly about the astonishing possibility. He felt much as he would if told that poppies would bloom at Christmastide.
Christmastide. That season was approaching. How would it go if Mistress Gifford and her children were still here? He still kept up the traditions. The mummers came to perform and were rewarded with ale, pies, and pennies. He went out with some of the local men to bring in a Yule log, and it burned in the great hearth in the hall. Cook made a Twelfth Night cake.
There were no Twelfth Night ceremonies here, however, for he gave the servants leave to go to their families for them.
He'd been an only child and of a solitary disposition, so he couldn't remember the Christmases of his boyhood being any different.
Five lively children. That would make a difference. They would have had Christmases, even with their cold and surly father. Their mother would have ensured that. Gifts. Sugar plums. Games such as snapdragon?
He hunched with uncertainty, but a tingle came from desire. He wanted to give them a joyous Christmas, but he wanted it for himself as well.
A mistletoe bough.
They hung one in the kitchen, he knew, but since his father's death, there'd not been one in the hall. It would suggest playful kisses, and what woman would want to kiss him, even a maid?
To be kissing maids would be improper in any case.
To be kissing a guest...?
No. She'd never want to do that.
Could people marry without kisses?
He shook his head.
No marriage for him.
And yet, John's words tantalized. Mistress Gifford was desperate, so it wouldn't be surprising if she'd thought of the advantages of marrying him. In such a marriage, they could arrange terms to suit. Surely kisses weren't essential, not even in the marriage bed.
He could have her company and her children to brighten his home. She'd probably be a good manager. He could have the marriage bed.
He'd visited brothels a few times in Birmingham, but though it was a whore's job to pretend that all their customers were Adonises, he'd known how they truly viewed him.
There'd be no need of pretense in his marriage bed, and he thought he was as well able as any man to satisfy a wife in the ways that mattered.
In fact, marrying Mistress Gifford could be seen as a
Shakespeare? There were volumes of his sonnets. Sonnets were generally sweet, pleasant verses, weren't they? He opened it. The first was about Caesar, and the next seemed to be a reproach to a beauty. He thrust it back on the shelf and turned to more familiar books. He found a well illustrated herbal and rang the bell.
When John entered, Ben gave him the book. "Take this up to Mistress Gifford with my compliments."
John took it, but with that disapproving face.
"She's a decent woman, John, fallen on hard times. It is our Christian duty to be kind to her and her children."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but the world's full of such hard cases, and have you thought that the longer her children live here the harder will be their future?"
Ben hadn't. "That's why I have to find a good future for them, don't you see?"
"What I see, sir, is that she's angling to hook you for her supper!"
Ben stared at the footman in astonishment. "What do you mean by that?"
John was flushed with anger and embarrassment. "I shouldn't have said it, sir."
"Perhaps not, but what did you mean? Out with it! Are you still hinting that she's a thief?"
"Not that, sir, no, except of your tranquility. She aims to marry you, sir."
" Marry me?"
"You see how foolish it is, but women like that have a way with them. Sometimes a man ends up doing things he shouldn't have."
"I won't do that, John, don't you worry. Off on your errand now."
When the footman had left Ben, collapsed into his big leather chair, trying to think clearly about the astonishing possibility. He felt much as he would if told that poppies would bloom at Christmastide.
Christmastide. That season was approaching. How would it go if Mistress Gifford and her children were still here? He still kept up the traditions. The mummers came to perform and were rewarded with ale, pies, and pennies. He went out with some of the local men to bring in a Yule log, and it burned in the great hearth in the hall. Cook made a Twelfth Night cake.
There were no Twelfth Night ceremonies here, however, for he gave the servants leave to go to their families for them.
He'd been an only child and of a solitary disposition, so he couldn't remember the Christmases of his boyhood being any different.
Five lively children. That would make a difference. They would have had Christmases, even with their cold and surly father. Their mother would have ensured that. Gifts. Sugar plums. Games such as snapdragon?
He hunched with uncertainty, but a tingle came from desire. He wanted to give them a joyous Christmas, but he wanted it for himself as well.
A mistletoe bough.
They hung one in the kitchen, he knew, but since his father's death, there'd not been one in the hall. It would suggest playful kisses, and what woman would want to kiss him, even a maid?
To be kissing maids would be improper in any case.
To be kissing a guest...?
No. She'd never want to do that.
Could people marry without kisses?
He shook his head.
No marriage for him.
And yet, John's words tantalized. Mistress Gifford was desperate, so it wouldn't be surprising if she'd thought of the advantages of marrying him. In such a marriage, they could arrange terms to suit. Surely kisses weren't essential, not even in the marriage bed.
He could have her company and her children to brighten his home. She'd probably be a good manager. He could have the marriage bed.
He'd visited brothels a few times in Birmingham, but though it was a whore's job to pretend that all their customers were Adonises, he'd known how they truly viewed him.
There'd be no need of pretense in his marriage bed, and he thought he was as well able as any man to satisfy a wife in the ways that mattered.
In fact, marrying Mistress Gifford could be seen as a
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