Across the Spectrum (54 page)

Poley’s blunt words staggered Kit. He gripped the edges of
the table to keep himself steady. The rack would be more painful, yes—he kept
that well in mind. But he did not wish to be forgotten. He would almost dare
imprisonment and execution, rather than the world’s disregard.

“This isn’t going to work,” he said desperately, as Penry’s
body rolled clear of the winding sheet. “He’s been dead for some time.”

“One day.” Skeres paused to brush his hair clear of his
eyes. “Hanged at St. Thomas-a-Watering yesterday—for sedition, as it happens.
Look upon your potential fate, Master Marlowe.”

Kit ignored the jibe. “Yes, exactly. Hanged.” He gestured at
the livid bruising around Penry’s neck. “What are you doing to do, say I
accidentally strangled myself in the bedsheets?”

As if to say yes, Frizer and Skeres began to maneuver the
corpse onto the bed. Poley said, “It’s taken care of. We’re within the verge;
the Queen is at Nonsuch still. That means the Coroner of the Queen’s Household
must be involved, and we have secured Danby’s assistance. How do you think we
obtained Penry’s body? Danby will keep the county coroner out of it, and ensure
no one examines the body too closely.”

Secured Danby’s assistance. For the first time, Kit began to
appreciate just how far the conspiracy to save his life stretched. Was the
Queen herself involved? He would never be fool enough to ask, nor arrogant
enough to assume it.

But he knew full well that, in the final accounting, this
had little to do with saving his life. Even his patron, Thomas Walsingham, would
not go to such lengths merely to preserve one scribbler of poetry. All of this
was happening because of the threat to men more powerful than he. His survival
was a gift, in remembrance of the services he had done Her Majesty’s
government.

A gift he would not spurn, though its price wounded his
heart. And, in truth, his pride.

“Your clothes, Master Marlowe,” Poley said, and setting his
jaw to hide the pain he felt, Kit began to strip. Skeres and Frizer wrestled
the corpse into his garments, while he put on those Poley provided.

When the dressing was done, Frizer drew his dagger and
looked at Poley uncertainly.

“The face,” Poley said. “On Danby’s orders. He can show the
face to be identified and examined, without showing the throat.”

Frizer looked ill, but turned back to the body on the bed.
He leaned over, dagger in hand, set the point against Penry’s dead skin, and
thrust.

Kit, watching this happen, gave a bark of disbelieving
laughter. “You cretin—you might have stabbed him in the
eye
, at least.
But
above
the eye? That wouldn’t even kill a man, not right away, not a
wound that shallow. You—”

“Do it yourself, if you’re so eager to aid,” Frizer snarled,
shoving the blade in Kit’s general direction.

Poley intercepted it, taking the weapon from Frizer’s hand.
“Skeres, there’s a jug of pig’s blood in the corner. Pour it onto the face and
the sheets. Frizer, hold still. It needs to look like he attacked you. We’ll
say there was an argument over the bill.” Without waiting for a response, he
struck Frizer twice over the head with the dagger, cutting his scalp, causing
the man to yelp in sudden anger.

Kit had sagged down into one of the chairs as his companions
went about faking his death with callous efficiency. John Penry now had his
clothes, his name. Blood spread silently outward from the body on the bed.

Christopher Marlowe, poet, atheist, and agent to Her
Majesty’s government, was dead.

Or so the world must believe.

∞

. . . & after
supper the said Ingram & Christopher Morley were in speech & uttered
one to the other divers malicious words for the reason that they could not be
at one nor agree about the payment of the sum of pence, that is, le recknynge,
there; & the said Christoper Morley was then lying upon a bed in the room
where they supped, & moved with anger against the said Ingram Frizer upon
the words as spoken between them [. . .] in which affray the same Ingram could
not get away from the said Christopher Morley; and so it befell in the affray
that the said Ingram, in defence of his life, with the dagger aforesaid of the
value of 12d. gave the said Christopher then & there a mortal wound over
his right eye of the depth of two inches & the width of one inch; of which
mortal wound the aforesaid Christopher Morley then & there instantly died . . .

—statement of inquest issued by William Danby,
Coroner of the Queen’s Household,
1st day of June, anno Domini 1593

Kit Marlowe died at the hands of one Ingram Frizer, in an
argument over the bill.

Perhaps.

He was murdered at the behest of Sir Walter Ralegh; of
Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex; of William Cecil, Lord Burghley, and his
son Sir Robert Cecil. He was murdered on the orders of the Lord Admiral and the
Lord Chamberlain; of Audrey Walsingham, Thomas’s wife; of Queen Elizabeth
herself.

Perhaps.

He did not die at all, but went overseas, and returned two
years later under the name Le Doux. He wrote the plays of William Shakespeare,
because his pride could not allow him to abandon poetry.

Perhaps. Or perhaps not.

He vanished from history’s page, and for a man of his
temperament, perhaps that was no different from death.

As the sun set on the thirtieth day of May, in the year of
our Lord 1593, a man lay on a bed in Deptford, with a knife wound in the bone
above his right eye. Twelve men witnessed the body, under the direction of the
queen’s coroner, and swore their oaths upon the matter.

That much is certain—no more.

I love the Regency era for society’s attempt to enforce
behavioral rules on a culture that just emerged from the hedonistic Georgian
era. Culture clash meshes beautifully with character conflict so even a short
story can offer a full spectrum of laughter, tears, and love. In “Lady
Invisible,” I play with my favorite kinds of characters—the proper military man
and the harum-scarum woman who defies him. Hope you enjoy this as much as I do!

∞ ∞ ∞

Cotswolds, 1816

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man
in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife,” quoted Mrs.
Higglebottom, the vicar’s wife, reading from the novel on her husband’s desk.

Ill at ease, Major Lucas Sumner stretched his shoulders
against the confinement of his civilian attire. He had hoped Reverend
Higglebottom might be available for consultation. He did not remember the
vicar’s wife being quite so . . . enigmatic . . .
in her younger days. They’d both grown up here among the rolling hills of
Chipping Bedton, but Lucas obviously had been away too long. He must adjust his
military sense of order to village idiosyncrasies.

“My fortune is a major’s pension and a small inheritance,”
Lucas corrected. “I am in want of a wife because I have a daughter in need of a
mother.”

Mrs. H—Lorena, as he’d known her—waved a careless, plump
hand. “The extent of your fortune does not matter these days. The village has
lost most of its available young men to war and to the city and to marriage.
You can have a choice of ladies, from fifteen to fifty, I daresay. The task is
to find the
right
one.”

“Well, yes, that is why I thought I would consult with
Edgar—”

“Edgar did not grow up here as we did,” Lorena admonished.
“My husband has a worthy, virtuous mind, but not necessarily one connected to
the realities of life. Women are far better at matchmaking than men.”

Lucas granted that possibility. He’d married in haste as a
young man, and the result was currently uprooting daffodils from graves in the
churchyard, if he did not mistake.

With an apology, he rose, pushed up the vicar’s study
window, and shouted, “Verity! Stop that at once. Where is your aunt?”

His seven-year-old hoyden waved a bunch of yellow flowers
and dashed off. Lucas could only hope it was in the direction of his much
put-upon sister.

“I have a lot to account for in this life,” he said,
striding back to the chair. “Verity’s mother died far too young, and I’ve
neglected my daughter’s upbringing. Now that the war is done and I’ve come
home, it’s time I find a mother for Verity who can teach her to be a lady and
turn my bachelor household into a home.”

Lorena nodded and consulted the list she’d evidently drawn
up in anticipation of his visit. “Jane Bottoms is still unmarried. She’s a bit
long in the tooth, but a very respectable, proper sort.”

Lucas tugged at his neckcloth. He remembered Jane. Thick as
a brick, they used to call her. “My daughter needs someone a little more—”

Lorena cut him off, as she seemed to do regularly. “Yes,
yes, of course. Verity would tie her to a tree and forget about her. How about
Mary Loveless? She’s a bit plump and her mother tends to dictate . . .
” She caught Lucas’s eye and hurriedly looked at the list again.

Impatiently, Lucas snapped the paper from her hand and
scanned the names. “Harriet Briggs is still unmarried?” he exclaimed in
amazement. “How is that possible? She’s the squire’s daughter and had a dozen
beaux before I left, but she was much too young to be interested in any of
them.”

Lorena crossed her plump hands on the battered desk. “She is
still not interested in any of them. She has not changed since the child you
remember. You need a mature, proper lady to teach your daughter manners.
Harriet is totally unsuitable.”

This time Lucas was the one to interrupt. “I remember her as
a spirited little thing. Perhaps she was a bit of a tomboy riding to the hounds
because her father never told her no, but she could argue intelligently. Verity
needs a smart woman to guide her.”

Lorena vehemently shook her head. “Now that her mother has
passed on and all feminine influence is lost, Harriet has become quite
impossible. Rumor has it that she called off two perfectly respectable
arrangements while she was in London, even though her looks are nothing to brag
about.” She shook her head and cut herself off. “Her father has refused to give
her another season.”

Lucas conjured a mental image of Miss Harriet Briggs the
last time he’d seen her, when she wasn’t quite sixteen. He had been twenty and
sporting his newly purchased officer’s colors. He’d been home to say farewells
to family and strutting about in hopes his new uniform would impress the
ladies.

The squire’s daughter been sitting on the doorstep of one of
the village houses, showing a youngster how to feed a baby pig. She had not
been impressed by his uniform but had appreciated his aid when the pig had
squirmed free. They’d had a rational discourse on the care and feeding of
abandoned farm animals, a conversation that he could not imagine having with
any other female of his acquaintance.

Hope surged, despite Lorena’s warning. His household was in
dire need of the discipline a lady could bring to it.

“She must be twenty-three or -four by now?” In the eight
years of his absence Harriet should have grown into her lanky limbs at least.
Lucas didn’t think he’d care for a skinny woman, although a mother for Verity
should be more important than attractiveness.

Well, perhaps not, or he’d have hired a nanny. So he needed
a wife who appealed to him, as well as a mother for Verity. Doubt crept in at
the seeming impossibility of that task. Perhaps he should have gone wife
hunting in London.

His sister should not have to deal with Verity while he
danced through society. There
had
to
be someone local, who would want to live here and raise his child among his
family.

“Harriet should be a good age for looking after a child.” A
man of action and decision, Lucas rose from the chair. “I don’t think anyone
younger would be up to the challenge.”

Lorena looked harassed. “No, really, Lucas. Don’t be
foolish. I do not wish to speak ill . . . Look, here is Elizabeth.
She’s an extremely attractive young lady . . . ”

Having made up his mind—and worried that Verity would be
digging up the dead next—Lucas was already halfway out of the door when Lorena
leaped up, waving the list. “And Mary Dougal! Mature, quiet, and very lovely . . .
”

“I will consider them all, of course,” Lucas said, making
his bow, although he privately thought Elizabeth to be a simpering ninny and
Mary Dougal to be a pinchpenny prude. Verity was a bright child. She needed a
disciplined woman up to the challenge of taming her. And a patient one to ease
them into their new domestic routines.

“I told you not to climb the trees!” he roared after
departing the vicarage. He crossed the graveyard in long strides to where his
sister stared upward in dismay. He could see the bright blue of his daughter’s
gown several limbs from the ground. “Come down from there at once, you little
monkey.”

He nearly had failure of the heart when Verity’s small foot
slipped and missed the branch below her. Without a second’s thought, he swung
up on the lowest limb, heedless of his best trousers, caught Verity by the
waist, and lowered her to Maria.

“I have three of my own, Lucas,” his sister called back. “I
cannot do this much longer. You should hire a circus trainer.”

“I am amazed you did not hire her out to a zoo before this,”
he said in exasperation as the child took off running before he could climb
down. “Does she never speak?”

Maria shrugged and followed Verity across the church lawn at
a slower pace. “She can talk if she must. Mostly, she does what she wants
rather than ask, because she knows she’ll be told no. I have three young boys.
It’s all I can do to keep up with them. I hate to burden you, Lucas, but now
that you’re home safe and sound, she’s your responsibility.”

“I agree. And someday I hope to repay you if possible. You
have been a saint, and I don’t know what we would have done without you.” He
caught up with Verity when she stopped to pet a shaggy mutt. She was no longer
a toddler for Lucas to heave over his shoulder and carry off as he had the few
times he’d been home when she’d been younger. He’d missed almost her entire
childhood.